The Fugitive Heiress (20 page)

Dambroke grinned but refused the gambit and soon departed, leaving Catheryn to be drawn into further discussion of Tiffany’s costume. The countess joined them later in the morning room and finished off any lingering desire her daughter may have had to become a shepherdess.

“Too, too common, my dear. I don’t know why you are so crazy for a masque anyway. So wearing not to know one’s partners.” But Tiffany was undeterred. Her tentative suggestion that she might go as an houri being squashed flat, veils notwithstanding, she proposed the idea of dressing as Cleopatra. “Nearly as ordinary as the shepherdess,” scorned the countess, taking up a piece of her exquisite embroidery. She quickly became absorbed in her work. Catheryn put forth a few suggestions, feeling the exertion was expected of her, but Tiffany rejected them all. She did hesitate over the possibility of posing as Leda and carrying a stuffed swan, until the countess wondered aloud how she would dance with a reticule in one hand and the swan in the other. The conversation deteriorated after that until Tiffany declared in frustration that she would ask Maggie Varling.

“I daresay I shall eat luncheon there, so don’t look for me till teatime. Won’t you come, too, Catheryn?”

But Catheryn was steadfast in her refusal and saw her cousin off with relief. The countess was right! Masqued balls were very wearing! On the other hand, she was left with nothing to do. After a light luncheon with the countess, she was debating whether to venture out with Bert Ditchling to Hyde Park, which at this hour would be alive with Cits and other rabble, when Lady Prudence arrived.

“I’ve come to carry you off to my sister’s for tea,” she announced. “At least, when it’s time for it, I’m sure Patience will give us tea. But do say you will come, Catheryn, for I’ve ever so much to tell you.”

Catheryn accepted with alacrity and was not surprised, when they were settled in the Easton’s comfortable drawing room, to learn that the duke had accepted Edmund’s suit. That Prudence had actually fallen in love with Edmund still amazed her. She said as much.

“But he is so solid, so dependable, Catheryn,” was the reasonable and unruffled reply. “Compared to London beaux, who are forever prosing on about fashion or curricle racing or cockfights, Edmund is such a sensible man!”

Catheryn stared at her. “He is?”

“Well, you are close to him,” said Prudence quietly. “Perhaps that is why you do not recognize his virtues. I’m sure I shall stare just so, if Maggie accepts Tom’s suit.”

“Maggie! Tom! You mean Lord Thomas?” Catheryn’s eyes danced when Prudence nodded. “Never say so, Prue!”

“There!” declared Lady Easton. “I knew it. Even you, Prue, cannot keep your tongue between your teeth. Nothing has been said, Catheryn. It’s Prue’s imagination.”

“Well, it isn’t,” twinkled Catheryn. “It’s as plain as plain. That sly devil! I see it all now. No wonder he’s worried. If anyone knows his views on the necessity of marrying an heiress, it’s the Earl and Countess of Stanthorpe!”

“Not to mention Captain Varling,” added Prudence dryly. “Nevertheless, if his own suit prospers, perhaps he will stand Tom’s friend.” They looked at each other in that conspiratorial way females have when they know they have rumbled something that is not yet public knowledge.

“How is Lady Tiffany?” asked Patience sweetly.

Catheryn chuckled appreciatively. “Up to her laces in ideas for fancy dress!” She put her hands up in mock dismay. “If I hear one more idea for a costume, I shall scream!”

They laughed and spent the rest of the afternoon discussing Prudence’s plans for a ceremony in late June. Her ladyship had opted for a country wedding at the ducal seat, but the duke insisted on St. George’s, Hanover Square. “London will be thin of company by then, of course, but I daresay our guests will come,” Prudence said in her quiet way.

“Of course they will, and I know of several who will be grateful you’re being married here and not in Wiltshire,” replied Catheryn. She also learned that, when Edmund had written to inform his parents of his good fortune, the duchess had included an invitation to Sir Horace and Lady Caston to visit as soon as it would be convenient.

“Suppose they should arrive in time for the masque?” Prudence’s voice was tinged with worry. “Your aunt may disapprove of such a function.”

Despite having often heard Lady Caston’s disparaging remarks on the folly of such uncivilized activities, Catheryn was easily able to soothe Prudence’s fears. No party given by a duchess—especially by the duchess soon to become her son’s mother-in-law—would be condemned by Lady Caston.

