Angel's Touch (16 page)

There was a moment of silence, and then her ladyship said
with sudden energy, ‘I declare, I am famished. Where is that woman
with the dinner?’ She crossed to the bell and tugged at it. ‘Tell
her to serve as soon as she can, Verity. I will be in my room. Do
not forget there is the special ball tonight. After all, if the
villagers may disport themselves on the Common, I am sure we may do
likewise at the Assembly Rooms.’

Miss
Lambourn had little heart for the event, but she could not refuse
to attend. Since it was a special occasion, she arrayed herself in
her best evening gown of primrose silk, open from the waist over a
petticoat of pale yellow gauze worked with gold thread. From the
lace tucker about her low
décolletage,
the swell of her bosom
peeped, and her dark curls had been coaxed into ringlets and tamed
into a chignon at the back. Not surprisingly, this charming picture
drew a great many jaded male eyes.

In keeping with the
mood of the day, Mr Tyson had decided that all formality would be
dispensed with, the company taking their partners for a succession
of country dances without any preliminary arrangement or
introduction. Since everyone in Tunbridge Wells was already
acquainted, this relaxing of the rules might have been thought
superfluous. But it did, as Verity soon found out, mean that
gentlemen might mingle freely to solicit the ladies of their choice
rather than politely standing up with the members of their
immediate circle.

Miss
Lambourn consequently found herself going down the dance with a
variety of elderly gentlemen, who had until now been content to
leave a clear field to Sir John Frinton. She was in the middle of a
particularly trying ordeal, involving the energetic gyrations of
the old nabob, Martin Yorke, who was wheezing a tale of his dancing
prowess in the old days in India, and treading on his partner’s
toes the while, when she became aware that a good deal of attention
was being directed towards the entrance, where Richard Tyson was
bowing deeply and ushering in some new arrivals.

As he moved aside and
her view cleared, Verity missed her step and almost stumbled. Two
gentlemen stood revealed, in whom, in spite of the unexpected
elegance of their attire, she had no difficulty in recognising the
Marquis of Salmesbury and the young man whose revelation had
plunged her into gloom.

It
quickly became obvious that ‘Mr Haverigg’ had abandoned any attempt
to maintain that identity. In the fans raised to cover mouths, and
the cupping of hands against ears, Verity recognised the passing on
of a juicy titbit of gossip. For as each fan lifted, two pairs of
eyes cast significant glances over to the slowly moving procession
as Mr Tyson performed those introductions he considered essential.
But Sir John Frinton walked up to the marquis unannounced and
greeted him as an old acquaintance.

With
a sinking heart, Verity realised that the erstwhile ‘insignificant’
man had leapt into the role of guest of honour merely by virtue of
his rank. She shrank into herself, cravenly hoping that he would
not attempt to single her out. For that must give rise to the sort
of tattling that would embarrass not only herself, but also her
kind patroness.

Judging by his previous form, however, Verity could place no
dependence on the gentleman’s discretion. Even as she thought this,
keeping a surreptitious eye upon the pair the while, she saw the
second man glance over in her direction and nudge his
companion.

Quickly looking away, Verity was glad to find the dance
ending, hoping that she might disappear into the crowd as the
dancers left the floor. She was deposited at Lady Crossens’ side,
and pounced upon immediately by Mrs Polegate.

‘
My
dear, do you know who has just come in? I declare, I am all of a
twitter. Salmesbury, of all people. He is exciting no little
attention, I can tell you. What in the world should bring him
here?’

Miss
Lambourn did not enlighten her, but she could not prevent a faint
flush from creeping into her cheek and was aware of Lady Crossens’
penetrating eyes upon her. Her ladyship, however, merely
scoffed.

‘
Pish, Maria, why should he not come here? If he has decided
to show his face in society again, what better than a gathering
such as this to give him a little confidence?’

‘
Oh,
yes, poor man,’ sighed the widow at once. ‘I dare say he is quite
unused to be stared at.’

