Amy Lake (13 page)

“Of course, Lord Davies!” said my father.  “Whom did you expect?  Ha ha!”

“He’s asked to marry me.”  Dully.

The smile vanished.  “Don’t cut up missish on me now, girl,” said the earl.  “The whole is settled.  Your mother will be asking for you to attend her the minute she awakes, and you have a wedding to plan in three weeks’ time.”

“Three weeks—”

My father waved me away.  “Go away, Regina,” he said.  “There is nothing further to discuss.”

* * * *

It was just noon, so with any luck the countess would not awaken for another hour.  I retreated to my bedroom and sat in a heap on the floor, ignoring the skirt crumpled beneath me and thinking furiously.

Three weeks!

Why had Lord Davies consented to this?  He had something to gain from the marriage, of course; the connection with an earl’s family.  Was that enough to overcome what had been said between us?  Perhaps he was not so displeased with me, despite what it had seemed at Lady Brougham’s
musicale
.

Just marry him, I told myself.  Just agree.  ’Twill be the easiest thing in the world, and afterwards you can spend whatever time it takes to recover his . . . esteem.  I imagined many kisses such as we had already shared, and other intimacies that I barely knew of.  ’Twould be wonderful, I was certain of it.  I had heard from Lady Tremayne—via Amelia Hingham, who told all of us in a hushed voice interrupted by fits of giggles—something of the marital relationship, and although a few of the particulars struck me as slightly odd, I was curious and willing to try.

I had half convinced myself, but a little voice continued to whisper the depressing facts into my ear.

The look in his eyes.

The Duke of Wenrich should find himself well-satisfied with
my
money.

An unwilling partner in life.  A house built on sand.  Some women would not care much, as long as there were new gowns to purchase and balls to attend.  I knew many such in the
ton
, I knew their reasons, and I did not always fault them.

But I also knew myself, and I could not bear such a marriage.  Not with him.

* * * *

I think I remained on the floor for some time, my thoughts scattering as I watched the sky shade to a sooty purple, nearly dark as only London can get in the middle of the day.  There would be a thunderstorm soon, I decided, and just then heard a distant rumble. 

Perhaps there would be hail, and someone should cover the roses.

Mrs Peaseley would see to it.  She always did.

I wondered if ’twas easier to be a gentleman than a lady.  We had fewer choices in life, to be sure.  A young man might buy a commission, or travel abroad, or choose to rusticate for years.  And if he returned to town at age twenty-five—or even older!—no-one would think him a whit less marriageable.

’Twas most unfair.

And a gentleman could ask a young lady for her hand.  He could ask her politely, and as if he really wished it, and—and as if he cared for her.

Not as Lord Davies had done, with the thing left to the tender graces of my father. 

But when I tried to imagine the scene that I claimed to wish for—the viscount on one knee, proposing that we spend our life together—all I could see was his irritation, and cold words. 

Several days ago your father approached me—
   

’Twas a business transaction, then, no more.  I was a piece of unfinished business that he could strike from his list, the day’s tasks one step closer to accomplished. 

Marry an earl’s daughter—done.

The scene in my mind changed.  Lord Davies rose from his knees and extended his hand.  I stood up in my turn.

No, I told him.  You cannot have me on those terms.

I imagined the shock on his face, his anger at being refused.

Or would I see only relief?

And yet—

The earl and countess could not, in these modern days, force me to marry, but the cost of openly defying them would be high.  I could not predict what might happen, every ramification of refusing the viscount.  Would my father truly throw me from the house?  I did not believe so, as ’twould be a scandal, but there were other options open to him.  He might send me away, out of London—

Who will pay the bills at Roselay? I wondered.  Where will the money come from, to pay any bills at all?

—perhaps insisting that I spend the next several years at, say, Three Stags.  I tried to imagine this, having been only once or twice to Northumberland.  The lodge was rather modest, and cold, and the fireplaces did not draft well.  My clothes would smell of smoke within the week.  Freddie might spend a few weeks from time to time, and Cassandra’s parents might allow her a visit as well, but otherwise I would be alone with the servants and my lady’s maid. 

Primrose would be no end of annoyed.

