Birds of a Feather (13 page)

If Lady Wicksfield publicly pursued Reggie, Almont might give up and choose someone else. Already the Season bored him. He wanted to settle his succession so he could return to his other family.

But nothing was certain, and even losing Almont would not resolve her growing problems. She had underestimated Lady Wicksfield’s ability to spend money – again betraying her naïveté, she admitted. The allowance for this Season had seemed enormous compared to a vicar’s budget, but London prices were appalling. The funds would expire in another fortnight – sooner if Lady Wicksfield was hiding additional debts. So she must think. The earl would only consider Wethersby’s suit if she found an alternate way to fill his empty purse.

* * * *

Sedge slipped into an isolated corner of Hatchard’s so he could relax his public face while pondering this latest information. He had enjoyed running into his friend Thomas, at least until that last
on-dit
had stabbed icy fear into his gut. Why had Reggie been paying a call at Wicksfield House at ten in the morning? That was long before acceptable calling hours. In fact, few people were even awake then – except servants.

Miss Patterson?

The cold spread. Reggie had spent four days out of town, during which their father had berated him for remaining unwed – and probably for his attentions to Miss Patterson; their mother would have reported them. The moment he spotted her on his return, his face had filled with joy – as had hers, he admitted grimly. They had talked seriously for an entire set, then openly flirted when he’d joined them. Reggie had called on her at a time when her employer was likely to be asleep.

It was not a pretty picture.

So how could he save Reggie from making a mistake he would rue for the rest of his life? Pressure was not the answer. Their parents’ tirades had prompted Reggie to dig in his heels and deny even obvious truths. Sedge doubted he could do any better, but he had to try.

“Miss Patterson.” He rapidly donned his public facade when the author of Reggie’s troubles appeared around a bookcase.

“My lord.” She cocked her head, then grinned. “Now why might London’s most fatuous fribble be skulking in the corner of a bookshop?”

“Hardly a fribble, Miss Patterson,” he drawled. “I work quite hard at what I do.”

“And what might that be?”

“Ornamentation. Without my efforts, London would be quite dull – ill-dressed men, dowdy women, even mismatched decor in drawing rooms and boudoirs.” He shivered theatrically. “Can you imagine the horror? It took me an hour to dissuade Lady Duncan from adding an orange tapestry to her scarlet drawing room. And Lady Taverstock actually contemplated mixing delicate French tables with Egyptian crocodile couches.”

“A dreadful mistake, to be sure,” she replied, apparently tongue in cheek. “Doing it more than a little brown, I believe.”

He stifled a chuckle. “Not at all. The world piles many duties on my poor shoulders. In addition to staving off esthetic nightmares, I must entertain a society larded with courtcards, goosecaps, and totty-headed rattles. Fortunately, Society cooperates by providing me with abundant stories.”

“Like the empty-headed ninny who couldn’t spot a horse at ten paces?” Her voice had chilled.

She must have overheard that particular performance. “I intended you no harm, Miss Patterson, and would have changed nothing had I known you were listening. Granted, you probably felt embarrassed, but no one could have deduced your identity from my words. And life is more pleasant if one can appreciate its humorous moments.”

Her mouth twitched. “I suppose there is a certain absurdity in discerning a minuscule mop like Maximillian while remaining blind to a team of fifteen-hand carriage horses clattering across the cobblestones.”

“I would have called them sixteen hands, myself.”

“Of course. How blind of me.”

He joined her laughter. “You see? Humor enlivens any day. Did you note Mr. Rosewood last evening?”

“Rosewood…” Her frown suddenly cleared. “Ah, the spotty-faced youth in the purple coat and flowered waistcoat. Is he the one who tripped Miss Applegate?”

“Twice. He entertains a passion for her, poor boy, though she was absent the day comely faces were awarded. To make amends for his clumsiness, he spirited her into the garden.”

“It must have worked. They were blushing on return,” she noted.

“All too well. He plans to make her an offer.”

“At his age? He cannot be above nineteen.”

He twirled his quizzing glass. “Will her father object? Given her looks and lack of dowry, she can hardly do better. But one must pity the poor girl.”

“Why, if he truly cares?”

