Allison Lane (20 page)

“I know her better than that, so peddle your distortions somewhere else.  Do you think to escape the consequences of your dalliance?”

“You need a better source of
on-dits
, sir,” he snapped.  “I cannot shirk my duty despite the fact that spending the night with her was an accident, and I was unconscious the entire time.”

Lewis shifted his horse closer.  “Name your seconds, Symington.  I’ll not tolerate your lies.  You were caught forcing yourself on her, as everyone for miles knows, so this ridiculous protest merely increases your dishonor.”

Red mist obscured his eyesight.  “If you impugn my honor one more time, I will issue my own challenge.  Your facts are wrong, as are your conclusions.  If such a tale is indeed making the rounds, I can only believe that Fosdale is using deliberate calumny to apply pressure to her despite vowing he would not do so.  But what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“The business of an honest suitor.  I’ll not have Cecilia trapped into a miserable marriage just because you wanted a diversion.”

Damn!
  He had forgotten that he was not supposed to be Symington.  So Lewis must be the neighbor.

“Wait!”  He raised a hand to ward off any blows.  “We are speaking at cross-purposes.  Are you the gentleman who offered for Lady Cecilia?”

Lewis glared but nodded.

“Do you love her, or did Fosdale coerce you into making the offer?”

“That is hardly your business, Symington.”  Anger flushed his face.

“It is very much my business.  The girl I accidentally compromised is Elizabeth.”

“Then why are you betrothed to Cecilia?”

“I’m not, as she would the be the first to admit.  She considers me an insignificant lout, for I do not fit her image of aristocratic gentlemen.” 

“What?  With your prospects, she would overlook cloven hooves.”  His voice was bitter.

“Under different circumstances, that may be true.”  Randolph shook his head.  “But not this time.  A series of mishaps has created the greatest muddle it has been my misfortune to encounter.  Every day brings new difficulties, and if we are to survive with all parties intact, I need your cooperation.”

“Is Fosdale trying to force you into wedding Cecilia?”

“I wish it were that simple.”  He sighed.  “The short version is that everyone at Ravenswood believes that I am Mr. Randolph, one of Whitfield’s poor relations, and that the man I was traveling with is Symington.  I inadvertently compromised Lady Elizabeth while rescuing her from a flooded river, so I am honor-bound to wed her, though she is arguing vehemently against it.  Lady Cecilia, with the enthusiastic connivance of Lord Fosdale, is attempting to force marriage on the
faux
Symington.  But revealing the mix-up before I gain Elizabeth’s consent is likely to ruin any chance of doing so.”

Sir Lewis was staring so hard that his eyes appeared ready to fall onto the road.  “May I ask who is posing as Symington?”

“Lord Sedgewick Wylie.”

“I should have known that prankster was involved,” he grumbled.

“Actually, he had nothing to do with it.  He was unconscious when the mistake occurred.”  He explained.  “But you can see one of the problems.  Revealing Sedge’s identity will do nothing to resolve the crisis.  Fosdale will still have Symington under obligation, and he will then have the bonus of trapping yet another wealthy lord in his net.  Elizabeth is convinced that Cecilia cares for you, but she is enamored of her fantasies and won’t give them up easily.”

“I have always known that,” Lewis said with a sigh.  “Which is why I never revealed how often I have enjoyed the delights of London.  I hoped she would accept me for myself rather than as a means to escape Cumberland.”

“Just so.”  He felt the same way about Elizabeth.  “The current plan is to give her a disgust of Sedge and prick her fantasies by describing the worst aspects of London society.  Once she realizes that trapping Symington will not fulfill her dreams, she should cry off this betrothal.  And that is the other reason for keeping the imposture intact.  Unlike me, Sedge keeps permanent rooms in Town.”

“I know, though the last time I was there, he was
persona non grata
in some circles.  That prank he played on Lord Crossbridge did not sit well with the sticklers.”

“Was that the one involving Lady Prudehurst’s corset cover?”

He nodded.

“Crossbridge and I have long been friends, but you must admit that he is often an arrogant, pretentious ass who jumps to hasty – and usually erroneous – conclusions,” he reminded the baronet.  “That particular incident started when he publicly vilified Sedge for debauching Miss Graham, not realizing that she was in Sedge’s arms because he had just plucked her from under a team of panicked horses – in front of a dozen witnesses.  Despite that, Crossbridge’s claims were accepted by some of the tabbies.  I don’t blame him for retaliating.  And it
was
funny.”

