My Lord Winter (17 page)

Reaching Wintringham House, he went upstairs to change.

“Have a good time, did you, my lord?” Alfred asked.

“Very pleasant. Richmond is a pretty place, and the weather could not have been better.”

The valet grinned. “Just like the company, eh?”

“Pretty, very pleasant, could not have been better--yes, that would not be inaccurate.”

As he washed off the grime from the steamboat’s funnel, Edmund thought of Jane’s friendliness with the maid, Ella. He had disapproved of such familiarity with a servant, yet his own banter with his valet was no different. Of course, he had known Alfred all his life whereas, to Jane, Ella was no more than a friend’s abigail. Unless Jane was Miss Gracechurch’s daughter....

* * * *

The visit to the Spring Gardens Panorama, currently showing a 360-degree view of the Battle of Waterloo, was followed by an expedition to Bullock’s Museum in the Egyptian Hall. Jane continued as cheerful and amiable as ever, so Edmund assumed he had succeeded in hiding his doubts about her birth.

His doubts about the next outing she proposed must have been obvious, however.

“I know the circus is childish,” she said, with the gurgle of laughter he loved to hear, “but it sounded such fun when Mr. Reid described it. If Astley’s Amphitheatre is beneath your dignity, my lord, Mr. Selwyn has promised to treat Miss Gracechurch and me.”

If a sober lawyer was willing to stoop to such absurd nonsense, the Earl of Wintringham was not going to prove himself a pompous prig by refusing.

He was prepared to enjoy the occasion simply because Jane was there, and to be entertained by her reactions to the show. In the event, he found much to admire in the horsemanship of the equestrians, despite their spangled tights. The jugglers, acrobats, contortionists, tumblers, and tightrope dancers were all the best of their kind, capable of amazing feats. And when Edmund heard Mr. Selwyn’s guffaws at the antics of clowns and pantaloons, he stopped trying to maintain a well-bred reticence and laughed as loud as anyone.

That Jane forgot to let go his arm—after clutching it during the spectacularly dangerous trick of an equestrienne clad in little but a silver frill—in no way hindered his appreciation.

On his return home, after drinking a nightcap with Mr. Selwyn, he was met by Mason with the news that Lady Wintringham had arrived in Town.

“Her ladyship retired a short while ago, my lord,” the butler reported, his dispassionate gaze fixed upon some invisible spot beyond his master’s right ear. “Her ladyship expressed a desire to meet with your lordship tomorrow to discuss a matter of importance. Eleven was the hour suggested, my lord.”

“Her ladyship’s wish is my command,” said Edmund with a savage sarcasm that made the impassive butler blink. He went up to his chamber, where Alfred was warming his nightshirt before the fire. “My aunt is come,” he groaned.

“Don’t I know it, my lord,” said Alfred gloomily, helping him out of his close-fitting coat.

“She has summoned me to an interview tomorrow morning. I don’t suppose you have discovered what she wishes to speak to me about?” He ripped off his neckcloth and dropped it on the dressing table.

“No, my lord, but it’s bound to be nasty.”

“You don’t need to tell
me.”

“One thing’s for sure, with her ladyship peering over your shoulder, you won’t be popping off to places like Astley’s no more.”

* * * *

After his early morning gallop in Hyde Park, under threatening clouds, Edmund returned home to toy with his breakfast. It was ridiculous for a grown man to dread an interview with his aunt, but Lady Wintringham had the power to make him feel he was once again a small boy arriving at the Abbey for the first time.

He went to the library to write letters. Intent on making sure his instructions to the bailiff of his Staffordshire estate were easily understood, for a time he forgot his apprehension. Then the long-case clock struck eleven and a knocking on the door preceded Mason’s appearance.

“Her ladyship is in the drawing-room,” he announced, with a hint of apology in his manner.

Completing his sentence, Edmund dried the ink with blotting paper, wiped the nib of his pen, and reluctantly made his way to the drawing-room.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

Lady Wintringham sat near the fire, clad as always in grey silk, her back straight and stiff as a poker. She raised her lorgnette and examined him from head to toe. “Good morning, Wintringham. You are dressed for riding.” Somehow she managed to look down her nose at him even when she was seated and he stood.

