The Fugitive Heiress (7 page)

“And what do you expect this to accomplish?”

She thought for a moment “It seems to me,” she began, “that if one knows oneself to be at fault for an other’s misfortune, one usually tries to make it up to that person in other ways. Even if she only believes me to be shielding her from your anger”

“Which you are.”

“Even so, she ought to be grateful and behave accordingly.”

“Much you know.”

Catheryn glanced at him uncertainly. “I believe it will turn the trick, my lord. Your mother said Tiffany needs to think about someone else for a change.”

“True enough, but your plan comes from the twisted sort of thinking that passes for female logic. Tiffany is much more likely to take advantage of your good nature.”

Catheryn smiled sweetly. “Not if you contrive to be out of charity with me a bit longer. She will take her lead from you, sir.”

“Take her lead from me!” He stared at her and then grimaced. “I believe I take your meaning, Cousin. Did I say your logic was twisted? Upon reflection, I must correct the word to Machiavellian. My compliments.”

“Never mind your compliments, sir. We are approaching Grosvenor Square. Scowl, if you please. Your sister is very likely on the watch for your arrival. Her bedchamber overlooks the square, you know.”

D
AMBROKE DISAPPEARED INTO HIS
library, and Catheryn decided to have her breakfast before going in search of Lady Tiffany. By the time she had finished her second cup of tea, she had managed to learn from Morris, the footman, that her ladyship had refused breakfast, having come home, as he described it, “in a regular snit.” Her ladyship still had not recovered when Catheryn found her a bit later in her bedchamber. Tiffany had changed to a becoming round gown of pale green sprigged muslin with a matching sash and was standing by her window gazing into the square. She turned, her expression sullen.

“Oh, it’s you. I expected Richard.” Catheryn was silent, radiating dejection. “Good gracious! Surely he has not been scolding you as well!”

Catheryn flung herself into a comfortable silk-covered chair. “I should never have ridden his stupid horse.”

“Of all the odious, rag-mannered … he
knows
it was all my fault!”

Catheryn looked up wide-eyed. “But it was not your fault, Tiffany. I shouldn’t have ridden his horse without permission. Besides, Dambroke was worried about my safety, and worry causes some people to become fearfully angry, you know.”

“Piffle!” Tiffany snapped, coming from the window to sit in a most unladylike manner on the foot of her bed. “It was neither fear nor worry, but pure selfishness. He cannot bear anyone to ride or drive his horses. Or to use his guns, for that matter. He once gave our cousin, Jonathan, a trimming for taking a shotgun out without permission. And Jonathan, let me tell you, is a crack shot! Then, Maggie’s brother, Captain Varling, just for a prank—he is a great jokester—once drove Richard’s bays hitched to a farm wagon. Richard was livid!” She had been looking straight at Catheryn, but at this point she lowered her gaze to her hands, beginning to pick with the fingers of one at the nails of the other. “I know that is not qu-quite what I t-told you before, Catheryn, but I truly did not intend you to incur his displeasure. I should not purposely inflict that on anyone. I thought we would be home before he emerged from his bedchamber. He and Lord Thomas were out very late.”

“I expect Hobbs had second thoughts and sent him a message,” Catheryn replied.

“I-I never thought. Please, Catheryn, I only….”

“You only wanted me to be so occupied with Chieftain that I could not interfere with your assignation,” Catheryn offered helpfully, when she hesitated.

“Yes … I mean, no, of course not!” Looking into Catheryn’s eyes, she encountered frank disbelief and hunched her shoulders. “Oh, very well. But please believe I never meant for you to suffer. I just wanted to speak with James—Mr. Lawrence, that is—and I did know that you would not like to ride old Cloud, so I … well, I’m sorry.”

Catheryn smiled gently. “I do believe you, Tiffany. But you must see that, with regard to Chieftain, I was as much to blame, for I do know better than to ride a gentleman’s horse without his permission. Also, I am older than you. But I jumped at the opportunity and so have come by my just deserts. I only hope he won’t pack me back to Caston Manor in disgrace.”

“Well, he will not do anything so shabby,” declared her ladyship. “He will still have much to say to me about meeting James, I daresay, but if he did not say at once that you must leave, he will not do so at all.”

“Perhaps not. But why,” Catheryn asked, deciding things were going very satisfactorily, “would he not merely assume that you had met Mr. Lawrence by chance?”

