The Marquess and Miss Davies (17 page)

A pause, during which Isa directed a speaking look to the marquess.
She has lied for you
, the look said.
Do not discount it.

“Ah,” said Talfryn, somewhat mollified. “Indeed.”

“Yes,” said Lord Leighton. “And tonight’s presentations have been particularly interesting.” He addressed Mr Torvald. “What a happy chance that our esteemed speaker has discovered a fine new variety of orchid nearly on the viscount’s doorstep!”

With this remark Isolde took the opportunity to introduce the two men, thinking that allowing the botanist to open his mouth in present company could only improve matters for Lord Leighton.

“Ah ... yes,” managed Mr Torvald. “Your lordship.”

The marquess merely bowed at the smallest possible angle. There was something odd between the two men, thought Isa suddenly. As if they had met each other before.

“I’m sure Cornwall has the finest wildflowers in
all
of England,” she remarked brightly.

“And no doubt Lord Davies would be only too happy to allow you free access to his holdings—for scientifical purposes, of course.”

What
was happening here? The marquess’s words—with that slight emphasis on ‘scientifical’—held a badly disguised note of contempt.

He knows, thought Isa. But how does he know?

The tension between the two men was now unmistakable and Mr Torvald, poor man, had gone red in the face. Talfryn was clearly torn between his antipathy for Lord Leighton and his growing suspicions of the botanist.

Carys stepped in. “I’m sure,” she said, “that we would all—”

But Mr Torvald had decided to be offended. Isa thought this was a poor tactic on his part but, admittedly, perhaps the only one he had left.

“Are you suggesting, your lordship,” he began, “that my interest in the southwest regions of England have any other reason than—”

“I am suggesting,” said the marquess blandly, conversationally, “that your
interests
, as you call them, may have other interests hiding behind them.”

“Well I do say!”

Talfryn stepped in. “Lord Leighton,” he said calmly, “perhaps we could continue this discussion at some other time. My sisters have no inclination to hear gentleman in dispute.”

The marquess nodded in agreement, and stepped back, but Mr Torvald had now worked himself up to an indignant sputter. “Hiding!” he burst out.

Heads turned in their direction, which was of no import to a viscount or marquess, but such notice was never good for young, unmarried ladies. Isa held her breath, aware that matters had gone beyond the harmless entertainment that she had expected. Dear heavens, she thought, if Carys gets dragged into this—

Mr Torvald continued sputtering. “I will have you know,” he said, “that my work is above reproach, and is greatly appreciated by men of learning! If you and your sisters cannot—”

“Torvald,” said Talfryn, “leave now and leave with a smile on your face, or I will call you out.”

The botanist stopped, but looked for a moment as if he were inclined to argue.

“I will second Lord Davies,” said the marquess.

Mr Torvald left.

* * * *

Gods, what a muddle.

“And he wasn’t even good at it!” Carys exclaimed to Isa, when they were finally alone, slowly climbing the front staircase to their bedroom.

“At what?”

“Finding a sponsor, or ingratiating himself—or whatever he was trying to do.”

They reached the bedroom. Isolde kicked off her shoes and sank back onto her bed. “Ah, Mr Torvald. No, he was rather pathetic.”

“You really should take off that gown. Sally will have to spend hours with the iron.”

“Stickler.” But Isolde got up and began undressing.

“I should have known better than to go back—”

“I told you.”

“—but I thought, well, the poor man is only trying to further his studies, and it’s perfectly
natural
that he might want someone to provide funds—”

“—or a comfortable pied-à-terre? I really did tell you.”

“—and I could have forgiven his original ... lack of frankness on the matter—”

“His lies, do you mean?”

“—but if I’m to be sought out only for my connections,” said Carys, “why could it not be a handsome and charming ne’er do well? It’s ... infuriating!”

“I shouldn’t waste much time on a botanist.”

“I thought Talfryn would hit him.”

“Oh, not Tal, I think,” said Isa. “But the marquess might have.”

“At least that will be the end of it.”

