My Lord Winter (21 page)

With a searching look, he bowed over her hand before turning to say goodbye to Miss Gracechurch.

Because of the rain, Mr. Selwyn had sent his boy to bring their waiting hackney to the door. Jane, Gracie, and Ella squeezed into the shabby vehicle and the bony nag clopped slowly down Hart Street.

“Burford’s Panorama!” Jane pronounced with passionate resentment. “Paternoster Row! Why does he never invite me to the theatre, or to a concert, or to drive in Hyde Park, or even to Vauxhall Gardens? I could not accept, but he might at least offer! He is ashamed to be seen with me.”

“My dear, his lordship is solicitous of your reputation.”

“My reputation?”

“The earl is undoubtedly aware that any pretty young lady unknown to the Ton—as he supposes you—yet seen with him in a public place must inevitably be taken for his
chère amie.
”

Jane had to admit that Gracie was probably right, but she was not ready to give up her grievance. “He could at least ask me to drive with him elsewhere.”

“He has, I am glad to say, too much delicacy by far. For a gentleman to take a young lady up for a turn about the Park is perfectly proper. For Lord Wintringham to invite you to drive alone with him other than in one of the parks would suggest that he takes you for a lightskirt.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “Then I must be happy that he does not. I daresay there is an equally valid reason why he cannot hold a dinner party in his own home and invite both of us to meet his friends?”

Gracie smiled wryly. “I doubt the reason will make you happy. To do so would amount to a declaration that he intends to ask for your hand, so if he does not...”

“It means he does not consider me worthy to be his bride. I wish I had not asked. Oh, I do not understand him! How can the same man be both my dear friend and My Lord Winter? I have suitors as nobly born as he who have not one half—one tenth! —his arrogance, and none of his cold hauteur.”

“’Tis all his aunt’s fault, my lady,” Ella volunteered.

“What?” Leaning forward, Jane stared at her abigail. “What do you know of it?”

“Alfie... Mr. Alfred told me all about his lordship. He were the cheerfullest, friendliest little boy you could hope to see. Then, all at once, when he were ten or eleven or thereabouts, first his ma died, then his cousin died that was son and heir to the old earl. So then his pa was heir, and young Master Ned after him. Both on ’em was that upset acos o’ Mrs. Neville dying, and while they was all at sixes and sevens Lady Wintringham come along and says she’s agoing to bring up Master Ned now, to teach him his duty.”

“She took him away from his family at such a time?” asked Jane, shocked.

“That she did, my lady. She didn’t approve o’ Mr. Neville acos he married beneath him, Mrs. Neville being naught but a sea-captain’s daughter. Her ladyship were too old to have another child, so she swore she’d make Master Ned fit to take her son’s place. She took him off to that great, draughty Abbey, where his toplofty cousins looked down on him. She taught him he weren’t good enough to be Earl of Wintringham but he were too good to hobnob wi’ the rest o’ the world. He were only a little boy, my lady, what could he do but believe her?”

“How unhappy he must have been!” Jane cried.

“Aye, that he were.”

“Surely his father could have taken him home?”

“Now that’s the worst of it, to my way of thinking. You see, Master Ned didn’t want to go off wi’ his aunt, o’ course, but then Mr. Neville let him take Alfie wi’ him and promised he could come home if he weren’t happy. Well, Alfie stuck by him through thick and thin, whatever her ladyship tried, but his pa let him down. Alfie says he weren’t never the same after his wife died, and he hadn’t got the strength to fight Lady Wintringham. Only to Master Ned it just seemed like his pa never meant to keep his promise.”

Jane sank back against the shabby squabs and buried her face in her hands. “No wonder he abhors deceit!” she wailed despairingly.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Edmund gazed around the ballroom. He found the glittering assembly much less attractive than that afternoon’s waxen crowd. There was Lady Jersey, tearing someone’s reputation to shreds with her sharp tongue; Lord Sefton, who had gambled away a fortune and recouped it by enclosing the land of his poorer neighbours; Lady Oxford, each of whose children was reputed to have a different father; Lord Hertford, a nonentity who owed his position as Lord Chancellor to his wife’s position as Prinny’s favourite.

