Marchington Scandal (5 page)

Lady Eliza sighed, but her eyes roamed the ballroom until they found Lord Stonenden, talking to a friend in the far corner, and her expression then was not that of a person who has given up hope.

Coincidentally, the two men were talking of Katharine at that very moment. “Did I see you dancing with the Daltry girl?” Mr. Case was asking his friend. “Alvanley was telling me about her earlier. I understand she's quite out of the common way.”

“She is that,” replied Stonenden.

“Lovely, too.” Case gazed across at her. “Say, Stonenden, I seem to remember that you showed quite an interest in her once. I'd forgotten.”

“Oh, yes. I sat at her feet with the rest of London's callow youth five years ago. She appeared to find the lot of us quite ridiculous. Rightly, I imagine.”

“Got engaged to some military sprig, didn't she? I recall it now. A great romance, it was. My wife was in alt over the thing. She followed him to India, and he up and died. A sad ending for the poor little thing.”

“She evidently thinks so,” responded Stonenden, with something like contempt.

“What do you mean?”

“According to the gossip, she is still pining for the fellow. Her heart, apparently, was broken.”

“Well, and why not? It's refreshing, when all the young people seem to think nothing of getting engaged and breaking it off again twice in a year. It wasn't so in my day. But the way you talk of the girl, I wonder you danced with her, Stonenden.”

“I wonder myself,” murmured his companion. He looked across. Katharine had left Eliza Burnham and was dancing again. As he followed her with his eyes, Oliver Stonenden felt a most unaccustomed uneasiness. Before him was the one person he had ever known who disturbed his ingrained assurance. He had not thought of her in some time. Her absence from England had made it easy not to do so. But now she had returned, stirring up a host of unwelcome thoughts and emotions.

Katharine Daltry's refusal of his suit had been the first, and really the only, shock to Oliver Stonenden's self-consequence in the course of his thirty-two years. Orphaned very early in his life, he had been reared by a maternal uncle who was nearly overcome by the honor and responsibility of his task. His mother's family, while genteel, occupied a much lower social stratum than the earls of Stonenden, and his uncle had been only too conscious of this disparity. He had at first tried to avoid the role of mentor, but finding that there were no suitable members of the Stonenden family available, he had then devoted his life to Oliver's education. Unfortunately, his outlook had imbued the boy with an exaggerated idea of his own worth. To Charles Beele, no family was greater than his nephew's, and no person more perfect than Oliver Stonenden. His continual reiteration of these principles had at last produced belief, and by the time he was fifteen, the young earl unconsciously thought of himself as far superior to the people around him. The early possession of a large fortune had merely compounded this process, giving him the freedom to do as he liked and an attraction for flatterers and toadeaters of all descriptions. The latter had engendered a contempt for his fellow man, but they had not taught him to question his own position.

It was left for Katharine Daltry to threaten his self-esteem, and even her refusal of his hand had merely dented it. She acquired an odd fascination for him—he could not seem to stay away from her—but when she left the country, Stonenden's old habits of thought returned intact. He dismissed her from his mind.

But now she was before him again, and some of the old disturbance welled up when it became obvious that she thought as little of him as ever. In the four years of her absence, Stonenden had met no one else who rated him so low. Indeed, the
ton
flattered and fawned in an only too familiar fashion; young women of marriageable age pursued him despite the sharpest set-downs his ready wit could devise. But now, here was this girl who called him arrogant to his face and named him “worse than ever,” a girl who had refused the hand that any of the debs would give almost anything to accept. Stonenden felt the old fascination rise once more. The girl was impossible, of course, yet…

Mr. Case had been watching his friend's face curiously during this pause. He was slightly shocked by the look that crossed it now. “Say, Oliver, you're not still piqued that she chose another fellow over you? I mean, if a girl's in love…”

“Of course not. What do you take me for?”

Case begged his pardon. “Not but what there are men who would hold a grudge over that sort of thing. But I should have known you're not that type.” He followed Stonenden's eyes to where Katharine was dancing. “But, I say, why did you dance with her?”

“Pure folly, I believe,” responded Stonenden musingly. “Or possibly mere boredom.”