“Quite.”  His lips twitched suspiciously.  “But Crossbridge nearly suffered a fatal apoplexy when the cover fell out of his cloak in Lady Beatrice’s drawing room, which he will never forgive.”

“No one was injured and no damage was done.  You must have left within the day if you think it hurt Sedge’s reputation.  Granted, Lady Beatrice was highly critical at the time, but her pretended pique sought to discourage the cubs from emulating the feat.  Sedge is too beloved to suffer for the deed.”

“True, I did leave immediately and haven’t returned.  And his credit has always been remarkable.  He gets away with doing and saying things that would ostracize a lesser man.”

Randolph shook his head, though it was true enough.  “Let us deal with Sedge later.  His credit is of no use at the moment, for revealing it will only encourage Cecilia.  If we are to escape the present imbroglio, we had best meet as strangers.  You do not know Symington.  And you certainly do not know his distant cousin Randolph.  Since we are all eschewing London, there is little reason to have met.”

“I was on my way to Ravenswood now.  Will you join me?”

“Not just yet.  I’ve an errand in the village.  Sedge is holed up in his room, having suffered a relapse yesterday.  He must appear at dinner tonight, though.  Can you wangle an invitation?  The more people at table, the easier it will be to prick Cecilia’s notions.”

“Lady Fosdale will invite me.  She always does when I’ve been away any time.”

“You seem less angry about Cecilia than I would have expected,” Randolph dared.  Though they had never been close, he had always liked the baronet.  And they would likely become brothers-in-law by summer.

Lewis frowned.  “It hurts,” he admitted.  “But I do not want an unwilling wife.  Despite her age, Cecilia is still a credulous child, for she has had no opportunity to learn the ways of the world.  Facing reality will be good for her.  Once she learns to distinguish fact from fantasy, we can decide if she will make me a good wife.”

Randolph nodded.  “Fosdale is determined to fetch a special license.  If I convince him to send Symington’s secretary, can you put the fellow up for a few days?”

“Gladly.”

* * * *

Elizabeth was the first to arrive in the drawing room that evening.  She had nearly cried off after learning that Sir Lewis would be there.  Cecilia’s betrothal was a deliberate cut, since Fosdale had already accepted Lewis’s own offer.  Embarrassment would make it difficult to face him.

But Mr. Randolph had urged her to join them.  Time was running out.  They had to discredit Cecilia’s image of London if they were to free Symington.  That goal was more important than any discomfort over Cecilia’s plots.

And there would be discomfort.  Cecilia had reacted to the news of Sir Lewis’s return by embellishing her most elegant gown.  She was determined to flaunt her new status.

“Lord Symington, Mr. Randolph,” she said in greeting when they arrived in the drawing room. 

It was the first time she had seen Symington since setting his arm.  Even with the sling, he made an imposing figure, taller and broader than he had initially appeared, and aristocratic to the bone.  She could understand Cecilia’s glee.  He was handsome as sin, despite his fading bruises, and dominated the room without uttering a word. 

She shivered.  How could anyone feel comfortable around him?  His hauteur was enough to put her back up even before he opened his mouth.  She hated men who wielded quizzing glasses.

At least Mr. Randolph made a comfortable companion, though even he looked more imposing this evening.  The arrival of the baggage coach had reunited him with his luggage, so he was no longer wearing that familiar blue jacket.  Instead, he had donned an elegant evening coat the color of wine, though it also fit loosely across the shoulders.  Had he borrowed one of Symington’s, or was the fit dictated by having no valet?

Not borrowed, she decided, comparing the two men.  Symington was six inches taller and considerably broader, though Mr. Randolph was muscular in his own right.  Those solid shoulders had surprised her the first time she had applied the ointment to his injuries, not that they should have.  He had demonstrated considerable strength in their struggle against the river.

But this was no time to be thinking of his bare shoulders.  Or the rest of his bare body.  It was especially not the time to think of her hands caressing that bare body, stroking across his back, around his chest, down his— 

Warmth flushed her cheeks, intensifying when she realized that Symington was still inspecting her with that dratted quizzing glass. 