* * * *

I can dither with the best of them, but once decided on a course of action I am quick.  I sat at my writing table and dashed off a quick note to Miss Barre, saying only to expect me within the hour.  I called for a footman and sent it off immediately, hoping that Cassie would be at home, and that the countess would not call for me before I could have the smaller carriage brought around.

Chapter 20: Perry Leaves for Bath

I half-expected Cassie to be horrified with my plan, and to try and talk me out of it.  Perhaps I was even hoping she would.

She was, instead, thoughtful.

“Mmm,” said Cassandra, after several minutes.  We were both leaning on the sill of her bedroom window, watching the flash of lightning in the distance.  The streets were nearly deserted with the heavy rain.

“Mmm?”

“If you feel you must leave London—”

“I do!”

“—why not go to Belvoir?”

Belvoir Manor, as I have said, was the country estate of the Earls of Aveline, near Penrith in Cumbria.  It was so far removed from town, so rusticated in fact, that the family rarely visited.  Freddie and I had been to Belvoir as children, on occasion.  The countess hated the place.

“Cumbria seems so far away,” I said, considering.  “I . . . don’t know.  What would I do there?”   

“What will you do in Bath?”

“I’ll become a governess,” I told her.  “I’ll take in sewing.” 

“Ha. I’m glad you have not lost all sense of humour.”

“It is no help,” I grumbled.  Bath was some hundred miles away, and Cumbria more than twice that.  A long way from Lord Davies—

“I’d feel better about this plan,” added Cassie, “if I was certain your Aunt Sophie still resides there.  What if you arrive and cannot find her?”

That was my concern, as well.  Or one of them.  “I could write a letter.”  But my recollection of Aunt Sophie’s direction was vague.  “I think she lives—yes, now I remember.  Sydney Place.  Although the number—”

“The number won’t matter.  We’ll send the letter with Perry.  If she’s there, he will find her, and can give you a better idea of her living arrangements.”

“Send your groomsman all the way to Bath?  ’Twill take days.”

“A few days, to be sure.  Perry won’t mind.  My mother has him cleaning the kitchen grates.”

* * * *

As Miss Barre organized paper and pen, I began to wonder what was happening at Roselay.  By that point the countess was probably awake, and if she had asked for me, and if my father knew that I was gone, there would be a dreadful row when I returned.

So I did not.  Cassandra wrote my parents a long note explaining that I was suffering from the headache and was lying down in a darkened room and could hardly move for the pain.  Since the countess was known to disappear for days at a time with this exact excuse—no-one was to bother her, no-one!—there was little they could say.  For the moment.

With Cassie’s help I then managed a letter to Aunt Sophie.  I inquired as to her health, begged her pardon for not having written more recently, and requested her kind permission for a visit.  After so many years it seemed inadequate.

“Lud.  What will she think of me?”

“You’re her niece.  She can hardly say no.  Besides, you wrote her before.  ’Tis not your fault if she did not reply.”

Perry left with my note that afternoon; ’twas nearly midsummer, and there would be light for hours.  When we had seen him off, Miss Barre and I applied ourselves to a rather more difficult task; the letter to my parents, explaining my whereabouts.  It could not be sent, of course, until I was gone.  

Chapter 21:  The Viscount and the Earl

Talfryn Davies was at White’s, getting quietly and miserably drunk.  His friends were at first amused, then perplexed and finally alarmed; this was not like the viscount.

Peter Wilmott and Lucien knew of the impending nuptials, of course.  It would have been impossible to have kept the news from Lord Peter in any event; the man seemed to have extraordinary sources for society gossip.  Lord Davies had tried to respond in the expected manner to their teasing and cajolery at the start of the evening, but gave up early and sat back with his brandy and a dark expression.

“Whatever are we going to do with him?” asked Lucien.

“No idea,” said Peter.  “I’d say a visit to Mrs Beaufield’s—”

Talfryn shot him a glare.

“—but then again, perhaps not.”

“In his current state the experience might not be satisfactory.”

“Indeed.”

“I do not,” said the viscount, slowly and carefully, “patronize Mrs Beaufield.”

“We know, old man, but
something
must be done.”

Had it really been less than forty-eight hours since he had spoken with the Earl of Aveline?  Talfryn had regretted the entire approach after only two minutes closeted with the man, who struck him as heartless and nearly cruel in his lack of consideration for his own daughter. 

