Lady Incognita (9 page)

Betsy’s   freckled   nose   wrinkled   in bewilderment. “I will keep my tongue between my teeth, Louisa. You can count on that. But if it is truly not love that ails you, you had better get out in the sun. For you are truly pale. And even the others will notice eventually, though they are not as sharp-eyed as I.”

“Thank you, Betsy,” breathed Louisa with a sigh of relief. The terrible picture she had formed of Atherton looking on her with eyes of pity gradually faded. Betsy, though she was a precocious child, would not dream of breaking her word. If she said she would keep mum, then she would. And, thought Louisa, her sister’s advice was quite sound. She had been too much closeted the last several weeks. Some sunshine, she declared to the approving Betsy, would certainly serve her well.

  So it was that some time later when the carriage that Louisa had been unconsciously listening for every minute of every day finally arrived, she was in the garden loosening the dirt around the marigolds and inhaling their heady fragrance.

“It’s company, Louisa,” shouted Harry, hurtling himself out the back door. “His lordship has come again.”

Hastily Louisa got to her feet. Why did he always find her unprepared for his visits? Perhaps because she was afraid to expect them, she thought. Hastily she wiped her hands on an old rag and then, on an impulse, picked a few marigolds to carry in with her. After all, she told herself, marigolds were her favorite flower. There was no reason why she could not have a few in the house.

As she stepped into the dim hall, sniffing appreciatively of the golden blossoms, she was startled by his lordship’s voice. “You have been in the garden, I see.”

“Yes,” replied Louisa, her eyes growing gradually accustomed to the dimness. “I have been tending the marigolds.”

“A different sort of flower,” said his lordship. “And yet their tang gives them added beauty.”

  Louisa, aware that his dark eyes were regarding her face and hoping that the sun would account for her flushed cheeks, hurried past him and down to the kitchen to find the marigolds a vase and to wash the dirt from her hands.

To her chagrin his lordship followed her there and so there was no opportunity to slip upstairs for a peek at herself in the glass. She felt rather flushed and dreadfully dowdy, but there seemed nothing to do but proceed to the drawing room with her guest.

As she turned from wiping her hands, he said quite seriously yet with that disturbing twinkle in his eyes, “I see that you have been attending to your gardening with a will.”

Louisa regarded him with surprise. “How so, milord?”

Atherton did not answer immediately but, reaching for the towel on which she had dried her hands, put one hand under her chin and said, “Allow me.”

Louisa, at that moment beyond speech, could only stand immobile as he gently wiped at one of her cheeks.

“You had a smudge of dirt,” he explained when finally he released her chin. “But now it is quite gone.”

  “Th - thank you.” Hurriedly Louisa grabbed up the vase of marigolds and turned toward the stairs. One more moment under those eyes, she felt, and she could not answer for her actions.

As she entered the drawing room, Lady Palmerton turned from the windows. “I have been admiring the view, my dear Louisa. Quite an ample stable you have, I see.”

“Yes, Lady Palmerton. But we keep no carriage now. We do not need one.”

“Do not need ...” This piece of intelligence appeared to have rendered Lady Palmerton suddenly speechless, but Louisa had not missed the look his lordship had sent his sister’s way.

“Of course,” said Lady Constance sweetly, after just a moment’s pause. “It really signifies nothing. My carriages are always available and Philip’s too.”

His lordship bowed handsomely.

“That is very kind of you,” said Louisa. “But really I have no need of a carriage. I do so little visiting.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Lady Palmerton raised a beringed hand. “But that was previously. All will be different now. After your appearance at Almack’s ...” Lady Constance smiled with obvious satisfaction. “Yes, my dear. I have come to tell you that I have succeeded. Lady Sefton has put you on her book. Dear soul that she is. At any rate, after your appearance at Almack’s you will undoubtedly have callers. And so, you see, you will have calls to return. But that is nothing. I shall put one of my carriages at your disposal.”

“But Lady Palmerton...”

“Now, now, Louisa. I hope I know what your dear Mama wanted for you. Many’s the time in those girlhood days that we spoke of the dear daughters we should have.” Lady Constance sighed deeply.

“My sister has been denied a daughter of her own,” observed his lordship with the merest of smiles. “And so my stumbling upon you was a veritable godsend.”

