Elisabeth Kidd (19 page)

“You did, apparently.”

“Did I? Then it must be true.”

“There!” declared Hester feelingly. “Do you not see how awkward it
is? I don’t know what your poor mama would think if
...
Duncan,
dearest, you must not say such things if they are not true!”

“My dear Hester, what has their veracity to say to anything? People
expect to hear such things, and have you not above all instructed me to
be obliging?”

Hester protested that he must have misunderstood her—for how could
he think that untruthfulness obliged anyone? —and looked as if she
would burst into tears. Since she frequently fell into this state, however, her nephew was not overly concerned that he had hurt her feelings. He knew very well that his return to England, which had so gratified Julia,
had also been something of a honeyfall to Hester. The aura of romance
about him—not to mention his value on the marriage mart —added
much to her consequence, and although she disclaimed any desire to
manage his affairs, both she and Kedrington recognised this little fiction for what it was. The viscount had long since discovered that the energy
his aunt thus expended was formidable and, if properly channelled, could be turned to good account. So he allowed her to regret his appalling want
of conduct for a little longer, and then promised humbly that he would take care to conduct himself more suitably in future.

“That is all very well,” Hester quavered, “but as you have not been about at all for the past fortnight, there is no saying what rumours may
be afloat concerning you.”

“I rather think I must count myself fortunate not to have been forgotten in a fortnight’s time. But I shall take care not to run the risk again. I
am prepared to accept your authority on such matters, Aunt.”

Hester looked up from her reticule, in which she had been fumbling
for a handkerchief, and stared at her nephew, struggling to accept what seemed to her the inevitable implication of what she had just heard.
Kedrington took his own handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to
her. She blew her nose delicately, composed herself, and said, “Dearest, do you...Can you possibly mean ... ?”

“I mean, dearest Aunt Hester, that I regret taking your eminently
sensible advice insufficiently to heart, and that I am willing to rectify this
inauspicious beginning—shall we say, with an appearance at Almack’s on
Wednesday?”

“Almack’s!’ Hester exclaimed, recovering with astonishing speed from
her dejection. “But that is a splendid notion! You will cause a sensation,
I have no doubt, and once everyone learns that you truly intend to go
about more in society, we—you—will be showered with invitations.”

Kedrington grimaced. “It seems to me that my hall table is already overflowing with cards and engraved effusions of several sorts. I cannot respond to all of them, Aunt, or I shall have no time left to eat and sleep.

“However,” he added, to brighten Hester’s crestfallen expression, “if
you will be so kind as to assist Octavian in the selection, I will agree to
respond to one in ten of the more, ah
...
tolerable propositions offered.”

“One in ten?”

“At the most.”

Kedrington watched his younger aunt, upon whose pretty plump countenance began to dance visions of the ladies who would swoon with
delight at the prospect of the viscount’s appearance at one of their
functions—and of the power this would give Hester herself as the person
through whom petitions for his presence must pass. Since this prospect
appeared to have temporarily bereft her of speech, her nephew suggested
gently that she might begin as soon as possible.

“Oh, to be sure!” Hester exclaimed. “[ shall make up a list this very
evening and consult with you in the morning. But do you not think, dearest, that one in ten
...
?”

“Is a very tidy number, yes. I am certain I may leave it all in your
capable hands.”

“To be sure, my love. But—”

“Perhaps if you were to begin immediately,” the viscount suggested,
before Hester could voice what he suspected would be plans of her own
to return the hospitality of the Ton, “you would not then have to strain
your eyes by candlelight this evening.”

This suggestion struck Hester forcibly—for she was much troubled by
migraine headaches—and she begged to be forgiven if she dashed away.
Julia nodded her head, but maintained the ominous silence which she had drawn over herself when Kedrington had first presented his plan for
the amusement of the Metropolis in general and of his Aunt Hester in
particular.

When the door shortly closed behind Hester, however, Julia embarked upon a stream of small talk consisting of a description of every bloom in
the small garden to the rear of the house, in which she was accustomed
to take the air each morning, followed by an enumeration of the callers
she had received that day and a detailing of the precise relationship to the
Heywoods in which each of them stood.

All of this was nicely calculated
to induce in Rowland Wilmot a boredom that very soon had him shifting
restlessly in his chair, and in Fanny an acute consciousness of her own lack of social accomplishments—of which she was well aware, but of
which she disliked to be reminded—so that she shortly gratified her
husband more than she had in twenty years of marriage by rising during
a break thoughtfully provided by Julia in her recital, thanking her hostess
for a delightful hour, and adjuring her son to make his bow and come
along.

“I believe I’ll stay,” Angus declared uncooperatively. He had been
studying for some minutes the arrangement of his cousin’s neckcloth,
and only a few seconds more of concentration would, he felt, provide him
with the key to its construction. Unfortunately, the viscount chose that
moment to turn his head and ruin Angus’s perspective.

Kedrington
atoned for this inconsideration, however, by civilly enquiring if Angus
would care to accompany him to Manton’s Shooting Gallery on the
following Tuesday. Angus, with more acuity than might have been
expected of him, rightly understood this to be a Hint and—after accepting
his mentor’s invitation—removed himself from the room close on the heels of his parents.

Julia sat in silence for a moment, watching her nephew casually flick a
bit of lint from his sleeve.

