Amy Lake (6 page)

Miss Davies brightened at my words.  “’Tis the most wonderful place in the world,” she said, with some warmth, and promptly blushed.

‘Tell me all about it,’ I prepared to say, but the countess’s voice intervened.

“Regina, darling!  Lord Davies has expressed an interest in the portrait of your grandfather, and I vow I cannot remember so much as the artist’s name.”  She fluttered one hand and flashed his lordship an apologetic smile.  “My daughter has an excellent understanding of such matters.”

The portrait in question was, of course, in the furthest corner of the room, at sufficient distance from the conversing group that a young man and a young woman could, if they were so inclined, exchange a few private words.  The painting was dingy and grey, with its frame kept in ill-repair, and I’d have bet Cleopatra and her saddle that the viscount had never noticed the thing, much less expressed interest in it. 

“Such a favorite of my husband,” the countess was saying to Lady Davies.

I nearly rolled my eyes.  My father has a particular dislike for this portrait, and takes no pains to disguise it.  I gave his lordship a small smile, and a tiny shrug of my shoulders.  He extended his arm, and I felt Cassie’s amused glance on my back as we walked away. 

* * * *

“I trust you are well,” began Lord Davies.

“Very well, thank you.”

Young gentleman, as a rule, do not intimidate me; whatever complaints my mother has against my social accomplishments, she cannot accuse me of being shy.  But Lord Davies seemed to have a peculiar effect on my conduct.  First I accepted a waltz, then conversed rather freely with him during the course of
musicales
and a fete and now— 

What should I say to him? I wondered, as we made our way off to our own private bit of the room.  I seemed to be aware of every breath he took, every slight movement of the muscles of his arm under my fingertips.

“So this is your grandfather?”

The painting was above us, the old earl looking down with a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.  I’ve always like this portrait, actually.  I felt more connection with the old earl, whom I had never met, than my own parents, and the twinkle suggested that my grandfather might have had something in mind that he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to tell you. 

“Yes.”

“One cannot regret that wigs are less in style these days,” said the viscount. “I understand them to have been hot and rather itchy.”

“I can only imagine,” I replied. and we spent an enjoyable few minutes commenting, as people always do, on how odd everyone looked dressed in an older fashion.  Embroidered collars and cuffs!  Hoop skirts and panniers!  The changes in
le
mode
had been rather extreme from the old earl’s day to our own.

“I did not know my grandfather,” I admitted, “but I’ve been told that he had a keen enjoyment of life.”  So it was said by my father, in a tone that left no doubt of his disapproval.  Perhaps that was the true reason he had banished the painting to this out of the way corner, and never had it cleaned of candle soot. 

“Ah.  Somewhat like his granddaughter, then?” said Lord Davies.

I glanced at the viscount in surprise, and saw a half smile upon his face.  The smile did not diminish his attractiveness.  I felt my heart begin to race and wondered if he could feel the thrumming pulse through my fingertips. 

I managed an answer.  “One tries.”

A soft laugh.  “Indeed.”

There was little more to be said about the painting, and so I cannot explain what I did next, other than I did not want these moments together to end. 

“I’ve also been told,” I said, “that he once risked half his fortune on the turn of a card.” 

My parents had hinted that some few of my grandfather’s actions did not bear close scrutiny, but the old earl was not an accepted topic for conversation in our family, so what details I knew had arrived through Lady Helen. 

“Ah.”  The viscount’s eyebrows raised.  “So the stories are true.”

“About my grandfather?”  Perhaps I should not have been so surprised that he was already aware of the gossip.

Lord Davies chuckled.  “No, I assure you I’ve heard nothing of that gentleman.  But you must know what they say—that our own generation is but a faded reflection of former glories.”

“Fustian.  They always say that,” I countered.  “I believe I’ve read it in Aristophanes.  And why is risking one’s life on a card game considered a
good
thing?”

“Oh, I dare say ’tis not.  But—”

He paused.  “Yes?” I encouraged.

“Haven’t you ever wondered what it would feel like—to take such a leap?”