The other man stared at him. “Beg pardon?”

The earl shrugged. “Come, John, how about a hand of piquet?”

Mr. Case followed him to the card room, a speculative gleam in his eye. Katharine Daltry was not mentioned between them again that evening, but she was much in Mr. Case's thoughts, and he would have wagered a good deal more than he was willing to venture on piquet that she was in his partner's as well, though what place she occupied was wholly unclear.

Elinor Marchington called on her cousin very early the following morning. She found Katharine and Mary at breakfast, and before they could even rise to greet her, she blurted out, “You must believe me now. You have seen with your own eyes how Tom—”

Katharine quickly gestured toward the maid, who was putting a fresh pot of tea on the table, and Elinor fell silent, but both the Daltrys could see from her expression that she would not be able to remain so long. She was plainly bursting with chagrin and indignation. Katharine sighed a little—it was clear there would be no painting for her this morning—and dismissed the maid. Elinor sat down, looking from one to the other of her hostesses. “You do believe me now, don't you? You saw how Tom is acting.”

Mary Daltry looked grave, and Katharine nodded reluctantly.

Elinor, far from being gratified by their agreement, seemed near tears. “What am I to do? I have tried to talk to Tom, but he won't listen. He has never been like this in his life. We always…we always…” She choked a little and groped in her reticule for a handkerchief. Mary got up and went to sit beside her, patting her shoulder comfortingly. And both of them looked to Katharine, their expressions full of confidence in her ability to solve this problem and put things right again.

Katharine smiled wryly back at them. Their faith was touching, but quite misplaced, she felt. She had no more idea than either of them what could be done about Tom's infatuation with the Countess Standen. Nothing in her admittedly somewhat unusual life had prepared her for the role of rescuer in such a situation. But the other two women continued to watch her hopefully, and Katharine felt she must speak. She cleared her throat. “Are you certain, Elinor, that we cannot go to Tom's father? I admit I am not well acquainted with Sir Lionel, but—”

“No, no. I told you what he is like! He would never forgive us. He would blame me.”

“But surely—”

“Katharine, I tell you, he
would
! And there would be a great row. And Tom would be so angry with me. Oh, no, you mustn't.
Promise
me you won't tell him!”

“All right. If you say we cannot go to Sir Lionel, then we cannot. But has Tom no other relative he respects? Perhaps his mother might influence him?”

“Oh, she is just like Sir Lionel. She would tell him at once.”

“Ah. But an uncle, perhaps, or…or anyone else?”

Elinor considered this, then shook her head. “Tom has never mentioned any family member with particular affection. I don't think he is close to his uncles.”

“I see.” Katharine's heart sank. She could not help believing that this problem would be much better handled by a man. She did not at all doubt her own judgment; she was simply convinced that Tom Marchington would not pay the least heed to the opinion of a woman little older than himself, whom he had met only once a very short time ago. A wry smile touched her lips again briefly. She could not help but add that Tom was probably right.

“Katharine, you must talk to him,” said Elinor then. “You must make him see how foolish he is. He will listen to you. You are so knowing.”

Staring a little at this description of herself, Katharine met her cousin's anxious brown eyes. “You know, Elinor, I really don't think he will. He barely knows me, and—”

“Of course he will!” protested the other. “You are just the person to show him how dreadful the Countess Standen truly is. You know all about the
ton
. When I try to talk to him, he always says I don't know anything about town life, but he cannot say that of
you
. Oh, Katharine, please!”

The older girl quailed before her cousin's pleading gaze. She was convinced that Elinor was distorting the situation in her desperate hope for a solution. Even she must realize that Katharine hadn't the slightest influence over Tom Marchington. Helplessly Katharine looked to Mary Daltry. “What do you think?” she asked her.

With understanding sympathy in her eyes, Mary shrugged. “I imagine you are right, but what else can we do? Have you some other plan? I do not. And I am unlikely to discover one.” She spread her hands in an eloquent gesture of helplessness. Her education had not prepared her to deal with a situation such as this.

Katharine sighed again and shook her head. “I haven't any plan at all. I suppose I must talk to him.”

