Elisabeth Kidd (19 page)

“Oh, my dear Lyle!” that lady gushed as she greeted him in the best parlour, in which Lyle had elected to wait while Prudence hastily sent the maids to prepare refreshments for his lordship and haphazardly slapped a clean lace cap onto her mousy ringlets. “What a surprise! I mean, what a
delightful
surprise that you should have decided to come up to Town after all! I could wish you had written so that we might be better prepared—but I’m sure it’s of no importance. I daresay everyone will be absolutely thrilled to see you again after all this time, Andrew dear, and you will be showered with invitations. Why, only this morning, you know, Lady Jersey was asking me if you might not be tempted to stop in at Almack’s this season.”

Lyle winced at the picture Prudence was conjuring up—he had a vivid memory of the last time he had been accosted by the voluble Sally Jersey—and interrupted Prue’s effusions to emphasize that he was only stopping in Town for a few days, and that Prudence had best curb her eagerness to commit him to engagements he had no intention of keeping.

“Oh, but dearest, you must at least accompany us to the Bridlingtons’ tonight. It will do Sydney the world of good to be seen with you—but if it is discovered that you were here and did not attend her, it would look very peculiar indeed.’’

Lyle saw the justice in this and resigned himself to an evening of being fawned over by hopeful hostesses. He could be grateful to Murray after all—he supposed—if not for his interference, then for the evening clothes he had insisted on packing for his lordship.

Prudence perched herself on the edge of the sofa and filled Lyle’s ears for a full half-hour with a mixed catalogue of Sydney’s successes, Prudence’s part in them, the difficulties (and expenses) of running a house in London during the season, and the many Interesting Events yet to come which she was certain (she said) Lyle would wish to participate in once he was apprised of them.

She was full of news about the latest royal birth—a daughter to the Duke and Duchess of Kent—not to mention the opening of the new Burlington shopping arcade, and the building of the new Royal Apartments in the Prince Regent’s Brighton palace. Lyle let her go on, encouraging her with occasional monosyllabic nudges into dropping a few nuggets of more interesting information.

“Sir Gavin Thiers is very attentive to Sydney, you know, Lyle. Such a kind man, and an extremely good match for any girl—I do wish he were not a trifle old for Susan. Oh, and you will be pleased to see how Susan is blossoming, dearest—she is quite the little debutante already, even if I as her mama say it. What was I speaking of? Oh, yes—we were all invited to a charming garden party at Sir Gavin’s estate in Richmond just the other day. There was so much to do and see there, and so very many guests—really, the cream of the Ton, I assure you—that it was quite fatiguing, and I must confess I dropped off to sleep and missed what everyone tells me was the highlight of the affair. Lord D’Arcy performed—out of doors, mind you—in something or other by Shakespeare, you know how he is—”

“Shakespeare?”

“No, Lord D’Arcy. He is poetical, you know—or perhaps you don’t, you may not be acquainted with Pemberly, his father—he is forever quoting poets at Sydney that I have never heard of, but she seems to understand him—D’Arcy, I mean—and I can scarcely refuse him the house, since he is by far the richest—that is, the most eligible—young man of Sydney’s acquaintance, and the heir to a dukedom besides.”

“A dukedom?” Lyle smiled at an irrelevant memory of Sydney’s rash threat to attach a duke. Well, the little minx had nearly done it! He wondered how soon D’Arcy was likely to come into his title, and if Sydney would be willing to wait. He would have to quiz her on it.

“Oh, yes!” Prudence went on, pleased that Lyle seemed satisfied with this bit of news, “and he is excessively handsome as well—like Byron, only slimmer. Of course, Mr. Kingsley is very good-looking too, although in a fairer way, but I am happy to say he has not called lately.’’

This was a familiar name to Lyle—two letters at least, he recalled, which Lyle had rejected out of hand, disliking their fawning manner.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Well…” Prudence leaned confidentially towards Lyle, as if to thus further assure him of the close interest she took in Sydney’s welfare. “As I was careful to mention to Sydney, Mr. Kingsley is commonly known to be hanging out for a rich wife, and naturally Sydney ought not to encourage a man with no more sensibility than that.’’

“Particularly since she hardly qualifies for the position.’’

