Anne Barbour (12 page)

Hester burst into laughter. “Never mind, Chloe dearest. In my dotage as I am, I appreciate the compliment.”

“I only meant,” said Chloe, still much flustered, “that you look beautiful. Doesn’t she, Uncle Thorne?” She cast him a glance of frantic appeal.

“Indeed,” said Thorne gravely, “you and Chloe will be the loveliest young women present this evening.”

Hester was not deceived, and from the glint of something wicked that flashed in the earl’s eyes, she was sure that his compliment was double-edged.

Her suspicion was confirmed very soon after arriving at the house leased by the Werys in Grosvenor Street. When they entered the spacious drawing room, it became obvious that there was not another female in the room under fifty years of age. Lady Wery, a short, voluble matron whose plump figure was sadly unsuited for the current fashion of high waists and puffed sleeves, was all affability as she greeted the guests at the head of the first-floor stairs.

“Lord Bythorne, we are so pleased to see you—and Lady Lavinia, too. And, of course, dear Lady Bracken. How nice that you could join us.” She paused and added archly, “I’m sorry Lady Barbara had other plans for the evening. It would have been quite a family party then, would it not?”

Hester pricked up her ears. Lady Barbara? No one had mentioned a Lady Barbara. Was she a relative? Judging from Lady Wery’s tone, Hester rather thought not. A prospective relative, perhaps? Was Lord Bythorne, the confirmed rake, about to tumble into parson’s mousetrap? The idea seemed somehow startling, but even the staunchest of bachelors must succumb to tradition, she supposed, particularly if he were a peer with the succession of his line to consider.

Behind Lady Wery, her husband. Sir George, stood beaming complacently, equally corpulent and equally pleased to welcome Lord Bythorne and his ladies into his home.

Lady Wery’s greeting to Hester was courteous, if a little puzzled, and she introduced the younger woman to those in the immediate vicinity. One of these, a Mrs. Fenton, expressed her pleasure at meeting a cousin of Lord Bythorne, no matter how distant, but maintained an inquiring frown.

“Have we met. Miss Blayne? I do not recall seeing you before, but your name is familiar.”

To Hester’s astonishment, Augusta swept forward. “Why, Horatia, of course you recognize the name. This is the well-known feminist, Hester Blayne. Perhaps you have read some of her writings. Or attended one of her lectures. She is much in demand, you know. Bracken and I virtually begged her to stay with us while she is in London, but our house is quite small, and Hester wishes to entertain some of her friends while she is here. Lord Ormesby is coming to dine next week at Bythorne House. I wonder if you heard of his speech in Parliament last week in support of funds for the education of girls of the under class.”

Mrs. Fenton’s mouth fell open, but making a rapid recovery, she stammered, “Oh. Y-yes, of course. Such an honor to meet you, Miss Blayne.”

Hester, who felt her own jaw dropping, managed to pin a vapid smile to her lips. “Of course,” she murmured, glancing at Augusta. She surprised a sardonic grin, which was quickly erased by an expression of serene condescension.

At the end of the evening, as the Bythorne party rode home through dimly lit streets, Hester considered that she had brushed through her ordeal tolerably well. She had been treated courteously, though all through dinner she had been subjected to surreptitious glances full of suspicion and puzzled curiosity. One or two of the Werys’ guests had ventured to seek her out for interested if ill-informed chats on the state of women in the realm, but she had suppressed the urge to climb on her soapbox. She replied to all questions with a cool courtesy that deflected any of the more personal questions she could see fairly burning on the lips of some of the ladies.

Chloe had been on her best behavior. She sat next to John Wery during dinner. Mr. Wery, a slender, inoffensive young man with brown hair and rather speaking brown eyes, had been attentive, and as the meal progressed, the two young people, to Hester’s amusement, seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. Chloe did most of the talking and Hester noted that some of her conversation seemed to be providing her would-be betrothed with much food for thought. Several times her remarks caused a startled expression to cross his face and it was some moments before he replied. By the end of the evening, the young man had fallen rather silent and his expression when he gazed at Chloe was thoughtful.