Elinor clasped her hands. “You will? Oh, I knew you would not fail me.” For the first time that morning, she smiled. “Everything will be all right now. You will go at once, won't you, Katharine? Tom is usually at home until eleven.”

Katharine's amber eyes widened. “Now? But I…”

“Oh, please. I am so miserable. I cannot bear another day of this.”

“But I have not thought what I will say, or…or…” Katharine looked to Mary for help.

But she merely shrugged again. “Perhaps it would be best to get it over with,” she said. Meeting her eyes, outraged, Katharine read a very different message there. Like her, Mary clearly thought this mission hopeless. The older woman glanced briefly at Elinor, then made a tiny gesture with her hands, and Katharine saw at once that she was concerned about Elinor's false hopes. The girl was transformed, all her despondence dissolved by the belief that Katharine would magically make everything right. The sooner she was forced to face the truth, the easier it would be.

Still, Katharine could not feel pleased about the prospect of confronting Tom Marchington. She rose from her chair slowly and reluctantly. “Very well,” she said finally. “I shall go this morning.”

Elinor bounced to her feet and came to hug Katharine. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Cousin Katharine. I knew you would help me. You are my favorite relative in the whole world!”

Katharine tried to return her smile, but when she met Mary's eyes over Elinor's shoulder, she grimaced eloquently.

Katharine did not leave her house until ten. She had, after all, insisted upon a little time to marshal her thoughts. But Elinor had assured her that Tom never left his bed before nine, so she hoped to catch him as he finished breakfast. As she rode the short distance to the Marchingtons' rented town house, she pulled nervously at the fingers of her gloves and rehearsed yet again what she meant to say. It would require all the tact and calm reasonableness she possessed, she felt, to get Tom to listen to her at all. Persuading him to change his behavior would be something else again—and most probably impossible. But she hoped at least to be persuasive enough so that he might think about it once she had gone.

When Katharine arrived at the house, however, she met with an unexpected setback. Tom was out. She had been so concentrated on her argument that this simple problem defeated her for a moment. She stood on the steps before the front door and stared at the fashionable butler who had imparted this news.

“Perhaps you would care to leave a message?” he said. “Will you come in?”

“No. No, I…it is very important that I speak to Mr. Marchington right away. His wife has…that is, do you know where he has gone?”

“He didn't say, Miss Daltry. But I did hear him direct the coachman to the exhibition of Greek statues.”

“The Elgin Marbles? Oh, that's all right, then; I shall look for him there.”

“Yes, miss. I hope there hasn't been an accident or anything of that nature? Mrs. Marchington is—”

“No, no, of course not. She is perfectly all right. Thank you.” Katharine climbed back into her carriage feeling that she had not handled this encounter very smoothly.

By the time she reached the exhibition hall, however, she had gathered her wits once again. And she went in looking resolute. The place was nearly empty at this time of the morning, and Katharine walked quickly through one deserted room after another, hardly glancing at the sculpture that she had more than once spent hours admiring. She had begun to conclude that Tom was not there—indeed, when she thought about it, it was a very odd place for him to come—when she heard the murmur of voices from the chamber ahead of her. She increased her pace, and in a moment was under the archway and face-to-face with the Countess Standen, the sole occupant of the room. Thoroughly taken aback, Katharine stopped short and, regrettably, gaped at the older woman.

Her patent astonishment called forth the countess's crooked smile. And in the brief instant they stood silently facing one another, Katharine's heart sank. Seen so close, Elise Standen was even lovelier than she remembered. Her statuesque figure was flawless, her pale blond hair and clear skin exquisite, and her brilliant green eyes both alluring and intelligent. She wore an elegant morning dress of dark green cloth and had been pulling a matching pair of kid gloves over her fingers when Katharine entered. “Good morning,” she said in a cool, amused voice as Katharine continued to stare. “Have we met? I am Elise Standen.”

Katharine got the distinct impression that the countess knew precisely who she was, but she said only, “I believe not. I am Katharine Daltry.”

“How do you do? You are General Daltry's daughter, are you not? I knew your father years ago.”

