Lady Pamela (12 page)

Amanda made the introductions, and the duke spoke a few words with them, amiability itself, while Lady Pam waged a silent battle for composure. Three or four different women, all named Pamela Sinclair, seemed to have crowded into her head.

What could he mean, coming here–said one–after what we said to each other? After what he said to me?

He knows where I live, said a second voice, rather pleased. He has troubled to find my home.

Don’t be ridiculous, said another. Half the ton must know where Lady Pamela Sinclair lives; ’twould be a slow-top indeed who could not suss it out.

Pam wished them all to the devil. The duke had remained standing; she offered him the seat furthest from her own.

“Your...my lord,” she said, “we are honored.”

He took a step forward, in her direction, and Lady Pamela had to stop herself from matching it with a step of her own in retreat. The duke was an imposing figure, and his costume this morning was the match of any lord of the
ton
. A coat of camel superfine, cut-away and tailored to a perfect fit, the neckcloth tied in a simple, elegant knot.

Only after a moment’s blank stare, as she held her ground, did Pam notice that Lord Torrance held something in his hands.

Flowers. Pleasure flooded through her, even as she told herself that ’twas nothing, ’twas no more than a commonplace to bring flowers when visiting a lady with whom one had shared a dance. But the bouquet was not common in its beauty, and the other women murmured appreciation as Lady Pamela took it from his hands, as she inhaled the strong fragrance of the white blooms.

Lilies in September. However had Lord Torrance managed to find anything so lovely?

“Oh... goodness. Thank you–”

“Maggie,” called Amanda, motioning toward the flowers. She cast an amused glance at Lady Pam.

The maid took the bouquet from her nerveless hands, and Lady Pamela retreated to her own seat, offering Lord Torrance cakes and sandwiches, pouring him a cup of tea. She felt as though she were merely going through the motions, an automaton. As if the tension between them was palpable to everyone in the room.

But the duke seemed sincerely grateful. And hungry... Lady Pamela thought he looked somewhat thinner than she had remembered, which was surely her imagination.

At first, conversation was general, and for several minutes Lady Detweiler treated them to the latest society
on dits
, one of which involved, to Pam’s embarrassment, a high-born lady, a library sofa, and the Marquess of Chesholm’s butler.

“Amanda,” warned Lady Pam, as the duke coughed and Lady Cartleigh and the viscountess collapsed against each other in giggles. Given the slightest encouragement, Lady Detweiler would relate details.

“Might one ask,” said the duke–to Lady Pamela’s relief–“the best source of good coal?”

“Lambroke’s,” said Viscountess Lac-Chèvres.

“Lambroke’s! Certainly not,” said Lady Cartleigh, and talk shifted at once to housekeeping counsels, a subject at which each of the women present, save perhaps Amanda, felt they excelled. A heated exchange on soaps followed the discussion of coal, and Lady Pamela, goaded, found herself weighing in on the relative merits of several marks of tea. From tea, ’twas a short leap to the current state of the duke’s townhome, and on this topic he had a vastly willing audience.

“Yes, Marchers was in a sad state, I’m afraid,” Lord Torrance told the viscountess, in answer to a query. “I’ve engaged a housekeeper–Mrs. Throckmorton–but ’twill be some time before it is put to rights. Actually–”

“Lud,” said Lady Cartleigh. “And you say no-one was left at the house, no-one at all?”

“Not a soul. As I said–”

“But the footmen, the gardeners, the maids! And you so newly to town. How on earth are you managing to find a proper staff?” Lady Cartleigh leaned toward the duke, one gloved hand resting lightly on his arm, her face the picture of solicitude.

“The housekeeper–” began Lord Torrance.

“And all
alone
,” breathed Viscountess Lac-Chèvres, her lips forming a pout. She leaned toward the duke as well. “ ’Tis not to be borne! A young man such as your grace, in the prime of life, suffering such difficulties!”

“As I said–”

Amanda’s eyes had narrowed. Lady Pamela recalled, now, that the viscountess and Lady Cartleigh were determined flirts and that the viscountess–a widow–was accounted something more than that. It had never concerned her before. She wondered if the duke might be tired of arguments, if his interests might be captured by more pleasant activities.

Not his high-and-mighty lordship! came a small, bitter voice. His grace would not lower himself.

