Amy Lake (9 page)

Lord Peter was shocked.  “I would never cry off!”

“Good.  That will spare her father the trouble of shooting you.”

* * * *

Lord Peter gradually adopted a cheerier frame of mind, influenced no doubt by the brandy he was consuming.  Talfryn did not mention the cause of his own present discomfort, but as it happened he did not need to.

“So—Reggie Knowles?” said Cranfield, turning his way with a wink.

“I beg your pardon?”

Lord Peter laughed.  “Don’t try to spin us a tale.  Everyone saw you waltz with her last night.”

“I’ve waltzed with many young women in London.”

“You have.  But did you take any of
them
out onto the Larkinton’s terrace?”

There was only one reply a gentleman could make.  “I did no such thing.”

“Oh, very well,” said Lucien, grinning. 

But Lord Peter was not finished.  “Besides,” he said, “I daresay none of the others had a brother looking to wed the Lady Celia Brompton.”

Talfryn frowned.  “The Duke of Wenrich’s daughter?”

“The very one.”

“What of it?”  But the viscount remembered hearing something, there was a story about that duke, and the East India Company—

“He hasn’t a feather to fly with,” said Lucien, taking up the story.  “For a duke, that is.  And of course Knowles is in the same boat.”

“Gods, Lucien, your metaphors are atrocious,” complained Peter.

“Well, ’tis true.  Freddie—”

“Lady Regina’s brother,” Peter reminded him, seeing Talfryn frown.

“Yes, Freddie Knowles.  At any rate, he wants Celia, and Celia’s father wants money, and the earl—”

“Freddie’s father.”

“—doesn’t have any.”

“I hardly see why any of that is my concern,” said Lord Davies, but ’twas a lie.  He saw it exactly.

* * * *

Gods, thought Lord Davies later that night, in bed and restless.  ’Tis bad enough that the viscountess is hell-bent on marrying Isolde to some poxy marquess’s son.  And now
this
—

But if he started thinking about Lady Regina he would never get to sleep.  Better to focus on the problems facing one’s own family.  Heaven knew there were enough of them.

The increasing tension between Isolde and their mother had concerned the viscount for much of the past month.  The viscountess worried about Carys, as was natural, but her insistence on a brilliant marriage for both of the twins was causing no end of trouble.

Her latest scheme was to promote a match between Isolde and Lord Adrian Cathorn.  The young man in question was unobjectionable, as far as Talfryn could judge—his conversation was not as intelligent as one might hope and his eyes did bulge, a little—but he could have been brilliant and an Adonis for all it mattered now, because the viscountess had been so ill-advised as to insist that Isolde encourage him. 

One did not pressure Isolde.  Which their mother should have known, but perhaps it was an excess of maternal worry for Carys.  And now the matter was beyond any hope. 

Marry Isolde off to someone she did not truly like?  The viscount had to smile as he imagined the wedding; he saw himself walking down the church aisle with Isa slung over his shoulder, his sister kicking and screaming at the top of her lungs.

“
I do not!
”   

Both he and Isolde had tried to reassure the viscountess on the subject of Carys’s marriage prospects, but with little success.

“She will find her own way,” said his sister.  “There will be any number to see her worth.”

“But Lord Adrian is such a pleasant young gentleman!” said the viscountess.

Isolde made a face.  “He’s a toad.”

The marquess hid a grin.

“Well, of course he’s not the most handsome of men—”

“A toad,” repeated Isa.  “And he’s
boring
.”

“—but I hardly think that signifies.  Think of the position you—”

“I’m
not
marrying Adrian Cathorn.”

“Isolde!”

“I’m
not
.”

Isa had later applied to him privately, and Talfryn—who by then was convinced that his high-spirited sister would not be happy with the marquess’s son—assured her that he would never require her to do any such thing.

“Why does she think Carys so hopeless?” asked Isa, sitting in a huge armchair with her feet tucked under her.  “She’s much nicer than I am.” 

Isolde’s loyalty to her sister was absolute. 

“I suppose because young gentlemen do not flock around her,” replied Talfryn, adding—“the way they do you.”

Isolde snorted.  “Young gentlemen are
stupid
.”

“I tend to agree.”