Not long after a generous tea, Prudence and Catheryn took their leave, and Catheryn was soon set down at Dambroke House. There being no one in the front hall, she proceeded to the yellow drawing room, where she could be certain, at this time of day, to find the countess at least. When she pushed open the door, she had the odd feeling that she had left civilized reality down in the street and had stepped instead onto a stage. Morris, standing just inside the door with a small tambour frame in his hand, moved obligingly aside to give her the full effect.

The countess had fainted and lay back on the settee, her feet still on the floor. A lachrymose Tiffany hovered over her, and Paulson’s usually placid wife jabbed smelling salts ineffectively at her mistress’s nose while waving her free hand angrily at a strange lad who carried with him a marked aura of the stables and who listened with downcast face and shifting feet while she shouted at him.

“Wicked boy! Wicked, wicked boy! What have you done!”

“Warn’t my fault,” he mumbled wretchedly.

“No business here at all! There, there, my lamb,” she added soothingly to the now stirring countess.

“I tell yer, it warn’t my fault. I was sent.”

“Sent, schmeht! You don’t belong in my lady’s drawing room,” grated Mrs. Paulson. “Your sort stay in the stables. I shall have a word with Mr. Hobbs about this, I will.”

“I brung a message from the Park, I did,” insisted the poor lad. “Can’t ’elp it if the man says bring it up, can I? Just does like ’e says, is all. ’E says ’is lordship ain’t ’ere, go tell ’er la’yship, so I does.”

Catheryn looked at Morris. He shrugged and spoke in an undertone. “That Michael, like as not, miss. Not much in his cockloft saving open space. Mr. Paulson’ll have a strip off him for this, I’m thinking. His lordship, too, an he gets wind of it. I was upstairs.” He gestured with the tambour frame. “Walked in just before you did.”

“Well, if Michael did indeed send a groom to her ladyship instead of bringing the message himself, he deserves a trimming,” Catheryn agreed. “What was the message?”

Morris had no idea, but their voices had penetrated to the others. “Catheryn! Oh, Catheryn!” cried Tiffany. “Teddy’s been hurt, maybe even killed!”

A cold chill trickled down Catheryn’s spine, but her first thought was for Dambroke. Dear God, she prayed, don’t let his action result in Teddy’s death! Don’t let there be any way he can blame himself.

“My baby!” moaned the countess, coming to her senses in time to hear Tiffany’s cry. “My poor darling boy. He must not be dead!”

“He ain’t.”

The words were lost as Mrs. Paulson rounded on Tiffany, commanding her to hush now and mind her poor mama’s nerves. “Here now, my lady,” she added, bending over” the countess, “just you have a whiff of these good salts. And you there!” she snapped at Morris. “Don’t stand like a stock, man. Fetch Miss Fowler. And Miss Catheryn, will you be a dear and fetch some hartshorn and water? If you will be so kind.”

But Catheryn had recovered sufficiently to take command of the situation. A glance at Morris assured her that he would see to the hartshorn, so she turned her attention first to her cousin, who had burst into fresh tears. “Tiffany, compose yourself at once or leave the room! You are behaving like an underbred kitchenmaid. If you wish to remain, you may help your mother. Mrs. Paulson, do you give the salts to Lady Tiffany and be so good as to explain this charade to me.”

Bowing, however reluctantly, to the note of authority in Catheryn’s voice, the housekeeper passed the salts to a startled Tiffany. The younger girl had never heard Catheryn speak so sharply before and made an effort to stifle her tears, but her sniffs and an occasional weak moan from the countess punctuated the housekeeper’s next words.

“I don’t know as I can give much of a round tale, Miss Catheryn. That Michael came to me all of a dither saying her ladyship had got word Master Teddy was throwed from that great black beast of his lordship’s and was sure the lad was killed.”

“He warn’t.”

Diverted, Catheryn turned to the groom. “Who are you?”

“Ben Fincham, an it please ye, miss. From down to the Park. Young Master b’ain’t dead. Leastwise not yet.”

Wise in the ways of countryfolk, she knew better than to take Ben’s pessimism too seriously. Nevertheless, the knowledge that Blaze had thrown Teddy sent another chill slithering down her spine. No wonder the countess and Tiffany were in such a state! “Can you tell us about the accident, Ben?”

“Didn’t see it. Miss Lucy, she just says take the letter quick to ’is lordship. But ’e warn’t ’ere, so—”

“Yes, Ben, we know that bit. Did you say letter? Did Miss Felmersham send a letter?” The lad nodded.

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Paulson. “You never said about any letter!”

“No one arst me.”

