Emily Hendrickson (13 page)

“I was not aware that you had assumed the duty of answering for her,” Sir Augustus replied with a raised chin and stiffened spine.

“I am her lion rampant,” Julian said with a bored drawl, as though that settled the matter.

Sir Augustus considered this statement for a moment, then bowed, murmuring something about toddling off to Boodle’s, that favorite club for country gentlemen.

“Really, sir, you are truly outrageous. I fear you have planted a silly notion in that empty head of his. He has, I am told, a habit of emptying his brain-box at the slightest provocation.” Lady Chloe gave Julian a vexed look, then she accepted the glass of lemonade handed to her by the footman stationed at the beverage table.

“Forget about him. I want to settle this business about our drive tomorrow afternoon.”

“I was under the impression that it
was
settled. At least, you made your invitation sound like a command.” She wished she might complain, but she desired this meeting far too much to do so.

Julian darted a look of amusement at her. “You are coming along quite nicely, I think. You are learning to speak your mind in a telling manner. It will give you a certain cachet to be seen with me, you know,” he reminded her.

“I did ask if you were trying to bring me into fashion,” she reminded him.

Julian liked the flash of her eyes and the hint of that dimple that lurked at the side of her mouth. Such a tender little rosebud, her mouth. Then he tore himself from a contemplation that was most likely fruitless and escorted her back to her grandmother’s side.

Across the room Elinor seethed with well-concealed fury at what had been going on when she was able to snatch a view—the throng of people permitting. That Brummell should champion her niece was bad enough, but when Julian joined those two, it had inflamed her sensibilities to a high degree.

How could he possibly prefer that insipid little nobody—Elinor ignored Chloe’s relationship to the Dancy family and the fortune she inherited—to herself! She had hoped to bring Chloe to disgrace, even ruin, with those nasty little sketches. Instead, Chloe had been lionized from the moment she entered the ballroom.

Did the little twit know what consequence she derived from standing between Brummell and St. Aubyn? Did she even care? Elinor placed a hand over her heart to calm her thwarted nerves. Well, she would not permit dear little Chloe to triumph where she, the beautiful Elinor Hadlow, failed. This time she would succeed. She must. Chloe would yet be sorry she had been born.

Chloe looked across the ballroom to meet her Aunt Elinor’s gaze and shivered. The malevolence in her eyes was most clear, even at this distance with naught but candlelight for illumination—although the Kitteridge family had not spared use of fine wax candles.

When Chloe observed her aunt sidle around the room until she reached the spot where Lord Twisdale stood in disapproving silence, Chloe began to worry anew. There was something odd in those two talking together again. Particularly when they both glanced up to stare at her. She pretended to scrutinize the room as though admiring the decorations, and tried not to look back at them. This was not the first time they had conferred and Chloe wished she knew the topic of their conversation. She very much feared it was herself.

Another search of the room revealed that St. Aubyn was nowhere to be seen. She would have liked to ask his advice, but then she scolded herself for thinking she might turn to him whenever she was troubled. Yet…he had promised to help her about Rose. It was certain that Chloe had not the least idea where it would be safe to hide a scullery maid.

Tomorrow when they went for the promised drive in the park Chloe would seek his advice about Aunt Elinor and Lord Twisdale as well as the scullery maid.

* * * *

The following morning Chloe awakened to Ellen’s gentle touch and the aroma of hot chocolate and scones.

“Did you find out as to how Rose can escape, my lady?” the faithful maid inquired.

“I sought help from a gentleman I trust,” Chloe said, then considered how strange it was that she should think the scoundrel to be so depended upon.

“Mr. St. Aubyn.” Ellen apparently had no doubt as to the identity of the one consulted. “When do you see him again? That James is impatient.” The maid continued her unaccustomed speech by adding, “I took the child in with me last night. Poor mite. I fear for her.”

While Chloe had only a small idea what those fears might be, she knew her maid well enough to believe they were very real and a fate to be dreaded.

“Flowers came,” Ellen continued in her more customary abrupt talk. “Want them?”

“Indeed,” Chloe said with a smile. Who thought to court her with blooms after all that had happened? She drank the last of her chocolate, popped the final bite of her scone into her mouth, then slid from her bed. Donning a soft, faded green robe, she curled up in the chair near her window, waiting.

