Barbara Metzger (19 page)

“Yes.” He kept walking but glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was biting on her lower lip and kicking at rocks, and her brows were lowered. He wanted to take her in his arms more than anything, needles and kicks and all. “I told them we were engaged.”

She came to a standstill. “Were you disguised then, too? You must have been to say such a thing when you knew it wasn’t true.”

“I am not a drunkard, Juneclaire. You don’t have to worry about that, at least. I said we were betrothed because it’s right that we marry after you were so compromised.”

“But no one knew that I was compromised at all, and it was my fault for being where I had no business being!”

“They’ll find out. And I also said it because I wanted it to be true.” There, he’d confessed.

Instead of being won over, Juneclaire stamped her foot. “Well, you’re not Little Yerby to make it so because you say it, and I am not Jack!”

“I should hope not, dear heart, whoever Little Yerby and Jack are. Will you come for a walk with me?” They were back at the stable, and he handed Flame’s lead to the stable boy.

“But the dowager . . .”

“Knows all about it. Come.” He stuffed her unresisting hand back in the mitten and held it firmly, going in the opposite direction. “Are you warm enough?”

She just nodded, lost in her own thoughts. After a bit she said, with not much of a quiver in her voice, that she could not marry an earl.

“Why, my love, are you holding out for a duke? I understand there are few on the marriage market this year, and those are well into their dotage. You’d do much better with a young earl.”

“How can you tease? I am a nobody, with no dowry and no connections. And . . . and my parents ran off to France to marry. I know I told you that, but it’s worse. They . . . they didn’t say their vows until they got to Calais, a week later!”

“Shocking, Junco, shocking. Someday, when I am not trying to convince you to join your name with mine, I shall describe my own parents’ marriage. Suffice it to say that Lady Fanny has not been to London in over twenty years for fear of being cut. I have tried to convince her that the past is long forgotten, but Uncle Harmon cautions her otherwise. It is not in his interest to see her remarry, or even move to Town, for then he would have no place here. He knows I will not have him set one foot over the doorsill of Jordan House in London. Juneclaire, if I do not hold you responsible for your parents’ sins, can you forgive me mine?”

She nodded, but her mind was only half attending. The other half was gazing in awe at the edifice sprawled across her horizon.

“I promised you a house of your own, remember? I, ah, never said it was small. Do you hate it? It’s even worse inside. We don’t have to live here, you know. There’s London and the stud in Ireland, and I have a hunting box in Leicester. We could buy a cottage somewhere, damn it. Juneclaire, say something.”

Something? “I want to go home.” The Priory was surely the biggest building Juneclaire had seen since leaving France, where she’d visited some of the cathedrals with her parents. It was possibly the ugliest building she’d ever seen. Gray stone, tan brick, an Elizabethan wing and a modern wing, crenellated towers on one side, Roman columns supporting a two-story porch built right on top of the old Priory itself. One wing ended in the original chapel, another in a vast ballroom built in Henry’s times. She could not see the conservatory from here, Merry—Lord St. Cloud—told her, but it formed the central wing.

Juneclaire had to laugh. He was teasing, of course.

“No, Junco, I am not bamming you. I need you.”

“The dowager needs me.”

“We’ll share. I need you to convince her to move up here, where she’ll be looked after better. There’s a private suite all ready for her. I need you to keep peace between the countesses and referee the cricket matches between the Priory phantoms and the Angel of Death.”

“Woodpeckers.”

“You heard it, too? See, your calm good sense is just what they need. What I need. Please, Junco, at least consider my proposal. Say you’ll come to dinner tonight, you and Grandmother, of course. The relatives mostly grow worse on closer acquaintance, but I swear no one shall insult you.”

“I have nothing to wear to such a grand house.”

“I believe you are turning craven on me, Junco. Is this the fearless amazon who attacked a bandit with a water bucket? Who fended off an amorous footman with a wine bottle? Who wears a blasted darning needle in her lapel? I happen to know you have a beautiful gown, a white velvet gown. I should love to buy you rubies to go with it, or emeralds. I should like to touch the softness of it, against your skin. But I can be patient. Not very, as you know. Come tonight, Junco. Come get to know us and give us a chance. Give me a chance.”

