Improper Ladies (8 page)

Harry crossed his arms over his puce-and-gold striped waistcoat. “I promised you I would not associate with the Carlton House set if we went to Brighton! I would have behaved myself.”

Justin snorted in disbelief.

“I would have! There was absolutely no reason for you to drag me off to some old watering place full of matrons and doddering old colonels looking to cure their gout. I would wager there is not a single place where one could get a decent game of cards in the whole town. And no pretty girls, either.”

“Harry . . . ,” Justin warned, looking at their mother to gauge her reaction to his rude words.

Amelia just laughed. “I do believe you would lose that wager, Harry dear. I gave your father fits the last time we were here, I lost so much at piquet and vingt-et-un.” She laughed again, brightly. “Yes, indeed,
fits!
”

Harry looked marginally more interested, but persisted in his sulks. “That was thirty years ago, Mother.”

“Things could not have changed that much,” Amelia replied, unfazed. “And as for pretty girls, I am sure there will be no shortage of them. Lady Bellweather alone has three daughters, though I fear the youngest two are far from marriageable age. But the eldest will surely gather a crowd of young people around her. So there will be no lack of activities for you, Harry dear, and do stop pouting. It ruins your handsome face and makes you look quite old and crabbed.”

“No!” Harry cried, horrified.

Amelia smiled serenely and went back to looking out the window.

Justin, amazed at the sudden silence, took out his book and opened it to where he had left off. But he could not concentrate on the words at all.

He kept seeing red hair and small white feet, kept hearing the low, soft sound of a woman’s voice. Mrs. Archer’s voice. Without the distraction of Harry’s whining, his thoughts constantly went back to the dark-eyed woman.

It was absolutely fruitless, of course, all this ruminating on who she might be, what she might look like beneath her mask. He was not looking for a mistress, and even if he were she was far away.

One thing was certain—he would surely never see her again.

He laughed softly and went back to his book. Mrs. Archer could only be a small, bright memory now, a memory of a woman he had scarcely known but who had interested him, drawn him in.

He could only hope that Miss Bellweather, or someone like her, would be half as intriguing.

“Oh, Caro, is it not the loveliest house you have ever seen in your life!” Phoebe ran from room to room in their new cottage, throwing open all the window casements to let the fresh sea air in. “And we have such a grand view of the water. It is just like the Castle Tallarico.”

Caroline removed her bonnet and placed it next to her gloves and reticule on a small table. She was quite tired from their journey, but she couldn’t help smiling at Phoebe’s whirlwind of enthusiasm. The girl had chatted practically nonstop for the whole trip and showed no signs of stopping now that they had arrived in Wycombe. “Castle Tallarico?” she asked.

“From
Contessa Maria’s Secret.
Have you not read it?”

“I fear I have not.”

“Oh, but you simply must! It is the finest book ever written, I am sure. Contessa Maria comes to live at Castle Tallarico, which is exactly like this place. Well, almost. It is a great, crumbling, medieval stone castle, and this is a red brick cottage. But there is an ocean crashing against cliffs below, and there are secrets and a sinister housemaid and a secretive but fatally attractive prince who is the hero.” Phoebe turned wide eyes to her sister. “Caro! Do you think we shall meet a fatally attractive prince here? Perhaps even in that grand house next door!”

Fatally attractive? Lord Lyndon’s smile flashed in Caroline’s mind, as it had so often,
too
often, in the past days. She pushed it back, reminding herself one more time that she would never meet Lyndon again. “I doubt it, dearest. Though I am sure we will meet many nice young men.”

“Nice!” Phoebe wrinkled her nose in disgust. “That makes them sound like spaniels.”

“There is nothing wrong with being nice,” Caroline chided. “It is far better than being . . . fatally attractive.”

Phoebe looked unconvinced. But she just shrugged and went back to peering out the window. “Look, there are people out walking along the shore! Can we go down there, Caro?”

Caroline shook her head. “Not today. It grows late. Perhaps we can go for a stroll tomorrow, or even bathing. Would you like that?”

“Above all things!” Phoebe spun away from the window to give Caroline an impulsive hug. “Are you quite all right, Caro? You look so pale.”

