Susanne Marie Knight (3 page)

Penning, ill-mannered fellow that he was, guffawed.

David inclined his head. “My apologies, Miss Branford. As that lady does not yet exist, I pondered your meaning. My mother, Olive Greyle, is the current Lady Ingraham. Should I marry, she will then become the Dowager.”

Miss Branford’s cheeks shone with a rosy hue. Her hands shook, her voice quivered. “Oh! Please forgive me. I-I did not know.”

As both he and Penning sought to put her at ease, the Blue Drawing Room door opened.

“Here I am, Davy, to save the day.” Petunia, dressed in a particularly bright shade of yellow, forged ahead to the settee in a manner befitting a well-established society matron. “Good afternoon, my dear Miss Branford. We met briefly at Great Aunt Cordelia’s funeral. Do you remember?”

David leaned forward to get Miss Branford’s attention. Hard to get a word in edgewise once Petunia got started. “Miss Branford, this is my sister, Lady Petunia, newly married to the Viscount Weatherhaven.”

Normally he would not include so much information in the introduction, but in the light of Miss Branford believing him to be married, he did not want to perpetrate any additional misunderstandings.

A dazed expression overtook Miss Branford’s lovely features. “I am pleased to meet you, Lady Petunia. I am afraid I do not recall having the pleasure. There were so many people…”

“Of course, of course. Not to worry. Lord Penning, good to see you again, too.” Like a shot, she changed topics again, now addressing David. “How fast good news must travel! The polite world must already know about our delightful cousin’s visit.”

If it did, it was by Petunia’s mouth, not his.

She glanced at Miss Branford and clucked. “Gracious, here we are, chattering about like magpies, while Miss Branford is in dire need of rest. You haven’t allowed her time to freshen up since she arrived, have you, Davy?”

He glanced at his guest. She did look pulled down. He sighed. “No, I am afraid I have been remiss. Petunia will show you to your room, Miss Branford.”

“Thank you, sir.” She stood and made a brief curtsy. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

Reciprocating with a bow, he took note of her poised movements. “As I have a previous engagement this evening, I shall look forward to the pleasure of seeing you tomorrow, Miss Branford.”

Penning remembered his manners and bowed as well.

David watched both ladies leave the drawing room. With another sigh, he sat back down. “My peace and tranquility are at an end, Penning.”

His friend gulped down the rest of his tea, then rushed over to the sideboard. “You’ve the right of that, Ingraham, to be sure. Women tend to cut into a gentleman’s peace. To fortify ourselves for the whirl of activity ahead, let’s break open the brandy.”

“Pour generously for mine.” David extended his hand for the glass. Already he felt the irksome effects of having an attractive, unmarried female running rampant in the house. Deuced awkward indeed!

Bethany remained quiet as Lady Petunia led her upstairs. Quiet on the outside, but tumultuous on the inside. Sometimes having an overactive imagination proved to be detrimental to one’s equanimity. In this case, believing Lady Ingraham to be the earl’s wife…goodness.

How mortifying!

Evidently Lady Petunia didn’t notice the silence for she opened the door, then buzzed about the pleasantly appointed room. Her light hair was so precariously perched in such an arrangement that Bethany feared her mass of curls would spill out from their confinement.

The Viscountess dashed about, taking great delight in pointing out happy features such as a tall, cheval mirror in the corner of the room, an excellent view of Grosvenor Square from a southern exposure window and an empty wardrobe closet

Bethany gave those features only a cursory glance. Truth be told, she was far more interested in the Chippendale writing desk stationed in front of the window.

“So here you have it.” Lady Petunia held onto one of the bed’s posts and swung around on it before sitting on the mattress. “Please feel free to place your personal possessions wherever you wish about the room. I’ll send for a maid to help you. This is your new home, Miss Branford.”

Bethany spotted her portmanteau next to the wardrobe. It contained all her worldly goods. “Thank you, my lady, but there is no need for a maid. My possessions are very few.”

“Truly?” Lady Petunia frowned. She eyed Bethany’s gown in a critical manner. “We shall go shopping to rectify that matter.”

Words tumbled out of Bethany’s mouth before she had a chance to edit them. “But I cannot afford to indulge in new clothes.”