Of Lord Bythorne, she had seen little during the course of the evening, but once or twice she had looked up to find him watching her from across the room. At other times, she felt his gaze on her as surely as though he had come up to place a hand on her arm. Always, she seemed possessed of an instinctive knowledge of his precise whereabouts, whether he lounged near a doorway in conversation or sat at a table, playing cards. She found this fact irritating and wished she could dispel the feeling that she was somehow connected to the earl by an unseen, undefined bond.

Now, she glanced surreptitiously at him. His face, lit sporadically by the flambeaux that stood at nearly every doorway, seemed extraordinarily saturnine. Though he did not return her gaze, she felt that he was aware of her scrutiny, and she looked away quickly.

What was she thinking, wondered Thorne, behind those perspicacious brown eyes. He almost smiled. Certainly, Hester Blayne was an original. He had encountered her particular breed often, of course, the female gadflies who considered it their mission in life to redress all the wrongs of the world. He had found them all tedious in the extreme with their strident demands and unreasonable expectations. Hester, however, was altogether another species of the genus. She stated her beliefs calmly and rationally and proceeded to shred any opposing arguments with logic and— oddly—courtesy. Hester had argued like a man, he thought with some amusement, though he did not think she would thank him for the comparison.

Having dropped Lady Bracken off at her London residence, the carriage proceeded to Curzon Street, and when the rest of the party disembarked, Chloe and Lady Lavinia yawned and proclaimed themselves ready for their beds. Once in the house, Hester prepared to follow them upstairs but was stayed by the earl.

He clasped her hands in his and brought them to his lips. “Thank you,” he said simply.

She raised startled eyes to his. “Whatever for, my lord?”

“For making this evening a pleasant experience rather than an ordeal by fire. Chloe was a different person tonight.”

Hester laughed and tried unobtrusively to free her hands. The earl merely tightened his grip. “She actually talked to young John,” he continued. “I think that’s the first time they have ever had a real conversation. I don’t know what magic you worked, but I beg you to continue weaving your spell.”

“Nonsense, my lord,” Hester found she was having a little difficulty with her breathing. “I merely convinced Chloe that it is in her own self-interest to start behaving like an adult. And now, if you will excuse me—it’s getting late, and . ..”

She made an effort to turn away toward the stairs once more, but the earl was not through.

“Hester, if we are to stand before the world as cousins, I really think it behooves you to call me Thorne, or people will think it decidedly odd.”

“I do not think—”  He smiled slowly. “I told you I am the tenacious sort. Believe me, it will be much easier simply to give in to this small request.”

“But—” She expelled an exasperated breath. “Oh, all right—Thorne. Now, may I go?”

“But, I would never keep a lady against her will.” Bending, he pressed his lips against Hester’s gloved fingers before releasing them. Hester uttered a strangled, “Good night, my—Thorne,” and whirling, raced up the stairs like a guilty schoolgirl.

Chapter Nine

In her room, Hester found Chloe awaiting her, seated in a satin-striped chair near the fire, her feet tucked under her. The girl pulled some of the ribbons from her hair and ran her fingers through it, allowing it to fall about her face.

“I had an awfully good time tonight,” she said ingenuously. “Did you?”

“Well, it was instructive,” replied Hester, the corners of her mouth lifting.

“You were wonderful,” breathed Chloe. “Oh, Hester, I did just what you suggested—with Mr. Wery—and it worked marvelously well. The minute he started talking about his estate, I started talking about your book—the Apologia. My tongue absolutely ran on wheels!”

“I noticed his somewhat dazed expression during dinner.”

Chloe’s laughter gurgled in her throat. “Oh, my, yes. He looked at me as though I had suddenly sprouted another head.”

“Did he dispute your theories?”

“Well, actually, no. I think he was too astonished to actually think about what I was saying. Though, now I reflect on it, he did ask some fairly intelligent questions.”

Hester grinned. “You surprise me.”

“Yes. He reminded me that many men do not yet have the vote in this country. He wondered if we shouldn’t see about suffrage for the average working man before we worry about women. I was rather impressed, to tell you the truth, for I didn’t think he was so well informed.”

“Really?” murmured Hester.

“Indeed. And then he went on to tell me of the efforts he has made for the betterment of the workers on his estate. I had no idea he concerned himself with such things. Hester, he has set up schools for the children—girls as well as boys!”

