Improper Ladies (9 page)

Caroline looked at her sister, horrified. Phoebe, attracted to Justin? What a nightmare. How could she possibly like him when he was
hers,
Caroline’s?

She was even more horrified by that quick, flashing thought. Of course he was not hers; he never could be.

But he could not belong to Phoebe, either. The very thought was absurd!

“Phoebe,” she whispered back, “he is above ten years older than you!”

“How can he be? I declare he must be only one-and-twenty at the most.”

Then Caroline saw that in her haste to jump to ridiculous conclusions, she had missed the fact that Phoebe was not looking at Justin at all. Her gaze was focused past him, on the man who followed him.

A man in an orange brocade waistcoat and pea-green coat.

Harry Seward.

“Is he not a vision?” Phoebe sighed.

Caroline groaned and closed her eyes against the “vision.” Oh, why could the ground not just open up and swallow her whole!

“Justin! Have you ever seen such an angel of perfection before?” Harry whispered. He stopped moving forward in midstride and stood frozen as a block of marble, his eyes wide and staring.

Justin, too, looked at the woman who stood talking to their mother and decided that for once he had to agree with his brother’s taste. She was as close to an “angel of perfection” as he had seen since . . .

Well, since his afternoon in Mrs. Archer’s office.

Not that this lady resembled Mrs. Archer in any way. She was dressed quietly but stylishly in a walking dress of pale yellow muslin and a yellow and white bonnet. Even though her face was half in shadow from that bonnet’s wide brim, he could see a small, straight nose, aristocratic cheekbones, and soft, silvery blond hair.

Yes, she was lovely. He would have thought her too subtle for Harry’s taste, though.

He glanced at his brother, oddly irritated that Harry had seen her first. “She’s not exactly in your style, is she?”

“What are you talking about?” Harry shot back. “She is exactly in my style! Only a true paragon of fashion could have chosen that sublime shade of purple.”

Only then could Justin tear his gaze away from the lady in yellow to the girl who stood beside her.

Now,
she
truly was in Harry’s style.

She had very pretty golden curls and was obviously young and high-spirited. But she wore a gown that was much too old for her, of bright purple-and-yellow striped muslin topped with a purple braid-trimmed spencer. On her head perched a tall-crowned purple hat ornamented with a band of gold lace. If Justin had been in the habit of wearing a quzzing glass, he would have been groping for it.

“She seems to know Mother, too,” Harry said eagerly. “Come on, let’s see if she’ll introduce us.” He came unfrozen then and hurried forward, all his fashionable weariness and whining forgotten in his rush to meet the “paragon of fashion.”

Justin followed, more than a little curious himself to meet these new arrivals.

Especially the lady in yellow.

“There you are, my dears,” his mother said. “Do come and meet my new acquaintances, Mrs. Aldritch and her sister, Miss Lane. These are my two sons, Lord Lyndon and Mr. Harry Seward.”

The lady in yellow looked at them rather coolly, her fair face expressionless as a mask. “How do you do, Lord Lyndon, Mr. Seward?” she said quietly.

Justin had the distinct impression that she was quite underwhelmed to make their acquaintance. As she tilted up her chin a bit, he wondered if perhaps he had forgotten to bathe that morning.

The other lady showed no such reservations. She seemed to bounce on her feet and smiled up at them brightly. “How do you do!” she said, her pretty violet-blue gaze fastening on Harry.

“How do
you
do, Miss Lane?” Harry said, then added hastily, “And you, Mrs. Aldritch. Dashed glad to meet you.”

Miss Lane giggled, and Mrs. Aldritch laid her hand on her sister’s purple-covered arm, stilling some of that dizzying bouncing.

Justin suddenly realized that he was staring, quite rudely, and said quickly, “Have you been in Wycombe very long, Mrs. Aldritch?”

“Not at all,” she answered, still very quiet. She ducked her chin back into the shadow of her bonnet, giving the impression of great shyness or reserve. A reserve he longed to pique. “We only arrived yesterday, and your mother is our first acquaintance here.”

“They are the daughters of an old friend of mine,” Amelia said happily. “Isn’t that the most marvelous coincidence?”

“Marvelous,” Justin echoed, watching the quiet Mrs. Aldritch.