I think he spoke these words without thinking.  Perhaps he had been as lulled as I by the ease of our conversation, by the sense that we had been always been good friends.

Friends?

Neither of us said anything for a long moment.  Then he spoke.

“So.  Your grandfather played deep?”

I attempted a light tone, to return our exchange to more suitable ground.  “Yes.  He fell in love with the daughter of a duke, but the Aveline wealth was not quite large enough to tempt his grace into approving the match, and she became affianced instead to the eldest son of a marquess.” 

“Ah.  A sad tale which is all too common, I’m afraid.”

“To be sure.  But my grandfather convinced the eldest son to join him in a game of cards, and attempted to draw him in far enough to . . . well to switch roles, I suppose.”

“What happened?”

“My grandfather lost.”

“Ah.”

A longish pause, after which he remarked on the quality of the frame—a complete facer, of course—and I acknowledged that the portrait required cleaning.  We returned to the group chatting easily, my previous confusion forgotten, and I believe that his interest was as piqued as my own.  Perhaps it was wrong to have told him so much about our family, although half the
ton
knew anyway, and the other half could have found out with a word or two in the right ear.  The old earl did not ruin us, but the Aveline finances received a blow that was only slowly healing now—

Or would have done, if not for Lord Freddie.

* * * *

When the viscount and his family left, Cassie and I managed a retreat to my bedroom before the countess could engage in one of her usual critiques of my appearance and behavior.

“Regina, why must you insist in sitting up so straight?  Gentleman prefer a more languid air.”

“Regina, you look at people so directly.  It’s terribly off-putting, you know.”

“Regina, do
not
mention the House of Lords.”

In this case I had special reason for a quick withdrawal, since I had seen her eyeing the green batiste, and I wanted to avoid any discussion of under what circumstances the gown had lost both of its bows. 

“What did he
say
?” asked Cassie, when we were alone.  “I think he looks even better in common dress.”

“He asked,” I told her, “about the painting.”

“He didn’t!”

“He did.  What else could he have done?”

“Declared his undying affection.”

“For whom?”

“Very amusing,” said Cassie.  She was helping me take off the detested gown, and I saw her eyeing the scissors.  “If I was to accidentally cut a large gash in this skirt, do you think—”

“She’ll just have another one made.  With bigger bows.”

“Lud.”

“His sisters seemed very nice,” I said.  “Do you suppose one can tell them apart?”

“If they open their mouth, yes.  I could barely get a word in with Isolde.”

“True.”

“She is mad for society, loves to dance, and I believe she’s had enough of rustication to last her lifetime.”

“Not fond of Cornwall, then?”

“Assuredly not.  She told me that they would have returned to London much sooner except that her mother felt unequal to the task of supervising the two of them without Lord Davies’s help.”

“I can’t imagine her sister needing much supervision.”

“Isolde may be a different case.  Her nickname is Isa, did you know?”

“Mmm,”  I said, my voice muffled as I shrugged into a comfortable day gown of soft muslin.

“At any rate, the viscount had much work to do in Cornwall—”

I had heard a bit of this in our conversations.

“—and so they stayed at Pencarrow.  Pencarrow—it sounds quite romantic, doesn’t it?”

“Carys likes it, at least,” I said.  “I’m not sure how happy she is with London.”

“Give her time.”

We were sitting on the floor by now, cross-legged and rubbing our feet.

“You’d think they could manage to make ladies’ shoes more comfortable,” said Cassie, grimacing.  “So what did you tell Lord Davies about the painting?”

I laughed, a little ruefully.  “I told him the story of my grandfather and the duke’s daughter.”

“A romantic choice.  Excellent.”

“I don’t think the earl and countess would agree.”  This was an understatement.  My parents would be appalled.  “What was I thinking?”

“Actually, I can’t imagine the Viscount of Cardingham would care that the old man lost at cards,” said Cassandra.  “He’s quite rich, you know.”

“Well I can’t see that it matters one way or t’other.”

“Don’t sell yourself too short.  I’m certain he was interested.”