S
t. Cloud sent over red rosebuds from the hothouses. Nutley wove them through the wreath of holly Juneclaire wore as a headpiece, with her hair pulled up and back, tiny curls framing her face and a long sweep of brown waves trailing over one shoulder. The abigail pinned another of the roses to the green ribbon that sashed under the high waist, helped Miss Beaumont fasten her mother’s pearls around her neck, and declared the young lady a diamond of the first water. The groom, draping the borrowed black velvet mantle with red satin lining over Juneclaire’s pale shoulders, stared wide-eyed and openmouthed. Sally Munch gasped.

“Well, tell me, girl, tell me,” the dowager demanded, banging her cane down once she knew Shamrock was tucked in the kitchen with Penny. “Will she do?”

Sally swore she was bang up to the mark, and Pennington, holding the door, added that miss was top of the trees, if my lady excused the cant. Juneclaire wanted to sink with embarrassment. “Really, ma’am, there is no need to make such a fuss.”

“There’s all the need in the world, miss, and you know it. Facing that pack of barracudas, you’ll want all your defenses up, and a gel’s best defense is looking her best.”

Juneclaire was surely doing that, she acknowledged. She’d never felt so elegant, so pampered, or so unsure of herself. “Will they like me?” she asked, as the footman and Sally helped the dowager into an elegant carriage.

“What’s that to the point?” the dowager replied as soon as the coach started moving. “Hell, they all hate me, and I’ve never lost a night’s sleep over it. Besides, if you’re worrying about St. Cloud, don’t. He likes you enough to chase all over England after you, and he never cared what anyone else thought, especially not that parcel of flats. Oh, Fanny’s just a flibbertigibbet, I suppose, afraid of her own shadow and that brother of hers, but the others are—Well, you’ll see for yourself.”

A very proper butler announced them to those assembled in the gold parlor: “Lady Georgette Jordan, Dowager Countess St. Cloud. Miss Juneclaire Beaumont.”

They walked in to a sea of stunned faces. Then St. Cloud came forward and took Juneclaire’s trembling hand. He squeezed it and winked. “Oh yes,” he addressed the company at large, “I forgot to mention that Grandmother’s new companion was my Juneclaire. With all the skimble-skamble over carriages and directions and such, she cleverly came ahead on her own to wait for me here, under the dowager’s aegis, of course. Didn’t you, my pet?”

His pet was wanting to box his ears, even if he was overwhelmingly attractive in his formal clothes! The devil had very nicely sidestepped awkward questions but also added to the impression that they were affianced. Juneclaire couldn’t cause a scene, not when he was leading her to the two women on the sofa. One of them was weeping into her handkerchief. His mother hates me already, Juneclaire thought in despair. But he was bowing to the other woman.

“I am so glad,” Lady Fanny trilled after introductions were made, and Juneclaire thought she meant it.

The other woman was moaning by now, and Juneclaire could not understand how everyone else in the room was ignoring her, even turning their backs.

“Aunt Florrie,” St. Cloud was calling, “what’s wrong? Aren’t you happy I found Juneclaire and she is safe?”

“She’ll want her pig back,” Florrie wailed.

Juneclaire blinked, then said, “Oh, have you been taking care of Pansy? Isn’t she a fine pig? I did give her to Mer—the earl, however, so I shan’t be claiming her back. Did you know that we have a new kitten staying at the Dower House? Perhaps the dowager will invite you to tea so you can meet Shamrock.”

Florrie was gone, skipping toward the dowager, who sat alone in a high-backed chair. It would be the first conversation between those two unlikely friends. Lady Fanny smiled her thanks and St. Cloud patted her hand, still firmly held on his arm, as he led her away.

“Why haven’t you told your mother that we are not engaged?” she hissed at him, trying to maintain her smile.

“What, and cause another
crise de nerfs? I
thought you wanted me to be more careful of her sensibilities.”

They were in front of the other two females in the room, and during the introductions, Juneclaire had to pretend she did not know their identities. Miss Elsbeth Wilmott’s gaze was clearly speculative, then superior when she compared her own blond curls, lace overskirt, three tiers of ruffles and rhinestones to Miss Beaumont’s rustic simplicity. The country drab would never have a fitting place in society, Elsbeth’s curling lip seemed to say. If this sour-faced young woman was the girl Merry might have married, Juneclaire reflected, he was better out of it.

