Pretty Polly (2 page)

“I did not accept any of those invitations because the girls who sent them to me were far above me in social rank. I would have felt sadly at a loss in any of their great mansions. We manage very comfortably, Papa. There is no reason for me to marry.”

Mr. Bascombe played his ace. “Oh, yes, there is,” he said. “I want to get married myself.”

“You never told me. Who is this lady?”

Mr. Bascombe thought wildly of all the marriageable ladies of their acquaintance. “Miss Emily Butterworth,” he said at last.

“Emily is a year younger than I!”

“I like ’em young,” her father said brutally.

Verity felt her ordered world caving in under her feet. Of course any new wife of Papa’s would not want an unmarried daughter in residence! And a new mistress of the household would expect to handle the reins herself.

She studied her father for some moments and then said, “You are very anxious I should accept this invitation. Why?”

“Because if the men don’t suit you here, mayhap they’ll suit you there,” howled Mr. Bascombe.

“But I shall be meeting members of the aristocracy and they only marry beneath them if the girl has a great deal of money, which I do not have. And I am not beautiful.”

Mr. Bascombe clutched what was left of his hair and gave it a hard tug. Although she was his daughter, he knew what it was about Verity that had drawn so many proposals of marriage. There was a sensuality about her, a strong, almost animal attraction that had long worried him. He suspected his daughter of harboring strong passions beneath her outwardly chaste bosom, the sort of passions that might cause her one day to lose her virginity to someone totally unsuitable.

Two years ago, he had taken Verity on a little drive to view a ruined church a few miles outside the town. On the way there, they had stopped for refreshment at a fashionable posting house. The prices had been dreadfully steep and the staff insolent. In the coffee room had been a party of men. One of them had been extremely handsome and rakish. Mr. Bascombe remembered him well. He had been about six feet tall and exquisitely dressed. He had powerful shoulders, excellent legs, and a clear skin. His eyes were hard and predatory, and his nose thin, high-bridged, and arrogant.
His mouth was well-shaped, and his chin, strong and firm. His hair was golden, thick, and curly. In all, he was one of the best-looking and most decadent Adonises that Mr. Bascombe had ever seen.

Mr. Bascombe had been too flustered in dealing with the uppity waiters to quite take in what was happening, but when Verity’s jug of lemonade had finally been placed in front of her, he noticed that she had a delicate color and that her black eyes were sparkling.

The Adonis was not listening to his friends. He was leaning back in his chair, surveying Verity with a hard, assessing, hawklike look, and Verity was very much aware of his gaze. Mr. Bascombe’s sensible daughter appeared all at once flustered and very feminine.

The waiter had failed to bring their cold collation. Mr. Bascombe returned to the battle, only to find the Adonis had risen to his feet. In a chilly voice, he had told the staff to jump to it, to serve Mr. Bascombe at the double. The difference was amazing. Mr. Bascombe and Verity were immediately surrounded by scraping and bowing servants. When Mr. Bascombe finally tried to pay, he was told their refreshments were “on the house,” with the compliments of the owner.

Mr. Bascombe had looked suspiciously at the tall Adonis, who had smiled back lazily. Mr. Bascombe was sure he had paid their shot.

Verity had been dreamy and distracted for days afterward while her father had reflected sourly that he was glad that at least one man, however unsuitable, had sparked some interest in his normally infuriatingly sensible daughter.

He did not expect Verity to find a beau in London. But he did think that closer contact with the
type of aristocrat who seemed to rouse her might then mean she would come home prepared to marry someone of her own class. Mr. Bascombe thought he would be failing in his duty if Verity were allowed to remain unwed. Besides, that seminary in Bath had cost a fortune, and he would like to boast to his friends about his daughter’s aristocratic friends—the reason he had sent her there in the first place. Mr. Bascombe worshipped the aristocracy and thought that anyone coming into contact with such gods would catch godlike qualities himself, as if by a sort of osmosis.

Verity so far forgot herself as to put her elbows on the table. She leaned toward her father. “Had you not better start to go out walking with Miss Emily, Papa, or something like that. I have hardly ever seen you even speak to her.”

