Elisabeth Fairchild (8 page)

Chapter Nine

Patience laughed.

In a merry mood they turned their backs on the cascade and traipsed together toward the most brilliant of the lights around the dinner boxes and kiosks, where quite a crowd milled about, purchasing food and competing for a favorable spot to see and be seen.

“Philip!” came a cry. A gentleman waved.

And again, “Philip, my dear,” to their right, a woman’s voice, an unmistakably flirtatious tone.

“I shall just be a moment,” Pip promised. “Why not see about procuring some food, Dickey, my boy? I should like a pullet, if you please, and a glass of wine.”

“You must come and join my party, dearest.” Lady Wilmington came up behind them in that very instant and linked arms with Patience as if they were old friends.

Patience turned, pleased to see her. She could not be sure for an instant who it was the viscountess addressed—herself or Richard, who smiled such a warm and welcoming smile it made her heart beat a little faster just to see it.

Could this be, she wondered, the one Richard had mentioned? The one he loved? He had never smiled at her in just such a way, had he? And that Lady Wilmington was married would certainly make it awkward to declare one’s affections. Would it not?

Richard said, “How very kind of you, my dear Lady Wilmington. I am off to fight the rabble for food. Can I bring you anything?”

“You are a dear to ask,” she said. “A bite of ham would be nice, and strawberries, if there are any to be had, and Wilmi does love a glass or two of burgundy if a decent bottle is available.”

If there was more to her list of procurements Patience did not hear them. She did not notice either exactly when Richard took his leave. She was too caught up in the sight of Pip snared in the arms of a diminutive young woman with Titian-colored hair, who stood on tiptoe that she might whisper in his ear and stroke the breast of the cockatoo, who seemed to enjoy the attention as much as Pip did.

She had imagined Pip was popular with women, and yet it tore at her heart a little to observe his allure firsthand.

“Beautiful little temptress, is she not?” Lady Wilmington murmured.

Patience gave a guilty start. She had thought her attentions better hidden behind her mask. “It cannot be Pip’s Miss Defoe.”

“Sophie?” Lady Wilmington laughed, the sound like the trickling of the cascade, a captivating laugh. “What a droll idea, my dear. The gardens are far too rowdy and dowdy a gathering place for a Defoe to soil her slippers.”

Patience blinked at her.

“I see I shock you.” Lady Wilmington lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you must understand that the Defoes are most particular about the company their daughter keeps before she is married. Ironic, really, that they have agreed to this marriage.” She had dimples, like Pip’s. They danced quite mischievously as she said, “Pip, as you call him, is not in the least particular about the company he keeps.” She gave a nod in the direction of the red-haired beauty.

Patience asked, “Who is she?”

Lady Wilmington’s eyes narrowed. Her lips twitched. She looked, Patience thought, like a woman unwilling to reveal her cards. “You must ask Richard,” she said with a smile that seemed in some way more calculating than pleased. “I would not have him accuse me of sullying innocent ears. Now come, my dear. Let me introduce you to my husband.”

Patience could not say in that instant what captivated her curiosity most: news that Lady Wilmington’s husband was with her at Vauxhall, or this mysterious refusal to identify Pip’s Titian-haired friend.

***

Lord Wilmington sat ensconced in a dinner box painted with a scene depicting Paris carrying away a none too unwilling Helen of Troy. He sat like a king, propped on a cushion-covered chair that his lordship’s footmen had arranged for him just so. A footstool, also carried into the gardens for his lordship’s comfort, propped up a swollen left foot. He and his friends had been playing whist.

“I’ve a touch of the gout,” the old man confessed to Patience, having taken her hand in his for a firm squeeze. She liked him at once, for though he had gone quite bald on top, and the remaining fringe gave no hint of what color hair had once graced his lordship’s shiny dome, he was a warm and welcoming fellow. His face tracked a lifetime’s worth of smiles. His lips curved in a perpetual upward lift. He might have been Lady Wilmington’s father, so great was the difference in their age.

The deference and solicitousness with which she attended to her Wilmi surprised Patience, as did the group of aged souls who kept them company—contemporaries of his lordship—a marquess, a graying viscountess, an Austrian archduke who winked at Patience whenever she looked his way, and a querulous old countess who spoke nothing but French.