The other woman looked right through Juneclaire, judging her and finding her unworthy of notice. Lady Sydelle Pomeroy directed all of her attention on the earl, having decided that a nonesuch like St. Cloud would tire of the little nobody in weeks. Juneclaire was thinking much the same, observing the older woman’s gold locks and nile blue gown, what there was of it. More bosom was showing out of Lady Pomeroy’s bodice than Juneclaire had in hers. The woman made her feel like a gauche schoolgirl, and she was happy when someone placed a glass of sherry in her hand.

Then they were facing Niles, the toad. His face was as white as his high shirt collars, and he was tossing back sherries as if they were Blue Ruin. Juneclaire smiled as she held out her hand for his salute, forcing him to extend his own bandaged paw, which he was desperately trying to conceal from the earl. Trying to seduce a paid companion was one thing; attempting to have his way with his cousin’s wife-to-be was another. He swallowed audibly. St. Cloud was such a deuced good shot. And had such a deuced short temper. Juneclaire took great satisfaction in letting him squirm a bit; then she inclined her head and said, “How do you do?”

“Magnificent, my lady,” St. Cloud whispered in her ear after Niles scuttled away. “And I apologize. That performance was surely worthy of a duchess. I also apologize for my cousin,” the earl added, having missed none of the byplay. “He’ll never bother you again.”

Niles, meanwhile, had attached himself to Lady Pomeroy’s side. He needed a wealthy wife more than ever.

“What about our bet, Niles?” Sydelle asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

“What, are you dicked in the nob? Even if I succeeded, I’d not live long enough to enjoy my winnings. Besides, the fellow just paid all my debts.”

The last two people in the room were the live-in curate, who welcomed her kindly, and St. Cloud’s uncle Harmon, who uttered his greeting in form. Juneclaire did not have to be a mind reader to sense his disapproval. He wanted his daughter to be countess, she had that from the dowager, and he had an overweening sense of pride. If Juneclaire did not know she was unfit to be Lady St. Cloud, Lord Wilmott’s slack-jowled sneer would have told her.

“Don’t let Uncle Harmon bother you,” the earl told her as they went in to dinner together, forgoing precedence. “He has digestive problems. An overabundance of spleen.”

 

Someone, the earl most likely, had been very careful of the seating arrangements. Juneclaire sat on the earl’s left, across from the dowager, with Mr. Hilloughby on her other side. The table was vast enough that she did not have to converse with any of the Wilmotts during the four courses and several removes, although she felt all their eyes upon her, waiting to see if she reached for the wrong fork or spoke with her mouth full. Aunt Marta would have scolded her for less.

Dinner was fairly pleasant, at her end at least, with the dowager quizzing the earl about her London acquaintances. They were quick to include Juneclaire, providing histories and reciting anecdotes that had her laughing. Juneclaire was glad to see the old lady happy and pleased to note how gracefully the earl made sure her food was cut and directions tactfully whispered.

Mr. Hilloughby was pleased to relate the history of the Priory chapel when she turned to him, and begged to show Juneclaire the fine rose window, at her convenience, of course. Then the dowager started recounting bits of her own London Seasons, which had Juneclaire in whoops. She
had
had a bit more wine with dinner than she was used to, on top of the sherry.

She needed it, to get her through the after-dinner gathering in the drawing room, before the men joined the ladies.

The dowager was drowsing near the fire, and Aunt Florrie was counting chair legs, “just to be sure.” Countess Fanny had taken up her Bible and seemed to be praying; her lips were moving, at any rate, so Juneclaire did not want to intrude. That left her at the mercy of the two blond beauties.

“Did we hear you were from Strasmere? I suppose you know the baron, then, and his lady. So charming, don’t you think?”

“Wherever did you find such a clever seamstress, my dear? So daring to set new styles, isn’t it?”

“You are nineteen? Then you must have had your come-out. I do not recall seeing you in London. So many debutantes, you know.”

St. Cloud would have seemed like an angel of mercy if he weren’t scowling so. He took Juneclaire’s arm to lead her away, but not before Lady Pomeroy asked if their newest member couldn’t entertain them with a song and some music.