“Your ignorance is showing.” He smiled. “Miss
Rose
Applegate to wed Mr.
Rose
wood. The world will think her a stutterer for the rest of her days.”

She joined his laughter. “She will survive, though, for few people will use both names. I will reserve my sympathy for gentlemen whose parents encumbered them with monstrosities. Like Lester Lyle Leonard, Lord Lipping. Try saying that after a few glasses of Christmas punch.”

“Cecil Sherman has the same problem. But you cannot always blame insensitive parents. Mr. Marblehead has wished for a title for years – you can imagine how his schoolmates plagued him.”

“Probably no more than they plagued Peter Padden, the squire’s son. To this day he cringes at any mention of puddings.”

They shared a congenial smile, but Joanna soon grew serious. “This is an opportune meeting, my lord. I will not see Reggie this evening as we are promised to the theater. Would you ask him not to call tomorrow? Lady Wicksfield imputed the most ridiculous motives to him this morning. I would not wish her to do anything unscrupulous.”

“Why did you not tell him before he left?” he asked.

“I was from home at the time.” She pulled a book from the shelf. “I must hurry if we are to manage today’s calls.” And she was gone.

He frowned after her. The chit was the most accomplished actress he’d seen on or off a stage. She played the ingenuous companion to perfection, even using him to send a veiled message to her target.

Poor Reggie. He’d probably been caught before he realized his danger. She exuded an aura worthy of the Sirens. He felt it himself, though he refused to succumb. But for the first time, he could sympathize with Ulysses tied to his mast. Even knowing the danger she posed, he was tempted to test the waters.

* * * *

Joanna paid little attention to the stage that evening. Nor did she turn her usual cool stare on Wethersby when he joined them. She was scanning the other boxes, hoping for inspiration. How was she to solve Wicksfield’s problem?

Gossip claimed that Lord Northrup had made a fortune during the chaos following Waterloo. But other investors had lost equal fortunes by believing the wrong rumors. Even if the opportunity arose for another windfall, how did one decide which way to bet?

Lord Hartford made a tidy income from breeding and training hunters, but Wicksfield lacked expertise in that field. And building a successful stable took time.

Mr. Fulwood had returned from several years in India with a fortune, but again, that would not work for Wicksfield. Many men had left the country in search of riches, but few returned as nabobs. Disease, accidents, and failure took a steep toll.

Was anyone else willing to back a loan? It was a tricky question, for gentlemen drew a sharp line between business and friendship. She could not summon the courage to approach even Reggie with such a suggestion.

But thoughts of Reggie recalled her latest meeting with his brother. She almost wished he had remained furious with her. Acknowledging his wit made him far too intriguing.

She stifled a shudder. How could she entertain any liking for a man who despised her? He might have changed tactics, but he remained determined to destroy her friendship with Reggie. It was a fact she must never forget.

But she had. When he had smiled at her in Hatchard’s, she had forgotten everything – which was incredibly stupid. Never again could she allow her judgment to waver. Matching wits with a fatuous fribble of uncertain temperament could only hurt Harriet.

Crossbridge entered a box across the theater, drawing her attention. The very proper Lady Hortense Leigh accompanied him, as did her parents.

“He is still furious over his recent embarrassment,” whispered Lady Thurston to Lady Wicksfield, loudly enough that Joanna heard her in the rear of the box – evidence of a hearing problem she refused to acknowledge.

Most of the audience was also staring at him. Reggie’s hints bore little resemblance to current gossip, which now suggested that the print depicted every perversion known to mankind. Young cubs mobbed Crossbridge, demanding to see the infamous illustration – and offering shocking sums for the privilege.

“How can he show his face in public?” demanded Lady Wicksfield.

“He has vowed vengeance on the culprit,” said Lady Thurston.

“On Ellisham?”

“Ellisham was merely a pawn. He probably planted the print when he called on Crossbridge that morning. And why would he visit Lady Horseley if not to trip Crossbridge? Everyone knows he despises the lady. But Lord Sedgewick must have been behind the incident. He is the only man in town who could force Ellisham to behave so basely.”

Joanna ignored their growing indignation. Crossbridge kept his eyes on the stage, blithely ignoring the avid stares of half the audience. How would it feel to be the object of so much curiosity? He must dread each new outing.