The main topic of conversation, in either language, when they were not discussing tricks, trumps, bids, or discards, centered on the decrepitude of age: of nostrums for gout, and tinctures for failing eyesight, of salves for aching joints, and the latest patent medicines for heart palpitations and poor circulation.

Richard had yet to make appearance with the food when Pip joined them, changing completely the mood of their little gathering. The countess, eyes alight, coyly held out gnarled hand for a kiss. She called Pip
chérie
, gave his cheek a gloved caress, and patted the seat of the chair beside her.

Pip greeted her with enthusiasm, flattering her with compliments, patting her arm, but he refrained from accepting the comforts of the chair until he had greeted everyone personally. He bent before the marquess, and at his beckoning, coaxed Pippet to step from his broad shoulder to the old gent’s round-humped back.

They beamed at him, called out his name and words of fond greeting—everybody’s darling, most especially that of his host, whom he greeted with a hearty, “Wilmington! How goes the gout?”

“Would that it would go,” the old man responded with a phlegmy chuckle. “And that you would come to see us more often, young man. Has Defoe laid claim to all of your free time?”

“I have been closeted with him a great deal of late, and well you know why.”

Wilmington nodded. “The settlements have been agreed upon, then? A date decided?”

Pip shook his head, his manner and gestures carefree. “We negotiate.”

“No sense in rushing into such things, is there now?”

At his side, Lady Wilmington leaned close to her husband’s ear to say in the fondest of tones, her eyes sparkling like gems as she regarded Pip, “Quite right, my dear. No sense in it at all.”

There was, Patience decided, an undercurrent here, a hint of suggestion and tacit understanding that made no sense to her. These three knew each other well, perhaps better than she knew Pip from childhood. It left her feeling disconnected—an intruder.

And yet Pip would not allow her to feel that way for long. “Come, come.” He beckoned, his smile dazzling. “You must sit here, Patience.” He indicated the chair Lady Wilmington vacated at Lord Wilmington’s elbow. “Do tell his lordship of our fish tale, my dear. Most amusing, I do assure you, my lord. Quickly now, Patience.” He gave her shoulder a fond squeeze. “Before Richard returns.”

She obliged him, of course. People always obliged the charming Pip. Their little flock of graying nobility readily obliged him in rearranging themselves, and in gathering up their cards to make room at the table for Richard and food. She watched Pip as she retold the childhood tale, as he wound his way among the others, a golden guinea amidst a handful of old silver.

He and Lady Wilmington seemed very friendly. She took a place beside him, and they spoke to one another in low voices, and she smiled and touched his arm in just such a way as he looked into her eyes that Patience suffered a moment’s pang of jealousy, until she remembered that it was this woman’s balding husband who laughed at her fishing tale, swollen foot propped on the stool beside her own. And while there was no denying that Lord Wilmington was a kind and generous old man, she found all of her jealousy turned to pity that a young woman of such grace and beauty should be tied in marriage to a gentleman so disparate in age and appearance.

That Lady Wilmington should flirt with Pip, with Richard, seemed only fair, if such flirtation caused her aging spouse no heartache.

“Miss Ballard is very good at games, my dear,” Lady Wilmington made a point of telling her husband as their conversation wore thin. “Perhaps you can coax her into a hand of cards.”

“Good at games, are you, my dear? Just like our friend Philip?”

“I do love games,” she agreed.

“Used to beat him at backgammon,” Lady Wilmington went on, her manner teasing, her eyes fixed on Pip, whose curls she tweaked when he demanded, “How do you know that?”

Patience felt guilty that she should have been at all suspicious of Lady Wilmington, who went on, her manner teasing, “I know a great many things, Philip, if you will but pay attention. Have you heard, Wilmi, that a very clever young woman beat our friend twice this evening, first at chess, and then at backgammon?”

Lady Wilmington arched a brow at Patience, and smiled in her husband’s direction as she pinched at Pip’s sleeve.

“You need not gloat,” Pip scolded.

“Twice, you say?” Wilmington tapped Patience on the shoulder with his fanned hand of cards. “Is it possible?”