“I’ve tried to encourage her to talk more—you know, at parties and such—but why should she need to be someone other than who she is?”

“There is no reason,” said Talfryn.

“I’m not marrying Lord Adrian.”

“I know.”

* * * *

Lord Davies was perfectly capable of saying ‘no’ to his mother.  The supposed association between Isolde and the Marquess of Glay’s son had not progressed to any particular degree, and  could be quashed without repercussion.  A family did not stoop to protest the disappointment of a son.

But a daughter was quite a different matter.  He had not figured the Earl and Countess of Aveline into the equation; if his interest had been assumed, already, as definite, if expectations had formed—

If he made an enemy of the Knowles, then
both
his sisters would find their prospects truly and materially reduced.

So what? whispered a little voice.  You’ve thought of marrying the girl anyway.  She’s beautiful, lively, and intelligent.  Not to mention that she is now a regular inhabitant of your dreams.

True.  But he had also believed Regina Knowles to reciprocate his growing admiration, to be attracted to him in truth.  And now—  Lord Wilfred Knowles wished to pursue a duke’s daughter, a match which would be a coup indeed for the earl’s family.  What if Lady Regina’s interest had been all a sham?

Not to mention that kiss.  She’d allowed it all too willingly, hadn’t she?  The Viscount of Cardingham felt anger and suspicion stir within his heart. 

* * * *

Talfryn’s mood was not improved when, the following morning, his mother again suggested a visit to the Knowles’ townhome.

He knew the viscountess, and did not bother to make, as it were, a tangential approach.

“Why?”

His mother waved her hand in the air.  “Talfryn, don’t take that tone with me—”

“I’m taking no tone.  I am asking why you are proposing a second visit within a fortnight to a family we barely know.”

“Barely know!  I understand you have waltzed with the girl twice!”

“Perhaps twice is enough.”

The viscountess knew Lord Davies, too.  She softened her approach at once.

“Well, as you wish, of course . . .   But you must admit the girl is quite pretty, in an unusual sort of way—”

Lady Regina was pretty in all sorts of ways, but the viscount did not bother to quibble.

“—and her family could not be a better connection for your sisters.  Carys—”

“We’ve had this discussion before.  Carys has no need to marry for anything other than true affection.  She can wait for the right gentleman and she will be fine.”

“Oh,” said his mother, nodding, “I suppose she will, fading away as the spinster aunt, seeing you and Isolde married and happy, with babies to the right and left.  I imagine she will be perfectly
fine
with that.”

Lord Davies frowned, considering the point.  He had been so satisfied with the knowledge that he could always care for his mother and sisters that he had never wondered if Carys might want a family of her own.   

“But I’m sure you know what’s best,” said the viscountess, a parting shot.  She swept from the room.

Chapter 12:  The Ivory Sarcenet

I received the news that Viscount Cardingham and his family would be paying another visit to Roselay with entirely mixed feelings.  I was convinced that he was attracted to me and, impossibly, equally convinced that ’twas all a scheme.  The countess had no such quibbles, and on the day itself the house was in a lively state, with my mother once again up well before noon.

“The
best
tea service, Mrs Peaseley.”

I hid in my bedroom and drove myself mad.  I wanted to see him again.  I never wanted to see him again.  I wanted to give him a piece of my mind.

Gods.

But one must be realistic.  If I
was
going to see him, ’twas essential that I be well-dressed for the occasion.  Fortunately, Cassandra was at home that morning, and I was able, with some quick thinking, to convince the countess that a brief visit to the Barre home on Audley Square—they are fortunate in their address, being quite near both parks—was required.

“I cannot bear to have Lord Davies see me in some old gown!” I cried, coloring my voice with a tinge of the whine.  I’ve had an excellent teacher in Freddie.

“But Regina my dear, the lovely new sarcenet—”

The lovely new sarcenet was pink.

“I hate it!” I said, putting on my best attempt at a pout and stamping one foot.  “I won’t go downstairs!  I won’t!”

You would think my own mother knew me better than to believe this faradiddle.  But, no.  She was truly alarmed.

“I must go to Cassie’s!  I
must
!”

“Very well, dear, if you feel it best—”

I nearly ran. 

* * * *

It only took a few minutes of searching through Cassandra’s wardrobes to find exactly what I was looking for.