“And now you must join me in persuading them to come back to the tea shop with us and meet the Bellweathers,” Amelia continued.

Justin almost groaned aloud. The Bellweathers! How could he have forgotten them not five minutes out of their company? He was meant to be paying special attention to Miss Sarah Bellweather.

“Oh, you must!” Harry burst out. “You must join us, I mean. They have the most excellent strawberries.”

“I adore strawberries!” Miss Lane said, with another little bounce for enthusiastic emphasis. She looked to her sister inquiringly. Only when Mrs. Aldritch gave a small nod did she bounce forward to take Harry’s arm.

He led her toward the tea shop, both of them chattering happily away. About fashion, no doubt.

“Well, then, Mother. Mrs. Aldritch,” Justin said, offering an arm to each of the ladies. “Shall we join them before they devour all the strawberries?”

 

 

“And where is your family
from
, Mrs. Aldritch?” Lady Bellweather, a rather buxom matron with suspiciously dark hair arranged in girlish curls about her creased face, sounded as if she strongly suspected Caroline’s family came from a cave somewhere. Her eyes were narrowed as she peered at Caroline over her large plate of cake.

Caroline took a slow sip of her tea, acutely conscious of Lord Lyndon seated beside her at the crowded table. The way his shoulder almost, but not quite, brushed against her made it very difficult to concentrate on Lady Bellweather’s prying questions. Or indeed on anything at all.

She leaned away from him a bit and carefully placed her cup and saucer back on the table. “My sister and I grew up in Devonshire, Lady Bellweather. Our mother, as you know, was Miss Margery Elliston, and our father was Sir William Lane.”

“And you say you were married?” Lady Bellweather’s tone implied that that claim was also highly suspect.

Caroline almost laughed. If only Lady Bellweather knew what she had really been doing for the last few years! The woman would surely faint dead away if she heard of the Golden Feather, a not wholly undesirable thought. “Indeed I was, though my husband, Mr. Lawrence Aldritch, has been gone for many years.”

“Larry Aldritch?” Lyndon said suddenly. “You were married to Larry Aldritch?”

Caroline, Lady Bellweather, and Lady Lyndon all looked at him in surprise. He had been very quiet ever since they sat down.

Caroline was more than surprised; she was dismayed. He had known Lawrence, had known him well enough to call him Larry? Only his closest cronies, the ones he went drinking and gaming with, had called him by that nickname. But how could that be? Lord Lyndon seemed such a gentleman, not at all like Lawrence’s rackety friends.

Wasn’t he?

Caroline looked at him closely for the first time since they met on the promenade, searching for signs of dissipation beneath that handsome, pleasant veneer.

Then she realized that now he could see her fully, too, with her face turned to him and her bonnet’s brim no longer in the way. He watched her steadily, seriously, a bit curiously. Not only that, but an awkward silence had fallen at the table. Even the two littlest Bellweather girls stopped their chatter to watch Caroline’s dumbfounded reaction to his question.

Lady Bellweather gave a smug little smile, as if she were certain there was some scandal attached to this “Larry” Aldritch.

Caroline looked away, and said, “Some people called him Larry, yes. Did you perhaps know him, Lord Lyndon?”

“Yes. A long time ago, before I went out to India. May I offer my belated condolences on his passing, Mrs. Aldritch?”

“Thank you,” Caroline answered, unsure what else she should say. She wanted to ask what his friendship with Lawrence had been like, what sort of trouble they had gotten into together. If he had been one of the spoiled young noblemen who encouraged Lawrence to gamble far more than he could afford to lose.

Her hands clenched in her lap, hidden by the tablecloth. She didn’t want to believe that of Lord Lyndon! She
wouldn’t
believe it. His behavior the night he came to the Golden Feather with his brother had not been that of a wastrel.

She carefully looked up at him again and gave him a small smile. “Perhaps you could tell me more of your acquaintance with my husband, Lord Lyndon. One day.”

He smiled at her warmly in return. “I should like that, Mrs. Aldritch.”

Lady Bellweather put her cake plate down on the table with a loud rattle. “I have never heard of anyone named Aldritch,” she pronounced.

