Barbara Metzger (21 page)

At Stanford House the ladies were taking tea. Wynn joined them as soon as he'd conversed with Stubbing and checked the post. His eyes went immediately to Rosellen when he entered the drawing room, to make sure she looked rested, he told himself. She did, with an attractive blush to her cheeks that he did not think came from the paint pot.

"My groom Roger has returned from Worthing,” he told her while his mother and Hume discussed the day's politics and his sister was regaling Stubbing with the story of the opera they were to see that evening.

Rosellen leaned forward. “Did he find Fanny? Did he bring her back with him? What did she say about the money?"

Wynn smiled at her eagerness. The animation lent a sparkle of little golden flecks to her eyes. She'd do, he thought, when the ton got a good look at her. “He found your friend,” he told her, sorry he did not have better news to keep her smiling, “but he did not get to speak with her. She is ill, at an aunt's house about ten miles outside of Worthing. That's why no one in the town knew her whereabouts."

"And she was too ill to speak to Roger? Oh, never say poor Fanny caught the influenza after everyone else recovered!"

"No, she developed a congestion of the lungs after taking a tumble into the stream on her way from the school. Her aunt is confident she will recover."

"She fell into the water?"

"According to the aunt, your Fanny did catch some of your, ah, imagination. The girl was babbling about someone pushing her. Who would try to harm a little maid on her way home from work?"

Rosellen thought a minute. “Was she wearing my red cloak?"

"I have no idea, but what you are suggesting is preposterous. The girl most likely did not want to be thought clumsy for slipping on the bank or some such. At any rate, she had no money on her when the family finally got her home. The aunt would have found it."

"I never expected Fanny to have the money. She is not a thief, I told you that. But will she be all right?"

"Yes, and Roger is to take back a message, telling her that I shall send a carriage for her as soon as she feels able to travel to London. I thought you might wish to have a familiar face around you, and she seems to be out of a position. Meanwhile, since there is nothing to be done about the, ah, missing purse, you can devote your energies to enjoying yourself for a change. Are you very disappointed?"

"That I can go to the opera and the museums and the park? Or that I shall have to apologize all over again, my lord, for thinking the worst of you?"

If ever a man existed who had every right to be puffed up with his own conceit, Rosellen thought, it was Wynn in evening clothes. She had never seen him dressed formally before, in a midnight coat and white satin knee breeches, and the sight quite took her appetite away, despite the dishes he kept pressing on her at the dinner table.

The viscount was magnificent from his wavy dark hair to the gold buckles on his shoes. Compared to his elegance, Rosellen felt like a milkmaid. She was wearing another of Susan's made-over gowns, this one an ivory satin with a blond lace over-skirt, and knew she'd never been dressed better. She also knew she looked shabby and shopworn compared to her benefactor. Rosellen had begun referring to Wynn as such in her mind, for he was neither friend nor relative, employer nor guardian. Whereas she used to think of him as a sneering, self-important villain straight out of one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, the viscount had done her more good than anyone else in her recent past.

And she still could not figure out why. She was nothing to him, and nothing compared to him or the women he usually associated with. The difference in their stations was as obvious as the difference between the diamond in his cravat and the circlet of rosebuds in her hair. Rosellen's thoughts tied knots in her stomach.

So bemused was she that, besides not doing justice to the sumptuous meal, she was not paying attention to the conversation around her. They were dining
en famille
again, since Rosellen, Stubbing, and Lord Hume were considered part of the household, it seemed. The older gentleman would stay on, keeping Lady Stanford company over a deck of cards, while the younger people attended the opera. They had been bickering good-naturedly about the stakes. Hume did not believe in taking substantial monies from females; Lady Stanford did not believe she would lose.

Rosellen stopped her woolgathering to listen when the viscount announced the receipt of a letter from Cousin Lenore and the solution to a mystery. She wished she could find the answers to her questions, too.

"Two solutions,” Stubbing contradicted. “You've been wondering what became of Mr. Hayes."

Susan frowned at the thought of her unwanted suitor returning to the scene. “Nothing could happen to that old stick, Wynn, but when is Cousin Lenore coming back?"

"She's not, it seems. Cousin Lenore and that old stick, who incidentally is exactly my age, brat, have eloped to Gretna Green."

"Together?” Susan dropped her fork.

