Anne Barbour (17 page)

He stopped suddenly, his fists once more clutching the reins. For a long moment, he remained utterly still. At last, he said the words aloud. “Particularly, since I am already in love with Jane Burch.”

He listened to himself in amazement. He had been stupifyingly buffle-headed. At some time during the past few weeks, his dream of a comfortable wife adorning his home, and presenting him with the required heir, had dissolved like snow crystals on a hearth, replaced by his need for a slender creature of fire and air with the soul of a sergeant major and a tongue like a whip thong.

And he, in his cataclysmic ineptitude, had just ensured she would, in all probability, never speak to him again.

Turning Storm about, he rode slowly toward the house and a future that seemed to promise only despair.

“Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
V, i.

Jane rode aimlessly for a long time, letting Talavera have his head. Unheeded, tears fell to soak her shirtfront and, raising her head at last, she observed through blurred eyes that she had reached one of her favorite spots on the estate—a rounded knoll overlooking a lush, green valley.

She dismounted and flung herself on the grass, burying her face in its sun-laved warmth. On the far side of the knoll, a small grove of beech trees swayed gracefully, their glossy leaves rustling in the slight breeze that brought the scent of saintfoin and clover. She turned her face to the drifting clouds, seeking solace. How could everything look the same? The sun still wheeled in the sky, beaming impartially on the world beneath. Birds sang and bees buzzed mightily as they went about their tasks, just as though the earth had not opened up to let Jane Burch plunge into the depths of despair.

How could he have spoken to her so? She did not know which was worse, to be accused first of actually encouraging Charles’s smarmy attentions, or next, to be told she was the kind of witless widgeon who would throw out lures without even being aware of it. It was a very good thing for Lord Simon that she was not in the habit of carrying a riding crop!

She was dimly aware that she was feeding her anger, willing it to spread into a conflagration that would blot out coherent thought. For, truth to tell, though Simon had spoken to her very little over the last week or so, it seemed to her that of late he was coming to view her with—well, not with cordiality, perhaps, but once or twice she had intercepted a glance from him that was almost ... No. She was imagining things. He had as much as told her he disliked her intensely, all because she dared thwart his grand plans. Oh, how she detested that man!

She came to her feet abruptly. Why the devil was she moping about here in the back of beyond? She had plans of her own to tend. If she were not careful, Simon would carry out his nefarious scheme to marry Winifred off to that lecherous snake, the Earl of Wye. Recalling the cordiality of Winifred’s recent responses to Charles’s overtures, it seemed a distinct possibility that she would accept the knave should he propose. She was determined not to let her friend fall into the evil clutches of the wicked peer.

Even to her own ears, Jane’s words sounded as though they had come directly from a very bad melodrama, but at the moment she was in no mood for constructive self-appraisal.

As she remounted Talavera and headed for home, she vowed that she would put a spoke in Simon’s plans. By God, she would remove Charles as a threat to Winifred’s well-being and the virtue of her little sisters.

Somewhere, deep down in her core throbbed a hurt so painful she could not bear to bring it out for examination, and she tried to keep it at bay by mouthing more maledictions at Simon. By the time she reached the stables, she had quite exhausted her supply of pejoratives in her own language and had begun on her meager French.

Her instinct was to flee to the shelter of her chambers, and she looked carefully about as she entered the house. If she were to meet Simon at this moment, she felt that she would either explode or simply slide to the floor in a noisy flood of tears. Tiptoeing through the corridor to the back stairs, her attention was caught by the faint sounds of a commotion emanating from the main part of the house. Curious, she made her way to the entrance hall, where she was brought up short, her jaw dropping in amazement.

A young woman stood in the center of the hall. She was Junoesque in stature, and though her dark eyes were very fine, her features were sharp and unpleasant, giving her face the aspect of two polished pebbles surrounded by an outcropping of small rocks. She was dressed in the height of fashion in a traveling gown of gray twilled silk, over which she wore a matching spencer, embellished with rows of braid in a darker shade of gray. Next to her stood an older woman, also elegantly dressed, but small and pale and nervous. Behind these two stood yet another female, apparently a ladies’ maid. Through the open door, a traveling coach could be discerned, disgorging, under the supervision of a distraught-looking Fellowes, a steady procession of luggage.

