The Primrose Path (14 page)

There’d also be the devil to pay if Lena got to Mercedes Lavalier before he could. Corin urged his gelding into a quicker pace.

What was he thinking to plunk the worldly courtesan into the midst of such innocence? He was thinking of himself, that’s what. She’d be safer at the castle, especially with the dunderheads from the army guarding her, even if his own reputation would suffer. His sister wouldn’t come to Kent if Mercedes was there, which was a mixed blessing. And an alliance with Melissa Wyte would be out of the question, of course. That was what he should have done, however, brought Mercedes to the Knoll, let the scandalmongers have a feast—and left Miss Angelina Armstead to her unsullied solitude.

But then he’d have no excuse to go visit Primrose Cottage except for Homer. Well, he decided, what was done was done, and now he had to make the best of it. He’d take Mercedes aside, explain about the name change, about all the government people coming from London to speak with her, and about her hostess’s different set of moral standards. Then he’d pray she wouldn’t mention their former liaison. He’d also pray that one of the men coming to the house party was wealthy, witty, and wicked enough to take Mercedes Lavalier away with him when he left.

* * * *

So Lord Knowle didn’t know Mademoiselle Lavalier so well after all, Angelina concluded when Penn informed her of his lordship’s arrival at Primrose Cottage before eleven in the morning. Anyone truly familiar with the Frenchwoman would know to visit in the afternoon, when Mercedes would appear, most likely as fresh as a rosebud with dew still on it. Instead the viscount would have to make do with Angelina in her old black, dog-washing bombazine, with her eyes still puffy and shadowed from lack of sleep. So what if she looked like a hag? she asked herself. He hadn’t come to see her anyway, Knolly hadn’t.

She took her time about dismissing the children while he waited in the parlor. Then she decided she really could not face such a handsome, polished gentleman looking like something from the coal scuttle.

In her new pink dimity, Angelina was satisfied she was looking her best, even with little sleep. She was also satisfied that his lordship hardly knew Mercedes at all when he stated the reason for his call: “I thought I would walk you ladies down to the gatehouse to meet Sergeant Fredricks and his men. They should be able to recognize whom they’re defending, while you should be able to identify the soldiers from the skulkers. If there should be skulkers, which I doubt.”

“And I doubt you’ll be able to entice Mercedes out into the sunshine.”

If Corin was bothered by Angelina’s use of the Frenchwoman’s real name, he didn’t mention it. “What, is she that fearful? I’ll drive both of you myself and call out half my stable men to ride alongside. I doubt any highwayman is lurking in the gardens between here and the gatehouse.”

“It’s not the dangers of the road that Mercedes fears; it’s the dangers of the air, the sun, and the wind. The out of doors is not good for one’s complexion,
comprendez vous
?”

Corin understood. He grinned and said, “I prefer women with some life to them. A sprinkle of freckles is like a dash of salt on eggs; it adds a bit of flavor.”

Angelina wasn’t certain if she’d been complimented or likened to breakfast, but to a female unused to flattery, Lord Knowle’s words were sweet indeed. Especially since that woman was sporting her usual springtime splash of sun spots across her cheeks. The viscount was forgiven a multitude of sins, even more when he let one of the Yorkshires jump into his lap.

“So what else did you and, ah, Maria talk about when she arrived? You two couldn’t have had time for a lengthy conversation, could you?”

Angelina smiled. Sometimes this infuriating man was as deep and dark as a bottomless well. Other times he was as transparent as a pane of glass. “If you are worried that your name was mentioned, my lord, rest assured that Mercedes thinks very highly of you.”

Corin mistrusted Lena’s smile, as rare as it was. The plaguey chit only laughed at his expense, usually. Trust Mercedes to say the first thing to enter her mind, and trust that to be the last thing he wanted her to say.

It was actually a lovely smile, though, Corin thought, transforming a passable female into a beauty. Not a beauty like La Lavalier’s seductive appeal, nor yet the porcelain perfection of Miss Wyte, Lena had a quieter kind of beauty, mixed of sunshine and sweetness. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let that innocent quality get lost.

“Surely you found other topics of more interest.”

Angelina couldn’t think of a single one, with him staring at her so. “We spoke of this and that. You know, war and traitors and assassins.”