“Oh, Mother, please,” the eldest Bellweather girl, Sarah, said. She tossed back her dark brown curls impatiently. “We live right next to old Miss Dorothy Aldritch in Grosvenor Square. Wasn’t her nephew named Lawrence?”

Phoebe, who had been talking with Sarah ever since they sat down, giggled. The two younger Bellweathers gasped.

Lady Bellweather turned a deep burgundy-purple.

And Caroline, not for the first time that strange afternoon, had no idea what to say. Her mind was too full for any more thoughts just at present. She pressed her fingertips to her aching temples.

It was Lady Lyndon who saved the day. “Well, it does grow rather late, I fear,” she said cheerfully. “I do hope, Mrs. Aldritch, that you and your sister can come to my little card party tomorrow evening? There will be a supper before, and it should be quite amusing.”

Caroline looked around at all the people gathered about the tea table. Lady Bellweather’s expression was most disgruntled as she frowned at her friend. Sarah and Phoebe were whispering together intently, while Harry stared, wide-eyed, at Phoebe. Lady Lyndon smiled expectantly.

And Lord Lyndon watched her intently, waiting for her answer.

Her headache intensified, but she smiled and said, “Of course, Lady Lyndon. We would be delighted to attend.”

That night, long after the rest of the house was quiet, Caroline sat alone in her bedroom window seat, looking out at the house next to theirs. The house she now knew was occupied by the Sewards.

By Lord Lyndon. Or Justin, as her stubborn, silly mind still insisted on thinking of him.

She sighed and pleated the velvet of her dressing gown between her restless fingers.

Harry Seward she was not so very worried about, despite the calf eyes he made at Phoebe all afternoon. He had generally been inebriated when he met her at the Golden Feather. Justin, though, was another case altogether. He had been all too sober. Certainly a first for any old friend of Lawrence’s, if indeed that was what he was.

Why, oh why, did he have to come here to Wycombe? Why could he not have gone to Bath or Brighton, or any one of a dozen other watering places? They were more fashionable.

But no. He was here, right next door in the white mansion his brother had complained was too small.

It would be quite disastrous if he were to recognize her as Mrs. Archer, both for herself and for innocent Phoebe. He seemed like a kind man, but he was an earl, with a position in Society to uphold. He would never let his mother associate with a woman who had owned a gaming house, or her sister.

Caroline leaned her aching head against the cool glass of the window, still watching the darkened house across the garden. The most sensible thing would be to stay far away from Lord Lyndon and his family, so that he would have no opportunity for unfortunate recognitions. Yet how could she do that, when Lady Lyndon had invited them for a card party the very next evening?

No, she could not deprive Phoebe of this social opportunity. It had been all the girl could talk of during supper, how charming the Sewards were, how much she liked Sarah Bellweather, and how she looked forward to the party.

Caroline remembered Phoebe’s shining eyes and knew she could never disappoint her so.

“He did not remember me this afternoon,” she whispered. They sat next to each other in the tea shop for more than an hour, and he had not once shown any flash of recognition or suspicion. Of course, she had been wearing her large bonnet, and she had tried not to look at him too long or speak with him too much.

It might prove more difficult to be evasive if she was seated across from him at a card table, with no sheltering hat. But she had to try, for Phoebe’s sake.

Perhaps for her own sake, as well.

She had liked Lord Lyndon in London, had been drawn to him in a way she never had been to a man in the past. Not even Lawrence.

She liked him even more here at the seaside. Not only was he handsome; he was quite funny, in a wry way. If she had not been so intent on avoiding detection, she would have laughed aloud at many of his observations. He had a quiet, authoritative way with his brother that she wished she could emulate with Phoebe. He was solicitous of his mother, polite with the bevy of Bellweathers, even the obnoxious Lady Bellweather.

Yes, Caroline liked him very much indeed. If things had been different, if she were an ordinary, respectable widow, she would be looking forward to tomorrow night’s gathering with great eagerness.

Truth to tell, she still looked forward to it, even if the eagerness was mixed with a healthy amount of dread.

 

 

Justin sat alone in the darkened library after everyone else was abed. It had been a rather exhausting struggle to persuade Harry to retire to his room rather than go out and send notes to Miss Lane, but Justin found he was not tired at all. His mind kept going over the rather puzzling afternoon at the tea shop.