The young woman disdained to take notice of Jane, who was acutely conscious of the highly improper appearance she made in her shirt and breeches, but Fellowes, catching sight of her through the open door, hastened into the house.

“Oh, Miss Burch!” he exclaimed, his sensibilities apparently strained to snapping. “We have visitors. I have sent for Lady Teague and Lord Simon. I offered to escort the, er, ladies into the morning room, but—”

“I,” said the young woman, apparently noticing Jane for the first time, “am Lady Hermione Stickleford.” She spoke in a high nasal voice as her disapproving gaze swept over Jane, and she might have been announcing the arrival of the Princess Royal. Her nose twitched slightly as Jane merely responded with a blank stare. “I can scarcely credit it, but it appears I am not expected.”

“Well,” said Jane, completely at a loss. “I don’t believe—

“Hermione!”

The word was uttered in such a horrified squeak that Jane was obliged to turn to see who was speaking. Charles tottered in a doorway at the far side of the hall. His eyes were wide and staring, and his face was whiter than the pristine shirtfront that lay under his incandescent waistcoat.

“Wye!” uttered Lady Hermione in a faint scream.

Why what? thought Jane confusedly. Her face cleared almost immediately. She had almost forgotten that Charles was officially the Earl of Wye. Good Lord, this insufferable female was using the familiar form of his title! That must mean that he and she were . . . good Lord!

“Hermione!” Charles cried again weakly, lurching across the floor to gather her in an awkward embrace. She allowed a chaste kiss on one cheek before drawing back to bestow a minatory stare on him.

“Wye, these people”—she glared austerely about her—”apparently had no idea that I would be arriving this morning. Did you not—?”

She was interrupted by the arrival of Simon and Aunt Amabelle, who wore identical expressions of bafflement. Since Charles seemed incapable of speech, or even coherent thought, Jane moved forward.

“Aunt Amabelle, may I present Lady Hermione Stickleford? Lady Hermione, Lady Teague and Lord Simon Talent.” Jane, feeling she had acquitted herself with fortitude, stepped back after shooting a meaningful glance at Charles.

The earl’s mouth contorted into a ghastly smile, and when he opened it, the only sound to emerge for some seconds was a rusty croak. “Lady Teague,” he mumbled at last, “Simon, Miss Burch, may I... ?” His voice trailed off unhappily, but after a moment, he began again. “May I present my f- my f-.” Once again, his words slid into a strangled, incomprehensible knot of sound, until, with all eyes on him, registering various degrees of expectancy, he blurted, “My fiancée.”

“What?” gasped Simon, an almost ludicrous combination of astonishment and fury written on his face.

“Oh, my,” said Aunt Amabelle, her jewelry vibrating discordantly.

Jane remained silent, as did Lady Hermione, who contented herself with a small sniff.

“Well,” continued Aunt Amabelle, bustling forward to fill the void, “welcome to Selworth, Lady Hermione.” She sent a questioning glance to the older woman, who had remained silently in the background.

“My mother,” responded Lady Hermione with great condescension. “Gertrude, Lady Wimpole, relict of the fifth Earl of Wimpole.” She paused expectantly, but when no response was forthcoming, she added stiffly, “We reside with my brother, the sixth earl, in Oxfordshire, but for most of the year we can be found in Grosvenor Square.”

Lady Wimpole offered a wan smile and nodded her head, but said nothing.

“Well,” said Aunt Amabelle again, once more stepping into the breech. “I’m afraid we were not expecting you, but we are happy to welcome another guest. The more, the merr—well,” she concluded after a slight pause and a glance at Lady Hermione’s unpromising countenance, “at any rate, we have plenty of room. If you will accompany me to the morning room, we can have a nice cup of tea while your rooms are being prepared.”

Lady Hermione turned to her betrothed. “I would like an explanation, Wye,” she said, in a tone that boded no good for the hapless peer. “However, I do not propose to discuss it at this moment.” She nodded to Aunt Amabelle before turning to her mother. “Come, Mama. Fletcher”—this to the maid, who stiffened to attention—”see to my things.” Lady Wimpole hurried after her daughter. The maid scurried out the front door to where trunks and portmanteaux were still being unloaded from the carriage, or rather, both carriages, since another vehicle had drawn up behind the first. Nearby, the two coachmen, several footmen, and a small covey of additional maids clustered in a vociferous group, raising their voices in question. Jane exchanged an involuntary glance with Simon. How long did her ladyship plan to stay, for Heavens’ sake?