“Well, that is something. Perhaps Mr. Wery would not be such a bad bargain as a husband, after all.” Hester directed a tentative glance at Chloe.

“That might be true—if I wished for a husband, which I most certainly do not,” replied Chloe stoutly. “He does have a nice smile, though, don’t you think? And tonight he actually complimented me on my appearance!”

“No!” said Hester, much struck. “Well, perhaps there is hope for him yet.”

“Perhaps, but I intend to go forward with our program. Despite what he said tonight, I’m sure he must have been taken aback by my forthright declarations.”

Gazing at Chloe’s delicate features, flushed with determination, her eyes sparkling with mischief, Hester privately wondered if her actions had not merely served to stir in Mr. Wery an appreciation for earnest young feminists.

“I was wondering,” said Hester carefully, turning to a subject that had exercised her mind to some extent that evening. “Lady Wery mentioned a Lady Barbara tonight. A few other persons brought up her name as well, seeming surprised that she was not present this evening. I did not know how to respond. Is she another family member, perhaps? Should I know about her if I am to represent myself as one of Lord Bythorne’s relatives?”

She kept her tone casual, and Chloe responded offhandedly. “Well, but you are one of his relatives, to be sure.”

“Yes, but—”

“Lady Barbara? Oh, that’s Lady Barbara Freemantle. She’s the daughter of the Duke of Weymouth and she and Uncle Thorne have some sort of understanding, I believe. If you ask me, the understanding is mostly on her side, but Uncle Thorne seems inordinately fond of her. She’s been out for this age, of course. She’s considered a diamond and was much pursued during her first few Seasons, but she declined to accept any of the offers she received. It’s my belief she was waiting for an offer from Uncle Thorne, since he was the first among her admirers, but, as he’s so fond of saying, the gentleman’s not for marrying—at least not for a long while—so things have just sort of drifted between them.”

The young girl giggled. “Every time Aunt Augusta comes to town she does everything in her power to throw them together, for she fancies Lady Barbara as the perfect match for Uncle Thorne, but Uncle is much too sly for her. He squires Lady Barbara about to various functions, but that is as far as he’s prepared to go—again as he says—toward immolating himself on the altar of family duty. And all the while, of course, he’s galloping about town with his bits of muslin.” She pursed her pink lips. “I am not supposed to know anything about that, naturally.”

She pressed rosy fingertips to her mouth to suppress a prodigious yawn, and in a few moments took herself off to her own bedchamber. Hester prepared for bed, disdaining Parker’s services. She felt oddly unsettled. She believed she had acquitted herself well this evening. With Lady Bracken’s support she had survived her first exposure as a rabble-rouser in the
haut ton
. She tried to savor these little triumphs only to have her thoughts skitter in a most undisciplined fashion to the scene that had taken place some minutes before at the foot of the stairs.

She glanced absently down at her hands. They still seemed to bear the imprint of Lord Bythorne’s lips, leaving a warmth that spread from her fingertips to her toes. She shook herself. Lord, what was the matter with her? She was acting like the veriest schoolgirl, fluttering over a pair of dark eyes and a smile. The man had only bid her good night, for heaven’s sake.

Or no. There had been a definite message in the smiling gaze that had wrought such havoc in her breast. Incredible as it seemed, the man had been flirting with her. She seated herself at the dressing table, and pulling her hair from its unfamiliar coiffure, she began brushing it, all the while staring into her reflected image. She was not, she told herself, looking into the face of the sort of woman with whom the Earl of Bythorne was likely to engage in dalliance. Why, then, had he turned The Smile on her? And why, the thought came unbidden from deep within her, had it stirred a response so deep within her?

She wielded her brush viciously, sweeping her hair back so that every trace of curl was obliterated. Coiling it atop her head, she pinned it up under her nightcap. It was obvious, she thought with a grimace as she climbed into bed. The Earl of Bythorne was a rake, and it was the nature of rakes to flirt with every female they encountered. It was merely a reflex, like blinking one’s eyes at the rapid approach of a foreign object.

As for her own untoward response, perhaps it, too, was automatic—some basic animal instinct that had welled suddenly to the surface, catching her unawares. She was only human, after all, and she could hardly be faulted for being aware of the presence of an attractive male in such close and intimate quarters.