Gayle Buck (16 page)

“See that she doesn’t. Good day to you, my lord,” said William Pepperidge. He made an awkward bow and moved off to make himself known to Captain Hargrove, who had attended the wedding in his regimentals.

Mr. Underwood had come up in time to catch the youth’s last utterance and he glanced curiously after the young gentlemen. “Whatever was that about, Sinjin?”

“A piece of infernal impertinence,” said Lord St. John, dismissing it impatiently. “I suppose that you and Nana are doing the pretty and making your excuses?”

“We’ve done our duty, old boy, and have seen you through to the end,” said Mr. Underwood with a shrug and a laugh. He held out his hand and, suddenly somber, said, “Good luck to you, Sinjin.”

Lord St. John took his friend’s fingers in a hard grasp. “Be damned to you, Carey. You know that I’ve the devil’s own luck. I always come about.”

“So it would seem,” said Mr. Underwood, glancing in the new viscountess’s direction. “I see that Nana is mightily taken by her. That is positively the most elegant leg I have ever seen him make.” As Lord Heatherton took leave of the bride,
Mr. Underwood hailed him. When his lordship came up, he said, “I have been telling Sinjin that you’ve taken a liking to his bride.”

“Of course I like Lady St. John. Why shouldn’t I?” said Lord Heatherton, surprised. He frowned at Mr. Underwood. “Don’t you, Carey?”

“A home question for you, my friend,” murmured Lord St. John sardonically.

“And a most improper one, which I am honor bound to ignore,” said Mr. Underwood. “Come, Nana, let us be off. Sinjin and Lady St. John must naturally be anxious to return to London.”

“We will be gone from London for an indefinite time,” said Lord St. John shortly. “Witherspoon will handle any inquiries that are made in connection to the announcement that has been inserted in the
Gazette.”

Mr. Underwood’s brows rose. The inquisitiveness of the
ton
would naturally be fanned to white heat by the announcement of Lord St. John’s marriage, but with the passing of a few weeks something new would be going the rounds of the gossip mill and the advent of Lord and Lady St. John on the social scene would then occasion only mild curiosity. All in all, he thought, his lordship was behaving most wisely. It crossed his mind to wonder what Lord St. John meant to do with his bride once his lordship had established her in the town house.

His understanding of the viscount was such that he did not tax Lord St. John to reveal his plans, however, but instead he adjured Lord Heatherton again to finish taking leave of those of the wedding party who still lingered.

Mr. Pepperidge had reluctantly let his daughter be led off by her maid so that she could change into traveling clothes. His gaze clung for a sentimental moment on her graceful figure, then he harrumphed and turned about to stump up to his son-in-law. “Lord St. John.”

Lord St. John, where he was standing inside the open door giving onto the chapel porch, had been contemplating the dreary weather outside. His expression was still frowning when he turned his eyes to Mr. Pepperidge, but he met the gentlemen’s hand readily enough. “Mr. Pepperidge.”

“I shall not beat about the bush with you, my lord. I know well that this is not the connection that you had wanted for yourself. But I wish you to know that my daughter is as true a lady as if she had been born to it, which you shall learn soon enough,” said Mr. Pepperidge.

“I am certain that I shall,” said Lord St. John.

Mr. Pepperidge looked sharply into the viscount’s eyes, but the cool gray depths gave nothing away. “I wish every happiness for her, my lord.”

“I am pledged to provide all within my power,” said Lord St. John. He wondered if he was to sustain a threat of bodily harm from another of his wife’s relations and the thought caused a thin smile to rise to his lips. His expression was wiped clean by his father-in-law’s next words.

“You need not be anxious that I shall embarrass you, my lord, by forever taking my ease in your parlor. Well I know that you are above my company. I shall be happy only to be allowed to visit with my daughter on the rare occasion, if you will consent to her coming to my home.”

Though his countenance revealed nothing of his thoughts, Lord St. John was uncharacteristically startled. He could discern in his father-in-law’s stiff posture the effort it had taken to ask for such a concession and he felt a reluctant admiration for the gentleman’s strength. Quietly, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Pepperidge. I assure you, however, that I am not as high in the instep as you think me. I shall not forbid my wife from associating with her family.”

