Never Doubt I Love (11 page)

“He's a toadying sneak, he is,” growled Stone.

Improper as it was, Zoe could not judge his observation to be unfounded. Lady Julia's personal footman was soft-spoken, fastidious in the matter of his appearance, and the soul of devotion to his mistress. But there was a trace of sly amusement in Whipley's dark eyes when they rested on Zoe Grainger, causing her to feel uneasily that she was being laughed at. No, it was not hard to believe the man would carry tales.

She asked thoughtfully, “Why do you not seek work elsewhere? Surely you could go to some post as man and wife, and not be obliged to be separated?”

They looked at each other.

Gorton sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes.

Stone said reluctantly, “I got mustered out of the army after Culloden, Miss. I couldn't find a situation. So many men was looking for work. I come nigh to starving. I—I snabbled a coney down at Sundial Abbey, and got caught. I could've been transported, or hanged, but her la'ship's steward is a kind man and give me a chance as a groom. Last winter I was made Lady Buttershaw's coachman. Then someone give me away. Her la'ship was proper vexed and I'd have been sent packing to say the least of it, if Lady Julia hadn't of spoke up for me. The end of it was that Lady Buttershaw says so long as I please her, she won't turn me off. But—if I was to try and leave, Miss…” He shrugged helplessly.

Absorbed by their discussion, none of them had heard the arrival of another carriage, but now a bell rang stridently. Above a flurry of chatter, Lady Buttershaw's voice was upraised. “Miss Grainger? Where on earth are you got to? Botheration! Hackham! Go and fetch Miss Grainger.”

Gorton cringed and clasped both hands to her mouth. Stone paled again.

Snatching up a book, Zoe hissed, “Blow out the candle!” and went into the corridor.

Hackham was sprinting in the direction of the stair hall. A swirl of green velvet was vanishing into the withdrawing room. Zoe followed the green velvet.

The withdrawing room was a blaze of candlelight, the air redolent of costly scents, and ringing with the loud voices and shrill laughter of an elegant company. The chatter died away when Zoe entered, and about two dozen faces turned to her.

A tall young exquisite in ivory satin with knots of red ribbon at his knees, put up his quizzing glass and drawled with a toothy smile, “Pray, who is this new blossom, Lady Clara?”

Beside him, a slender gentleman in a splendid purple and silver coat uttered a high-pitched giggle and said in a nasal voice that dear Gilbert's vision was failing him. “'Tis not a blossom, but a wood nymph,” he declared, waving a little fan as he circled daintily around Zoe. “Look you, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. A new face has burst upon the London scene. A pretty face, stap me if it ain't! Dewy with youth and a bright-eyed innocence. Name her, dear hostess, ere we die of curiosity!”

Lady Buttershaw boomed, “Now you have made her blush! Behave, Reggie! This lady is in my charge, and being new come from the country is unaccustomed to your Town sauce.”

“Aha,” exclaimed the gentleman in ivory. “A rustic goddess! Did I not guess it by the roses in those pretty cheeks?”

A horsey-looking young woman in a Watteau gown of peach brocade with diamonds spread across a great deal of snowy bosom, murmured something behind her fan, and the lady beside her gave a squeal of laughter, and said in mock scolding, “Samantha! 'Pon rep, but you are a naughty thing!”

Acutely embarrassed and feeling very much the country bumpkin, Zoe longed to be elsewhere.

“My dear friends,” brayed Lady Buttershaw, “I present to your notice Miss Zoe Grainger, of Travisford in the Cotswolds. Make your curtsy, Miss!”

Zoe curtsied obediently, but hit her chin on the large book she held, evoking more subdued titters.

Lady Buttershaw looked irked, but proceeded to introduce her all around. The gentlemen's bows were elaborate; the ladies' curtsies barely polite. Trying to fix their names in memory, Zoe was later able to recall very few: Lord Gardiner Coombs, a very stout middle-aged man who was half-asleep and half-intoxicated; Lady Melissa Coombs, at least fifteen years her husband's junior, the heavy application of paint on her face failing to disguise many spots; Mrs. Samantha Go-lightly, the toothy young woman with the large bosom, whose snapping black eyes held amused disdain; Mr. Reginald Smythe, the dandy with the high-pitched giggle and the purple and silver coat; and Sir Gilbert Fowles, of the ivory satin, who had named her a “rustic goddess.” There was a very tall thin young man whom everyone called “Purr.” He was shy and appeared never to complete a sentence, and was so undistinguished that she could not afterwards remember his full name. There were only a few ladies, the gentlemen predominated, most being, she gathered, unmarried.