"That's the way elopements usually take place, Sukey."

"Why ever did they do a damn fool thing like that?” the dowager wanted to know. “Causing a scandal for no reason but to make themselves an item. It's an unexceptionable match and they are both adults; no one would have stopped them."

"Chits get romantical notions,” Lord Hume reminded her, “even widows."

"There is nothing remotely amorous about a long, cold carriage drive to Scotland,” Lady Stanford disagreed. “Flowers are amorous, and champagne toasts and organ music, not the sound of a hammer on the anvil in the background. I thought Lenore had more wits than that."

"I am afraid I am partially to blame, Mother,” Wynn confessed. “I confided my hopes that Hayes would offer for Susan. Lenore feared she was being disloyal. Tripp knew my wishes also and did not want to embarrass Susan, in case she had expectations."

The dowager harrumphed. “So they go behind your back and carry on a secret courtship, the clunches. Now that is disloyal. I hope they enjoy the countryside, for neither will be accepted in London again."

Susan was laughing. “I still cannot believe it of your friend, Wynn. Weren't you always nattering on to me about what a steady, reliable fellow he was, how he would never be guilty of the least indiscretion? And he, your raft of rectitude, your pillar of propriety, just ran off to Scotland. With Cousin Lenore, my watchdog. Oh, dear, it's too, too delicious. I wonder if he carried her off over his saddlebow, or if he had to climb a ladder to help her escape? What do you think, Lieutenant Stubbing? What's the proper way to conduct an elopement?"

Wynn felt sorry for the scarlet-faced subaltern. “There is no proper form whatsoever and well you know it, so stubble it, brat. Will you stop laughing if I acknowledge that I was wrong?” Wynn turned to Rosellen, to include her in the conversation. “You see, Miss Lockharte, I am not infallible."

"I never suspected you were, Lord Stanford, but it is nice to see that you admit to being human."

"Have another portion of pheasant, Miss Lockharte."

"Isn't he divine?” Susan whispered in Rosellen's ear when they were settled in the first row of Wynn's opera box. Stubbing and the viscount were seated behind them. Rosellen glanced back. Yes, he was divine, much too godlike for a mere mortal. She was beginning to distrust her own all-too-human feelings. “I suppose he is passable."

"Only passable?” Susan was disappointed. “I think he looks heavenly in his dress uniform. I wouldn't mind if the tailor never finishes his formal outfit."

"Oh, the lieutenant. Yes, he is very handsome.” In truth, he could not hold a candle to the elegant nobleman beside him. Rosellen looked to see her friend's reaction to such tepid praise. She did not wish to encourage Susan in her matchmaking schemes, so she added, “If you like fair-haired gentlemen. I much prefer dark hair myself."

And half the other women in the vast horseshoe-shaped theater seemed to also. Rosellen saw nothing but the enormous chandeliers’ lights reflected off quizzing glasses, opera glasses, and monocles, all aimed in their box's direction. Susan was getting her share of admiring glances, and Rosellen even supposed she was under scrutiny as a newcomer in the Stanford party, but almost every female eye that she could see was directed at Lord Stanford himself. The nearest females were waving their fans, bobbing their feathered headdresses, and casting sideward smiles, hoping to gain his attention. She would wager her newfound pin money that he didn't care what
those
highborn ladies had had for dinner. Her satisfaction was small, however. The viscount was obviously trying to fatten her up, like a pig for market, the quicker to get her off his hands in the marriage mart.

He was bound to be disappointed. Despite her uncle's sudden generosity—she supposed he wished to be shut of her also—Miss Lockharte was still a vicar's daughter with a dicey reputation. She wondered how long Susan's friendship would last when her companion was snubbed by the social world, how long Stanford's patience would hold out if no one offered for her. Rosellen could only hope that Fanny had recovered by then, so that she could retrieve her nest egg. Meanwhile, her confidence was cracked. She hardly noticed the singers onstage, worrying about the swells in their box seats.

At the first intermission, though, Stanford was proved correct once more. The box was overflowing with young men—and their hopeful sisters—come to meet Miss Alton's friend. While some of the young ladies had been pupils at Miss Merrihew's and would have ignored a mere schoolteacher, they did not dare offend the most eligible gentleman in town. And the Heatherstone twins were there, too, introducing Rosellen to the patrons of the pit, voicing loud asides as to each young gentleman's qualifications and expectations.