“Yes, indeed,” Pip admitted gallantly. “A clever young thing in a red domino. She ran away before I could congratulate her for the second thrashing she gave me. I’ve no idea who she was.” He cocked his head and batted his lashes at Lady Wilmington. “Did you happen to catch a glimpse of her? I am quite convinced she took over your game of chess, my lady, and do not tell me I am wrong in recognizing your laughter sounding from her vicinity when she checked my king with that bloody pawn.”

“I did see her,” Lady Wilmington admitted, a teasing light in her eyes. “A pretty thing. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A trim little figure.”

Patience blushed, and believed her secret revealed, for surely in such a description, Pip must recognize her at once.

But Pip was not looking at her at all. He had eyes only for the charming Lady Wilmington.

“Will you not tell me her name?” he coaxed as he smiled winningly. “Of all women, I must meet one who can best me.”

“Must you?” Lady Wilmington’s brows arched coyly.

“She cannot honorably do so, you know.” Richard’s voice spoke from behind them.

In turning they were met with sight of Richard bearing two baskets of food, while at his heels came Pip’s Mr. Trumps, bearing a third basket, from which several wine bottles protruded.

“Food at last!” Lord Wilmington crowed. “You are a godsend, my boy. We are all half-starved.”

Patience let loose a great sigh of relief, thinking the matter of her identity must now be dropped by way of distraction, but Pip was persistent. As the baskets were opened, and plates of chicken and ham and rolls and strawberries were handed about, he pressed for an answer. “Whatever do you mean, cannot honorably do so?”

Richard gave a little bow to Lady Wilmington. “She gave her word to the gentleman who brought the girl. Or am I mistaken?”

Their hostess, who had risen to see to the pouring of wine, glanced mischievously over her shoulder. “You do think of everything, Richard.”

Richard passed the packet of rolls.

“But you must tell me who she is, Melanie,” Pip wheedled. “Or do you mean to drive me mad with curiosity?”

“If you are half as clever as you like to think you are, my dear, you will soon divine who she was without my spoon-feeding it to you, Philip. Now please uncork this bottle. Be a dear.”

“Did you see her?” he asked Patience as he filled her glass.

Patience looked to Richard.

Beyond the faint lifting of one brow, he offered no response other than to ask her if she would care for a slice of ham.

“A glimpse,” she admitted, which made Lady Wilmington laugh and Richard smiled as he inquired, “Mustard?”

“Yes, please.” Patience smiled back at him as he spooned a dollop onto her plate.

“Tell me,” Pip crowded close, insistent. “What did you think of her? I know I can trust you to give me the truth.”

Patience drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she answered. “She looked as if she did not want you to know who she was.”

Pip plucked a strawberry from her plate. “Go on. Describe her.”

Oh, dear
, Patience thought.

Richard bit his lower lip and looked away.

What might she tell Pip? What must she say? How did one go about describing oneself?
“She seemed sure of herself when it came to the games,” she said.
There.
That was true. “Not so sure of herself in her surroundings.”

Pip’s eyes lit up. “She had not been to Vauxhall before? I knew it. I should have remembered such a player had I encountered her before. What of the gentleman who ran after her?”

Patience dared not look at Richard, dared not respond with any sign of humor to Lady Wilmington’s sudden peal of laughter.

“What of him?”

“How did he appear to you?”

She risked a quick glance at Richard. He looked steadily back at her.
How did Richard appear to her?
She had never really given it much thought. Richard was always just Richard—dear, dependable Richard. But she could not describe him as such, now, could she?

“The gentleman was tall,” she said carefully.
There!
That was safe. “Tall,” she went on. “Dark hair.”

Richard watched her, unblinking.

“Handsome?” Pip asked.

She hesitated.

Richard’s gaze slid away.

“Distinguished,” she said.

“Most decidedly distinguished,” Lady Wilmington agreed, shooting her a sly wink.

“You will make me a jealous old man, my dear,” Wilmington said.

Richard stared at the plate he filled for the countess. The tips of his ears had gone as pink as the ham.

Patience smiled and went on. “He had an air about him of intelligence, and dependability.”

Lady Wilmington made a strangled noise behind cover of her fan.

“Her brother, perhaps?” Lord Wilmington suggested.