“Ah,” said Cassie, in satisfaction.  “I’d forgotten about that one.  I don’t believe I’ve ever worn it.”

The gown in question was, ironically, in sarcenet, but what a difference a few details can make!  A soft ivory in color, with tiny rosebuds embroidered in the skirt, and a bodice that—for once—fit me perfectly and without a hint of ruche.

“Oh, that’s why,” said Miss Barre.  “I remember now—’twas rather tight.”

Through the front she meant; I nodded, grateful for the seamstress’s mistake. 

“It is yours,” Cassie added.

I smiled my thanks.  “Why does my mother never suggest a dress like this?” I said, fingering the smooth fabric.

“Posh on your mother.  You’re capable of communicating with a modiste.  Why not shop for clothing on your own?”

“I could, I suppose.  I doubt my father would object.  But she buys so many gowns herself, and with Freddie’s expenses—”

“Posh on Freddie’s expenses.”

“Faulkes says that we must reduce our outlays even more than before.”

“Why is it
always
you
that must economize?”

“Because no-one else will.”

“Lud,” said Cassandra, and gave up.

I looked at myself carefully in the mirror.  The neckline was not precisely
outré
for a day-gown, but it came right to the edge of appropriate décolletage.  This fit my mood admirably. 

“I’m certainly on the edge,” I muttered to myself.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”  I was satisfied with what I saw in the mirror.  Except—

“My hair,” I said, frowning.

Miss Barre had some new ideas on the subject.  We spent some time in experiment and finally settled on gathering the heavy tresses into a soft top knot, allowing a few tendrils to escape at the side of my face.     

“Excellent,” said Cassie.  “Very sophisticated.  Now explain to me, please, why you are so determined to impress Lord Davies if you are angry with him.”

I sighed.  “I’m not sure I am.”

“Which one?”

“Angry.”

“Well, that’s a start,” said Miss Barre. 

We were both sitting on the floor at the side of her bed; perhaps not the best choice for a new gown but the Barre home was impeccably clean.  I ran my fingers across the thick carpet and thought about what I really felt.  Or did not.  

“It’s different for you,” I told Miss Barre.  “You’ve always had Lord Jeremy.” 

“Yes,” said Cassandra.  “I have.  But I believe you would never be happy with my arrangement.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.  It just isn’t you.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Your mother wants to make you into the common society miss.  Haven’t you ever wondered why she has such trouble?”

“Well, there is the ruching.  And the bows.  And those horrible pink gowns—”

“Aside from the pink gowns.  I think there is something inside you,” said Cassandra, “that longs for adventure.”

I laughed at her.  “Gods forbid,” I said.  And yes, I’m perfectly aware—in retrospect—of the irony.

* * * *

I stayed for morning tea, putting off my return to Roselay until the last minute.  Tea is always lovely at the Barre home, bread with warmed butter and jam, biscuits and scones, accompanied by whatever fruit might be in season, and I ate thankfully, knowing that the countess would insist I have nothing later.

“Gentlemen,” says my mother, “do not wish to see a woman eat.” 

It was then that Cassie remembered to tell me about something she had learned from Sir Reginald.

“Oh!” said Miss Barre.  “You will never believe what my father says.  He has connections in the City, you know—”

I did.  Cassandra’s father made no pretensions to being a member of the higher reaches of the aristocracy, and happily went about occupying himself, discretely, with the more gentile aspects of trade.  He had made a substantial amount of money in the process, something he did not advertise, but which everyone knew.

“—and he mentioned, just this morning, that a Mr Richard Avendale is in search of a hunting lodge to purchase.  In Northumberland!”

“Indeed?”  I guessed the direction of her thoughts.  “Why Northumberland?”

“I’ve no idea, but I do know that he insists most particularly on a construction with some pedigree.”

A home that had once been owned by a member of the aristocracy, in other words.

“My father happened to tell him, only in passing you know, that
your
father owns a magnificent lodge.  Three Stags isn’t part of the entail, is it?”

“I’m almost certain it is not.”  I frowned, thinking that I would not have described the place as ‘magnificent’.  I also wondered what more Sir Reginald had said to this Mr Avendale.  Had he suggested Three Stags as a scheme to help my family?  ’Twas rather lowering.