Prudence looked down at her hands, which she was folding and unfolding in her lap in an effort to keep them from fluttering about in the air as she spoke. “Well, no—but one does not like to make a point of her lack of fortune, either, Andrew, for fear of discouraging other gentlemen, who may perhaps not be fortune-hunters, but for whom a respectable dowry would nevertheless be a consideration.’’

“I see,” Lyle said thoughtfully. Prudence looked up anxiously for some sign of disapproval but, seeing none, she thought he might not blame her after all for her little deception and was emboldened to enquire more specifically into the size of Sydney’s dowry, a matter that Lyle had hitherto not deemed to discuss with her.

“It will be sufficient for the purpose,” Lyle said, but just as Prudence was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he added, “It is also all you need to know of the matter, ma’am, and I would be grateful if you would refrain from embroidering on your knowledge.”

Prudence managed to look both offended and guilty at the same time, and attempted to protest that Lyle had been grossly misinformed—no doubt by those persons always ready to discredit anyone who claimed a modest success and the friendship of leading members of Society—but it was only when Prudence began to explain that she had only acted in Sydney’s best interests that Lyle found himself losing his patience again.

“Where
is
Miss Archer?” he interrupted.

“Why, I believe she is still resting in her room. She was feeling a little headachy earlier today, so I insisted that she lie down for just a little. Do have one of these macaroons, Andrew dear—they are every bit as delicious as Bernard’s, I assure you.”

“She is not ill, I trust?” Lyle asked, ignoring the macaroons.

“Sydney? Oh my, no! It is merely that as we are engaged for dinner as well as dancing this evening, I did not wish her to become overtired. It has all been such a whirl, you know, and—shall I send for her now?”

“If you please—but she is not to be awakened on my account.”

Sydney was awake, however, and sufficiently refreshed to be up and dressed, for it was only a moment before she knocked softly on the door and came into the room.

She had evidently not been informed of who her visitor was, for when she saw Lyle, her blue eyes widened, and a fleeting look of panic came over her; but when Lyle frowned at it, she wiped it clear and fixed her eyes steadily on him. Drawing a deep breath, she smiled.

Lyle smiled back, admiring the poise he was still surprised—and not entirely pleased—to find in her. He had, furthermore, expected some sign of her old spirit, manifested in the familiar defiant toss of her black mane, or the mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes, and he was not a little disappointed not to find them there. He saw only that she was very pale, and thinner than he remembered.

Something untoward had doubtless occurred to cause her to look worn to a shadow—even though, Lyle noted, her pallor served to enhance the remarkable deep blue of her eyes and the black of her shining hair, now decorously confined in a heavy braid pinned to the back of her head. She was wearing a simple but very becoming blue cambric gown with braided trim around the hem; a gold locket was suspended around her throat by a matching ribbon. Lyle thought she was much lovelier than he remembered too, and wondered why this should be so, and what it was that had happened to her.

For her part, Sydney was aware only of what had happened just at that moment—her heart had turned over inside her at her first sight of Lyle. She had stood very still for a moment, waiting for it to right itself again, but even when it did, it still thumped alarmingly in protest, until she thought Lyle must be able to hear it. Not trusting her eyes to remain steady, she lowered them, and held out her hand to him.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said politely, if to her unreliable ears a little coldly. “I am pleased to see you.’’

A smile twitched at the corners of Lyle’s mouth, as if he had been reminded of some private joke, but she did not see it. He shook her hand gravely and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Archer. You are looking very well.’’

Prudence slipped out unnoticed at this point, unknowingly missing—again—the most interesting part of the conversation in her ingenuous desire to allow ward and guardian to speak privately, for Lyle then asked, “What have you done to your hair?”

Considering the hours she had spent being fussed over by Monsieur Antoine, having her wayward locks coaxed into a semblance of style, Sydney considered this a meagre endorsement of the results, and she recovered herself sufficiently to scowl at her guardian.

“I would have thought you would approve,” she said with a touch of her old tartness. “You were always used to say I looked like a gypsy.’’

“I never said that.”

“You never said anything to the contrary,” she accused him, rather unfairly.

Lyle put up his hand in a defensive attitude and laughed. “Pax, Miss Archer, please! I beg your pardon for all my past faults, and I assure you that I do find you looking as fine as fivepence.”

