Miss Pymbroke's Rules (7 page)

The sounds of Lady Iris shouting curses, and another female, whom Louisa assumed was the Cook, caterwauling finally sent her upstairs to prepare for her evening at the playhouse.

* * * *

Verity dismissed Lady Hyacinth’s maid and ran the warming pan herself over the lady’s mattress. Lady Hyacinth selected one of the many bottles of medicines from the table next to the bed, poured herself a large dose, and then grimaced when she swallowed the contents.

Tucking the older woman in bed and making sure she was comfortable, Verity made as if to leave the room in order to ready herself for the evening, but Lady Hyacinth wanted to talk.

“Thank you, dear child, you are an excellent creature. It will be splendid having someone in the house who understands my sensibilities. Iris never has.”

Verity adjusted the bed hangings. “My lady, I shall not hear a word against your sister tonight. If it were not for her idea for me to lease my house, I do not know what I should have done.”

Lady Hyacinth sighed dreamily and patted her red hair. “Yes, isn’t the marquess spectacular? Such legs.”

Verity compressed her lips into a thin line.

Unknowingly echoing Louisa’s earlier thoughts, her ladyship continued, “He impresses me as the sort who would strip to advantage. Puts me in mind of the Earl of Marsh back in 1777. Or was it ’78? No matter. Not that I ever saw the earl without his clothes, but he knew to a nicety how to diddle with a gel’s … well! Most pleasing.”

Verity made her excuses as fast as possible after Lady Hyacinth’s improbable reminiscences and fled to her bedchamber where she bathed her hot cheeks with cool water.

The sisters had given her a lovely room, done in olive green with white and peach accents. Verity seated herself at a satinwood dressing table.

The same maid who’d accompanied Verity to the theater was flipping through the gowns in a large armoire. She was the only servant Verity had taken from the house next door. “What will you be wearin’ to the playhouse this evenin’, miss? There’s nothin’ here that’s right for such a grand evenin’. You’ll want to look your best for his lordship. Ever so handsome, he is.”

“Fustian!” Verity exclaimed, out of reason cross. Must everyone expound on the marquess’s attractive person? No doubt, he would share their views if he but heard them.  Betty, I am not going to the playhouse to impress his lordship, thus it matters not what I wear. I... I am going on the hope I might perceive some clue as how best to reach the actresses spiritually. So far, I have not been successful in convincing any of them of their folly.”

Betty looked doubtful. “Yes, miss.”

“The lavender with the black trim will serve,” Verity informed her. The gown she selected was another severe style of half-mourning, with long sleeves and a high neck.

The maid helped her mistress undress. Verity stood clad only in a scant, very lacy shift. For one whose clothes were modest in the extreme, the garment was vastly out of character.

But Verity’s one vanity was that she adored feminine undergarments. After washing in rose-scented water, she pulled on fine silk stockings and lashed them tightly to her legs with a pair of red silk garters.

Betty’s suggestion that Verity soften her hairstyle for the evening was swiftly refused. After scraping a final pin through her hair, to be certain not a single tendril escaped its knot, Verity hurried out of the room, leaving Betty to heave an exasperated sigh.

Out on the landing, Verity stopped short, and her mouth dropped open in surprise at the sight of her sister who was preparing to descend the staircase. Louisa was clad in an ice blue satin gown, its bodice cut low, revealing an indecent amount of flesh. About her neck flashed an expensive diamond necklace.

“What is it, Mouse?” Louisa inquired, her gray eyes reflecting a cynical amusement at her sister’s appraisal.

Verity closed her gaping mouth and stepped closer to her sister. As she did, she saw Louisa had darkened her pale eyelashes with lamp black. Cosmetics! Verity’s lips pursed in disapproval.

The sounds of Bingwood admitting a caller reached their ears. Wishing to make her entrance in front of the marquess alone, Louisa said, “Run on down, Verity, I have forgotten my shawl.”

“Thank goodness you intend on wearing something to cover yourself,” Verity murmured, but Louisa had turned on her heel and headed in the direction of her room, missing the comment.

As Verity walked down the stairs, her mind reeled with questions. Where had Louisa obtained such lavish finery? That necklace must be worth a fortune.