Mr. Pepperidge smiled, a somewhat shrewd look coming into his eyes. “You’ve pride enough, my lord. I know that, even though you are polite to a point. Never fear; I know the bounds and shall keep to them. I’ll not keep you longer, my lord.” He bowed and moved away to meet his daughter, who had changed into a smart traveling pelisse and was coming toward the door of the chapel with her maid in tow.

Mr. Pepperidge’s place was taken by Captain Hargrove. He grasped the viscount’s hand. “I wish you well, my lord. You’ve embarked on a campaign that I, for one, would not have the courage to contemplate,” he said.

Lord St. John stiffened slightly. There came a cold glitter into his eyes. “What precisely do you mean, Hargrove?”

Captain Hargrove grinned, quite understanding the viscount’s suddenly softened, deadly voice. “I mean nothing but that the notion of wedded bliss makes my blood run cold.” He paused momentarily, then said, “My lord, ours is too short an acquaintance to allow for liberties, but nevertheless I offer this observation. You cannot call out every man who appears to slight your bride.”

Lord St. John locked gazes with the captain for a long moment. Then his expression eased into one of those quick, natural grins that came so rarely to him. “I shall remember that, Hargrove.” He held out his hand again. Captain Hargrove grasped it a short moment, turned to bid good-bye to the new viscountess and her parent, and swiftly left.

Mr. Pepperidge saw that the viscount’s carriage was waiting at the curb. He, also, made his good-byes, tears standing in his eyes as he kissed his daughter. She clung to him, her own eyes awash. “There now, dear Mary. You are to be happy.” She nodded, smiling tremulously, and turned away to find her husband awaiting her.

The viscount handed her up into the carriage before entering it himself. Then the carriage swept them away.

Chapter 15

For their honeymoon, Viscount Weemswood took his bride to Rosethorn Hall. Mary saw the manor from the window of the carriage, very late in the afternoon. The sun was slanting off the mellow stone and glinted in the leaded-glass windows of the Tudor manor. She fell in love at once with the house set in the rough grounds. “It is a beautiful place,” she exclaimed.

Lord St. John glanced over at his bride, feeling surprised pleasure that she should like her first sight of Rosethorn Hall. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, yes. How very happy you must have been here as a child,” said Mary.

At once the faint smile in his eyes vanished. “I believe we are expected,” he said coolly.

Mary did not reply, having realized instantly that she had inadvertently said the wrong thing. The viscount had briefly told her where they were going and had mentioned that Rosethorn had been his birthplace and childhood home. She had erroneously assumed that Rosethorn must hold pleasant memories for him, but obviously that was hardly the case. She wondered why, then, he had chosen to bring her here rather than take her to his London town house.

When the marriage settlements had been signed, the viscount had authorized his secretary to inform the staff at Rosethorn of his wishes. Mr. Witherspoon’s communication, coupled as it was with instructions to increase the household staff and make ready for the newly wed couple, had thrown the viscount’s retainers into a flurry of activity.

Under-footmen, upper-housemaids, and a scullery maid had been hired. The question of whether a cook was necessary had been settled and a worthy woman had been engaged for the post. “For it’s of no use to think that his lordship will be satisfied with my cooking when his lady wife will need me as housekeeper,” said Mrs. Jessup comfortably.

The manor house had been turned inside out in a mammoth cleaning. Holland covers had been whisked away; furniture burnished free of dust and cobwebs; floors and woodwork polished; windows washed; and carpets beaten. The larders had been filled. For those items easily perishable, standing orders had been left in the village. Mr. Jessup descended to the cellar to take inventory of the wine stock and was pleasantly surprised to discover a few treasures. As he told Mrs. Jessup, “You could have knocked me over with a feather, for I had thought the Frenchy brandy had all been tossed down the late lord’s throat long years past. But there it is and very pleased I am to have it.”

When the carriage swept up to the front steps, all was in readiness. The staff was hastily assembled in the front hall to greet the viscount and his lady. Mr. Jessup swept the stiff company with a stern eye, then nodded for one of the footmen to open the door. He himself went forward to be the first to bow the newlyweds into the house.