‘
Well, he is certainly getting a deal of practice in enduring
that,’ Verity said tartly, pointedly placing herself so that she
presented her back in case those black eyes should be seeking her
out. Heavens, nothing could be worse than to have him attempt to
speak to her in this assembly. Though she had to make a valiant
effort to suppress a growing feeling of pleasure that he had come
at all. The thought flitted across her mind that she had not
realised how very attractive he was. Whether it was the silvered
blue brocaded coat with the buff satin breeches, or the powdered
hair, that enhanced his appearance, she could not have said. But he
seemed so much less pale that the black eyes were more dominating
than ever.

Mrs
Polegate’s speculation and exclamations continued unabated and
Verity was glad when the musicians struck up, for she was sure to
be solicited for a dance. Indeed, she could see Richard Cumberland
bearing down on her, but, before he could reach her, a voice spoke
at her side.

‘
Miss Lambourn, may I have the pleasure?’

Even
as she turned, Verity recognised the voice, but a ripple of shock
went through her just the same. Salmesbury’s companion stood bowing
before her, his dark coat and breeches lending him an elegance
belied by a cheery, chubby-cheeked countenance.

‘
Oh!’ she uttered foolishly, all coherent thought
suspended.

By
the time she was able to think again, she found that her hand was
tucked into the gentleman’s arm and he was leading her into one of
the sets then forming.

‘
May
I make myself known to you, Miss Lambourn? Leonard Quainton.
Salmesbury’s cousin, you know.’

‘
Have you a title?’ Verity asked abruptly, and her voice
shook. ‘I mean, I should not like to make another s-stupid
blunder.’

Mr
Quainton reddened. ‘Must beg you to forgive me, ma’am. Stupid sort
of thing to do. Had no idea, you see. That you didn’t know him, I
mean. But no. No title. I’m not a Haverigg, you understand. Cousin
on his mother’s side.’

‘
Oh,
I see,’ Verity managed, though she was hard put to it to speak at
all sensibly. ‘But please don’t apologise. It was not your fault,
Mr Quainton.’

‘
So
Salmesbury says,’ uttered Mr Quainton gloomily. ‘But I set the cat
among the pigeons, nevertheless.’

‘
Please, don’t let us speak of it,’ begged Verity.

‘
Must speak of it,’ protested the gentleman. ‘Pledged my word,
you understand.’

They
were separated at this moment by the movement of the dance, and
Verity went with her head in a whirl, and a rush of gratification
in her bosom. He
had
come for her. He had braved the world again, exposed himself
to the minefield of Wellsian gossip, just so that he might mend the
breach. At least, so she must suppose. Surely this Mr Quainton had
come to her in the guise of peacemaker, had he not?

So
it proved. ‘Miss Lambourn,’ he began at once, as soon as they were
together again, ‘Salmesbury begs only the favour of a word, that he
might explain himself.’

‘
Oh,
no, there is nothing he need explain,’ Verity assured him
quickly.

‘
Good God, yes, he must, ma’am. Even I can see
that.’

Verity gazed at him and her cheeks burned. ‘Has he—has he
told you
everything?’

‘
Pretty well, I think,’ Quainton said earnestly, anxious to
convey his understanding.

‘
Oh,
gracious heaven,’ Verity uttered, appalled. ‘About—about the
library, and—and the boxes?’

‘
Ha!
Ha! Yes, indeed, ma’am. And didn’t I roast him heartily. Never
thought to see the old fellow caught up in such a chapter of
accidents.’

His bright laughter
was not shared by his partner, and under that wide, clear gaze he
coloured a little, and coughed in embarrassment.

‘
Tell me,’ Verity said coolly, ‘does his lordship find it as
amusing as you do?’

‘
Good God, no, poor fellow is quite cut up. Vows he will set
all to rights with you before he comes down to
Brighton.’

A
cold hand seemed to grip Verity’s heart. ‘He is going to
Brighton?’

‘
Well, hasn’t exactly agreed to it. But I’m hoping to persuade
him. Best thing for him, you understand. And while he has a mind to
venture out of his hidey-hole, seems to me I’d best strike while
the iron’s hot. Get him used to it again, you
understand.’