At this, still spoken in that mockingly amused tone, Katharine's eyes widened slightly. She looked at the countess, thought of her own dashing father, and almost laughed. It was quite possible that the general had known Elise Standen—she was very much in his style—but the countess was too young to have known him “years ago” in the intimate way that her voice implied. The woman was trying to bait her. A glitter appeared in Katharine's amber eyes. “Did you?” she replied sweetly. “I don't remember. Was it before I was born?”

The other woman's head jerked a little as she glanced quickly at Katharine, an arrested expression in her eyes. Then, surprisingly, she slowly smiled her crooked smile once again. She surveyed the younger girl from head to foot, appreciatively. “You
are
your father's daughter, aren't you?”

Katharine had to suppress an answering smile. The woman's humor was contagious. “People seem to notice a resemblance.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. I congratulate you.”

The remark seemed so sincere, and the countess's expression so clear of mockery, that Katharine was suddenly struck by an idea. Could she speak to this woman about Tom, rather than vice versa? She dismissed the thought at once. She could not broach such a personal matter with a stranger who possessed not even the slender link of being married to her cousin. But even as she came to this conclusion, Elise Standen said, “Did you come looking for Tom?” Laughter was again in her voice.

Katharine was taken aback.

“It was not so hard to guess, you know. You came in with such a determined look, it was obvious you were searching for someone. And when you saw me, you were
so
astonished.” She laughed. “It helped, of course, that I knew you were Tom's cousin.”

“His wife's cousin,” Katharine could not resist replying.

“Yes, of course. His wife's cousin.” The countess's green eyes met Katharine's amber ones lazily, and she smiled.

“Won't you stop what you're doing?” blurted Katharine then. This exchange was extremely improper, but she could not let such an opportunity go by.

The older woman's smile broadened. “I could pretend that I don't know what you mean,” she answered. “But I think I won't. It is far more piquant.”

“Do you
like
hurting people?” said Katharine, at once put off and somehow fascinated by this woman.

“Not particularly.” The countess was careless.

“Then you will stop?”

“Oh, no, my dear. I am having far too much fun with little Thomas. And my own amusement is more important than anything else to me. You cannot imagine how bored I was before he came along.”

“But that is despicable,” began Katharine, appalled by such lighthearted selfishness.

“Oh, la, what a word. It is no more than half the
ton
is doing every day, Miss Daltry. There's not the least harm in it.”

“There is,” insisted Katharine, thinking of Elinor's face this morning.

Countess Standen shrugged, losing interest in the subject. Katharine was about to go on, to try to make her see the rightness of her request, when there was a slight noise behind them and Tom Marchington hurried into the room.

“Sorry to be so long,” he was saying. “The damned groom…” Seeing Katharine, he stopped abruptly.

“Tom,” murmured the countess caressingly. The look in her eyes, a mixture of confidence, amusement, and calculation, made Katharine frown. “Your cousin was searching for you, darling. I told her you'd be right along.”

Tom and Katharine frowned at one another, he in uneasy annoyance, she in angry disgust. The countess had told her no such thing. “I want to talk to you,” she snapped, forgetting all her careful plans.

Tom's frown deepened. “I am just escorting the countess home.”

“Oh, don't mind me,” put in this lady, drifting toward the door. “I can find my carriage perfectly well. Do have your little ‘talk.' This is such an
uplifting
place for one.” And with a mocking smile over her shoulder, she was gone.

Katharine was immediately aware of the complete impropriety of talking to Tom in a public place. Why had she followed him here instead of calling at the house again later? She was annoyed with herself, and her annoyance shifted irrationally onto Tom as he started to go after the countess. “Tom! I want to speak to you,” she snapped.

He turned back, plainly exasperated. “Well, you've chosen a dashed inconvenient time for it…and place, for that matter. I must go.”

“On the contrary, you must stay and hear what I have to tell you,” Katharine heard herself retort. As soon as the words were out, she bit her lip. This was no way to persuade Tom Marchington.

A carriage went by outside, and Tom strode to the window to watch it. When he turned back, he looked even more annoyed. “She's gone. What the deuce do you want?”