He stood so abruptly Lacy tumbled to the ground. The little dog turned to attack his boots, growling at the insult, but Corin picked her up and absently stroked the tiny terrier into forgiveness. The viscount did seem to have a way with females, Angelina noted. But he wasn’t getting around her so easily. “It seems,” she said, “that you neglected to mention precisely how much the French were irritated with Mercedes, among a few other things you forgot to tell me when we discussed her staying here. Things like how Miss Lavalier believes we lesser folks are placed in her path to smooth her way.”

Waving her indignation aside, Corin said, “Yes, yes, Mercedes can be demanding, but what did she tell you? Does she know who is after her? Did anyone follow her here? Did she tell everyone she met along the way that she was L’Ecrivain?”

“The writer? Who is that?”

“Oh, lud. Forget I ever mentioned it. Please, Lena, for your own safety.”

“Then there really is that much danger?”

“I won’t know till I speak to Mercedes. I have the soldiers on duty, and I’ll have my own people keeping an eye out for strangers, too. Perhaps it is best if Mercedes doesn’t go out of the house yet, her complexion bedamned.”

“I don’t think you have to worry. Mademoiselle has a busy schedule of resting, reading, practicing, and writing her autobiography.”

“Damn, if word gets out that Mercedes Lavalier is writing her memoirs, naming her past liaisons, her life really will be in danger. Deuce take it, Lena—Miss Armstead, I am sorry I foisted Mercedes onto you without giving you all the particulars. I do know that Mercedes can be difficult. But I had no choice. You’d never have taken her in, else.”

“I don’t find her difficult at all. In fact, I think Mercedes is quite charming,” Angelina said, and meant it. “She must be the bravest woman I have ever met, so it is a privilege to have her as my guest.”

“I hope you feel that way when she starts having gentlemen callers. No, not that kind of caller. These are government types who need to hear her latest reports, but still another imposition. I sent a message to my sister, so she’ll be arriving shortly with some of her cronies to start planning various entertainments. I’ll arrange to have Mercedes invited up to the castle to dance. That way she can mingle with the guests with less suspicion. The sooner she speaks to every minister and cabinet member, the sooner she will leave.” He put the dog down, gently. “Meanwhile I’ll send Sergeant Fredricks to meet you both so you won’t be frightened when you see him on the grounds.”

“The dogs don’t like strangers on the grounds, you know.”

They didn’t like Fredricks, either. The dogs never settled down after his arrival, never ceased barking or growling or walking stiff-legged, heads down, ears back, tails tucked. They were acting so threateningly, Angelina believed, because the soldier kept shouting at them to stop. Lady Sophie’s dogs were not used to being shouted at. They didn’t understand “Stubble it.”

And Angelina couldn’t understand how the man could be impervious to Mademoiselle Lavalier’s charms. Even in all her new finery, Angelina knew she looked the drab companion next to Mercedes, so she hadn’t expected the soldier to do more than acknowledge her presence. He hadn’t, but neither had he smiled when the Frenchwoman thanked him so prettily for taking care of her.

Mercedes shrugged when Angelina asked about it, after Fredricks left. “The man is a swine,
enfin
. A man who does not like dogs is one thing.” She gave a Gallic shrug. “And a man who does not like women is another. Unfortunate, but it happens. Ah, but a man who hates women and dogs, this man is no good,
mon ange
. No matter, we don’t need the pig. We have all your precious doggies, no?”

Yes. They even had Homer, who decided that the white poodle bitch at Primrose Cottage was a lot more interesting than anything Lord Knowle had to offer at Knowle Castle. Less than forty minutes after the viscount dragged him off by his collar, Homer returned to the cottage, sans collar.

Mercedes was reassured, Angelina was amused, the viscount was aggravated, and Juliette was ... in love.

Chapter Sixteen

Sometimes Angelina felt that she could teach Ajax to fly sooner than she could teach the estate children their letters. This morning she had the youngest students, since the older boys and girls were helping their parents in the fields instead of helping Miss Armstead keep their younger siblings quiet and attentive. The children were too excited to learn anything today, having seen Juliette and Homer, one of the few unneutered male dogs, playing leapfrog. Since the creation of puppies was not on Angelina’s agenda or in her curriculum, she was not well pleased. A bucket of water had dampened Homer’s ardor, and a severe lecture to Mademoiselle Lavalier’s maid—half of which the Frenchwoman could not have understood—saw Juliette firmly confined to the master suite.