"But how did you enjoy the opera?” Rosellen asked, to stop the embarrassing flow of names and incomes. “Did you find the soprano in good form tonight?"

"If the soprano is the one with the deuced loud caterwauling, I'll say she was in prime shape. Never seen a female with a bigger chest."

Susan giggled and Wynn scowled. The silent twin kicked the speaker.

"Well, stands to reason if she's to make that much noise, she'd need big—"

"Not in front of the ladies,” his brother hissed.

"But Miss Lockharte is a regular right ‘un. She didn't cut up stiff about the—"

A firm hand at the back of his neck was propelling the jackanapes out of the box. “Do not go into the diplomatic corps, if anyone is foolish enough to take you,” Wynn muttered as he pushed the twin down the hall.

The other redhead followed, after promising to pay a call the next day with a surprise.

"Aren't they the drollest pair?” Susan asked. “I didn't know you knew the Heatherstones. I wonder what the surprise could be."

The surprise would be if they remembered their mission by morning, but Rosellen merely said, “Oh, yes, we are, ah, longstanding acquaintances."

Then the lights dimmed again, thank goodness, so she did not have to answer any further questions.

Wynn was not happy with the way all the men were ogling Miss Lockharte. Granted, any female in his box would have come under review, but that she was known to the Heatherstones seemed to add to her attraction. And she was devilishly pretty, in a wispy, ethereal sort of way, with a ready smile and gentle courtesy. She didn't show the boredom affected by so many of Society's chits, and she didn't show the sharp edge of her tongue either, thank Heaven.

Still, she wasn't used to such public scrutiny; she might be offended. Besides, she was not very strong yet. She should be home resting, not in the goldfish bowl of the
belle monde.

At the next intermission, Wynn was going to suggest they leave before the hordes of bucks and bloods descended on the box, but Miss Lockharte sparkled. She was delighted with the opera and with her reception. He could no more drag her away than he could let the Heatherstones make her adventures public knowledge. Instead, he suggested they take a stroll in the halls, for some fresh air and perhaps a lemonade.

Wynn was careful to shield her broken wrist from any jostling, he was painstaking about draping her shawl over her shoulders, and he was mindful to herd his party away from gossipmongers and lorgnette-wielding matrons. Still, the color fled from her face and she would have stumbled but for his hand under her elbow. Wynn could feel her tremble.

"My cousin” was all she whispered.

"What, the indomitable Miss Lockharte fazed by a mere female, and a relative at that?” he teased, trying to ease her mind. “I thought you had more bottom, my dear, shooting up inn yards, herding off abductors, surviving rampaging draft horses. Clarice Haverhill is nothing but a toadstool, you know. She cannot eat you."

"No, but she can broadcast my disgrace and bring shame on you and your sister for introducing me to the ton. She hates me. Last time she succeeded in getting me tossed out of London in less than two weeks. This time she can—"

"She can go to the devil.” Now Wynn was the one frowning. Didn't the chit have any confidence in him at all, in his power to protect her from one jealous cat? Hell, he'd been fending the creature off for ages.

"Miss Haverhill,” he called. “Well met."

Clarice turned around to find the viscount bearing down on her, his party in tow. She looked to make sure everyone else in the crowded hallway noticed also. She stepped away from her own companions, the chicken-chested Duke of Rafton and his stiff-rumped mama. Now this was more the thing, Stanford wanting to exchange pleasantries with her.

Clarice pasted on her best smile. “Lord Stanford, how delightful, and Miss Alton, too.” She ignored Stubbing altogether. A lieutenant with a limp was beneath notice. Besides, he was known to be Stanford's secretary. “And Miss—"

Clarice screeched louder than the contralto on the stage. Her face took on an angry flush and her eyes narrowed to slits. “You!” she spat.

"Why, yes, it's your cousin, Miss Haverhill.” Wynn stated the obvious with obvious pleasure. Her lily-livered father had evidently not informed the shrew of the treat in store, so it fell to him. “How kind of you and your family to lend us her charming company for the Season. My sister was pining for company of her own age to share the excitement, don't you know, so she begged Miss Lockharte to come to us. You must remember how it was when you were first out."