Three bouquets had been delivered. One of rich burgundy roses held a card from St. Aubyn. She glanced at Ellen to see the maid standing, arms folded, an expression of interest on her kindly face.

“Unconscious beauty, that tells you,” Ellen offered.

Chloe shrugged, refusing to accept that bit of nonsense. “They are merely in season and very lovely.”

“Hmpf,” the maid commented.

A cluster of bright red carnations had a card from Sir Augustus. Chloe looked to her maid with raised brows. “What have you to say to such an unremarkable arrangement?”

“Alas for my poor heart. The gentleman feels thwarted?”

Chloe did not comment on Sir Augustus but rather looked at the remaining bouquet, a selection of various June flowers: single roses, striped carnations, and others just as pretty. “Well, Ellen, I cannot see any message in these.”

“He means to confuse you, miss. But that sort of rose implies love is dangerous and the striped carnation sends a message of refusal.”

Chloe stiffened in her chair, looking at the inoffensive blooms with distrust. When she unfolded the stiff paper that had been tucked inside the cluster of flowers, she almost dropped the blooms. “Lord Twisdale!”

“Take care with that gentleman,” Ellen counseled.

“I intend to, you may be certain,” Chloe replied softly. She placed all the flowers in the containers Ellen had set out, then with Ellen’s help changed into a day dress.

“I had best tell little Rose that we will find her help. She may not believe you,” Chloe told Ellen before leaving her bedroom. Knowing enough of the lower orders to be aware of their awe for a lady, she suspected Rose rightly would be skeptical of forthcoming help.

When she reached the kitchen she complimented the cook on the scones, although they might have been made by the housekeeper, who often created delicate pastries. Lucky for Chloe the cook beamed her pleasure. Chloe pursued her mission, finding Rose at the stone sink just inside the scullery door, arms deep in greasy water.

The girl looked up in fright, then subsided into watchful suspicion. She bobbed a wobbly curtsy, not removing her arms from the water where she scrubbed at a kettle.

“I shall see that you are safe,” Chloe said in an undertone sure not to carry far. “Once I find out where you may be housed, I will send for you.” She knew there was nothing for the child to pack, for she likely owned no more than what was on her back. “When I send Ellen for you, be sure to come at once, you hear?”

“Yes, mum,” the girl murmured, turning back to her task.

Since Chloe suspected the maid would be scolded if she did not complete her task soon, she was not offended at this lack of respect. She slipped from the room, taking a lemon biscuit with her as a reason for invading the hallowed halls of the kitchen. Back in her room, she told Ellen what she had said, and the maid nodded her agreement.

The hours dragged by slowly until time came for her drive. Although both Sir Augustus and Lord Twisdale had sent flowers, neither had come to pay a call on her…or grandmother. For that she was profoundly thankful.

After donning her best gray pelisse and the bonnet with the green feathers, she awaited St. Aubyn’s arrival in the drawing room with her grandmother.

“Another drive in the park? Do not acquire any notions, my gel,” the dowager said in a disparaging manner. “I doubt St. Aubyn has naught but his own reason for escorting you about,” she offered, far closer to the truth than she suspected.

“I shan’t,” Chloe said, clutching her hands before her so as not to betray her nervousness.

When Scroggins ushered St. Aubyn into the drawing room, Chloe felt the urge to nudge him out of the door, fleeing to a far place with him, away from the dangers of London.

“Ma’am, Lady Chloe,” St. Aubyn said with a bow to each. “Lovely day for a drive in the park. It feels as though summer has arrived.”

“Enjoy it while you can. Never lasts long, you know,” the dowager replied with gloomy pessimism. She waved them from the room with a bored look.

Once at his side and driving through the Stanhope Gate, Chloe searched for words to explain why she felt compelled to champion poor little Rose.

“Your scullery maid needs rescuing, I believe you said,” St. Aubyn prompted.

“Indeed, she does. I saw that odious James lurking about on the ground floor, just looking as though he would like to slip off to the scullery room. Although why he desires to bother that slip of a girl is more than I can see,” she added in a puzzled voice.

“The unattainable is always exciting, even in a plain, scared girl, it seems.”