“Nonsense.” The Viscountess waved her hand as if banishing poverty. “Davy will sport the blunt. He is as rich as Croesus. Or at least I think he is.”

“I cannot impose on the earl, my lady.” Agitation welled up within Bethany. A beautiful arrangement of fragrant roses on the bedstand attracted her attention. She removed a white rose and twirled it by the stem. “That would not be seemly. You must know that we are not even truly related.”

“Pish tosh. Your father married a relation of ours. Not too close a connection, I admit, but then you also took care of our father’s favorite aunt, our great aunt Cordelia. Why should my brother not sponsor you?”

She got up and swung around on the bedpost again. “And you must call me Petunia. I admit ’tis a rather peculiar name. ‘Peculiar Petunia’ is the horrid moniker Davy likes to tease me with. I have my revenge. All I need do is use his middle name and he shuts right up.” She flashed a mischievous grin. “Would you like to know this deep dark secret?”

“Um, I’m afraid that would not be proper.”

“Tosh! ’Tis Petruchio. Amusing, is it not? Our mother has a penchant for flowers and for Shakespeare.” She giggled.

“Oh.” Bethany flushed. Lord Ingraham wouldn’t be pleased that she knew his out-of-the ordinary middle name. She put the rose back into the crystal vase. “My given name is Bethany. Bethany Anne.”

“Bethany.” Petunia smiled. “That’s a lovely name. So unusual.”

Bethany withheld her own grin. Not as unusual as Petunia!

A thought occurred. “What did you mean when you entered the drawing room? You said you were saving the day.”

Petunia gave a playful shrug. “Only that since my mother has not yet arrived, we cannot have you unchaperoned in a bachelor’s residence. London gabsters are sticklers for this type of impropriety. But you’re not to worry, Bethany. Weatherhaven can spare me for a few days. I’m certain Mama will turn up soon, just like a bad shilling.” With a laugh, she headed for the door. “Now, I’ll leave you to unpack and rest. Dinner will be at seven. It’s too bad of Davy not to join us, but then again, I’m certain we shall manage to entertain ourselves. We can discuss our plans for tomorrow then, yes?”

She closed the door before Bethany could answer.

Bethany sank down on the mattress. Her spirits sank with her. Her host, the Earl of Ingraham, had to have been regretting his kind impulse to house his distant country cousin. His solitude cut into, his concern about her reputation, his bank account reduced…

She set her regrets behind her and hurried over to her portmanteau. Time was a precious commodity; one she couldn’t afford to waste. With any luck, she could work on her novel. Perhaps, before long she could send it off to a publisher.

And have the publisher accept it.

And earn money so she could leave the earl’s hospitality to set up her own household.

She sighed. That was asking for a great deal of luck.

The next morning, David took refuge from his houseguests by cloistering himself in the comfort of his private study. Not that his houseguests had disturbed him as yet. Nor was the study such a restful place; it was small and distinctly modest in its furnishings.

An unpretentious cherrywood writing desk, a few pictures scattered haphazardly about the walls, a bookcase, also cherrywood, filled with books and papers pertaining to English law — the study was rather Spartan, but sacrosanct. It was the place he could retreat from the outside world to concentrate on estate and parliamentary matters.

Pulling out the ledger for his Highfield Manor estate in Northampshire, he whiled away the time by double-checking figures recorded by his steward.

The hours passed quickly. At the sound of the mantel clock over the tiny fireplace chiming twice, he looked up. Two o’clock. How very gratifying that no one had disturbed his solitude in the interim.

He pushed away from the writing table. With his sister temporarily in residence here, that fact was passing strange.

What was the minx up to now?

Noises from the main part of the townhouse intruded, drowning out the cozy crackling from the fireplace. David stood. His seclusion was at an end.

After a knock on the study door, Stevens entered. “My lord,” he bowed. “Lady Ingraham and a Mr. Fenwick have arrived from Bath.”

“Mr. Fenwick?” That name did not conjure up an image. “Who is this fellow?”

The butler’s formal white wig seemed to flap on the man’s head. “An…acquaintance of her ladyship, sir.”

Obviously Stevens disapproved of this Mr. Fenwick. David sighed. What imbroglio had his mother got into this time?

“Where is Lady Ingraham, Stevens?”

“In the Blue Drawing Room, my lord.”