Meaning the suggestion that Carys develop an association with Mr Torvald. Their brother had said very little in the carriage, and when they arrived home he repaired immediately to his bedroom to see Lady Reggie and Taliesin. But the twins knew that Lord Davies had been angered by the insincerity of the man’s approach, and the implied slight to his sister.

If Mr Torvald had merely asked Tal directly, she thought, he could be at Pencarrow this very moment, drinking our brandy and searching out all the green-winged orchids he liked.

Isolde looked like the cat who’d finished the cream. She was rummaging once again through Cary’s writing stand.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the marriage list. I want to cross something off.”

“Funny.” But something had just occurred to Carys. “How odd that Lord Leighton was at the meeting as well,” she said, watching Isa carefully.

Her sister’s expression told her everything. “Oh! You didn’t!” exclaimed Carys.

“I did. Lord Harcourt was most obliging to pass along my message.”

“But—”

“And I’m sorry that the situation nearly got out of hand, but really, why should one waste one’s time?”

“You would have been very sorry if Talfryn had really called him out.”

“Sorry for Mr Torvald, perhaps.”

Their brother was an excellent shot.

“True. Did you think something odd between them?”

“The marquess and Mr Torvald, you mean.”

“Yes. ‘Twas as if they knew each other.”

Isolde nodded. “I thought so as well.” She shrugged. “So—what did you and Lord Leighton talk about?”

Carys and the marquess had enjoyed a few moments of relative privacy during the second interval; Isolde had accompanied them to the buffet table to misdirect the viscount, and had then gone off in search of the facilities.

“Our ride tomorrow.”

“Ah, of course! I’d forgotten. Will you once again be the best-mounted couple in all of Hyde Park?”

“We are thinking,” said Carys, with a sidelong glance, “of visiting Richmond Park instead.”

Jonathan Torvald. Gods, he never expected to have any dealings with
that
individual again.

At first glance the marquess hadn’t placed the man. And then he remembered.

Lord Davies and Mr Torvald had not, in fact, been formally introduced, but they had met on one previous occasion, an unpleasant incident at a musicale several years ago, which had involved the botanist and—heaven help them—a duke. He and Benjamin had intervened to prevent his grace from planting Torvald a facer, or insisting on pistols at dawn, neither of which would have done anyone any good. And all for the sake of some damned plant, as he now understood. Or at least the opportunity to investigate it in comfort. Mr Torvald had set his sights impossibly high with a ducal family, but the girl had been young, and naive, and—so he later heard—much impressed by the botanist’s protestations of the hard work undertaken by scientists, and the weightiness of their endeavours. He seemed to be one of those people who traded on being sober and serious and standing apart from the frivolities of the
ton
, all the while doing their best to join in.

A duke’s daughter, and now the sister of a viscount. How had Miss Davies met the man? The Royal Society, he supposed.

Anthony frowned, his memory turning to his first visit to the Society, one undertaken for the single purpose of meeting Carys Davies. Now that he thought of it—wasn’t Torvald there as well? The marquess had been late to arrive that evening, but yes—he was certain he had seen the man’s name in the list of speakers. If he had not been so focused on meeting the young woman from his morning escapade he might have paid more attention.

So Torvald was up to his usual tricks. ‘Twas unfortunate in that sense that the scandal involving the duke’s daughter had been so well hushed-up, otherwise Lord Davies would surely have forbidden the acquaintance. On the other hand, after this evening’s incident at the Society, the viscount and his family surely understood Jonathan Torvald’s true nature.

The marquess was unaware, of course, that Carys had understood, and dismissed, the botanist’s interest long since. And that when scandal truly threatened Miss Davies, ‘twould be from a different and entirely unexpected source.

She had purchased a new riding habit for the occasion. Carys was normally a frugal young lady, happy when others might not be to wear last season’s gown, but for some reason, and for this outing, she wanted to look her best.

Which she did; Isolde had declared it so, and Carys felt confident enough to agree. The habit was constructed of a soft, napped wool in forest green, and tailored to her body within a fraction of an inch. The waist was nipped in smartly; Carys enjoyed the current fashion for high waists, and the feel of silk swirling around one’s ankles during a waltz, but ‘twould never suit for a riding habit.