Irked, she exchanged innocuous comments with Mr. Randolph, grateful that she had been spared Fosdale’s scheming.  A match with a haughty fellow like Symington was unthinkable.  Cecilia would do well to consider his character.  He was not a man who would cater to a wife’s demands.  Lords rarely did, of course, but he seemed harsher than most.  And more intense.

“Sir Lewis,” intoned Wendell from the doorway.

“How is your mother?” she asked when he had raised her hand for a courtly kiss.  His eyes were dark green tonight, so she knew he was suppressing a raging temper.  Hardly surprising.  He must have heard of Cecilia’s antics by now.

“Much improved.  I left her in the throes of whist with her dearest friends.”

“That is good news.  Lewis, may I present Lord Symington.  Sir Lewis Mitchell, my lord.”

Each bowed stiffly.  “You are Whitfield’s heir, I believe,” said Lewis.

Symington nodded.  “And you are Fosdale’s neighbor?”

Another nod.

“And this is his cousin, Mr. Randolph,” continued Elizabeth.

“Randolph.”

“Sir Lewis.”

She frowned over the odd expression the two men exchanged, then dismissed it.  Symington was making her more nervous than she had thought.

Cecilia staged her grand entrance, relieving the tension – or adding to it.  Lewis’s mouth tightened.

“Pardon me for keeping you waiting, my lord,” Cecilia said gaily, ignoring Lewis as she floated to Symington’s side, her hand extended.

“You didn’t.”  He ignored her hand, resuming a nonexistent conversation with Mr. Randolph.

Cecilia flushed.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” said Lewis, stepping into the breach to kiss the outstretched hand.  “Allow me to wish you happy.”

Her smile became even more strained. 

Elizabeth exchanged a satisfied glance with Mr. Randolph.  Cecilia was off balance and reeling.  The public cut from Symington was bad enough, but discovering that her erstwhile suitor felt no regret made it worse.  He was treating her as just another neighbor.

“Excellent start,” murmured Mr. Randolph as she joined them.

“Quite.”

Sir Lewis was drawing Cecilia into talk of his journey.

“So your mother is completely recovered?” she asked, this time with a genuine smile.

“Yes, though I cannot say the same for Mrs. Harris,” he said, naming his housekeeper.  “Wet weather always affects her lungs.”

“I hadn’t heard.”  She frowned.  “I must visit tomorrow.  Is anyone else ailing at Little House?”

They fell into a discussion of his tenants and the damage wrought by the storms in his absence, including several sheep who had drowned when rising water trapped them.  Elizabeth led the others to the far side of the room, relaxing a bit, for Cecilia could not hide her genuine interest in Lewis and his dependents.

“What shall we discuss at dinner?” asked Symington softly.  No hint of arrogance remained.  “London, the city?  Or London society?”

“The city,” said Mr. Randolph after glancing at her.

“We will have to raise the subject early,” she warned them, nervous at how he had read her mind so easily.  There was an odd connection between them that she couldn’t seem to break.  “Fosdale has a penchant for usurping table conversation.”

They nodded.

Lord and Lady Fosdale arrived.  Wendell immediately announced dinner, preventing further introductions.  Only as Symington escorted her to the dining room did Elizabeth realize that he had yet to meet her mother.  Shame over the breach of manners flushed her face.

“Is it true that you dislike London?” she asked Symington once the first course was served. 

“Don’t be a goose, Elizabeth,” snapped Cecilia, interrupting.  “Mr. Randolph was merely jesting, for he is hardly in a position to know anything of the matter.”  She tossed him a look of frigid disdain.  She was obviously piqued to be seated between him and Lewis, though she took advantage of her position to flutter her lashes at Symington.  “Someone of your stature must revel in Town, my lord.”

“Such quaint notions,” he drawled.  “I have been there, of course, but I haven’t stayed more than a week at a time since the year my father introduced me into the clubs.  London offends my fastidious nature.  Such filth!”

“The air is appalling,” agreed Lewis.  “I visited occasionally during my school days.  One can hardly poke one’s nose out the door without being covered with soot.”

“Yet what can people do?” said Symington with a shrug.  “They must eat, which requires cooking fires.  My valet despaired of getting my cravats clean.  Were I to return, I would undoubtedly lose him.”

“Cloaks help,” put in Randolph.