Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (14 page)

“More fool she,” assured his aunt before returning her attention to arriving guests.

“I am sorry to have subjected you to that,” he apologized as they negotiated their way through the stifling crowd. “I wish I could say that she means well, but I’m afraid it would be nothing but an outright lie. My aunt chooses to amuse only herself.”

“It must run in the family,” she murmured, thinking about his pact with Lady Courtland and how he had no true concern for her feelings.

Although he looked at her oddly, he said nothing, so she was unable to judge whether he heard her comment or not. She glanced around the room in order to locate Pearson and encountered the silky blond curls of her sister instead. “Tell me, Deverill, who is the gentleman talking with my sister Evelyn. I have never seen him before.”

Deverill examined the tall, thin man with the wiry black hair before responding, “That is Mr. Oscar Finchly.” He made a moue of disgust. “I would advise my sister to give him his congé if I were you. He’s a rather unsavory character.”

She had drawn a similar conclusion simply by looking at him, for he had a slippery appearance and his eyes beheld her sister with a disconcertingly avaricious gaze. She did not, however, want to judge anyone unfairly. Having been the victim of just such an injustice only days ago, she knew how hurtful that could be. “How so?”

Deverill was disinclined to go into details and merely said that Finchly played cards by a different set of rules.

“You mean he cheats?” asked Catherine, not content to be so discreet.

He shook his head. “Nobody has ever been able to prove anything. I will say only that there are other sins that have been laid at his door and beg you to leave it at that. Ah, there’s Pearson now chatting with my cousin Constantine. Have you made his acquaintance? He’s a very good chap, if a bit of a fop. ”

Catherine thought that by calling his cousin “a bit of a fop,” Deverill was understating the case by several degrees. Dressed in an elaborately decorated pink topcoat, the man gave new meaning to “pink of the
ton,”
which he was—and then some. But he was easy to talk to despite collar points so well starched that he could barely move his head, and Catherine found him delightful company. When Deverill moved on to mingle with his aunt’s guests, she barely missed him.

At the end of the evening, Catherine, who had been introduced to several interesting prospects, was in such a good mood that she tried to mend fences with Evelyn.

“I think that was a lovely party,” she began. “Did you have a good time, Evelyn?”

“I had a fine time, Catherine,” Evelyn said, sounding bored and refusing to look at her sister. “I didn’t talk to Deverill, of course, but I saw that you talked to him enough for the both of us.”

“And I saw that you had a court of admirers around you.” Catherine forged onward despite this unencouraging start.

Evelyn didn’t answer.

“And Mr. Finchly…”

“What about Mr. Finchly?” her sister demanded when she trailed off.

Since it was clear to her that no fences were to be mended that night, she said, “He’s not to Deverill’s taste. According to him, Mr. Finchly is a scoundrel.”

“In light of recent events, I don’t put any stock in Lord Deverill’s tastes,” Evelyn assured her. ”And I don’t need him to tell me which of my suitors are proper.”

“You’re right,” Catherine agreed. “However, I can’t help wondering if—”

“Mr. Finchly?” muttered their mother, her eyes still shut. “Where have I heard that name? I know, Evelyn has complained about a horrid Mr. Finchly.” Her mother’s eyes opened enquiringly. “Is it the same one? You know, there was a Finchly who Arabella and I helped. A tall man with a thin face who lived in Upper Seymour Street, number 28, I believe. It must also be the same gentleman, for it would be absurd for there to be so many Mr. Finchlys running around London.”

“Yes, that’s the very one,” said Evelyn since her mother had revealed her true feelings on the subject. “And I don’t need Deverill to tell me who’s suitable. I can decide for myself who is to my liking.”

“Of course,” Catherine said calmly, unsurprised by her sister’s prickly response. “I have every faith in your powers of judgment. I was only trying to help, you see.”

“If you really want to help,” said her sister, falling into a pout again, “you can go back into your shell. Don’t think I don’t know about the shopping trip you took with Mama yesterday, the one I wasn’t invited to share. Because I did know about it and I didn’t want to go.” She dissolved into tears again. “I didn’t want to go at all.”

Showing what Catherine thought was a surprising amount of insight, Lady Fellingham said, “I’m sorry, Evelyn. You were still abed, recovering from the ball the night before, and I didn’t want to disturb you. I know how you need your beauty sleep because I was very much the same when I was your age. After a long night out, my sister Louise would be up running around the house doing assorted duties that I never quite understood, but I knew that I needed to sleep. If I didn’t, I would have hideously ugly black circles under my eyes and there was no way to get rid of them, despite my abigail’s insistence that placing cucumbers under the eyes would do just the trick. Louise didn’t have that problem and if she did, it wouldn’t have mattered because she wasn’t the beauty of the family. Things are different when you are truly beautiful.”