* * * *

I fell into bed that night thinking of strong hands at my waist and deep blue eyes.  Cassie’s words had reassured me, and I wondered when I would next see the Viscount Cardingham.  Perhaps at Almack’s, if the countess wished to attend that week.  Or at the Larkinton’s ball in a sennight— 

Such is the manner in which these things begin, with a few words exchanged beneath a painting, or a second waltz perhaps to come, and of course Lord Davies had not yet expressed any of the feelings of dislike and mistrust which were so soon to come my way.

Chapter 8:  Waltz at the Lark

A full week went by without my seeing Lord Davies again.  I could not blame him for avoiding a second call to Roselay; it would have been tantamount to a declaration of interest, and not even in schoolgirl fantasies—which of course I never entertain—could he have been ready for such a step.

So I moped a bit, as did Freddie, for some reason which he did not confide, although I presumed that his pursuit of Lady Celia was not proceeding as he hoped. 
That
was no surprise, as ’twas a lost cause at any rate.  The week was enlivened, however, by the drama—there is no better  word—of Peter Wilmott’s engagement to Miss Montvale. 

“You will never believe,” said Cassandra one morning, after we had enjoyed a long ride in Green Park, “what I have just heard.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Alice Montvale has cried off the engagement.”

“Never!”  I was truly shocked.  A broken engagement was a scandal, and the thought of quiver-lipped Alice doing such a thing was . . . well, unthinkable.  “Why, in heaven’s name?”  Lord Peter was handsome enough, pleasant enough, and the Wilmott’s had enough blunt for all their boys.

“Apparently, her fiancé became . . . inebriated.”

“Horrors.”

“Indeed.  He then approached the house and attempted to sing.”

I burst into laughter.  The serenade was a custom more honored in the breach; I had not heard of any young lady being recently subject to such awkwardness, there being very few appropriately situated balconies in London.

“I am told that a certain indelicate phrase was uttered in the course of the song, and Alice had to be revived.”

I couldn’t imagine what the phrase was, and unfortunately Miss Barre did not know.

“Peter is now moving heaven and earth to regain her hand.  Lady Helen says he has written more letters in the past two days than in his entire life.”

I sighed.  “It sounds very romantic.”

“Posh.  I think he’s better off without her.  If Alice has such a weak heart for a few words, can you just imagine how she will react to the marriage bed?”

“Cassie!”

“Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t wondered about it, too.”

* * * *

Miss Barre and I took the opportunity of fair weather to ride each morning, talking the whole while.  Before long we had discussed every detail of my encounters with the viscount, parsing every word, until we could nearly recite them by heart.   I was growing tired of the exercise. 

“You must see him again as soon as possible,” said Cassandra, “We need more data.” 

We agreed that the best chance to see Lord Davies during the upcoming sennight was at the Marquess of Larkinton’s ball.  The ‘Lark’, is it is usually called—the
haut ton
is a clever lot—was an annual event, somewhat smaller than the Lincolnshire’s but invitations were that much more sought after as a result.  Cassie guessed that Isolde would move heaven and earth to be there.

And her brother would, naturally, accompany her and Carys.  ’Twould be a crush, and the twins would cause a sensation.

Lady Celia Brompton would no doubt attend as well.  Several more days had passed and I still had no idea of what was happening to Freddie’s doomed love affair; he continued to say nothing and look anxious.

And then, on the morning of the ball, my brother showed up at breakfast, in his usual high spirits.

“Good day to you, Reggie!” he boomed, and I nearly dropped my cup of coffee.

“Good lord, Freddie, there’s no need to shout.”

He kissed me on the top of the head.  “Ever so sorry,” he said.  “You’re getting an early start to this beautiful day, what?”

I frowned.  “I am always awake at this hour.  Which you would know, if—”

“But you’ll be at the Larkinton ball tonight, of course.”

His tone was oddly serious.  I felt the prickling of unease, which I decided later must have been a premonition.  My brother never expressed interest in my social life. 

But why shouldn’t he? I told myself.

“I haven’t decided,” I said, which was untrue.

My apprehension doubled as my brother sat down at the table across from me, his face serious and turning pale. 

“Oh, you must!” he said, attempting a lighthearted tone, which fell flat.  “You love the Lark!”