Lord St. John was surprised by the reception awaiting himself and his bride, but he instantly saw his secretary’s hand in it. Witherspoon, estimable and foresighted man that he was, had taken it upon himself to provide for their real comfort. With a smile, then, Lord St. John said, “Jessup, I am happy to see you. Let me make known to you Lady St. John.”

“It is an honor, my lady,” said Jessup with grave dignity.

Mary inclined her head with a smile. She felt a flutter of trepidation at the sight of the formal ranking of the servants but she steeled herself. She was no longer mistress of her father’s house with its staff of three servants and she must become accustomed to her new rank. “Thank you, Jessup.”

Lord St. John had given his beaver and gloves to a footman. He shot a swift glance about the gleaming entry hall. “I cannot recall when I have seen the place appear to better advantage.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Jessup bowed his appreciation. “Allow me to make known the staff to you, my lord, my lady.”

The reviewing of the staff took several minutes as each was introduced and made his or her obeisance to the master and mistress. In the middle of it all, the second carriage carrying Lord St. John’s valet and her ladyship’s maid arrived, requiring that the baggage be carried inside and upstairs. The resultant lengthening of the review caused a frown to deepen on Lord St. John’s face. Mary, acutely aware of her husband’s impatience, drew a thankful breath when it was at last done.

“You will undoubtedly want to refresh yourself and rest before dinner. Mrs. Jessup will show you up to your rooms. I have some estate matters to attend to this afternoon, but I will see you again at dinner,” said Lord St. John.

Mary smiled and nodded as she turned toward the housekeeper, who awaited her. She felt she had been quite effectively dismissed. She was not surprised and even felt a little relieved. The viscount had been unfailingly polite toward her during the drive to Rosethorn, but it had not taken any degree of intelligence to realize that he had no real desire for her company.

Mary was shown into her bedroom by the housekeeper. Mrs. Jessup explained that beyond the bedroom was her ladyship’s private sitting room and the dressing room for her ladyship’s dresser. Mary glanced about as she stepped inside. The bedroom was nicely appointed in the style of a past era, though the draperies were faded and the carpet was somewhat worn. Nevertheless it was a welcoming apartment with fresh-cut flowers on the side table and a cheerful fire in the grate.

“If you need anything at all, my lady, there is the pull beside the bed,” said Mrs. Jessup, anxious that her new mistress be satisfied.

Mary drew off her gloves, saying, “It is all quite nice, Mrs. Jessup. I see that Smith has the unpacking of my trunks well in hand, so I think that will be sufficient for now.”

The housekeeper curtsied. “You’ll likely want to rest an hour before changing for dinner, so I will leave you.”

The day had been an exhausting one and the hour was far advanced by the time they had reached Rosethorn Hall, so Mary received the suggestion that she rest with relief. She allowed her maid to remove her pelisse and lay down on the bed. She was asleep almost the instant her head had touched the pillow.

An hour later, she was awakened and her maid helped her to change for dinner. When she was ready, she found a footman waiting outside her door to guide her downstairs to the dining room.

Lord St. John was already seated but he rose at her entrance and came round the table to take her hand. “My lady. I am honored that you have joined me.”

“I see that I am tardy. Pray forgive me for making you wait,” said Mary diffidently, glancing up at him as he seated her.

Lord St. John took the chair opposite. “It was of little consequence. I am not one to demand rabid punctilio from my friends, nor shall I do so with my wife.”

Mary did not know how to respond. The indifference in his expression and his voice precluded anything she might say. She was saved from embarrassment when the butler began to direct the serving of the first course.

The first dinner at Rosethorn was one that Mary would always recall as uncomfortable and unbearably polite. Lord St. John scarcely addressed her, except with a courteous inquiry into her likes and dislikes as each course was presented. When the interminable repast ended with an offering of creams and tarts, which she refused, Mary was not reluctant to accede to custom and retire to the drawing room, leaving his lordship to enjoy his wine in private.

She found her embroidery basket thoughtfully placed beside a wing chair close to the fire and with relief entered upon the familiar and restful task. An hour later the butler entered to inquire whether she wished to be served coffee, but she declined it. Sometime later, when she glanced up at the clock on the mantle, she discovered that it was after ten o’clock. Certain, then, that the viscount did not intend to join her in the drawing room, Mary calmly put away her handiwork and went upstairs.