There was golden-haired Lady Hornby, a dainty doll surrounded by admirers, but mutton dressed as lamb, since by all accounts she had a daughter old enough to make her come-out; rumour had it that the girl was not allowed to appear at the same functions as her mother lest the marchioness’s true age be remarked upon.

And there, thank heaven, was Fitz, though unfortunately accompanied by his wife and sister-in-law. Edmund braced himself. Lavinia Chatterton was certainly no worse than the other young ladies who, for the past few weeks, had been induced by ambition or by ambitious mamas to pursue him. Indeed, Lavinia might even be better than most, for had not Jane befriended her at the Abbey?

He made his way around the room and greeted the Fitzgeralds, then turned to Lavinia, bowed and requested, “May I have the honour of the next dance, Miss Chatterton?” Noting her alarm, he added dryly, “I promise not to propose marriage.”

She giggled. “I am engaged for the next, my lord, but I have a country dance free later on, if you wish it. And it would do you no good to propose marriage, for I have an Understanding with Mr. Arthur Meade. He is gone into Lincolnshire to ask Papa’s permission.”

“Lord Meade’s heir? My felicitations, ma’am.” He wrote his name on her card and went reluctantly in search of another partner. At least she had answered him honestly.

He could not say the same for any of the young ladies he subsequently stood up with. They all said what they thought he wanted to hear and they bored him. Worse, he knew they tried to please him not because they liked him but because he was a “Catch.” Behind his back they laughed at his stiff manners. Yet any of them would consider marriage with the Earl of Wintringham a feather in her cap, with lack of affection of no importance whatever.

Lavinia, her spine stiffened by her brief encounter with Jane, had the courage to follow her own inclination. Edmund began to look forward to his dance with her.

He was disappointed. She was uneasy when he led her onto the floor, and each time she opened her mouth to answer his polite queries about her enjoyment of the London Season, she paused as if to censor herself.

“You need not fear that I shall suddenly decide to seek your hand, you know,” he said sarcastically as he took her back to her sister. “Is that why you have been biting your tongue?”

“No...yes...no, my lord,” she said, flustered. “That is, if Mama hears that you stood up with me, her hopes may revive.”

“Then doubtless they will wither again when I do not call tomorrow.”

Her relief was not flattering.

When they arrived, Fitz was bending solicitously over his wife. He straightened. “Lavinia, Daphne’s tired. I’m going to take her home, but if you wish to stay I daresay we can find a lady to chaperon you and I’ll come back to fetch you.”

“Oh no, I shall go with you. The ball is monstrous dull with Arthur gone.”

Edmund suddenly wondered if he might have enjoyed the tedious affair had Jane been there. She was not, and he could not bear to stand up with another hopeful, toad-eating partner. “I am leaving, too,” he said abruptly.

“Come with us, Ned, and join me for a game of billiards and a nightcap,” Fitz invited him.

When he hesitated. Lady Fitzgerald added her soft voice, saying she felt guilty because Fitz spent so much time dancing attendance on her that he scarcely saw his friends. So Edmund accepted. It was better than going home to brood on Jane’s unwonted reticence and to ask himself for the hundredth time whether she guessed how nearly he had kissed her.

As soon as they reached the Fitzgeralds’ house, the ladies retired. Edmund and Fitz repaired to the room the latter laughably called his library, which had earned that name with three shelves of novels and an outdated edition of Debrett’s
Peerage.
Its chief feature was a billiard table. Fitz poured brandy from a decanter and they began a game.

Edmund wasn’t concentrating. Playing a poor shot, he said enviously, “You’re a lucky man.”

“Because I generally beat you? Gammon, it’s sheer skill.”

“No, not that. If I’m not mistaken, you are in love with your wife, and she with you.”

Fitz beamed. “Yes, damme if I ain’t the luckiest man in the world.”

“I have been haunting the ballrooms for weeks now, and I’ve not found a single eligible female I care a groat for.” Chalking his cue, he sighed. “Nor, I confess, have I the trick of making myself agreeable.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Fitz consoled him. He leaned over the table, eyed the balls carefully, and with one stroke pocketed all three. “You haven’t the knack of doing the pretty, but just make a try at fixing your interest and I daresay there’s not a one wouldn’t have you.”

“That goes without saying. They are all heels over head in love with my purse and my title. It will have to be a marriage of convenience.”

“Lady Wintringham’s plaguing you, is she?”