“You are become very autocratic, Duncan,” she observed, in the tone
of an impartial observer.

“Do you wonder at it? When I am continually assaulted by reminders
of my position as head of the family?”

“You need not tell me that I have been the source of most of those
reminders,” Julia said. “I had hoped, however, to depress certain preten
sions in other members of the family rather than to raise you in your own
esteem! It is bad enough to be obliged to hear Fanny prate on about The
Family, holding her nose in the air for all the world like a hare sniffing
the wind—but actually to add to her consequence by passing the title on
to that branch is not even to be considered!”

“But you do consider it.”

“I must, if you will not.”

“There’s no harm in Angus.”

Julia sniffed, “Only if an utter lack of will and substance can be called
harmless. It is a negative virtue at best, to have no harm in one. But it is
the same with all the Wilmots—look at Rowland, all charm and no
matter—and Angus is a Wilmot clear through. With less charm.  Even his father speaks of
him as if he were a horse, as if blood and bone were all—which in this
case they most certainly are not! And you... well, for all your talk about
there being no harm in Angus, you treat your secretary with more
respect,”

“You are very harsh, my love. The Heywood strain may come out in
Angus’s son after all.”

Julia winced, but concluded with commendable calm, “I shall not,
thank God, be here to discover whether it will or no. Do not force me, Duncan, to remind you how much, much rather I would see a son of yours in the succession before I die.”

Julia’s voice had lost its acerbity, and she sounded so unlike herself and so much like Duncan’s own mother that he was moved to smile and reach
out to press her hand.

“If I have disappointed you, my love, I have not done so deliberately.”

With a rustle of grey silk, Julia moved to one side and patted the sofa
beside her to urge her nephew to sit near her. “Then none of the fair
eligibles Hester has thrown in your way has pleased you?”

“They have all pleased me. Some for as long as five minutes.”

“What about the Adderley chit?”

“Too short.”

“You won’t be standing up
all
the time!” Julia snapped, reverting to
her caustic self and drawing a crack of laughter from Kedrington, who expressed regret, when he had recovered his gravity, that he was simply not in the petticoat line.

“Nonsense! I have never seen any man so enjoy the effect of his charm upon women as you do. Why else are you now seeking new conquests at
Almack’s?”

“I owe Maria Sefton a favour.”

Julia gave him an appraising look, but his expression remained bland. “Well, I won’t pretend to know what that means. But you need not try to
deceive me, Kedrington, that you are not a thorough romantic at heart.
Do you think I do not know that is why you deserted hearth and home to
run off and lose yourself in Spain, only to return home to make a friend
of the likes of Byron? Heaven knows it was not for any love of conformity.
What about the Fairfax girl?” she demanded, suddenly changing her
tack.

The viscount stiffened momentarily, but kept the lightness in his
voice. “Which one, Aunt Julia?”

“If you must ask that, it doesn’t much matter, I suppose. I had hoped
that this sudden desire of yours to mingle with the Ton meant that you
had found at least one member of it worth the trouble. I should not
expect you to explain your motives. I can only hope that you have not set
your heart on some romantic dream that you can never realise.”

Kedrington breathed more easily. He had not known that his aunt was
even aware of Antonia Fairfax’s existence, and he had an absurd fancy to
keep its value to his own from becoming known to anyone but Antonia—
particularly since he was in some doubt still about his own course of
action regarding her. He had asked himself frequently if he ought to have behaved differently with Antonia at Wyckham; he might have been less
obvious in his attentions, since she seemed unready to accept them. On
the other hand, she behaved toward him now as if nothing at all had
happened between them, so that he sometimes thought it might have
been better if he had declared himself to her then and there and not been
obliged now to attempt a subtle courtship in the full glare of the public
scrutiny he had mercifully been able to forget during his stay in
Leicestershire.

He had reckoned, for instance, without Julia’s multitude of confidants. It was still considered an honour to take tea with Julia Wilmot, and such
diverse personalities as Emily Cowper and the Duke of Clarence often
did, to refresh themselves with her astringent opinions on matters which
they themselves had not often the courage to express themselves publicly.
Julia judged people harshly and at times unjustly, but she was honest and she was discreet. Kedrington was occasionally tempted to confide in Julia
about Antonia, for when Julia cared for someone, she was generous and
affectionate. Her callers repaid her by keeping her entertained with the
latest news and gossip—and exhaustingly informed of the truth behind
rumours and the secrets behind the doors she no longer troubled to call
at herself.

“Honoré Gaillard also called,” she was saying. “I had not seen him for
an age. None of the Devereaux but Honoré and Clare ever comes to
town—not that Honor
é
’s a blood relation. It’s a great pity, but...what
was I about to say? Oh, yes. He told me he had seen that Neville
woman—the one Neil Gary made a cake of himself over—at Osborne’s
Hotel and couldn’t imagine what she was doing there. That was weeks
ago, and he hasn’t seen her since, but I wonder if I ought to write Henry
Neville about it?”

“I shouldn’t do that, love,” Kedrington said blandly.

Julia, who had been searching her nephew’s face in vain for some
indication of precisely how much he knew of the regrettable Miss
Neville’s affairs, was reduced to asking point-blank, “Do you know any
thing about it?”