Anne Barbour (10 page)

Jared bent to secure the chain around Diana’s neck. His hand hesitated, and his fingers brushed warmly against the back of her neck. Diana looked at him, startled, but found no softening of the granite in his gaze.

“By the by,” he continued, “speaking of devotion, I shall take this opportunity to inform you that while I realize it behooves you to lose no time in finding a new source of feathers for your nest, I will not permit any dalliance with Lord Stedford while you are a guest in my home. A word to the wise will suffice, I am sure, for a woman of such eminent practicality as yourself.”

Diana simply stared at him. Was there no limit to the man’s incredibly insulting behavior? She was swept by a gust of rage that seemed almost physical in its force. Her hands clenched into fists, and in a voice shaking with fury, she cried, “By God, sir, what a contemptible cur you are! If I were a man, I would run you through.
Dalliance!
A
guest
in your house! Tell me, does it feed your overweening masculine pride to humiliate one who has not the means to defend herself? Or are you merely the kind of wretch who cannot feel himself a man unless he has some unfortunate victim to browbeat? I did not ask to be brought here; I only asked for my freedom. I had not thought anyone could be so hard as to take advantage of someone in trouble, but you have no difficulty in doing so. Indeed, it apparently gives you great pleasure to have another human being, no matter how insignificant, at your mercy. You sicken me. You are wealthy and elegant and privileged, and you call yourself a gentleman, but you are nothing but a swaggering bully!”

Diana stopped only because she had no more breath with which to infuse her tirade. With a scathing glance, she swept past a white-faced and speechless Jared. Once in the corridor, she fled blindly toward the staircase. Somewhere, she thought wrathfully, in the upper regions of this glorified rabbit warren, was her bedchamber, a temporary haven in which she could cry the furious tears welling hotly in her eyes.

As she passed the music room, however, she came to an abrupt halt. She entered the chamber and strode directly to the huge piano. Seating herself, she raised her hands high and brought them down upon the keys with a crash, launching herself into a thunderous passage of wild beauty. The stormy melody echoed through the lower passages of the Court, sounding in a crescendo of brilliance. The music swelled in a passionate expression of rage and anguish until, long minutes later, Diana lifted her hands, and the final majestic chords died away.

She drew a shuddering breath. Rising from the bench, she walked to the door, where she encountered the earl. Observing his almost ludicrous expression of astonishment, she nodded regally.

“Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata in C-sharp Minor, Third Movement. Thank you for the use of your piano. I enjoyed that immensely.”

So
saying, she continued without pause on her march down the corridor. Jared made no move to stop her as she swept up the staircase, but behind her, Diana thought she heard a faint, “Good God!”

Chapter 9

The next morning, when the sun again glowed pink against the bed hangings, Diana woke unrefreshed. Sleep had come only after hours of fruitless reflection. The words she had hurled at Lord Burnleigh the night before rang in her ears like a prelude to disaster. He had richly deserved them all, but what would his response be? She had given him no chance to reply to her harangue, but what retribution would he exact today?

What if she had enraged him to the point where he would demand the return of the plump little packet which was now tucked under her pillow? True, they had struck a bargain, more or less, and an English gentleman was bound by his word. However, she placed no reliance on the Earl of Burnleigh’s sense of honor. Without the money, she would be unable to continue her journey.

And where was Marcus? Surely he must have received her note by now. Why had she received no answer?

Diana pondered again, as she had done so often in the past week, on the hurried message she had received from her brother. Her relief in hearing from him after his long silence had been overshadowed by his tone of urgency. She did not sense that he was in any danger, but he was certainly up in the boughs about something. Blast the boy! Why couldn’t he simply have told her what had caused his excitement instead of penning a mysterious missive bidding her to come to him with all haste? She sighed. It was ever his way. He loved adventure, and everything he undertook must be imbued with high drama.

Squinting against the early-morning sun that assaulted her eyes, Diana pushed aside the bedclothes. She moved to the window and opened the curtains. Fresh air. That’s what was needed. She surveyed the exquisite rose garden beneath her window. Still bare in the early-spring chill, it seemed the perfect place for a brisk, head-clearing walk.