“I’m quite certain we can find you a footman or two, at the very least,” the viscountess cooed. She was now leaning so far forward, saw Lady Pamela, that even the restrained
décolletage
of her morning gown had lost much of its modesty.

But, why shouldn’t he have his flirtation? And why should she care one way or the other?

“Mrs. Throckmorton is engaged upon that task at present,” broke in Lord Torrance. He shifted slightly, edging away from the viscountess. “And ’twas not as difficult as we first feared. She has been able to locate a number of those who served the previous duke–”

Amanda caught Pam’s eye and winked. The disposition of the previous servants of Marchers had worried Lady Pamela.

“–and, although several are a bit long in the tooth, I have given orders that anyone who once worked at Marchers House will receive fair welcome. Lady Pamela, perhaps I might enquire–”

“And the butler?” asked Viscountess Lac-Chèvres. “If you’ve not yet employed a butler, let me suggest–”

Lady Detweiler stifled a snort, and Pamela herself was tempted to laugh. Even a dukedom, it seemed, was no surety against a determined female. But she gave Lord Torrance credit. His good temper never faltered, and he had somehow managed to avoid the viscountess’s more obvious machinations without giving offense.

His grace seems capable, thought Lady Pam, of conversing with
other
women in charity.

“ ’Tis so difficult to find good help these days,” Lady Cartleigh was saying.

Is this why he came? she wondered. To feed the
ton’s
interest in a handsome young duke? To talk to any chattering female who showed the slightest inclination?

“I should be fascinated to see Marchers House,” said the viscountess. “So romantic, don’t you think? The brooding, abandoned mansion, the vigorous new lord–”

At this, Amanda took action.

“I can scarce believe you’ve favored us so long, my dear,” she told Lady Cartleigh. “And viscountess, such a pleasure, I’m
devastated
that you must leave so soon.”

“Oh. Oh, but–”

“Purely devastated,” added Amanda, “Smithers!”–and, as the butler came forward, their wraps in hand, the two women were left with little choice. They made their
adieu
s, and soon Pamela and Lady Detweiler were alone with the duke, who showed no signs of following her other guests to the door. Whether she felt this as a relief or a disappointment, Lady Pam could not say.

* * * *

Lord Torrance feared that he had far overstayed his visit. The etiquette of calls required a conversation of perhaps twenty minutes duration, a half-hour at most, and he had sat in Lady Pamela’s
salon
far beyond that time. If Lady Cartleigh and that dreadful viscountess had only left sooner...

He had had no opportunity to speak with Pamela in anything like privacy. Benjamin’s frustration had grown moment by moment, as Lady Pam sent few looks his way, giving him so little opportunity to gauge her feelings. He
must
discover what she felt towards him.

If Pamela’s only guest had been Lady Detweiler, thought Benjamin, he could have managed a few words. Lady Detweiler would have understood. She had seemed his ally during those weeks in Bedfordshire; always offering her services as chaperon, and promptly disappearing. He and Lady Pamela had time enough together then.

He could not leave yet. He could not.

The door to the
salon
opened and a footman entered bearing a tray of pastries. The smell of cinnamon and cloves made his mouth water.

“Ah,” said Lady Detweiler. “I see Cook has prepared crullers. Lord Torrance, you must try the crullers, they are accounted the best in town. ”

* * * *

The pastries were a great success.

All awkwardness had been banished, at least temporarily, from the
petit salon
, and Lady Detweiler and Lady Pamela watched in amusement as Lord Torrance applied himself, once more, to the
plateau à thé
.

“I’d almost forgotten the taste of good food,” he said, finishing off another of the crullers. “The cook is trying her best, but the kitchen is a pure botch, and there’s no point in stocking supplies until we can–”

Here he stopped himself, evidently in some chagrin.

“Get rid of the rats?” supplied Amanda, helpfully.

“Ah, well...”

“ ’Tis only to be expected, you know.”

“I’m not sure Cook takes things in quite that light.”

 Pam felt that her digestion was not up to a discussion of the town vermin, but Lady Detweiler, thankfully, did not pursue the subject further. The strain of Lord Torrance’s unexpected presence at Hillsleigh was wearing on Lady Pamela, and conversation was on its way to deserting her. Still the duke remained seated, cruller in hand. He seemed oblivious of her discomposure and determined to chat.

“Is London always so fine at this time of the year?” he asked.