During the course of the introductions, several conversations ensued, and by the time Zoe had met all the guests the room was a babble of talk.

Lady Buttershaw's voice sliced through the noise like a knife through butter. They were to enjoy refreshments, and then the treat she had promised. “Sir Gilbert Fowles, having recently returned from Paris, has a vastly important piece of news for you. I will tell you it is
not
news to me, for I am well informed, and having been for some time aware of the development, have acted accordingly. But the rest of you will find it fascinating, I make no doubt.”

Amid the immediate flutter of excited speculation, Mr. Smythe made a great to-do over ushering Zoe to a chair and drawing another close beside her. The rest of the company disposed themselves about the room, and Arbour appeared, followed by two footmen who handed around trays of little cakes and sweetmeats and glasses of wine and punch.

There was more of the shrill laughter, and a lot of chatter, most of which revolved around society gossip.

Lady Coombs glanced at Zoe and murmured something in the ear of her somnolent husband, who roused himself sufficiently to peer in Zoe's direction and utter a snort. This reduced his lady to helpless laughter, and she trilled that dear Gardiner was “a wit of the first stare.”

“A half-wit,” sniggered Mr. Smythe in Zoe's ear. “But poor Melissa has to pretend she admires him, you know, lest everyone think she married him out of desperation.” He selected a cake and a sweetmeat from the tray the footman offered, and passed the small crystal plate to Zoe, who was rendered speechless by his unkind comment. Accepting a glass of wine, he added with a broad grin, “Which she did, you know.” Zoe said nothing, and in a hissing change to the dramatic he added: “You have made an enemy, pretty creature. Be warned.”

“Good gracious! I have scarce spoken. What have I done to offend you?”

“In scarce speaking, you grieve me, but I am not easily crushed. Your offence, sweet maid, is that clear and lovely complexion. 'Tis sure to be admired. Melissa will never forgive you, and she has a nasty tongue.”

Zoe thought his own tongue was far from nice. She replied lightly that he had an odd way of offering a compliment, and was relieved when a young woman with a giggle, whose name she could not recall, tapped him with her fan and engaged him in whispered gossip interspersed with muffled squeaks and observations that he was “a naughty rogue.”

Sir Gilbert Fowles responded to a question by announcing that he was the richer by “a monkey” and that “old Neville” would be a sight more cautious in challenging him in the future.

Lord Coombs roused himself and remarked that it was unkind to add to “poor old Neville's” woes. This led into a discussion of the “Mandarin,” who was, Zoe gathered, poor old Neville's son. She listened in astonishment to some extremely caustic criticisms of this unknown individual, which Lady Buttershaw cut short by clapping her hands and announcing that it was past time for Sir Gilbert to honour his promise.

His “important piece of news” was delivered with much drama, and consisted of the warning that wigs for the ladies were all the thing in Paris. “It grieves me to tell you, fair creatures,” he said with a grin that contained little of grief. “Your pretty locks are doomed! Paris is agog, believe me. They say that by the turn of the decade every female will be obliged to follow fashion's whim, as are we gentlemen. Wigs or powder, m'dears. Wigs or powder!”

Consternation reigned. Anyone watching and unable to hear the words might well have imagined that some great disaster had wiped out half England's population. Although she took no part in their lamentations, Zoe responded politely when she was spoken to. She could not fail to be impressed by the beautiful materials and styles worn by the ladies; the back pleats of Watteau gowns, many of which extended into sweeping trains, the great skirts with the new flattened French paniers. She was less impressed by the jewels displayed, some of which she thought so opulent as to be vulgar, and that were rivalled by the gems that glittered from the cravats and shoe buckles of the gentlemen. The bag-wigs worn by two younger dandies, which were the very latest style, she thought utterly ridiculous. The hours dragged past, and she could not have been more pleased than when Lady Buttershaw rose, and announced abruptly that it was time for her to go to bed.

The guests lost no time in saying their farewells and departing.