“Never mind,” Catheryn interposed hastily before the housekeeper could vent her indignation. “Where is the letter, Ben? Let me have it, please.”

Obligingly, he pulled a crumpled note from his jacket and handed it to her. Ignoring the fact that it was directed in firm copperplate to the earl, Catheryn tore it opened and scanned the contents rapidly before giving a sigh of relief. “It’s all right, Aunt Elizabeth. He’s merely taken a tumble. Miss Felmersham writes that he’s badly bruised, but she thinks no bones are broken. He hit his head and was unconscious for a moment or two, so there’s a possibility of concussion, which is why she sent for Dambroke. She also sent for Dr. Quigley, she says, but only to be on the safe side.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Tiffany, sinking into a chair. “That dreadful boy!”

Ben Fincham shifted his feet uneasily, and Catheryn smiled. “She means Master Teddy, Ben. I’m sorry there was such a dust-up, but we are grateful to you for bringing the news so quickly. Go on to the kitchen now and someone will feed you. You must be hungry.”

“Aye, miss. Thank you, miss.” His ears and neck reddening, he cast her a look of shy gratitude.

“I’ll show him, Miss Catheryn,” offered the housekeeper, seeming glad of an excuse to leave. Catheryn nodded. As they left, Fowler entered briskly and proceeded to the countess, plumping cushions behind her and dragging up a footstool for her feet. Then she measured out a dose of hartshorn and water and saw to it that her mistress swallowed it, while she bathed her forehead with lavender water.

Tiffany waited only to hand Fowler the salts before she said, “I did mean Teddy, Catheryn, but I might just as easily have meant that nodcock. To let Mama think….”

“I know,” Catheryn replied, “but it wasn’t his fault. He’s only an ignorant country lad. You know he didn’t mean to distress you, don’t you, Aunt Elizabeth?”

Lady Dambroke pushed herself upright, her spirits revived by Fowler’s tender care. “Well, he did upset me,” she said. “Coming in here smelling of the stables and saying that great, horrid stallion of Richard’s had thrown poor Teddy. Well, naturally, I thought….” She settled herself firmly, “Concussion, Catheryn? That can be quite serious, can it not? Ought I to go to him, do you think?”

A
BRIEF SILENCE FELL.
Catheryn tried to imagine the countess in a purely maternal role and found the task beyond her mental skill. Even Fowler paused. Tiffany recovered first. “Mama! You can’t! The duchess’s masquerade!” She jumped up only to fling herself down beseechingly at the countess’s feet. “Richard will never let me go if you are at the Park. In fact, he will most likely pack me off, too. It isn’t fair! Only because Teddy has got himself into another scrape.”

“Very true, my dear,” agreed her mother. “But he may need nursing, and Cousin Lucy is a featherhead. Besides,” she went on, resigned, “I
am
his mother.”

Catheryn intervened before Tiffany, rapidly rising from her affecting pose on the floor, could initiate another scene. “It appears to me, ma’am, that the sensible thing to do is to wait for his lordship. He will decide what is to be done.”

“But nobody knows where he is!” protested the countess. “If Mr. Ashley were here, he would know, but we can’t ask him if he is at the Park. And why didn’t he send a message, I should like to know!” Since no one attempted a reply, she went on. “Richard could be anywhere, and he wouldn’t know what to do if he did go to Teddy. He would just send for me, and by then it might be too late. I
must
go! Not,” she added vaguely, “that I have the least confidence in my ability as a nurse. I have never had to nurse any of my children. Nanny Craig always did it. But she is dead these two years and more, so she cannot help. I expect I shall manage well enough. Maternal instinct and all, you know.”

“But you mustn’t, Mama! It would ruin my whole life if I have to leave London now!” cried Tiffany, once more on the verge of tears.

“So help me, Tiffany,” grated Catheryn in exasperation, “if you shed one more tear, I shall personally box your ears. Both of them!” The others stared at her in shock, but she lapsed into thought and did not notice. “Do you know what effort, if any, has been made to find his lordship?”

It was Fowler who answered, collecting the hartshorn and lavender water but wisely leaving the smelling salts within reach. “I must apologize, Miss Catheryn. Morris asked me to relay that information to you, but my lady’s condition upon my arrival swept it from my mind.” There was no trace of regret in her voice. Fowler knew her first duty.

“Perhaps you might recall that message now, Fowler.”

“To be sure, miss. It’s only that Mr. Paulson has sent runners to his lordship’s clubs and to Stanthorpe House. In Mr. Ashley’s absence, he can think of nothing further to answer the purpose.”