David paced the small area of his study. “Is Lady Petunia about?”

“Her ladyship has not yet returned from shopping, sir,” was the butler’s prompt response.

David nodded. He understood women well. The lure of drapers on New Bond Street could not be denied. Especially when his sister’s protégée was in dire need of an updated wardrobe.

“Miss Branford is with Lady Petunia, I presume.”

“No, milord. The young lady is still in her room.”

“Indeed? At this hour?” Good God, she wasn’t a languishing sort, was she? Prone to fanciful ills? Always going into a decline? She must have been, for what female did not wish to go shopping?

He paused in front of the fireplace. That thought was unkind. He should be charitable. After all, Miss Branford had traveled far. She had drifted off to sleep in the drawing room last evening. Perhaps she still needed additional rest.

“I shall join Lady Ingraham directly, Stevens. Have refreshments sent to the drawing room.”

“Yes, my lord.” Stevens bowed and left the room.

David put his ledger away, brushed back his hair and straightened the points on his waistcoat. Undoubtedly, his mother had obtained a new cicisbeo, therefore she would be in one of her coquettish moods. Dealing with her when that was the case was fatiguing in the extreme. Only the late earl had been able to reign in his flirtatious Countess.

He sighed again. The dear woman was well into her dotage — five and fifty, if she was a day. And so like her daughter, in many ways.

As he had wondered about his sister, now he pondered his mother. Would the Countess of Ingraham ever grow up?

With each passing day, Miss Hasbrouck became more accustomed to her affluent but rather gloomy surroundings. She became familiar with her two new charges as well. The motherless boys, just five and six years old, took to her straightaway, and enjoyed every expression of affection that she bestowed. Gentle hugs, a ruffling of their hair, soft kisses on their cheeks at bedtime…the children had quite engaged her heart. They were so very darling.

Their father, on the other hand, was another matter. He was a man of mystery. Very tall with dark hair hanging down his forehead in windswept curls, Lord Innis seemed to hold her in contempt. His stormy, dark brown eyes silently disapproved of everything she did. He —

The noise of a carriage door slamming shut startled Bethany from her writing. She glanced over at the bedchamber’s ormolu clock. Goodness! It was after two in the afternoon. Had Petunia finished shopping? Was that her outside, arriving back at the townhouse?

Bethany rushed over to the window in time to see two people walk toward the entrance. The top of a blue velvet poke bonnet came into view along with the brushed beaver top hat of a gentleman. From this vantage point, it was difficult to determine if she recognized either of the two. Perhaps the lady was her benefactor, Lady Petunia. She looked closer. No. The hair spiraling out of the poke bonnet was darker than Petunia’s. Plus the woman was of a sturdier build.

Bethany exhaled a sigh of relief. Lady Petunia would not take kindly to her protégée still being abed. Bethany had gotten out of today’s shopping expedition on the condition that she’d be dressed and ready by the time Petunia returned to the townhouse. Petunia had been most insistent, and Bethany could not go back on her word.

Taking a sip of cold tea, she felt her stomach growl. Obviously she needed more sustenance than liquids. She’d forgone the pleasure of breakfast this morning to concentrate on writing. After all, why think of food when she could put pen to paper instead?

For a moment she dwelt upon her handsome hero, Lord Innis. She smiled and sighed at the same time. When she imagined this character, she pictured her host, Lord Ingraham. That was another of her little secrets — never to be revealed. There could be no doubt about it; he would become incensed if he ever learned that he figured in a Gothic novel.

Her grin widened.

But now the ormolu clock read a quarter past two. She hurried to dress. The townhouse contained a large library, or so Petunia had said. Bethany could pass the time perusing books.

“I am excessively glad to be back in London, David. The company in Bath was beginning to thin most intolerably.” Olive Greyle took a sip of tea then discarded the cup in its saucer. She sat back on the settee and cast a fond glance over at her companion. “Fenwick and I were at sixes and sevens, deciding what we should do next.”

David had not seen his mother since leaving for France in May. Physically, she was unaltered. Still pleasantly plump. Still dressed in the first stare of fashion. But she now had an animation about her that had been absent six months ago. The cause for her vibrancy was not difficult to discern. The man on the settee, Randolph Fenwick, was the reason.