And she must speak with her sister about her appearance. While there was no doubt in Verity’s mind Louisa was the beauty of the family, she needed to adopt a more chaste mode of dress. Verity knew it was her duty to explain to her sister that, while she was certain it was not Louisa’s intention, she was flaunting her looks.

Her expression troubled, Verity reached the bottom of the stairs. She’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she had failed to notice the Marquess of Carrisworth standing in the hall watching her, a shimmer of amusement visible in his eyes.

“Good evening. Miss Pymbroke. What an interesting choice of gown for the theater.”

Any response Verity might have made died unspoken on her lips. Her eyes widened in astonishment because Lord Carrisworth stood before her in all the glory of his evening clothes.

A charcoal-gray coat fit his athletic body to perfection. His cravat was a sculptured miracle of snow-white cloth. A large emerald, which Verity thought paled in comparison with his lordship’s green eyes, nestled in its folds. A figured white waistcoat and black silk breeches completed the picture of aristocratic elegance.

Lady Hyacinth’s and Betty’s words about the marquess being handsome floated across her brain.  Verity’s eyes met Lord Carrisworth’s and she held his gaze, swallowing hard.

Very well, then. This was to be a challenge to the high moral standards she embraced. Her resolve strengthened. Tonight, at the playhouse, she would show Lord Carrisworth how little his devastating good looks affected her. She raised her chin.

His lordship’s gaze abruptly swung to the staircase. He made his bow to Louisa, smiling pleasantly. “You do not look at all tired from your journey, Mrs. Barrington.”

Louisa determined to ignore the weakness of this compliment and set herself to flirting with Lord Carrisworth during the journey to the theater, a circumstance the marquess seemed to accept with cool equanimity.

Verity endured the drive; her arms folded across her chest, and stared out into the dark night. It would be her responsibility to apprise her sister of his lordship’s nature. Of course, having only just arrived in Town, Louisa could not be expected to know of the marquess’s wicked ways.

Lord Carrisworth had determined Louisa to be that most dangerous female, a widow on the prowl for a husband. He was relieved when, arriving at the Theatre Royal, he noticed his friend. Sir Ramsey. “Randy! Care to join my party? Let me make you known to these two charming ladies.”

Sir Ramsey made an elegant bow while his puzzled gaze ran over Verity’s gown and coiffure. His hazel eyes brightened, however, when they rested on Mrs. Barrington. He offered her his arm immediately and engaged her in a conversation about her travels.

As the marquess had hoped, Louisa recovered at once from his own lack of interest under the flattering attentions of Sir Ramsey. The two trailed behind, having to stop when Louisa discovered she had dropped her fan.

Thus, Verity and Lord Carrisworth entered his box alone. The marquess had wisely timed their arrival after the often bawdy one-act play that usually preceded a Shakespearean tragedy.

But he had not spared a thought for Society’s reaction to seeing London’s premier rake accompanied by such a Puritan-looking female. Quizzing glasses were raised. Opera glasses were trained on the pair. Some young bucks went so far as to stand on their chairs, hoping for a better view.

Surely a man who had kept a string of dashing highflyers and was currently the protector of two mistresses who were twins, a four-bottle man, a man unerringly blessed with luck at Fortune’s sportive wheel and whose horses could trot against anything alive, would have no real interest in a woman like the one at his side.

As fans fluttered and whispering reached a peak, the general consensus was the Marquess of Carrisworth was roasting them.

Standing next to him, Verity felt miserable for the marquess. She was certain all the attention being given them was due to those dreadful lampoons circulating. Even though his lordship had brought the censure on himself, she found her tender heart touched with sympathy at his humiliation.

She turned to him, her eyes filled with pity. “My lord, you must rise above such condemnation. You have learned your lesson, I think, and will behave more admirably in the future. I suggest, as a beginning, you send those two unfortunate French girls to a convent.”

Chapter Four

Laughter formed in the back of Lord Carrisworth’s throat at Miss Pymbroke’s assertions, but he suppressed it while gazing down at her earnest face. A quiet voice inside him said if she knew the truth, that it was she who was at the center of Society’s whispers, then hurt would be reflected in her brown eyes which, for the first time, were looking upon him with tenderness.