“Emily and I have seen quite a lot of each other,” lied her father. “I shall pop the question as soon as I return from Edinburgh. Now, I know you will behave like a good daughter and not let any selfish wish stand in the way of my plans.”

Verity was torn between exasperation and amusement. She was now sure that her father did not want to marry again. She was also sure that he did not even want to go to Edinburgh. On the other hand, it might do him good to try to run the household without her.

She decided to go to London and endure a few weeks of Charlotte’s company. When she returned, she was sure her father would be so grateful to see her he would drop all this marriage nonsense—that is, if by any chance he might happen to be serious—and would no longer talk of either marriage for her or marriage for himself.

Marry Emily Butterworth! Fustian. Papa was all
of forty-five years old. How could he expect her to believe such a farrago of lies.

Some imp of mischief prompted Verity to approach Emily later that day in the circulating library. She told Emily of her proposed visit to London. Emily was a merry, bouncing sort of girl who wore a great number of ribbons. She had ribbons in her hat and shoulder knots on her dress and little bunches of ribbons at her hem. She had wide china blue eyes that surveyed the world with innocent good humor. Her parents were in very straitened circumstances, which was why Emily was still unwed.

Emily exclaimed with delight and made Verity promise to keep a diary so that she might read all the descriptions of grand
ton
parties to the sewing circle on her return.

“I do not want to go,” said Verity, “but poor Papa is telling me stories to force me to go. He even said he was going to marry you!”

Emily’s round face turned pink. “How very flattering,” she gasped. “Did he mean it?”

Verity was about to laugh with scorn and say no. But something held her back. Emily’s eyes were shining and her plump fingers, holding a library book, were tightly clenched.

“I think you will need to find out for yourself,” said Verity slowly. “I must go, Emily. I have many chores.”

Verity looked carefully at her father at supper that evening. He was a small man with a slim, wiry figure and the same black eyes as his daughter. He was quite handsome although his hair was thin, thought Verity. But, goodness, he was so very much older than Emily. The whole idea was ridiculous and Verity wished she had never teased Emily on the subject.

*   *   *

Three weeks later, Verity Bascombe traveled to London on the mail coach and then took a hack from the City of London to the West End.

Charlotte’s house looked very imposing. Verity glanced down at her pelisse and gown, which had looked so modish when she had left Market Basset and suddenly felt shabby.

To her relief, although Charlotte was out walking, she was received by the servants with every flattering courtesy. Her bedchamber was prettily decorated with flowered wallpaper, and had one of the latest design of beds, without posts or canopy. By the window was a very large desk with an enormous inkwell and sheets and sheets of blank parchment. It was odd to see such a desk in a bedchamber.

The butler had told her that tea would be served in the drawing room in half an hour, the time Charlotte was expected to return.

Verity brushed her hair, washed her face and hands, changed her gown for one of blue muslin, rang the bell for a footman, and was conducted to the drawing room.

The smell of the drawing room and its occupants made her take a nervous step back.

“Mrs. Manners’s pets,” said the footman. “Not savage, miss. Quite docile.”

Wondering, Verity went into the room. “That one’s dead,” said the footman, moving past her to where a pathetic little corpse lay on the hearthrug. “I’ll just take the nasty thing away.” The “nasty thing” was a dead monkey dressed in a red jacket.

A French greyhound limped forward on its spindly legs. It was as fat as a barrel and its coat was dull. On a perch by the fireplace stood an enormous
mangy parrot staring at Verity out of strange, clever, reptilian eyes. On the sofa lay a large cat, its eyes half closed. It looked near death. Verity stroked it and said, “Poor pussy,” and the cat roused itself and bit her hand.

Rubbing her hand and hoping the animal wasn’t rabid, Verity turned her attention to the parrot. She scratched its head feathers. It hopped down on her shoulder, dug its talons in, and leaned against her hair, giving a strange crooning noise at the back of its throat.

Verity tried to dislodge it, for it was very heavy and smelly, but it only gripped harder. Its feathers were scarlet and gray, but it had a strange golden fringe on its legs. It was like no parrot that Verity had ever seen.

Charlotte’s voice sounded from the hall. The parrot, hopping back up on its perch, stood motionless.