Willingly, Tiffany launched into a complete, though somewhat tangled history of her relationship with Mr. Lawrence. Punctuated though it was by animadversions upon her unfeeling and dictatorial brother and the lack of understanding by other such stuffy persons, the tale was easy enough for Catheryn to follow. According to Tiffany, Mr. Lawrence’s family was a perfectly respectable one, and they had met at some party or other. They had discovered a mutual taste for early rides and often met at the Park where they carried on long and fascinating conversations. She described Lawrence as the epitome of all desirable masculine attributes, except of course in the matter of fortune. He was so kind, so good, so sympathetic, so understanding. He cared about her feelings in a manner of which others, unspecified, were incapable. She wasn’t by any means certain as yet, but she thought she might very likely be falling in love with him. Dambroke, of course, would do all possible to rend them asunder. It was dastardly that she and James could see so little of each other just because he wasn’t odiously rich. Indeed, Dambroke had insulted him, had called him a damned fortune hunter, which anyone with sense must know was perfectly ridiculous.

“I expect Dambroke is right, you know.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Unruffled, though certain she had just joined the ranks of the unfeeling, Catheryn continued, “Don’t fly into the boughs, Tiffany. I merely voiced an opinion. Probably I know nothing at all, but Dambroke strikes me as a fair man, a man of sense. I have little else upon which to base an opinion. You said, however, that Mr. Lawrence has no fortune of his own. I would think him odd if he did not make a push to acquire one through marriage—just like Lord Thomas, you know. But, of course, you know him. If you say he is no fortune hunter, I must listen.” Tiffany regarded her doubtfully, and Catheryn chuckled. “Never mind. Even fortune hunters may fall in love. I daresay that is what has occurred here. After all, you are only seventeen. No fortune hunter worth his salt will want to wait four years or more for the fortune.”

Tiffany, her expression suddenly thoughtful, opened her mouth to speak. At that moment, however, the door swung back on its hinges to admit the countess, charmingly garbed in russet. She exclaimed aloud at the sight of them.

“Why, what is this? Catheryn, you cannot go shopping in your riding habit! Surely, you have something more suitable, child. And Tiffany, that dress is much too thin. You will catch your death.” They stared at her. Catheryn came to her senses first.

“Good heavens, ma’am, I quite forgot!” She started up from the chair and hurried toward the door. “Pray forgive me. Back in the twinkling of a bedpost, I assure you.” She rushed to her bedchamber and, ringing for Mary, rapidly changed to a simple cambric frock. When she returned to Tiffany’s room, the first voice she heard was that of the countess.

“He don’t want to speak to you now, whatever you might think. He’s gone to White’s.” She spied Catheryn in the doorway. “Let’s bustle about, girls, I mean to finish this business this morning, so that we may call upon Emily Cowper this afternoon. I should like to stop at Stanthorpe House as well, now they have returned to town. Get your pelisse, Tiffany. I don’t know why you should think Dambroke would wish to speak with you anyway.” Tiffany obeyed slowly, still seeming to doubt that she might escape her brother’s promised tongue-lashing. It was not until they were safely in the landaulet that she relaxed.

All three ladies enjoyed themselves. The fashionable modiste who delighted in the countess’s patronage was only too happy to take Miss Westering’s measurements and offer advice about materials, styles, and trims. Catheryn was awed by the number of garments deemed necessary for a young lady of fashion, but she placed herself in her cousin’s hands and offered no demur. She was pleased to discover that several gowns, ready-made, could, with slight alteration, be delivered that very afternoon. Unused to London fashions, she was a bit shocked by the flimsy materials but, following Tiffany’s advice, she ordered several frocks for day wear, three evening gowns, a fawn velvet pelisse trimmed with swansdown, and a dashing riding habit of lavender, ornamented down the front and at the cuffs
à la militaire
with black silk braid.

The rest of the morning was spent purchasing such necessary items as bonnets and hats, reticules, footwear, gloves, silk scarves, handkerchieves, and undergarments. In the Pantheon Bazaar Catheryn came upon an exquisite Norwich shawl that she thought would be nice to drape over her shoulders on chilly days, but Tiffany vetoed the purchase.

“You are too short, Catheryn. It would turn you into an absolute dowdy,” she stated flatly. “The silk scarves will do nicely to add a touch of color to your pelisse, but anything like that shawl draped around you would only detract from the line of your gown.”