“She will return to Town soon, and if I don’t have a name or two to offer she’ll...” Edmund stopped dead in the middle of a shot, set down his cue among the balls, straightened, and staring unseeingly at his friend said, “Fitz, I’m a fool.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d go that far.” Fitz delicately removed the cue from the table. “Though I must say that’s a devilish odd thing to do in the middle of a game, even if you are losing.”

“I’m an unmitigated fool, a jobbernowl, a knock in the cradle, any name you want to call me. But thank heaven I have seen the light in time.” His heart sang. “If I’m to marry a woman who loves only my fortune and rank, why should I not at least marry a woman I love?”

“A woman you love?” said Fitz cautiously. “Didn’t you just say you don’t care a groat...”

“Do you recall Miss Brooke?”

“Miss Brooke?”

“Miss Jane Brooke. One of the fog-bound travellers at the Abbey. Surely you remember her! She helped deliver your child.”

“Er, um, well, yes, as a matter of fact I do remember her. I, er, to tell the truth, she’s come here to see Daphne and the baby. Just once or twice.”

Edmund frowned. “She has? Neither of you has mentioned it to me! There is some mystery that I must... No, never mind.” He had finally come to his senses. He didn’t give a damn if Jane only wanted the security he could offer her. He didn’t give a damn if she were base-born. But let the world get a whiff of mystery and some scandalmonger was bound to ferret out the truth of her parentage. “I’m going to marry her,” he said simply.

“Marry Ja.. .Miss Brooke?” Fitz’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God!”

“Why not? I never thought you were so high in the instep.”

“No, no, I’m not, I assure you. I’m devilish fond of Ja...Miss Brooke, and so are Daphne and Lavinia. Not but what I did think you...?” he added questioningly.

“I love her. What does her lack of rank, or anything else, matter? But listen, Fitz, not a word to a soul, not even Lavinia or your wife. Just let my aunt catch the slightest hint before the knot is tied and she will find a way to put a spoke in my wheel. I shall get a licence tomorrow. Jane and Miss Gracechurch will come to Dorset with me on Friday and we’ll do the thing there. My aunt shall be presented with a
fait accompli.
”

“Er, I don’t want to be a wet blanket, old chap, but can you be sure Miss Brooke will accept?”

“You yourself said that any of the most eligible young ladies would jump to retrieve my handkerchief should I toss it. Jane has none of their advantages. I can save her from a life of hardship, of toil. Why should she refuse?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Fitz mumbled.

Edmund walked home on air.

“My lady’s back,” Alfred greeted him.

Edmund returned to earth with a crash.

* * * *

Miss Gracechurch sat by the open window in Jane’s sitting-room, reading. At least, a book lay open on her lap. After perusing the same paragraph three times, she had no notion what it was about. Nor was she aware of the flowers in the garden, where her gaze was fixed, though the peonies and tulips were at their best and the fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley filled the air.

Half an hour ago. Lady Hornby had sent for Jane to her boudoir. Interviews with her mother always upset Jane, and this morning she was already in low spirits.

Yesterday, after hearing Lord Wintringham’s sad story, Jane had continued listless and unhappy. She was deeply in love with the earl, yet she refused to trust him with her true identity. Miss Gracechurch’s heart bled for her. She berated herself for having permitted the original masquerade, for letting it continue, for allowing secret meetings. If only she had realized sooner that what started as a game had become a serious emotional entanglement.

Her own yearning for Mr. Selwyn’s...sympathetic friendship had blinded her to Jane’s needs at a critical time. Not only had she neglected her duty, she had failed the person she loved best in the world, who had no one else to rely on.

The door opened and Jane trudged in. The spring was gone from her step and her face was woebegone, though she tried to smile at Gracie.

“The marchioness discovered last night that I rejected Lord Ryburgh and Lord Charles.”

“Was she very angry?”

Jane nodded. Miss Gracechurch went to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and led her to the chaise longue
.
Sitting down beside her, she took her hands. “What did she say?”

“I had to tell her that I have no liking for any of my suitors. She is going to try this afternoon to persuade those two that they must not take my refusal seriously. I am to go to Almack’s tonight and charm them so that they will offer again. But if they do, I shall refuse them again, Gracie!”

“I would not have you tied to a man you do not care for.”