Louisa, who felt again as though she had fallen into a novel, tried to protest such excessive kindness, but she was overwhelmed by Lady Constance observing briskly that if she were to have the handling of this affair, she must have
carte blanche.
“How else?” she inquired plaintively, “can I expect to succeed?”

“You are quite right, Constance dear,” soothed Atherton. “I am sure Miss Penhope will be agreeable to your plans. Will you not?”

Faced with this plea, Louisa found she could do nothing but nod.

  “Very good,” responded Lady Constance. “Ah! There you are, Mrs. Pickering,” she cried, advancing to the door and greeting Aunt Caroline as an old friend. “You’ll be glad to learn that I have procured vouchers for you and Louisa for Almack’s. Even at her age it is best she have someone older with her. People
will
talk, you know. But come, we must discuss gowns.”

As Aunt Caroline followed Lady Con-stance to the sofa and settled beside her, Louisa could only hope that her aunt’s head would not be turned by talk of Paris fashions and yard upon yard of Brussels lace. For Louisa was determined that if she were to have a new gown it would be a simple one, one easily given to altering.

She turned to find his lordship’s eyes upon her. “You are looking poorly,” he said. “You have not been much in the garden of late or I miss my guess.” He paused and then smiled. “I have a happy thought. Hurry upstairs and grab your bonnet. We shall take you for a ride in Hyde Park.”

“Oh! I cannot. I never go there.”

His lordship’s eyes danced dangerously. “I believe it would be wise for you to follow our advice. If your wish is to make Betsy a good match, it is really none too soon to get yourself established. And who knows? You may happen upon a husband for yourself.”

  Louisa’s head rose proudly. “I am aware that I am quite beyond the pale as far as an alliance is concerned,” she replied, “but if you truly think it would help Betsy...”

“I truly do,” said Atherton gravely. “And, Miss Penhope, let me remind you. Not all men wish to marry malleable young girls. Some men, even a few beaux, admire a woman of spirit and independence.”

Louisa, unable to tell if this last was meant to be taken personally or not, lowered her eyes. “I ... I will come for a ride in the Park. But I must change. And ... and find my bonnet and shawl.”

“As you wish,” said Atherton. “But I find the gown you are wearing quite becoming.”

To this remark Louisa had no reply and she turned her step hastily toward the stairs before he might observe her rising color.

When she returned some moments later, wearing the same gown, since after his comment she had felt foolish to change it, she was wearing a poke bonnet that, while not of exactly the latest mode, sat well on her chestnut curls, and carrying a cashmere shawl that had once been her Mama’s. She found to her relief that Aunt Caroline, too, was to accompany them.

“Of course, my dear,” explained Lady Palmerton complacently. “We have not yet finished our tête-à-tête. So much to discuss.”

And so, when Louisa had put on her gloves and had the pleasure of being shawled by the Viscount himself, she was helped into the barouche to find herself sharing a seat with his lordship. The opposite squabs held Aunt Caroline and Lady Constance, still deep in conversation.

As the driver moved off, Atherton spoke softly. “That bonnet is most becoming to you. And I dare say the cashmere was your Mama’s treasured possession.”

Louisa raised startled eyes to his. “How did you know that?”

“I was at White’s on the occasion of your Papa’s last return from India.”

“Yes, Mama said the shawl was precious because
he
came home with it.”

Louisa lapsed into silence, lost in memories of those pleasant days.

“It also becomes you,” said his lordship. “Its color emphasizes your fair complexion.”

“Thank you.” Louisa, finding these compliments somewhat difficult to bear, wished that his lordship would find another topic of conversation, but when he did she had occasion to regret her wish.

“Have you read Anne of Swansea’s latest romance?” he asked. “I believe it is called
The Secret Avengers.
”

Louisa shook her head. “I’m afraid I have not. Did you enjoy it?”

Atherton shrugged. “Romances, I fear, have far too many features in common. As a genre they leave little to the imagination.”

“Then why do you read them?” asked Louisa curiously, for the moment forgetting her fear of the subject.

“It is difficult to say.” His lordship’s mouth twisted in a cynical smile. “Perhaps because everyone does and I wish to be conversant with the
ton.”