‘
Yes, I dare say you are right,’ Verity said automatically,
struggling with an inexplicable desire to burst into
tears.

‘
I
am,’ agreed Quainton confidently. ‘Don’t want him bolting for cover
again the minute you go off. Tells me it’s all due to you he’s come
out of his shell at all.’

‘
I
fear he flatters me, Mr Quainton,’ Verity said, with an attempt at
lightness.

‘
Not
at all. Sticks to it buckle and thong, if it hadn’t been
for—’

‘
Then I am happy to have been of service,’ Verity interrupted,
unable to bear any more. ‘I beg you will tell his lordship that I
understand everything and that no explanation is due to me of any
kind.’

‘
But
he wants to talk to you himself,’ protested Quainton,
dismayed.

‘
Believe me, it is quite unnecessary that he should do so,
sir. I think you should certainly put forth your best endeavours to
persuade him to accompany you to Brighton.’

There was time for no more, for the dance was coming to an
end and they were obliged to abandon conversation as the dancers
began the
grande ronde
that completed it.

Afterwards Verity hurried across the floor with her mind all
chaos, lending only half an ear to Mr Quainton’s continued
protests. The news that the marquis was to be spirited away to
Brighton—having first made ‘all right’ with her, so he had said—had
dealt her an unaccountably heavy blow. She had never known him as
the marquis. To meet him now in this guise, as if they were
strangers, before all these avid Wellsian eyes, must be
unendurable. Better she should remember him only as the ‘Mr
Haverigg’ with whom she had enjoyed a brief acquaintance through
the adventures of a pair of adorable children. Better never to see
any of them again.

Yet
here was Mr Quainton asking of her, as if it were a small favour,
to face that fearsome ordeal. She
could
not do it.

‘
I
say, Miss Lambourn, won’t you at least speak to
Salmesbury?’

‘
Pray say no more, sir,’ Verity begged, and turning at her
patroness’ side, she resolutely held out her hand. ‘Thank you for
the dance, Mr Quainton. Goodnight.’

The discomfited
intermediary had nothing to do but to make his farewells and return
disconsolate to relay the ineffectual result of his mission to his
principal. Miss Lambourn, who would have liked to run away to her
lodgings to indulge in a hearty bout of tears, was denied this
solace. For Mr Cumberland had waited for her return, jealously
determined not to be ousted a second time.

As
she took to the floor again on this gentleman’s arm, she had the
doubtful satisfaction of seeing my lord of Salmesbury limp out of
the room set aside for dancing and into the cardroom where,
apparently, he remained for the rest of the evening. Although Mr
Quainton was to be seen dancing several times with other ladies, he
did not again approach Miss Lambourn.

A
restless night brought Sunday, and the opportunity to pray for help
in a matter that was fast becoming an obsession. Dear Lord, if I am
never to see him again, please help me to bear it. But she was no
nearer to a reconciliation to this dismal prospect on the following
morning when she was wakened early by the maid.

‘
What is it, Dawson?’ she asked sleepily.

‘
Begging your pardon, miss, but her ladyship
sent me to fetch you at once.’ The maid simpered knowingly.
‘There’s a caller in the parlour, miss. A
gennelman.’

Chapter
Seven

Verity let out a small shriek and leapt from the bed. ‘Oh,
gracious heaven! Oh, no. Oh, Dawson, what shall I do?’

‘
Seems to me you’d best get dressed, miss,’ said the maid
practically. ‘I’ve brought your hot water.’

Crossing to the table,
she proceeded to pour water from the jug into the basin. Then, as
Verity began hastily to wash, she chose from the meagre wardrobe,
with great presence of mind, a chemise gown of floral chintz which
she laid out on the bed.

Ten minutes later, her
heart hammering and her legs like jelly, Verity entered the
parlour. The gentleman rose from his chair by the window and moved
into the centre of the room. It was Mr Leonard Quainton.