Susanne Marie Knight (8 page)

In response, his breathing deepened.

She laid her hand on his forearm. “Sir, please, do not despair. I am certain the Countess’ attention to Mr. Fenwick is only a passing fancy.”

“That may be, Miss Branford. However, I must give you my thanks. I appreciate you feigning a megrim, thereby enabling us to quit Margrove House.”

The most delightful rush of color graced Bethany’s pale cheeks.

“Oh, not at all, my lord. After all, it is quite warm inside these walls, is it not?”

David withheld comment. The woman by his side displayed more refinery than his own mother. Perhaps Bethany Branford
should
become the next Countess of Ingraham.

Miss Hasbrouck was in a quandary. Her employer, Lord Innis, disapproved of her. With every ounce of her being, she knew that was so. And yet, as much as he found her objectionable, he did not dismiss her.

She walked over to her bedchamber window and pulled aside the drapes to gaze outside. The beauty of the Innis estate beckoned to her, as did the thought of the two little boys entrusted in her care.

Thank the heavens Lord Innis had accepted her hastily conceived explanation for her unauthorized prowling about in the attic. If he had known about the mysterious note, he would not have been so magnanimous. The note, with its sinister insinuation concerning the circumstances of his wife’s death, was a secret she’d rather not have been privy to.

She didn’t want any secrets between them, but there it was — a puzzle weighing down her soul. She didn’t believe Lord Innis had anything to do with Lady Innis’ demise.

But then again, what if he had?

Who had written the note? And what was its purpose? Did she have someone in the Innis household looking out for her interests?

Or was the author of the note an enemy?

Miss Hasbrouck shivered with the clash of conflicting emotions.

Someone knocked on the door.

Someone knocked on the door.

Bethany flinched, which caused an inkblot to mar the surface of her paper.

“Just a minute,” she called out, blotting the paper and hiding her other sheets all at the same time. There wasn’t enough time to put them in the desk’s secret cubbyhole.

Elsie made a quick curtsey, then dashed inside. “Pardon me, miss, but I thought you’d want to know. A garden, it is. Pure and simple.”

Bethany rolled the maid’s words over in her mind. The Ingraham townhouse had a spacious garden out back. But what did that have to do with her?

“What do you mean, Elsie?”

The maid’s bright eyes widened with her excitement. “There’s a blooming garden growin’ right inside the Blue Drawing Room, miss. Come see for yourself.”

Bethany could neither ignore the maid’s enthusiasm nor the young woman’s tugging on Bethany’s arm. Smiling, she retrieved her hand. “I most certainly must view this incredible sight. Give me but a moment, Elsie.”

The maid acquiesced, leaving the bedchamber as quickly as she entered.

Bethany returned to the desk and thrust the now-dried sheet of paper into the cubbyhole along with the rest of her novel. The brass knob on the cubbyhole attracted her attention. Its gleaming surface twinkled at her, as if to loudly proclaim: Open me.

Hmmn.
Perhaps the compartment wasn’t secret enough. Should she move her papers to a different location?

She reached out, then halted mid-air. She hated having secrets. In truth, she was worse than her heroine, Miss Hasbrouck.

Much worse. If David ever found out about her intention to publish…

“Miss!” Elsie called from the corridor. “Don’t you want to see? I am beside myself!”

“Coming, Elsie.”

As soon as Bethany joined the maid, she got caught up in the excitement. How could a garden bloom inside a house? And where did it come from?

It didn’t take long to reach the Blue Drawing Room. The double doors were open, allowing Bethany, then Elsie to step inside.

Goodness!

The maid hadn’t exaggerated. A garden of perfumed flowers had taken over the drawing room. Bouquets of roses, baskets of daisies, fringed carnations, and vibrant pansies splashed vivid shades of color about the celestial blue walls. She had never seen a sight as breathtaking as this nature’s bounty arranged inside the house. And not only was it a treat for the eyes — the fragrance of the sweet-smelling flowers revitalized all her senses.

“Why are these flowers here?” She turned to ask Elsie, but the maid gave a curtsy, then left the room.