And as always she put him in the wrong. “I beg your pardon for appearing in your drawing-room in this dress. I went riding earlier and I may ride out again, so I did not change. What is it that you wished to see me about?”

“Lady Chatterton informs me that you have not called upon her daughter since coming to Town.”

“I do not care for meaningless social engagements and I have no intention of offering for Miss Chatterton.”

“As you will.” The countess sniffed. “The girl is not a particularly desirable match, but I had thought that her connection with your friend, Lord Fitzgerald, might predispose you in her favour. However, that does not alter the fact that your duty is to marry and provide an heir to the title.”

“I am perfectly content to let my brother and his sons succeed to the title.”

“Out of the question. To permit a collateral branch of the family to inherit
yet again
is impossible. No, you must marry, and if you choose not to select your own bride, I shall see to the matter.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I believe I am capable of making my own choice,” he assured her, striving to display as little emotion as she did.

“In order to do so, you must take part in those social engagements you shun.”

“Surely not!”

“How else do you propose to meet a variety of suitable females? I suppose I could invite a number of eligible young ladies to the Abbey.”

“Heaven forbid.” Edmund realized he was outflanked. Still, he could concede on one point without losing the battle. At the least he would gain some breathing space. “If I must attend routs and soirées, then I must.”

“Just so.” Her ladyship’s thin lips curled in a sour smile of triumph. “I am certain that you have been invited to the Daventrys’ ball this evening.”

“I have already sent my regrets.”

She brushed away his objection. “No hostess will take exception to the presence of so eligible a gentleman. Despite your unfortunate antecedents, you are a splendid
parti
.”

“This evening I mean to work on my speech for the House of Lords, and to write some letters.”

“Letters!” Again she raised her lorgnette and peered at him as if he belonged to some distasteful species of insect. “Noblemen do not write their own letters; they employ secretaries. I advise you to do so at once. You shall escort me to the Daventrys’ ball tonight. If your cousin Amelia were not expecting me at Danforth Place, I should stay in London to ensure that you make an effort to find a wife. As it is, I warn you, Wintringham, that if the Season ends without a betrothal, I shall choose a girl myself and I shall make such representations on your behalf that you are honour-bound to offer marriage.”

Lady Wintringham never made a threat she did not have the means to carry out. Recognizing defeat, Edmund bowed and stalked from the drawing-room. He returned to the library to pace the floor.

He loathed balls and routs and breakfasts, where the frivolous gathered to chatter inanities and the spiteful to exchange scandal. Worse was the prospect of not merely attending such assemblies but having to do the pretty to coy misses, vain beauties, and haughty heiresses. Worst of all was the thought of being tied for life to some ghastly chit like Lavinia Chatterton or some cold, proud female like his cousins.

The only person he could imagine happily spending the rest of his life with was Miss Jane Brooke. Yet it was unthinkable for the Earl of Wintringham to wed a bastard—especially as he’d never be sure that she had not married him for his wealth and rank.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“So what’s that urgent you had to call me out to the pastry-cook’s in the rain, Alfie?”

“Her ladyship’s come to Town—Lady Wintringham, that is. You want a cup of chocolate, love?”

“That’d be nice. It’s turned right chilly all of a sudden. Lady Wintringham’s here? Oh lor, she’ll be going to parties and she’ll see my lady!”

“Not likely. She’s not staying long and she don’t go to nobby parties.”

“Whyever not?”

“It don’t suit her conseekence to rub shoulders with them as has more conseekence nor she does, and there’s too many as remembers her pa was just a baronet. Likes to be a big fish in a small pond, she does. Leastways, that’s what Miss Neville used to tell our housekeeper at the Abbey. Thick as thieves, they was.”

“Aye, I mind Miss Neville. The little plump body, weren’t she? But if her ladyship’s not like to meet my Lady Jane, why’d you have to bring me out in the rain?”

“If I was to say it was just to see you, Ellie, would you be cross?”

“You’re a cheeky one, and no mistake!”

“Well, it ain’t
just
that, though I did want to see you, o’course. No, the trouble is, she’s making my lord go to them parties.”

“Get on! He’s a grown man, she can’t make him do owt he don’t want to.”

“The ol’ witch has her ways. A right Tartar she is when she’s crossed.”

“You mean he’ll be going to balls and that?”

“This very evening, he’s off to the Daventrys’ ball, and her with him.”