Answering an unspoken plea in Aunt Amabelle’s eyes, Jane remained in the hall as the others proceeded in stately fashion to the morning room. She beckoned to Fellowes, who was still laboring outside.

“Do we have rooms that can be readied for these people?” she asked in an urgent whisper.

“Oh, yes, miss,” replied Fellowes kindly. “As you are aware, the west wing is still empty and, although the chambers there are not usually kept in quite the state of readiness as the others, it will merely require the removal of the Holland covers from the furniture, fresh linens on the beds and, perhaps, the placing of a few vases of flowers.”

“Fellowes,” breathed Jane in humble gratitude, “you are a prince among butlers. How about their staff? Goodness, those two women travel with a retinue fit for the Regent.”

“The abigails will have rooms adjacent to, er, lady Hermione, is it? And ... ?” He paused diffidently.

“Lady Wimpole. She is Lady Hermione’s mother.” Jane screwed up her features, glared down her short nose, and said in haughty accents, “ The relict of the fifth Earl of Wimpole.’ ‘

A twinkle appeared deep in Fellowes’ eyes. “Yes, miss. The two abigails will be housed in rooms adjacent to those of the ladies. The footmen and the coachmen and the other females will be, er, suitably housed elsewhere.”

“Thank you, Fellowes,” said Jane. “I had better change and join the others. Lord Simon seems somewhat disgruntled.” She grinned impishly at the butler and hurried toward the stairs.

A quick glance at Simon, when she entered the morning room some minutes later, revealed him to be no more gruntled than before. He sat silent and fuming over the teacups as his aunt produced from somewhere a flow of inconsequential chatter. She stopped midsentence as Jane seated herself, as though, with the promise of reinforcements, her mind simply stopped functioning. Her bracelets clanked disconsolately.

“Well!” said Jane brightly. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. Did you come from London or Oxfordshire?”

“From Oxfordshire, naturally,” replied Lady Hermione with a sniff. “London is quite insupportable at this time of year.”

To this, Jane could find no response. “My brother is just down from Oxford, temporarily,” she said in some desperation.

“Our estate is near the northern border of the county,” said Lady Hermione. “We never go to Oxford. It is filled with students, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Jane unsteadily. She turned to Lady Teague. “Do you know where the boys are?” she asked. “Or Winifred and Lissa—and Sir James?”

“Gracious,” said Lady Wimpole, speaking for the first time. “Are all those people guests in the house?”

“Yes, all except for Winifred,” replied Simon through clenched teeth. He shot a searing glance at Charles, who quailed visibly. “Miss Winifred Timburton, that is, my ward.”

“No, I don’t, dear,” Lady Teague responded vaguely. “Know where they are, that is. I saw Gerard and Harry set off earlier with fishing poles over their shoulders, and I believe Lissa is attending to some correspondence in her room. I have no idea where Winifred and Sir James might be.”

As if on cue, the door to the morning room opened to admit the pair in. question. Winifred, gowned in rich ivory linen embroidered in an intricate design of pale green leaves, and her hair caught into an graceful knot atop her head, looked as though she had just stepped from a temple frieze. Lady Hermione’s eyes fairly started from her head.

“Fellowes said we have guests,” said Winifred disarmingly. Her gaze swept about the group questioningly and if, as introductions were made all around, she sensed Lady Hermione’s obvious hostility, she gave no sign. Lady Hermione nodded distantly to Sir James before turning away. Obviously, a mere baronet, particularly one so unassuming as the nondescript gentleman bending over her hand, was beneath her notice. Conversation became general then, and in a few moments Fellowes appeared to report that all was in readiness for the newcomers. With a crackle of her skirts, Lady Hermione rose from her seat, and moved regally toward the door, her mother trailing in her wake like an obedient shadow. Before proceeding through the door, the younger woman swung about.

“Wye,” she said evenly, in her well-modulated voice, “I shall wish to speak to you directly we are settled in and rested.”