Lady Ingraham took Elsie’s place, hurrying into the drawing room and waving her lacy handkerchief. “La! Isn’t this floral display most gratifying, Bethany? ’Tis the custom for gentlemen to send tributes such as these to ladies who have caught their fancy. I daresay we shall be besieged with visitors — eligible suitors who wish to apply for the honor of your hand.”

Bethany’s knees felt weak. She sank down onto the blue flowered settee. “Oh surely not, my lady. I-I scarcely know any gentlemen well enough to even consider — ”

“Stuff and nonsense.” Olive Greyle hovered over one delicate arrangement of white orchids just as a hummingbird might, before floating over to the next bouquet. “This one is from Lord Penning. Excellent taste he has, I must say. And here is a delightful basket from Mr. Perrywinkle, who is paying homage to your very fine eyes.”

Bethany searched for an image to link with the name Mr. Perrywinkle, but came up empty.

“Oh my.” Lady Ingraham paused next to a small arrangement of small scarlet flowers. She fanned her face with her handkerchief. “These pimpernels are from Fenwick.” Her faded blue eyes lost their focus. “So thoughtful. I am quite overcome.”

As if to prove her words, Lady Ingraham placed the back of her hand to her forehead, then hurried out of the Blue Drawing Room.

Left alone in this garden, Bethany suddenly felt uncomfortable with the blossoms surrounding her. She hardly knew any gentlemen, eligible or otherwise. So why would they be interested in her?

And what would happen if her secret was exposed?

She sighed. If only Petunia could be here to soothe her agitation. But the dear Viscountess had her own problems. Bethany crossed her fingers, hoping Petunia could make peace with her husband.

“Miss Branford.” David’s familiar voice broke through her ruminations.

Her host walked briskly into the drawing room with a welcoming smile on his face. He looked like perfection itself with his dark mop of curls contrasting against the vivid white of his cravat. His frock coat, a pleasing shade of pomona green, also stood out against the buff color of his nankeen breeches.

She smiled back. “Good morning, my lord.”

“I thought I might find you here, admiring your flower garden. Quite an impression you made on the Beau Monde last night.” He surveyed the fragrant offerings, then stopped by Henry Penning’s white orchids. After reading the note card, he frowned. “Blast. It appears my friend Penning has a poetic turn of phrase that is at odds with his coxcomb exterior.”

Restlessness urged her to her feet. Bethany stood, then also walked around the room looking at the flowers. “Sir, surely that is unkind.”

“Perhaps, but the man deserves it.” David joined her by an elaborate basket almost the size of the wall mirror that it rested against. “I see I have been remiss in not sending hot house blooms to complement your beauty.”

She averted her gaze. “There is no need for you to send me flowers, my lord. I do not wish all this attention.”

“Beautiful and modest, Miss Branford. You are a double blessing.”

Looking up at him, she was drawn to his mesmerizing crystal blue eyes. Time seemed to slow down. Each breath felt elongated, as if time not only stopped, but stretched out to infinity.

Her heart increased its beat, not because of alarm, but because of something else. Something unfamiliar. Something almost divine.

“Miss Branford,” David began with a slight huskiness to his voice. “I would like — ”

“A thousand pardons, milord.” Stevens had entered the drawing room without calling attention to himself. The butler inclined his head, then handed a creamy white envelope to David. The envelope bore the royal crest. “This has only just arrived for you, sir. A messenger is waiting for your response.”

David lifted an eyebrow at Bethany, then took the note. She interpreted his gesture to mean that he had no idea as to what the envelope contained.

She riveted her gaze on him. Stevens, on the other hand, demonstrated the proper lack of interest that a butler was required to show.

By the tightening of David’s lips, she could tell he wasn’t pleased. He confirmed her deduction by the sternness of his voice. “Stevens, tell the messenger that Miss Branford and I will be most gratified to attend to his Grace this afternoon.”

She stood on pins and needles, waiting for the butler to leave. When he did, she placed her hand on David’s arm. “Where are we to go?”