“So’s my lady! Oh, Alfie, what’ll we do?”

* * * *

“Shopping is such a bore,” said Jane as the carriage splashed through a puddle and turned into St. James’s Place. “We have been at it all afternoon and I have nothing to show for it but a shawl.”

Gracie raised her eyebrows. “I seem to remember that not two months since you considered the London shops one of the wonders of the world.”

“Compared to Lancaster, they are! I enjoy having pretty, fashionable clothes, but I wish one was not obliged always to be dressed in something new and modish. Though I have two or three serviceable shawls, it will not do if Alicia Daventry recognizes one I have worn a half dozen times before.”

“Miss Daventry is an agreeable girl.”

“Yes, and she regards me as her bosom-friend, which is why we are invited to dinner before the ball. Yet she will not hesitate to mention to all the rest of her bosom-friends—quite in confidence!—that Lady Jane carried that old shawl again. So out we go on a wet afternoon to scurry about seeking a new one.”

The carriage drew to a halt and Thomas escorted them to the door under a huge umbrella. As they went upstairs, Gracie said, smiling, “It is not only Miss Daventry’s friendship to which we owe the dinner invitation, is it?”

Jane laughed. “Her brother has conceived a tendre for me, or for my fortune, but as he is the consummate Town Beau, the marchioness would never give her permission even if I cared for him, which I do not.”

At the top of the stairs, Gracie turned towards her chamber. Jane was approaching her sitting-room when the door opened and Ella stuck her head out.

“Oh, my lady, such shocking news!”

“What is it? What has happened?” Jane asked in alarm.

Miss Gracechurch heard the exchange and joined them as Ella tugged her mistress into the room and closed the door firmly behind them.

“It’s Lord Wintringham, my lady.”

“Oh, what, pray tell me at once! Is he ill?”

“No, my lady, he’s in the pink o’ health, not but what it might be better if he weren’t. This very night he’s going to the Daventrys’ ball.”

Jane sank onto the nearest chair.

“How do you know, Ella?” asked Miss Gracechurch sharply.

The maid’s rosy cheeks grew pinker and she hung her head. “You see, madam, p’raps I didn’t ought, but the fact is I been walking out wi’ Alfred, that’s his lordship’s vally de chamber. And...and I told him ’bout Lady Jane being Lord Hornby’s daughter.”

“Ella, how could you?” Jane cried in reproach.

“He won’t never tell, my lady, honest. He’s a good fella and he took his oath. And if you ask me,” she continued with some spirit, “it’s a good job I did let on or he wouldn’t’ve told me about the ball.”

“Gracie, we shall have to send our excuses.”

“It is much too late, my dear. We ought to be dressing now. If it were only the ball...but we cannot upset Lady Daventry’s numbers at table by crying off at the last minute.”

“My Lord Winter’s dining at home,” Ella said.

“Then we shall go to dinner and make our excuses afterwards, before the dancing begins,” Jane proposed.

“Unthinkable. To claim illness immediately after a meal is to cast disgraceful aspersions upon one’s hostess’s kitchens. I wish you will make up your mind to ending this hoax.”

“I cannot, not now!” She shuddered, imagining the bitter contempt in Edmund’s eyes when he found out. “I shall just have to avoid him all evening. At least Lady Daventry will not try to introduce him to me since she has hopes for her son. And thank heaven Lavinia and the Fitzgeralds will be there to warn me of his movements. But Gracie, if he sees you it will be almost as bad!”

“I shall seclude myself in a corner behind a potted palm with Mrs. Peabody.”

“The old lady who has taken such a fancy to you? Yes, that will do, I daresay.”

“’Tis all well and good, my lady, but that’s not the end of it. His lordship’s going to be at lots of parties from now on.”

“How can he do this to me!” Jane moaned, hiding her face in her hands. “We must go back to Hornby.”

“’Tis not so bad as it looks, my lady.” Ella patted her shoulder. “Me and Alfred, we thought as how if he tells me which invites my lord accepts, soon as ever he decides, you can turn those uns down.”

“An excellent notion,” approved Miss Gracechurch. “I am going to change my dress now. Pray do likewise, Jane, or we shall be late.”

Ella had set out a pretty ball gown of blue crape over white sarcenet, and a wreath of blue silk cornflowers and white daisies.