With all the noise, it was a wonder Mercedes still slept, but she’d stayed up half the night, it seemed, drilling Angelina in pianoforte fingerings while she stretched and turned. When Angelina finally pleaded exhaustion, Mercedes declared she was now ready to begin her writing—after she slathered crushed strawberries on Angelina’s cheeks.

Mercedes slept, and Angelina had the headache. She’d never be competent enough on the pianoforte to accompany a dancer of Mercedes’s stature, and she’d never sleep if she had to worry about staining the sheets all night. Or about his lordship and his former paramour sharing theirs.

When the viscount and Mr. Browne had come by after dinner the previous evening, Angelina had been curious to see that Mr. Browne was still mostly interested in the dogs. How could he look at Mercedes Lavalier in her crimson gown of sheerest muslin with every nuance of her perfect figure perfectly delineated, and not fall
bouleverse
at her feet? Her painted-toenail feet, besides. The viscount couldn’t. While the architect and Angelina discussed the day’s progress at the work site over tea, Lord Knowle and Mercedes sat apart, with him hanging on her every word. While Averill Browne played with the dogs, Lord Knowle played with Mademoiselle Lavalier’s fan. Angelina was tempted to fetch another bucket of water. Government business never looked so amorous before.

No wonder she had the megrims today.

About mid-morning, and long past her tolerance with the rambunctious children, Angelina was surprised to see a woman enter the makeshift schoolroom.

The stranger bobbed a curtsy. “I was waiting in the hallway, but I heard the children so I followed the noise here. My name is Elizabeth Gibb. May I?” She gestured toward an empty bench and Angelina nodded, studying her intently.

Could it be? Elizabeth was blond and blue-eyed, with a touch of green in her eyes that matched Angelina’s own. She looked to be about Angelina’s age, although it was hard to tell, she was so careworn and thin. Her clothes were poorly made of inferior goods, but Miss Gibb carried herself well and spoke like a lady. Could this one finally be Philomena?

Angelina tried not to get her hopes up; she’d been disappointed too often. So she just watched in amazement as Miss Elizabeth Gibb scooped up little Harry Elkins, a hell-born brat if there ever was one, onto her lap and proceeded to sing a rhyming song about letters and words. The children quickly joined in, making the right responses, laughing, listening, and actually learning something! Miss Gibb had received all the patience in the family if they were, indeed, related.

“My goodness, Miss Gibb, you surely have a knack for that,” Angelina congratulated the other woman after the children were dismissed.

“I’ve had a great deal of practice,” Elizabeth said, letting Ajax rest his head in her lap. “And I like children. And dogs,” she added hurriedly, when three others entered the room.

So they had something in common. Not much else, it turned out. Miss Gibb had been adopted when she was three or four, as Angelina’s advertisement had mentioned, but she recalled her own parents perishing in a fire, “My sister must have died then, too,” she sadly acknowledged. “The names Armstead and Kirkbridge meant nothing to me, but I called my sister Angie.”

“No one ever called me that, I’m afraid. Angel or Lena, but never Angie.”

“I... I had to try.”

“Yes, of course, I’m glad you did. Were you—That is, I know it is none of my affair, but were you adopted by a nice family?” Angelina had to know, as if she could somehow divine her own sister’s past from this young woman’s.

“The Gibbs were decent people, a wine merchant and his wife, with a houseful of boys. Mrs. Gibb took me in because she wanted a daughter to help keep house, I think. She did let me study with the boys’ tutors, however, so I was able to find a position as a governess, after.”

“After the Gibbs died?”.

Elizabeth rubbed her worn gloves on the planked bench. “After one of my ‘brothers’ attacked me in my bedroom.”

Angelina gasped. “Oh, no! How terrible! I hope the dastard went to prison!”

“He went off to sea, a naval hero,” Elizabeth answered bitterly. “I was sent into service so no one had to be reminded of my shame.”

“Your shame? That’s ridiculous. What did you do wrong that anyone should be ashamed of you?”

“I was born a woman in this day and age, that’s what. They said I must have tempted him, I must have led him to believe I was willing. I wasn’t, I swear.”

“Your own brother? Of course not!”

Elizabeth smiled slightly at her hostess’s indignation. “Oh, how I wish you were my sister. Miss Armstead. There was a child, you see, a girl.”