No, Lady Regina would not be asked to join their conversation.  No, she would not be consulted on the date of the wedding.  The viscount was to have no worries on that account; our dear Regina would accept his proposal or—and here the earl laughed, as if ’twas all a jest—she could find herself another home.

A dreadful man, thought Lord Davies, whose own father now seemed almost amiable in comparison.  He wished that he had spoken to Lady Regina first, and alone; the earl would have permitted this, he was quite sure.  Lord Knowles wanted his money badly enough to give Talfryn a loose rein.

But what could he have said to her?  The viscount was still piqued with the earl’s daughter, who had implied that he was using her to further his own family’s ambitions, as if they were mushrooms of the worst sort.  But he admitted to himself, reluctantly, that his own words had been just as bad.  He had accused her of wanting only his fortune—

You blame her for no more than what everyone else does in London, Lord Davies reminded himself.  And yet, perhaps that was the problem.  He did not want to believe Lady Regina was like everyone else.

A memory of their last waltz together surfaced through the brandy.  Talfryn was once again in the Larkinton ballroom, and the woman in his arms was the woman he wished to see at his side, every morning and every night, for the remainder of his life. 

He was quite certain of it, the gods help him.

“Tals, you’re slipping,” said Lucien, and Lord Davies realized that he had sunk even deeper into one of White’s capacious armchairs.

“That man is a villain,” said the viscount.

“Ah,” said Lord Peter.  “Might one be speaking of the charming Lord Knowles?”

“Said he’d hit her.”

Lucien and Peter exchanged a glance.

“I’ll kill him if he touches her.”

This time the glance was accompanied by a deep sigh from Lucien.  “All right,” he said.  “I believe you’ve had enough.”  He reached for Talfryn’s glass but Lord Davies held it away from him.

“Just one more.”

The viscount did not overstate the matter, as his last words with Lord Knowles had been truly disturbing.

“Ha ha,” said the Earl of Aveline, showing Lord Davies from his study.  “I’ll have the girl dressed and ready at your convenience, or she’ll know my fist!  Ha ha.”

By the gods, thought Talfryn.  I’ll see you first in hell.

Chapter 22:  The Earl

No-one ever described Lord Knowles as pleasant company.  Still, the viscount had not realized that, at least in part, the earl spoke harshly because he was nervous.  Lady Regina’s father had a longer experience of the
haut ton
than Lord Davies, and was accustomed to speaking with gentlemen of his own manner and opinion, individuals who knew they were always in the right and took whatever steps were needed to ensure it.  But he also had more knowledge of his daughter, and was well acquainted with her stubborn nature.

He could not be certain what she might do.

It did not occur to Lord Knowles to blame his son for any part of the situation.  Freddie wanted a duke’s daughter, which was as it should be.  A future Earl of Aveline deserved no less, and what did it matter to Regina?  She would be rich.

The earl’s bluster was thus a screen for his true feelings, which were both panic—due to approaching financial disaster—and rage, the latter toward Lady Regina, who might yet bring all to naught.

Chapter 23:  Aunt Sophie’s Reply

With the pretext of a sick headache, Miss Barre and I were able to put off the earl and countess long enough for Perry to return from Bath.  You might think that three days of a daughter so unwell as to be unable to travel one mile in a carriage would have caused my parents concern, but other young ladies took the megrim quite often; my supposed illness was almost a comfort, I believe, the first sign to them that I might be the more usual sort of girl.

The countess sent one brief note encouraging me to return as soon as I could, that there was much to prepare.  Perhaps she was occupied in ordering my gown for the wedding.  Perhaps it would be pink.

The earl sent nothing.

So my own mother and father caused no difficulty.  Sir Reginald and Lady Cynthia, on the other hand, were anxious and full of attempts to comfort.  They fluttered about sending up tisanes and cool draughts and soothing compresses for my forehead until I felt quite guilty; after the first day Cassandra and I gave up the show and told her parents I was feeling much better, but that an early return to Roselay might bring back the headache.  This scheme, which was only half a lie, worked perfectly.  Cassie’s mother did not much like the Countess of Aveline and was pleased to allow me to, as she said, ‘hide out’ for as long as I wished.