Yet she had to wonder how the illustration had gotten into that magazine. Both brothers had denied complicity. Despite rumors to the contrary, she believed them. Reggie would never have done so, and even the most avid gossips admitted that Lord Sedgewick had avoided Crossbridge this Season. So perhaps Crossbridge was not as staid as his public image implied. Most of Society hid behind façades. Why not him?

Snatches of conversation drifted in from adjoining boxes, many describing Lord Sedgewick’s earlier pranks against Crossbridge. Some were hilariously inventive, reminding her sharply of her brother Jeremy. Was that why she felt drawn to him? Maybe he exuded a faint air of home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Joanna stared as she trailed Harriet and Lady Wicksfield into Lady Warburton’s ballroom. The annual masquerade was a twenty-year-old tradition that offered innocent maidens the excitement of a costume ball while protecting them from the ribaldry common at the public masques. Only the highest sticklers received invitations.

Lady Warburton had turned the room into a forest glade for this year’s festivities. Huge pots held trees whose outstretched fingers brushed the ceiling. Lanterns festooned their branches, supplementing the thousand candles blazing from sconces and chandeliers. Banks of flowers, thickets of ferns, and even a babbling brook adorned corners and alcoves. A wall of mirrors doubled the effect.

Beneath this canopy surged an incongruous assortment of characters – Romans and Greeks, gods and goddesses, rulers and rogues of every description, Shakespearean characters, knights and monks, cavaliers, courtiers, and ladies-in-waiting.

Joanna wrestled her face under control. She might not belong to this select company, but that was no excuse for behaving like an awestruck rustic.

Harriet’s blue eyes danced with excitement from behind her mask. She was costumed as a dainty shepherdess, blonde ringlets framing her face, one hand clasping a token crook. Other shepherdesses glided through the crowd, but none surpassed her beauty.

In contrast, Joanna was clearly a chaperon. The plain brown domino covering her hair and gown made her nearly invisible amidst this riot of color. Her unmasked face also set her apart.

Lady Wicksfield dove into the crowd, zigzagging around clusters of gossips. The crush made it difficult for Joanna to keep up. More people jammed the ballroom than at any other event she had attended, though the first set had not yet begun.

“Parkington has a new pair of bays—”

She narrowly escaped being stabbed by a Roman centurion’s sword.

“Lady Glendale canceled tomorrow’s at-home. What do you suppose—”

A collision with Henry VIII’s padded belly reminded her that she was just a clumsy country girl who didn’t belong here. She should not allow gossip to distract her attention. Mortified, she mumbled an apology, her face flaming hotter when a ripping noise proved that she had stepped on someone’s hem as she backed away.

By the time she escaped, a fat friar obscured Harriet. But a bright green scarf fluttered from the tall cap of the countess’s lady-in-waiting costume, allowing her to continue in the right direction.

“Crossbridge may have to rusticate—”

She skirted a band of improbable pirates.

“—the bear was on the upper landing.”

Exhaling in relief, she joined Harriet in a relatively clear alcove. The jostling seemed worse than usual, more evidence that she was nearly invisible tonight.

Within minutes, Harriet’s court clustered around them, and Lady Wicksfield wandered off to gossip with two other ladies-in-waiting.

“No costume?” asked Reggie, startling her. She had not seen him approach.

“I am only a companion,” she reminded him.

“Perhaps, but you would make a marvelous Boadicea. Far better than Miss Heathmark.” He nodded toward one of the Season’s failures. The girl’s costume would hardly attract a suitor. It emphasized her boyish figure and grim visage. She appeared ready to run her sword through anyone who approached.

“Perhaps you should dance with her,” Joanna suggested. “Attention from a conquering hero might soften her face.” Reggie was dressed as Julius Caesar, choosing the armor of the war years rather than the flowing toga in which the man had died. He made a splendid general.

“You are the most kind-hearted lady I know, Joanna. How can I refuse so generous a request?”

“I am sure you could find a way if you wanted to.”

“Perhaps.” He paused. “I have the information you requested. Sedge gave me your message, but this is no place to talk, either.”

“The trials of being a friend rather than family. But Lady Wicksfield’s reaction to your call was too rapacious for comfort. I refuse to expose you to whatever scheme she may have devised.”