Arbour and a lackey began to make the rounds, locking doors and closing windows. Hackham waited at the foot of the stairs to hand candles to Lady Buttershaw and Zoe, and my lady paused only long enough to say she hoped her protégé had learned something of the Top Ten Thousand and how to “go on,” before stalking up the stairs.

‘I have indeed,' thought Zoe, following the
grande dame.
‘They are very silly!'

Over her shoulder, her ladyship said ominously, “I shall expect your report tomorrow at luncheon, Miss Grainger.”

C
HAPTER
V

A church bell was striking the hour of eleven, and the Strand was bustling under a bright morning sun. It was a pale sun, and there was a nip of frost to the air that warned of the fading of autumn and of colder weather to come.

“Hey! Perry! Hold up!”

Peregrine Cranford, who had been trying not to use his fine amber cane for anything more than show, recognized the voice and turned to the coach that pulled into the kennel beside him. His eyes widened and his determination to be cuttingly polite was forgotten.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed admiringly. “What a fine turnout! Had to tool it yourself, did you? Is it as light as it looks?”

Very dashing in a caped riding coat, with a whip in one gloved hand, Sir Owen Furlong smiled down at him from the box. “Jump inside and see.”

“Inside be damned! I'm coming up!”

“Oh, I say, dear old Peregrine,” shouted a gentleman from the window of a passing carriage. “Do take care! 'Twould be
such
a pity if you were to fall!” A fading howl of laughter followed the caustic remark.

Heads turned.

‘Fowles!' thought Cranford, gritting his teeth with rage.

Furlong held his team steady, and prayed, but Cranford negotiated the climb successfully, and sat on the box beside him. Noting the blaze in the blue eyes, Furlong enquired, “Why does that wart hate you so? Did you steal his bird of paradise or something of the sort?”

“I thwarted his ambitions, I'm happy to say! Fancied himself an athlete at school.” Cranford grinned suddenly. “Wasn't.”

“And you were. Typical of Fowles to be so mean-spirited. You may have to do something about him, my pippin.”

“Very true. But never mind that. Deuce take it if ever I saw such a spanking coach. Did you find it in Longacre?”

“I did not!” Furlong eased the leathers, chirrupped to his team, and the coach, a rich mahogany brown with gold trim, moved neatly into the traffic. “Designed it myself,” he said proudly. “And the coach builder did splendidly, for I must say it handles like a feather. Thought I'd take it for a maiden run through Hyde Park. Care to come?”

“Jove, but I would! Provided you let me have a turn at the reins. And if you mean to say I am too enfeebled to—”

“For mercy's sake, have done, Perry!” Claiming the right-of-way over a ponderous Berliner whose four fat horses were proceeding at a snail's pace into the Haymarket, Furlong protested. “You know we all think highly of you.” He waved his whip jauntily at the elderly gentleman who roared at him from the window of the Berliner, and added, “You really must try not to be so hot-at-hand. Your friends have a right to—”

“To coddle me?” snapped Cranford. “To invent nonsensical stories if I dare ask what they're up to? I know damned well there's something havy-cavey afoot and that you want to keep me out of all the fun. But I'll have you know— 'Ware that blockhead!
Idiot!
” he shouted as a muffin man made a suicidal dart under the noses of the team. “I'll have you know that I get about remarkably well, Furlong, and would not be a liability to you!”

“No. If you would condescend to wear your peg-leg instead of that fancy new appendage of yours.” Darting a quick glance at his friend's aloof countenance, Furlong said, “You know that an artificial foot has never worked for you. I'll be bound your pretty lady would by far rather have you comfortable than—”

“My pretty lady,” said Cranford, in this much interrupted conversation, “is mine no longer. What, hadn't you heard? Gave me the go-by, dear boy.” His lips tightened, and bitterness came into his eyes at the thought of the lovely girl who had charmingly accepted his adoration and his gifts, but had dropped him without an instant's hesitation when a wealthy peer began to throw out lures. He added brightly, “Contrary to what you suppose, it seems she found my—ah, peg-leg an embarrassment.”

‘Blast the woman,' thought Furlong. ‘So Jamie was right! That's why he had that stupid new foot made!' He said, “Then you're well rid of her. There are plenty of other ladies in the world, Perry.”