“Dreadful, that’s what it is,” Chloe grumbled.

“I have given it some thought and believe I can send her to my country estate. My steward came to Town the other day and is due to return tomorrow.” What his steward might think of sharing a coach with a scullery maid was beyond consideration. But he was not paid to complain of the company he was required to keep while on salary.

“That would be most acceptable,” Chloe said with joy lighting her heart. She placed her hand on his arm and turned her head to gaze up into his face. “You are a sham, sir. I believe you are the very best of gentlemen. There is no scoundrel lurking in your heart.”

“Take care, Lady Chloe. I would not have anyone else hear those scandalous words,” he said in mock horror.

“Oh, pooh,” she said. She compressed the lips that longed to break forth in a huge grin.

“Your aunt approaches,” he cautioned.

Chloe swiftly turned to observe her aunt being skillfully driven through the park by none other than Sir Augustus Dabney.

“How curious,” Chloe murmured. “Whatever is a diamond like my aunt doing with a fellow like Sir Augustus? Not that he is not acceptable ton, mind you.”

“Naturally. I cannot fathom what possibly could bring those two together, however I doubt it is anything for the good of man or womankind.” Julian met the hostile gaze from the woman with whom he had been so closely associated and felt a frisson of alarm. He had no knowledge of any liaison between Elinor and another, much less the worthy Sir Augustus, and that also worried him. When Elinor was not kept occupied, she could well fall into mischief. Precisely what form that mischief might take concerned him.

Chapter 8

“He really does resemble a stuffed goose,” Chloe observed over her shoulder to Ellen, who was fussing around with Chloe’s humdrum-hued gowns.

The maid crossed the room to peer over Chloe’s shoulder and smiled. “That he does. ‘Tis a wonder he is able to walk.”

“Ah,” Chloe said, “he waddles, not walks.” They both chuckled before Chloe placed the drawing of the Marquis of Hammersleigh with the neat stack of her other caricatures. She had drawn a perky ribbon around the plump neck of the goose, with a bunch of mistletoe berries tucked in at one side. There was no mistaking who it was, nor her intent to portray him as a
Christmas
goose—for they were the ones often force-fed to produce an exceedingly plump bird.

“You will put them away, I gather,” the maid suggested in a quiet voice.

Chloe picked up the stack, placing them carefully into the cloth-covered folder. The one of her grandmother stuck out at an angle. Chloe pulled it from the stack so she might study the sketch.

“Not kind,” Ellen commented from nearby, where she now attempted to do something with one of the dresses.

“The drawing or my grandmama?” Chloe answered with a sad sigh. Not waiting for a reply—which was not likely to come anyway—Chloe took that picture and tucked it under the things in her bottom bureau drawer. She ought not express her feelings for her grandmother in such an infamous manner, even if the old woman was as mean as could stare.

She found herself in a peculiar dilemma. She truly desired to obey her grandmother—as was most proper, for the old lady was in authority over Chloe. She had been reared to respect authority, and particularly older relatives.

On the other hand, Chloe experienced a growing spirit of resistance. How could a relative—even one who found her more of a nuisance than a joy—consider marriage for Chloe to a man like Lord Twisdale? So very much older and with a questionable history, he hardly seemed like the sort of chap to wish on a girl, a granddaughter you ought to love.

She was considerably torn in her regard for what was due Grandmama.

Aware she was expected to join that lady in the drawing room, for it was her day to receive callers, Chloe rose from her little desk, brushed down her simple gray-sprigged muslin, and marched down the stairs after wishing Ellen good luck with her project. That poor gown had been adapted twice now. Chloe knew an intense desire to buy a new one.

“About time you came down from your room. Drawing again?” Lady Dancy said with a shrewd expression.

Chloe knew she must look guilty. “Yes, Grandmama.”

“Who?”

“Lord Hammersleigh,” Chloe replied meekly.

“I should like to examine those drawings of yours. Get them immediately,” the dowager ordered.

“Yes, Grandmama.” Chloe backed from the room, running lightly up the stairs to fetch the neat cloth-bound bundle. She paused, looking at the bottom drawer and wondering if she ought to bring the other sketch—the one of her grandmother—along. Perhaps she was cowardly, perhaps she was merely being kind—she left it behind.