Sydney ventured a direct look into Lyle’s grey eyes, on the suspicion that he was gammoning her, only to find them for some inexplicable reason much warmer than she remembered. It was then that the realization spread over her all at once, like a rush of blood to her head, of why it was that neither Lord D’Arcy nor any other of her admirers had ever held the least attraction for her—she had unconsciously been comparing them to Lyle, and finding them sadly wanting!

Unfortunately, this awful truth only made her more unhappy than she had been since her hollow victory at the Richmond fête. How could she now reveal to Lyle all that had happened since then, all through her stupid fault, her indiscretion? She lowered her eyes again so he would not read the misery in them.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said softly. “Mr. Maitland has been very good about helping me to choose my clothes and—and everything.”

Lyle looked at her in silence for a moment, during which she did not dare to meet his eyes again, but he said only, in a perfectly normal voice, “May I ask where you are going this evening?”

“To Lady Bridlington’s.’’

“Ah, yes.” Lyle recalled that Lady Bridlington’s pompous eldest son had not—yet—asked for Sydney’s hand. “Perfectly unexceptionable.’’

“I am pleased that our plans meet with your approval, my lord,” Sydney replied, “since it is rather late in the day to change them! May I ask you, sir, why—that is, what brings you to Town? I am certain no one expected you, for if we had known—”

“No one did, Miss Archer, so do not fret yourself. I shall do very well here with whatever is available. I shall also—if you have no objection, that is, for I am convinced Lady Bridlington will have none—accompany you this evening.’’

It occurred to Lyle, although Sydney assured him he could do as he pleased, that she was far from eager for his company—and that furthermore that mysterious something other than their up-to-now amicable verbal battles was behind it. Why the devil, he wondered, did everyone seem to have something to hide from him!

“Do you have any objection?” he asked point-blank. “If you will be more comfortable without me following you about, believe me I shall not be offended if you say so. You know I am no social butterfly.’’

In spite of his bantering tone, Sydney seemed to gather her strange reserve more closely around her. “Come!” he said, more forcefully. “Tell me what is the matter.’’

“Nothing, my lord, believe me. What could be the matter?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Sydney,” he said, becoming a little impatient despite his best intentions, “but if you wish to pretend that it is usual for you to look as if you have just arisen from your sick bed and to make barely a push to engage me in a quarrel—which is certainly not usual in you—I’m sure it is no concern of mine. I am only your guardian, after all.”

At that, Sydney did lift her chin bravely and, mustering an impressive dignity, looked at him and said, “I beg your pardon, my lord. I do not wish to—to be impolite to you. It is just that I—I do not feel quite recovered from my headache after all, and if you will kindly excuse me, I will go and lie down again. I am certain you will not wish me looking hagged at the Bridlingtons’ this evening.’’

“Certainly not,” Lyle remarked dryly. “They will be wondering if I have been beating you.’’

Even this failed to goad Sydney into a quarrel, however, and when she had made her curtsey and escaped, Lyle scowled after her and thought, very well, if she was not going to confide in him, he would not open his mind—or his letter-case—to her either! He would certainly attend this dinner party, however. He had the distinct impression that there was a good deal going on that he ought to inform himself of—if no one else would!

In search of enlightenment, Lyle set off from Grosvenor Square in the direction of Cedric Maitland’s lodgings in Stratton Street. The fine warm day, and the curious looks he drew from occasional passersby who evidently knew him but could not place him, served to both soothe and amuse him, so that he was less than halfway to his goal when he gave way to an impulse to tool his curricle around Town first—thus unwittingly imitating Mr. Maitland’s method of introducing oneself to London.

Passing from Berkeley Square into Mount Street, Lyle was hailed by Lord Alvanley, who had been a crony of his uncle’s; in Hyde Park he was smiled at by a number of middle-aged ladies who nudged their daughters frantically to do the same; and coming back up Piccadilly, where his progress was slowed considerably by an altercation between a carrier and a brewer’s cart, which drew the attention of the drivers of other vehicles away from their own progress, he was less subtly buttonholed by the Countess of Jersey, who had no hesitation in ordering her coachman to pull up alongside Lyle’s curricle.