A vision of golden curls, rose-leaf complexion, and wide blue eyes tripped into the room. “Verity, my love,” cried Charlotte Manners. “How wonderful to see you. Are you content with your room?”

She hugged Verity, who had risen to meet her, and Verity, surprised and pleased with the warmth of the reception, smiled at Charlotte.

“You have not changed a bit,” cried Charlotte. “Have I?”

“Yes,” said Verity truthfully. “You are more beautiful than ever.”

“Oh, we are going to have such
fun,
” cried Charlotte. She sat down carelessly on top of the cat and then leaped up again in a fury. The cat had bitten her.

Charlotte rang the bell. When the butler answered it, she said, “Get rid of this zoo, Pomfret. Nasty, smelly things. They bore me.”

“Where shall I put them, ma’am?”

“In the dust bin.”

“Very good, ma’am,” said the butler, advancing cautiously on the parrot, which leaped onto Verity’s shoulder, making her stagger under its weight.

Verity thought of the poor monkey. She was very sentimental about birds and animals, a weakness of which she was thoroughly ashamed. Considering animals as pets was a decadent luxury when there were so many children starving to death.

But somehow Verity found herself saying, “I wonder, Charlotte… I may call you that?”

“By all means, dear Verity,” cooed Charlotte. Verity’s remark about her being more beautiful had pleased her greatly.

“If you would let me take care of the dog and cat and bird,” said Verity, “I think I could restore them to health.”

“As you wish,” said Charlotte with a wave of her hand. “That parrot cost a fortune and it never says a word. Tiresome, ugly thing.”

The butler looked relieved.

“I wish you would go back to your perch,” said Verity to the parrot. “What is its name, Charlotte?”

“The villain who sold it to me said it was called Pretty Polly. Stoopid name for an evil-looking bird.”

“Go back to your perch, Pretty Polly,” said Verity, trying to shrug the parrot off.

To her amazement, the parrot promptly flew to its perch, cocked its head on one side, and regarded her with an almost paternal eye.

“It seems to like you,” said Charlotte. “But if you want to look after the things, Verity, they have to go in your room.”

“Very well,” said Verity, looking at the small
zoo with a sinking heart. “I know the correct feeding for cats and dogs, but what do you feed a parrot?”

“
I
don’t know,” said Charlotte crossly. “I must have fed that bird a ton of sugar plums and yet never a word did it say.”

Which, thought Verity, probably explains the mangy condition of the bird.

“I am afraid your little monkey is dead.”

“Where is it?” asked Charlotte, peering under the chairs and sofa.

“The footman took it away.”

“Good. You can’t trust servants these days. They might have left it somewhere to rot and it would smell so. I must leave you soon, dear Verity, but we shall have a long coze on the morrow. Lord Strangeworth is coming to take me to a
fête champêtre
in the Surrey fields.”

“You hinted in your letter,” said Verity, “that I might be of use to you in some way.”

“First of all I want you to solve a mystery for me,” said Charlotte. “I am very beautiful and very rich.”

Verity blinked at this piece of vanity and decided Charlotte had not changed from the spoiled brat of the seminary. “Two gentlemen have come to propose to me this year. On each occasion, when I descended to the drawing room to accept their offer, they ran past me, babbling about another appointment, and neither has come near me since. I want you to find out why. One is called Sir Brian Vincent and the other Lord Chalton. But do not spend too much time over that. I am after bigger game.”

“Indeed?”

“The present Duke of Denbigh proposed to me when he was a mere younger son without much
money. I refused him. Now, of course, the situation is altered. I am a widow, beautiful, attractive, and prepared to reanimate his affections. The irritating man shows no signs of coming to London for the Season. That is your job!”

“But what can I do?”

“Dear Verity, you must write letters for me, winning, amusing, charming letters to draw him back.”

“Very well,” said Verity, relieved that the task was so easy. “When would you like me to begin?”

“As soon as you have rested,” said Charlotte after a little pause, during which she had been about to command Verity to begin right away. But she was very pleased with Verity. Charlotte was not popular with her own sex, and for the moment, the novelty of having a female companion of her own age pleased her.

“I shall go and change,” said Charlotte. “Do not forget to take these creatures to your room, Verity, else I shall have them destroyed.”