“Very true, dear,” agreed the countess vaguely. “Now, I think we have done for the present, but you must begin to be thinking about what you mean to wear to Lady Heathcote’s dress party as well as to our own ball.”

“Yes, indeed,” put in Tiffany. “We must look through my copies of
Belle Assemblée
and
Beau Monde
for ideas.”

As they climbed into the carriage, Miss Westering’s eyes were sparkling with anticipation. The countess seemed to take it for granted that she would still be in London for the ball, still several weeks away. Catheryn was tempted to pinch herself but refrained, thinking that if it were only a dream it would be a shame to wake herself. She had given up thinking about the expense, but it did cross her mind briefly to wonder whether Dambroke, whom Tiffany declared to be odiously pinch-pennied, might not object to the number of her purchases.

Much to the surprise of his mother and the consternation of his sister, he greeted them in the hall, having, as he explained, observed their arrival from the library. Bestowing a cool nod upon sister and cousin, he kissed his mother’s cheek. “Been wasting the ready, Mama?”

“Yes, indeed,” she twinkled. “We have had a lovely morning. Dear Catheryn will be fitted out in no time. But I thought you had gone to your club!”

“So I had,” he drawled, still ignoring the two girls. “White’s was somewhat thin of company, so I returned and have been letting young Ashley plague me with matters of business. I think he must be overworked. With quarter day past, I thought he would have time to relax, but he tells me he has received instructions from my various bailiffs and agents desiring him to harass me with plans of improvements here and experimentation there. I am quite worn out with it and have ordered him off to lunch. I shall escape before he returns, I promise you.” Tiffany looked relieved.

Lady Dambroke, unaware of anything out of the ordinary, laughed merrily. “I suppose you are off to Jackson’s then,” she said, referring to the great Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon. “Of course, you will take a bite with us first.”

“I think not,” he replied curtly, casting a scowl in Catheryn’s direction. Really, she thought, he needn’t lay it on so thick.

Lady Dambroke was astonished and looked from one face to another, seeking an explanation. Catheryn looked conscious, Tiffany embarrassed, and the earl saturnine. “Richard, whatever is the matter?” the countess demanded.

“It is nothing important, Mama.”

“That’s not so,” Tiffany argued. “Richard is at outs with poor Catheryn, Mama, and indeed he should not be, for it was quite my fault!”

Fearing that Dambroke would ruin all by agreeing, Catheryn broke into hasty speech. “Oh, no! Please, my lady, you must not!” She gazed imploringly first at Tiffany and then, with slightly more intent, at his lordship. “Indeed, it was my own selfish stupidity. He is right to be angry with me.” Disconcerted by a gleam of wicked amusement in Dambroke’s eye, she dropped her gaze to his shining Hessians and continued, “I-I have told him I am s-sorry. I had hoped the affair was ended.”

The countess whisked to Catheryn’s side, putting a protective arm around her before turning on her son. “Richard, I rarely interfere, as you well know, but Catheryn is my guest, and I’ll not have her bullied. I do not know what she can have done in the short time she has been with us to incur your displeasure, but it cannot have been anything so dreadful. You must apologize at once.” Then she quite ruined the effect of her uncharacteristic vehemence by adding, “Please, Richard?”

Catheryn, peeping from under her lashes at him, was much impressed by his iron control. The inner struggle with his sense of the ridiculous was not lost upon her. As it was, he was forced to brush a hand across his brow before answering. “I do apologize, Miss Westering. Though I must say that for me to worry when you are so foolish as to take one of my high-spirited mounts to Hyde Park without my knowledge or approval is no odd thing. However, I did not intend that my few words of well-deserved censure should overset you.” Catheryn shot him a speaking look and encountered one filled with mockery that as much as told her she was being served with her own sauce. The countess’s arm dropped.

“Oh, Catheryn,” she gasped, “you didn’t!” Her words effectively silenced her daughter who, for a split second at least, had looked ready to join battle in Catheryn’s defense.

Catheryn, taking the sideplay in with an oblique glance, stepped forward and placed one demurely gloved hand in Dambroke’s. Her lips twitched and she dared not look into his eyes, but she kept her soft voice under admirable control. “That is kind of you, my lord,” she said. “I accept your generous apology and promise it shall not happen again.” At this juncture, the earl, with a hasty mumble that Ashley would soon be upon him, turned rather precipitately and escaped out the front door.