Resolutely she strode to the wardrobe. There were now five gowns hanging there, and from among them she chose a becoming morning dress of apricot sarcenet, made up to the throat, with a treble pleating of lace falling off around the neck. Remembering her role as a pampered member of the
ton,
she rang for Kate.

When the little maid appeared a few moments later, she bore a tray on which were set cup and saucer and a pot of chocolate. Arranging this on a small table near the bed, she turned to Diana and began a breathless recitation.

“Mallow says t’tell you, miss, that the messenger y’sent to Aylesford returned very late last night, and he says the young man you was inquirin’ about was at the Swan, but now he’s gone.’’

Diana drew in a quick breath of dismay.

“But not t’ worry yerself, miss. The young man left a message for a Diana Stubbins, which Henry—the footman who took yer note—figured must be you, though how the simpleton at the Swan could make Bavister into Stubbins, I’m sure I don’t know.”

Stubbins?

Diana wrinkled her forehead in puzzlement. Then, after a moment’s thought, she realized that to English ears the name St. Aubin must sound very much like Stubbins.

“We are, um, distant cousins,” improvised Diana. The thought flashed through her mind that she had told more lies in the past few days than she had in the entire course of her life previously. “We don’t really know each other. Stubbins was—was my mother’s name, and possibly he thought it was mine.”

“Oh.” Kate paused, evidently assimilating this with some difficulty. “Anyway, the young man said he’d be back. Henry left yer message, anyway, so maybe it will all work out.”

I
doubt it,
groaned Diana inwardly.

“And,” continued Kate, her forehead wrinkling in concentration, “there is luggage waitin’ for you at the Swan.”

She paused, her expression puzzled, and Diana, wishing to forestall any more awkward questions, indicated that she wished to dress.

She was soon garbed in the apricot sarcenet, her hair brushed and curved into a shining sculpture.

She declined Kate’s offer of guide service to the rose garden, accepting detailed instructions instead. After several turnings into elegantly furnished dead ends, however, she was forced to admit defeat. She was about to seek assistance from one of the Court’s ubiquitous footmen when a distant clamor of feminine voices reached her ears. Sure that she recognized one of them, she followed the sound, and soon found herself at the open door of a charming sitting room, hung in palest blue. There she was met by the startling sight of Lissa, engaged in spirited verbal conflict with her own maid. The contretemps was rendered all the more chaotic by the fact that it was being conducted in two languages. The maid, slight and wiry, wore her linen round gown with an air that proclaimed her to be a French lady’s maid of the first stare. Gallic imprecations streamed from her lips in wrathful bubbles. Neither of the combatants so much as glanced toward Diana, and the pitch of battle seemed to be gaining in intensity.

Without thinking, Diana strode upon the scene and addressed the maid sternly.

“
Tiens!
”

This had the desired effect. The woman broke off her impassioned diatribe and swung toward Diana. She flung her hands skyward, and cried out in the voice of one whose patience has been frayed to breaking point,
“On ne peut pas faire deux choses a la fois!’’

Resting her case, she stood panting, her black, snapping eyes fastening on Diana’s in an insolent manner.

Diana responded calmly.

“Of course your mistress realizes that you cannot do two things at once. I suggest you apologize to her ladyship for your outburst, and leave her to recover herself. She will ring for you later.”

The young Frenchwoman opened her mouth, but apparently thought better of relieving her feelings any further. She bobbed an unrepentant curtsey, flung a staccato,
“Je regret, madame,”
which sounded more like a parting salvo than an apology, and hurried from the room.

Drawing a deep breath, Diana turned to Lissa, who stood gazing at her in astonishment. Only then did she realize that she had conducted her entire conversation with the maid in French.

“In Dhu-Rydd,” she began carefully, “my closest playmates were the children of a family of émigrés. I learned to speak their language—better, I think, than they learned to speak mine.”

She noted with relief that Lissa appeared to find this entirely reasonable. Indeed, that volatile young lady seemed unprepared to spare the slightest attention from her domestic difficulties.