“I am just tired, dearest. The journey was such a long one.”

“Indeed it was! You should not sit in one place for so long when you are older. You stay here, and I will go see how Mary and the new cook are getting along for supper. Shall I bring you some tea, too?”

Caroline laughed at that “older” comment. “Yes, please. A cup of good, strong tea sounds just what I need to warm my ancient bones.”

After Phoebe rushed out of the room in a flurry of bright pink skirts, Caroline settled herself in a chair by the window. She looked out at the stretch of sandy shore in the not-too-far distance, watching the few people who walked there soaking up the last of the warm afternoon before they went off to their evening’s festivities.

Festivities she and Phoebe would soon have to find a way to gain entrance to.

Tomorrow she would look about the town, see who was in residence. Surely there would be someone here who would remember her family, the Lanes; they had summered here so often when she was a child. Someone who would not remember the mild scandal of her elopement with Lawrence Aldritch. Someone who would welcome them. They only had to pay for their tickets to go to the assembly rooms, of course, but that would do them no good without someone to introduce them.

She looked away from the window, and her gaze fell on Phoebe’s bonnet, abandoned on a settee. Its pink and gold and green feathers fluttered in the breeze from the open window.

Caroline sighed. Someone would have to give Phoebe some fashion advice, as well.

There was a clatter of carriage wheels in the street below, the last street before the sandy shore sloped down into the sea. They stopped in front of the house next door.

Caroline peered back out, curious to see who had taken the large, white stone structure.

A footman opened the carriage door, and a loud, querulous voice floated out, “... didn’t say we would be in such a pokey little place! I vow my old governess must live in a larger house. I told you we should have gone to Brighton!”

A woman’s sweet, barely audible voice answered, “Your father and I stayed in this exact same house. It is much larger than it appears, I promise, and it is right on the water....”

One booted foot just emerged from the carriage when Phoebe reappeared, carrying a large tea tray. Caroline turned from the window, closing the casement firmly behind her. She didn’t want Phoebe to know yet that their neighbors, far from being “fatally attractive” royalty, were quarrelsome snobs who thought their great mansion too small.

 

 

The next day was bright and warm, perfect for strolling along the promenade that ran alongside the shore. Perfect for seeing and being seen.

Caroline just wished that Phoebe chose to be seen in something other than a purple-and-yellow striped muslin walking dress and purple spencer.

More than one passing matron looked at Phoebe with raised brows, then, more often than not, would turn their gaze to Caroline in a most accusing manner. Almost as if they were blaming
her
for the young woman’s attire!

Caroline just smiled, sighed inwardly, and fought the urge to dare one of those old hens to try to change Phoebe’s mind. She had already taken her sister to see three dressmakers, had pointed out how attractive pale pink and cream were next to golden curls and violet eyes.

Phoebe had just shaken her head, pulled out bolts of bright blue and sunburst yellow, and said how lovely
they
were for Caroline’s dark eyes. She shunned chipped-straw bonnets and pretty pale blue trims. But she begged for a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with yards of red tulle veiling and numerous pink roses.

Caroline sighed again. Now she knew what her mother had meant when, long ago, she had said that one day Caroline would have a daughter just like herself, and then she would know what it felt like.

Phoebe, though, was oblivious to all this. She hurried ahead on the promenade, practically skipping in enthusiasm. She swung her new hatbox blithely by its ribbons and smiled at everyone she passed.

Mary came up beside Caroline, carrying the extra parcels of ribbons and slippers, puffing slightly from the exercise. “I did think, madam, that you said a seaside holiday would be restful after that den of vice in London.”

Caroline laughed. “Are you not rested, then, Mary
^?
”

Mary looked ahead to where Phoebe was chasing after some seagulls, and said, “Not just at present.”

“Things will settle soon, I am sure. It’s just that she is in a new place, and everything is so exciting. She can’t stay this energetic forever.”

“Hmph. If you say so, madam.”

“I do say so. Now, Mary dear, if we just—”

“Excuse me,” a woman’s soft voice said from behind Caroline, interrupting her words.