David handed her the handwritten card. “We have received an invitation issued by Prince Augustus, the Duke of Sussex, to join him at two o’clock this afternoon at the Prince Regent’s residence — Carlton House.”

She gulped down her surprise, glanced at the meticulous writing on the card, then handed it back to David.

“Precisely.” He pocketed the invitation and cast a lazy eye on her. “As we discussed last night, if the Duke is indeed planning on pursuing you, I shall have to quell in the most direct fashion his inappropriate ardor. Unless, of course, you have encouraged the Duke.”

Her response was immediate. “No, sir. Indeed, I have not.”

Bethany worried the edge of her lower lip. Goodness, how in the world had she, a simple country miss, ever gotten into a contretemps such as this?

Grosvenor Square was not far from Carlton House, happily situated between Pall Mall and The Mall. On this Sunday afternoon, the twenty-third of October, the fine weather contained only a hint of the blustery wind that would soon become November’s calling card.

Not only did David enjoy the drive, but the company also. Bethany proved to be an informed companion as well as an attractive one. Seated next to him in the one-horse cabriolet, she did her fair share of gawking at the shops along Old Bond Street and Piccadilly as they neared the Regent’s residence. She could be forgiven for showing such blatant interest, since she was so new to the amusements…and perils of London.

When she laid her dainty gloved hand on his arm, a strange glow warmed his heart. “Sir, we just passed Hatchards. I have heard the shop offers every book under the sun. Perhaps after our visit with his Grace, we can could stop by this bookseller?”

He hated to put a damper on her enthusiasm, but certain laws of the universe could not be altered. “Hatchards is closed on Sunday, Miss Branford.”

“I know.” She lowered her head, allowing him to have an excellent view of the back of her beribboned bonnet, and also a delicate sliver of skin on her neck. “But if we could look at the books displayed in the window?”

He snapped leather reins to steer the horse away from a street peddler pushing his weather-beaten cart. “Is there any particular book that strikes your fancy, Miss Branford?”

She glanced over at him. “You’re very perceptive, my lord. I wish to purchase a certain novel.
Emma
is its name. I have heard it is dedicated to the Regent himself.”

He had indeed heard of this novel, and of the unnamed author, “a Lady,” who had written the popular
Pride and Prejudice
. But popular or not, for a lady to have the audacity to lower herself by public writing was unthinkable.

Reprehensible.

He hardened his voice to show his disapproval. “I am acquainted with that book and with its anonymous author. A true lady would never dream of embarrassing her relations by such a shocking occupation.”

Bethany clasped her gloved hands together. She did not reply.

“And to toady up to the Regent in that extravagant fashion.” David shook his head. “Unconscionable.”

“The author was not toadying.” Bethany sat up straighter in the cabriolet and folded her arms across her chest. “Indeed, in the dedication, she mentioned the title, ‘His Royal Highness’ three times. Surely, this exaggeration implies a mocking tone, not an obsequious one.”

David tipped his hat to her. To be truthful, he had noted the dedication with its unobtrusive set-down.

“To His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, this work is, by His Royal Highness’ permission, most respectfully dedicated, by His Royal Highness’ dutiful and obedient humble servant, the Author.”

The author in question had a very sharp wit.

He grinned. “You know your literature, do you not, Miss Branford?”

“Yes, I believe do, my lord.”

A cold drizzle from the skies dampened his reply, changing the previously fine weather to foul. Most likely a downpour would soon follow. He quickened the horse’s pace over cobblestone streets and soon the carriage approached the magnificent frontage of Carlton House. The portico of six Corinthian columns with its overhanging enclosure, called a
porte-chère,
allowed him to drive the cabriolet under it so that they could enter the Regent’s home without getting wet.

Pulling on the horse’s reins, David stopped the carriage, then turned to Bethany. “Here we are.”

She nodded. By the pull of her lips, he could discern she was displeased.

But why? Was she provoked with him?

Shrugging aside his observation, he handed the reins to a stableboy, then stepped down from the cabriolet. He moved quickly to the other side and helped Bethany alight.

Her tiny hand felt so right in his, almost as if they had been made for each other.