Besides, there was much to be said for a dress that displayed one’s curves.

And, on this occasion as upon the last, she rode astride. Carys had considered returning to the sidesaddle—a proper young lady out for a ride with a proper young man—but Richmond Park beckoned, and Richmond Park was several times the size of Hyde. A gallop would be just the thing. So her skirts were doubled, as before, with a panel sewn in front to disguise the method. The marquess noticed nothing at first, and only winked when he realized that she would ride as he did.

‘A much more sensible arrangement’ was his only comment.

“I should say so. If ‘twas the other way around, the gentlemen would copy the ladies.”

“No doubt. But I believe the combination of sidesaddle and trousers might appear rather foolish.”

“It might be used as penance.”

“For what transgression?”

“For the sin of relegating young women to the employment of a ridiculous seat. If men had to ride such, I believe ‘twould not be more than a week before every sidesaddle in England was disposed of once and for all.”

He chuckled. “I shall suggest it in the House of Lords. I’m sure Lord Fitzwilliam can be convinced.”

“I look forward to the announcement of the bill.”

“Ha!”

* * * *

Lord Leighton and Miss Davies had already been together for the best part of an hour, and she felt more comfortable in his company than ever before.

Or perhaps ‘comfortable’ was not quite correct. There was the ease of being with a welcome friend—and something else. Something not like friends at all. It had started before they were even in the saddle; since Richmond Park was nearly five miles from either home, they were to begin their expedition with a carriage ride. The marquess’s groom was sent ahead with Alcaeus and Tantevy, the marquess’s own stallion, and Lord Leighton himself arrived very early at Cardingham House, driving a high phaeton. His lordship handed her up into the phaeton as the back of Miss Davies’s neck prickled; Isolde had promised to keep Talfryn away, but Carys still half-expected to hear her brother’s voice from the front steps, perhaps offering some last minute objection.

His lordship’s cattle were two powerful, high-strung creatures. At first Miss Davies resisted the urge to sit close, but the phaeton seat was rather narrow, and as Lord Leighton moved his team at a brisk pace she soon found that sitting close was the best way to avoid being thrown off at the first turn.

“A fine morning,” the marquess had said.

“‘Tis. And I am glad to see that your eye has nearly healed.”

“Fortunately, yes. Imagine if
all
one’s follies came with their own advertisement.”

She did not cling to his arm, but there was a certain contact, and Carys breathed deeply, willing herself not to blush. On one occasion, as Lord Leighton expertly negotiated the London streets, crowded at even this early hour, some fool with more horse than sense crossed directly in front of them, and the marquess was obliged to pull his own animals sharply to one side. His arm had gone around her waist, then, for a few moments, and neither spoke much after that.

And now they were at the park. Carys knew that Talfryn—who had given his grudging acquiescence to the plan—assumed the groom would accompany them during the whole of the morning’s ride. She had rather assumed the same. But upon their arrival the groom jumped onto the carriage and drove it off. She had no idea where the man was going, and thought ‘twould be awkward to ask. So she and the Marquess of Clare were alone, in a place that was as close to wilderness as the confines of London allowed.

Her brother would be furious. If he ever found out.

* * * *

It was, of course, a beautiful spring day. The sky was deep blue above them, the breeze was cool and refreshing, even the birds seem to partake in the glory of riding out with a gentleman of whom one was increasingly fond.

They sing, thought Carys, as if they are in love.

And then she stopped herself. It would never do, practically speaking, to assume that one’s eggs were already in the basket. The gentleman had evinced some interest, but to what degree his affections were taken she did not know. And to call oneself in love with him! It was not to be thought of. Not yet.

Nor did she discount her brother’s concerns.

Lord Leighton is not the sensible, serious man that I believed would suit, thought Carys. Perhaps if I return to the Royal Society I might find such; they cannot all be such nodcocks as Mr Torvald.

But she could no longer pretend to find any appeal in that plan.