“That wretched creature!” she cried, in mingled tones of fury and indignation. “I cannot think why I put up with her impudence and her perfectly lamentable laziness!”

Diana, soothing the distraught damsel with word and gesture, managed to restore her to relative calm. As Lissa’s temper subsided, so did her sense of injury, and it was not long before she returned Diana’s look of inquiry with a rueful chuckle.

“Yes, I can see you believe the whole imbroglio to be of my own making, and I daresay you’re perfectly right. But she is absolutely infuriating. Grandpapa hired her for me several months ago right out from under the nose of Lady Biddlesley. Her name is Odile, and she is frightfully high in the instep. She as much as told me that the only reason she agreed to come here was because I shall be going to London soon for my come-out, and she feels I shall be a great credit to her.” Lissa related this last with naive pleasure, adding, “She does turn me out in style. If only she weren’t so excitable.”

“Odile is obviously a real treasure,” agreed Diana, smiling. “But as you say, her volatility is unfortunate. I believe it is considered a national attribute of the French. So unlike we phlegmatic English, who never allow ourselves to fly up into the boughs.”

At this, Lissa colored faintly, then sighed.

“Yes, I suppose that is the problem. Every time she gives me one of those disdainful shrugs, I simply lose control.” She laid her hand on Diana’s, her eyes laughing in self-mockery. “Very well,
Madame la Preceptrice.
From now on, I shall remain calm with Odile. I shall be firm but fair, and I will
not
allow her to bully me.”

“Magnifique!”
applauded Diana. “Behold the perfect mistress!”

Lissa giggled, then launched into another topic.

“Diana! You must help me choose a morning dress. Jared says I may go up to see Grandpapa after I have had my breakfast, and I wish to wear something very gay and cheerful.”

She bustled to her wardrobe and removed, in rapid succession, several gowns which she spread out for Diana’s inspection.

“I wish I did not always have to wear such insipid pastels. When I am older, I intend to wear nothing but brilliant reds and yellows and absolutely shocking blues. Here.” Lissa proffered a frothy confection in pale pink. “What about this one?”

“It’s lovely,” replied Diana appreciatively. Really, the child could wear a nankeen smock and still appear perfectly ravishing. “But what about that primrose muslin? Perhaps with the string of amber beads I see spilling out from your jewel case.”

Diana assisted Lissa into the gown, and accomplished the necessary buttoning and tucking.

“There—perfect! You look like a burst of May sunshine. And, if you will allow me,
mademoiselle,
these ribbons through your hair.
Zut alors—tres ravissante!”
She stood back to admire her handiwork.

“Merci bien,”
responded Lissa. “And, may I say,
ma’m’selle,
you are looking
tres—um—tres elegante
yourself? Apricot does become you. Oh! I have just had a thought!”

The girl whirled to a large wardrobe, and after some searching, produced an exquisite shawl of pale gold silk. This she draped over Diana’s shoulders in a carefully casual fashion, and stood back to exclaim in admiration.

“There! If that isn’t just the very thing. I bought it months ago—it’s Norwich silk, you know—and when I wore it, Jared rang such a peal over me, just because I spent over a week’s pin money on it. So I don’t wear it anymore. But see how well it goes with your own gown. Please take it.”

“So that your brother can ring a peal over me?” Diana said smilingly.

“Of course he won’t.” Lissa giggled. “You’re a guest, and he wouldn’t dare. Besides, he will think I am being ever so noble in giving it up to a stranded traveler, don’t you think?”

“And so you are,” replied Diana, much struck.

“Actually, the real reason I don’t wear it is because when I got it home, I realized it makes me look quite sallow, but one hates to admit when one makes expensive mistakes. So you will really be doing me a great favor by accepting it. Please?”

Touched by the young girl’s unself-conscious generosity, Diana accepted the gift with simple thanks, and the two ladies set out sedately for the breakfast parlor.

As they made their way downstairs, Diana regaled Lissa with the tale of her failed attempt to find her way about.

“When, for the third time, I found myself at a standstill in yet another gallery, I was tempted to tear a strip from my petticoat, scrawl a note on it, and toss it out the window in the hope that a passerby might find it and come to my rescue!”