The marquess decided he quite liked being the recipient of Miss Pymbroke’s compassion, and so he reached out a gloved hand and gave her cheek a careless pat. “Thank you. But I do not care one jot what people say.”

Behind them, Louisa and Sir Ramsey entered the box. Lord Carrisworth saw everyone seated comfortably before sitting down himself. Louisa and Sir Ramsey glanced around the theater at the interested faces of the various notables watching their box and began a whispered conversation.

The marquess was happy to see the widow occupied. It left him free to converse with Miss Pymbroke. “I hope you will enjoy the play. It is Romeo and Juliet.”

Diverted, Verity turned her gaze to the stage. “I must admit, it’s one of my favorites.”

“Ah, you are a romantic, then. Do not deny it,” he added swiftly. “It may interest you to know it was here in 1779 that Prinny first saw Mary Robinson. And, in 1791, his brother, the Duke of Clarence, met Mrs. Jordan.” He smiled seductively, leaned close to her, and murmured, “Many great love affairs have begun in this theater. Perhaps another will commence tonight.”

Verity folded her gloved hands in her lap. “You are speaking of illicit relationships, my lord, ones not sanctioned by the laws or the church. I have no desire to converse about such immoral conduct.”

Deliberately misunderstanding her, Lord Carrisworth said smoothly, “You have no desires? When I look into the velvet depths of your eyes, Miss Pymbroke, I find that hard to believe.”

Those same eyes smoldered dangerously when Verity said, “Sir, you are impertinent. Our connection exists only because you are leasing my home. I would thank you to remember I am here this evening because of a promise you extracted from me, and ask you to cease these practiced compliments.”

The marquess replied to this request with mocking gallantry. “I shall obey you in this, as in everything, my landlady.”

As the play began, he sat back to enjoy Miss Pymbroke’s reaction.

In the beginning, her face was set, and he imagined her mind working on the problem of reforming the actresses.

But slowly, as the story progressed, he could tell she had been drawn into the plight of the characters. She leaned forward in her chair in rapt attention, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings. During the tragic ending, when Juliet thrust the knife into herself, tears trembled on Miss Pymbroke’s long eyelashes before falling to travel down her ivory cheeks. She reached into her reticule and produced a dainty handkerchief.

Fascinated by her refreshingly genuine response the marquess never took his gaze from her.

They did not stay for the afterpiece, Lord Carrisworth judging it best to leave while Miss Pymbroke was still plainly moved by the performance. As they made their way toward the waiting coach, she appeared remote and distracted.

The marquess handed Miss Pymbroke into the vehicle, watching Sir Ramsey taking a prolonged leave from Mrs. Barrington. The baronet could be seen raising the widow’s hand to his lips and kissing it for what seemed an overlong time.

Carrisworth noted the look of disapproval on Miss Pymbroke’s lovely face. Deciding the pair had gone on long enough, he called to his friend. “Randy, will I see you at White’s later on?”

Sir Ramsey broke away from Louisa with obvious reluctance. “I am not moving from this spot until Mrs. Barrington says she will be at the Foxworths’ breakfast tomorrow.”

Louisa gave a practiced trill of laughter. “La, sir, I have not been invited anywhere yet.”

“What has that to say to anything, my dear Mrs. Barrington? I daresay Lady Iris has received a card, and as her guest you must be included. Say you will go, else I shall stand in Brydges Street all night,” Sir Ramsey warned.

Louisa cast him a coy look. “Very well, I shall attend, but only if you give me your escort. Lady Iris may have sent her regrets, and I should not like you to wait for me in vain. You might find another lady upon whom to bestow your attentions.”

“Never!” Sir Ramsey assured her. “I shall consider it an honor to escort you and shall call for you at three.” With a final bow he turned and walked toward his own carriage, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

Inside Lord Carrisworth’s comfortable coach, Verity drew in her breath sharply. Louisa’s behavior was really too bad. Before long, if her sister was not careful, she would be labeled fast.

Louisa settled in the seat next to Verity, and the coach set out over the cobblestone streets. Presently, Verity was brought out of her musings by the marquess. “Did you enjoy the play, Miss Pymbroke?” he asked quietly.

Verity’s innate honesty forced her to be candid. “Yes, my lord. I confess it was like nothing I have ever experienced. I felt transported to another time and place. It was delightful.”