“Sadly, no,” Pam answered, and for a few minutes she was able to hold her own in a discussion of the weather, until Amanda began to make noises of departure. Pam felt her throat tighten and her heart begin to race. Was she to be left alone with him?

She tried to catch Lady Detweiler’s eye, to beg her to stay, but Amanda was obdurately looking elsewhere. Suddenly, to the surprise of both women, the duke stood up and made a gesture of appeal.

“I find myself in need of advice,” began Lord Torrance. “It’s presumptuous to ask, I know, but I thought that the two of you might be able to help.”

He hesitated. Lady Detweiler had been arranging her shawl, on her way to the door. At the duke’s words she turned back, eyes glittering and shawl forgotten. She might have preferred leaving Lady Pamela alone with Lord Torrance, but he had directed his address to the both of them, and Amanda loved nothing better than giving advice.

“On the running of Marchers? ” she asked him. “How to keep the coal boys out of the sugar, or sacking the housekeeper, that sort of thing?”

The duke laughed. “Indeed not,” he replied. “I’ve had no cause for a single complaint against the staff. And I’m not sure I’d dare sack Mrs. Throckmorton. But the problem does involve the house.” He began to pace.

“Well, then, my dear sir, we are at your disposal.” Amanda waved Smithers away and perched on the edge of the sofa as Pam, outnumbered in her quest for an uneventful morning, awaited the duke’s explanation.

Advice?

“Mrs. Throckmorton is competent and hard-working,” said the duke, “and if the situation involved no more than broken windows and dirt I believe Marchers would be ready for a visit from the prince even now.”

“She sounds a veritable paragon of industry,” said Amanda. “But I take it there is more.”

“Much more. ’Tis as if the house were left unattended for a century, not a mere ten years. As if someone had deliberately set her to be ruined.”

“London is hard on the best of us,” said Pam, who found that she was curious, despite herself.

“Indeed. And how a wall can crack on its own, merely standing there, I do not fathom. The plastering takes time, and the repair of the woodwork. One of the dukes must have been inordinately fond of mahogany paneling. ’Tis beautiful, but–”

“I’m accounted a poor plasterer, I fear. Lady Pamela, on the other hand...”

Lord Torrance looked so alarmed at this suggestion that the two women laughed.

“Very well,” said Pamela, “but if I can be no help with trowel and lathe...? ”

“ ’Tis what’s needed afterwards,” replied Lord Torrance. “After the windows are replaced and the walls are patched and the benighted hole in the roof–one hole, mind you, right above what’s left of the old duke’s bed–after that is fixed–” He broke off.

“Hmm?” Lady Detweiler murmured her encouragement, for the duke’s expression was now truly irresolute, as if he had only just realized what he was about to say, and was thinking better of it.

“Ah...” He forged ahead. “Mrs. Throckmorton tells me, for a start, that every scrap of fabric in the house needs to be sent to the middens and burnt.”

Lady Pamela was remembering her visit to Marchers. The draperies, now that she thought of it, had been in tatters, their colours obscured by years of London dirt. “I shouldn’t wonder,” she said. “Between the moths and the damp–”

“Precisely,” said the duke. “And all of us are quite sick of the odor of mildew, I assure you. But...the housekeeper is quite busy already. I’ve asked her to do the hiring, you see–”

“How brave of you,” commented Amanda.

“No braver than if I were to do it myself, knowing nothing of the city,” replied Lord Torrance. “Still, I can hardly ask Mrs. Throckmorton to redecorate Marchers on top of everything else.”

“
Ahh
,” said Lady Detweiler, drawing the syllable out until Pamela wondered what could have pleased Amanda about the sad state of the duke’s townhome. Lord Torrance was correct, she knew, in his estimation of how much work there was yet to be done. ’Twould be months, perhaps, before he had any hope of relaxing in a manner that the rest of the
ton
took for granted. Amanda seemed about to elaborate, but Lady Pamela interrupted.

“Why do you stay there?” she asked him. “Surely you could let another house, and wait for renovations before moving in.”

“ ’Tis tempting,” said the duke. “I’ve considered doing exactly that, I’ll admit–especially on the nights with rain. Waking to puddles in the bedroom floor is not for the faint of heart.”

“There are several homes nearby, entirely suitable–” Lady Pam broke off, wondering if her suggestion of homes
nearby
would be taken as forward. But Lord Torrance was nodding.