Caroline turned and saw a small, slender, pretty older woman. She was obviously Quality, with her soft gray walking dress and fine pearl necklace and earrings. Her only slightly faded blue eyes were hesitant but intent as she looked at Caroline.

“Yes?” Caroline said. “Oh, are we blocking the walkway? I am so sorry!”

“No, not at all. It is just . . . Oh, this is terribly bad-mannered of me to just come along and speak to you like this! But I had to know if you were perhaps related to Margery Elliston.”

Caroline looked closer at the woman, startled. “She was my mother.”

The woman smiled in satisfaction. “I knew it! You look so very much like her. We were school-mates, you see, back when I was just Miss Amelia Petersham. What larks we did have together then!” The woman laughed softly. “But I don’t mean to keep you with my sentimental rambling, Miss . . .”

“Mrs. Caroline Aldritch,” Caroline answered with a smile of her own. This was just what she had been hoping for, someone who remembered her family. And this Amelia Petersham, or whatever her name was now, seemed so very kind. “You are not keeping me at all. I am always happy to meet a friend of my mother’s.”

“Oh, the stories I could tell you about her! I was so saddened when I heard of her passing. But have you been in Wycombe very long? Are you here with your husband?”

“I fear my husband has also passed away, several years ago.”

The woman nodded in sad sympathy. “I am sorry. Widowhood can be so very difficult, as I well know. I trust you are not alone, though?”

“I am here with my sister, Miss Phoebe Lane, who you see just there.” Caroline caught Phoebe’s eye where she had wandered rather far afield and motioned her to come back closer.

“I am here with my family, as well, my two sons and a friend and her daughters. They are taking tea at that shop, and I fear I abandoned them most rudely. But I saw you out the window, and I simply had to come and see if you had known Margery.” She laughed and pressed one gray-gloved hand to her throat in obvious embarrassment. “And now I am being rude again, not introducing myself to you! I am Lady Lyndon; well, I suppose I am the
Dowager
Lady Lyndon now.”

Lyndon
? Her name was Lyndon? Caroline’s breath seemed to stop in her throat, choking her. She stepped back from the woman, staring at her, trying to see some resemblance to
him
in her pretty face.

Surely she could not be related to the Lord Lyndon, Justin, who had come to the Golden Feather? That would simply be too much coincidence, too much like one of Phoebe’s beloved silly novels. But there could not be two Lord Lyndons in England.

Oh, what if he was here! How terrible that would be.

But how wonderful,
her traitorous mind whispered, if she
did
see him again . . .

“Mrs. Aldritch?” Lady Lyndon said, clearly alarmed. “Are you quite all right? You look rather faint.”

“It is just the sun, Lady Lyndon,” Caroline managed to gasp.

“Yes, it is rather warm to be standing about. Won’t you join us in the tea shop?”

Phoebe came up to them just in time to hear this. Even though she could have no idea who this woman was her sister was conversing with, she said with great enthusiasm, “A tea shop? Oh, yes, Caro, let’s! I am quite famished.”

Go to the tea shop, where no doubt this woman’s sons, both of whom had met her as Mrs. Archer, were waiting? Caroline did not think that a wise idea. She had to collect her scattered thoughts before she met Lord Lyndon again. “We would not want to intrude,” she said.

“Of course you would not be intruding!” Lady Lyndon protested. “Ah, here come my sons now.”

Caroline pressed her gloved hand to her suddenly heaving stomach. What if this truly was
him
? What if he recognized her and told all the world the truth about her past?

But a part of her, a part she scarcely dared acknowledge, hoped that it was he.

She turned around and pressed her hand even tighter to her stomach. It
was
he. Justin.

His hair glinted almost a gold in the sunlight, and the lines about his vivid blue eyes deepened as he smiled at his mother. His gaze flickered over Caroline, too, in curiosity.

She reached up, unconsciously trying to tug the wide brim of her bonnet forward even farther, so she could hide beneath it.

Next to her, Phoebe had gone suddenly still, ceasing to bounce on her feet for the first time all day. “Oh, Caro,” she whispered, “is he not the handsomest man you ever saw! He should be in a novel.”