Louisa did not find this a very sound reason, but she did not say so and his lordship continued.

“Perhaps because I hope against hope that something new and different may appear in one. Or perhaps ...” and his eyes appeared to scrutinize her more closely than usual. “Perhaps it is because I am looking for a clue to the identity of the author.”

Louisa, pretending not to comprehend this, said, “I do not understand.”

“The
ton
is all afire to discover the identity of Lady Incognita. Every circle of lady visitors speculates as to her identity and casts suspicious eyes upon each participant. For it seems almost certain that Lady Incognita
is
a lady, and what a great thing it would be to discover her.”

“But what makes them think she is a lady?” asked Louisa. “Or even that the author is a woman? Anyone can use such a pen name.”

His lordship nodded gravely. “So the scoffers say. But the intelligentsia point out, and rightly, I believe, that the works must be written by a female. No male has such sensibility or is able to portray heroes so true to the heart of a lady’s dreams.”

“But she needn’t be a
lady,”
persisted Louisa.

“True. But the
ton,
inflated as it is with its own sense of importance, claims that no ordinary woman could be possessed of such sensibility. Ergo, the lady
is
a lady.”

Louisa laughed. If they were all looking among the gentry, she was safe. “These people must be dreadfully idle if they can find no better way to spend their time than trying to guess the identity of one who wishes it to remain a secret.”

“How do you know that?” asked his lordship sharply.

“Why ... why it is obvious. If the author wanted her identity known it would have been leaked out by now.”

  “Very true,” replied his lordship. “You seem to have a rather wide knowledge of the subject. How did you come by such information?”

“I?” replied Louisa, forcing herself to remain calm. “I know no more than common sense would tell one. Everyone knows that Scott is the author of
Waverley
and other novels. And that is because he wishes it known.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Atherton, smiling at her strangely. “At any rate, I am very anxious to see Lady Incognita’s newest romance. I hear that it is soon to be published.”

“Is that so?” returned Louisa, wondering if Mr. Grimstead had already issued puffs about
Love in the Ruins
for Minerva Press. Well, never mind. It
would
be ready soon. And very thankful she was, too, for the pounds it would bring.

  “I am sure,” Lady Constance’s voice rose slightly, “that cream lace over cream satin would be most becoming for Louisa. It will be rather like a coming out gown, yet not quite.” Lady Constance’s voice, if not strident, was at least very determined, and Louisa resigned herself to the expense of at least one new gown. “I do not like to remind you, my dear Caro-line,” continued Lady Palmerton in a tone that displayed only the slightest displeasure, “that the Colonel’s own sister - the admirable Julia - found my bumps of form and color to be quite large.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” murmured Aunt Caroline, for the moment at least, properly subdued.

“You may be content to leave things in Constance’s hands,” said Atherton softly. “She is really quite capable and has very good taste. She will not deck you out with gewgaws like a
nouveau riche
chit attempting higher circles.”

“I should hope not,” said Louisa, with obvious distaste. “Kindly remember that this whole idea was not mine but yours.”

“Yes. I suppose it was,” agreed his lordship pleasantly. “And I am most pleased that you are going along with it. Only kicking now and then against the traces.”

Looking up, he signaled to her. “Now we are entering Hyde Park. Have you truly never been here before?”

“Truly,” replied Louisa. “Mama and Papa did not come here much. Mama disliked horses. And Papa was so often gone.”

“Well,” said his lordship. “Even the Ring will be new to you then. Shall I point out to you the members of the
ton.

  “Oh, yes, I should like that,” replied Louisa, grasping with gratitude at a topic of conversation that could be safely engaged in. Anything that would remove the Viscount’s mind from speculation as to the identity of Lady Incognita was most welcome to her.

“Over there,” said Atherton, “in the phaeton is Poodle Byng. He achieved his nickname because of that prodigious head of curly black hair. He can tell you where to get the best tea and how French silks stain and English do not. He is a veritable repository of interesting information.’’

Louisa, unable to tell from his tone if his lordship was really speaking the truth, turned to him quickly. The dark eyes were sparkling at her mischievously, but his voice was still grave as he insisted, “It’s the truth, I swear. In a way Poodle is very fortunate.”