Having grown up in one such household where beauty had indeed elevated one daughter over the other, Catherine could attest that things were different when one was beautiful. Thank goodness Evelyn would be long since married when the time arrived to present Melissa, a passably pretty girl, of course, but not a diamond of the first water like Evelyn. Catherine felt very protective of her youngest sister and hoped that she had an easier time of it than she.

“I know, Mama,” said Evelyn, thoroughly corrupted by a lifetime of such reasoning, “that’s why I can’t understand why Deverill is interested in Catherine over me.”

“Because sometimes beauty isn’t everything,” her mother explained, almost sadly, it seemed to Catherine. “And in those cases there is nothing you can do, my dear, except put on a brave face and move on to the next Lord Deverill. There is always another, more handsome peer waiting in the wings.”

Catherine closed her eyes and tried to sleep. The conversation had taken a ridiculous turn, and she didn’t want to hear any more of it if she could help it. She’d always known how beautiful her mother had been when she was young—she had seen the miniature that Lady Fellingham always carried with her—but she had never quite understood what aging meant to a woman whose self-confidence was based entirely on something that would inevitably fade over time. Here in the carriage she had been given a glimpse, and it made her worry for Evelyn’s future. For the first time in her life, Catherine allowed that it might be a far better thing to have countenance than beauty. She dozed with a smile on her face.

When Julian Haverford, Marquess of Deverill, showed up at her door a few days later to take her children to the British Museum, Lady Eliza Fellingham could have been knocked down with a feather, her shock was so great.

“The British Museum?” she said, watching as Caruthers took his hat and coat from him. “
The
British Museum?”

“Make no mistake,” he said, “there is only one British Museum.”

Lady Fellingham laughed distractedly. “Of course. There’s only one. How silly of me. And how rude. Catherine,” she said, not noticing that her daughter was fighting to hold in a fit of giggles, “don’t just stand there staring, take Deverill into the drawing room. Caruthers? Caruthers? Where is that— Oh, there you are. We will have tea in the drawing room. Come, my dear Deverill, and let us talk about the…uh, British Museum.”

Catherine entered the room and closed the door behind her. Her mother and Deverill were already seated. She sat down across from Deverill and studiously evaded his gaze lest she break out into delighted laughter.

“What are you going to see at the museum?” her mother asked, just as the servant brought in the tea. “Caruthers, could you please tell Melissa that she is wanted in the drawing room. Do make sure her hair looks all right before she comes down.”

Caruthers’s lip curled a little at the thought of this very unbutlerlike duty, but he acquiesced with a nod. When he was gone, Lady Fellingham turned to Deverill for confirmation. “You did say Melissa, did you not, my lord? Catherine, be a dear and pour Lord Deverill some tea.”

“I did indeed, madam,” he assured her.

“And you are quite sure you didn’t mean Evelyn?” she asked, somewhat disconcerted by the unexpected situation.

“I am very sure. However, if Evelyn is a fan of antiquities, she is quite welcome to join our little expedition.” He accepted the teacup from Catherine with a glint in his eye, but she refused to respond in kind for fear of losing her composure altogether.

“Evelyn a fan of antiquities?” Lady Fellingham laughed merrily before realizing that she might sound rude. “That is to say, no, she’s not. But I am sure she will be very pleased to hear that she is invited.”

“Isn’t Evelyn napping, Mama?” Catherine said, afraid that they would have to take Evelyn on their trip. She could think of no quicker way to ruin an excursion to the British Museum than to have her fashionable sister dragging behind, complaining of dust and boredom.

“That’s right,” Eliza remembered. “It wouldn’t do to disturb her.”

“I didn’t think so,” her daughter agreed.

“But to return to Melissa. I am not sure I comprehend why you want to take her,” said her devoted mother.

“I understand from Catherine that she is a student of antiquities,” he said, rather disingenuously, “and I thought she might enjoy seeing the Elgin Marbles.”

“The marbles!” she said crossly, tipping over her tea as her hand trembled with shock. “Oh, dear me, what a mess I’ve made. Catherine, pull the bell.”

Catherine obeyed, but instead of sitting there just waiting for someone to respond as her mother did, she dabbed at the spill with a cloth.

The doors opened and in stepped a housemaid. “Yes, my lady?”

“Some tea has been spilt,” Lady Fellingham said, her voice still a little weak. “Please bring fresh linens.”

The housemaid curtsied and left. Eliza took a deep, steadying breath and said calmly, “You were talking about the marbles, my lord?”

“Yes, I thought that the Misses Fellingham might want a look at the marbles,” he explained, with a sideways glance at Catherine, who kept her eyes focused on the carpet, so her mother wouldn’t see her smile. “They’ve been a particular interest of mine since I helped my friend Lord Elgin secure the purchase of them by the government.”

If this information also scandalized Lady Fellingham, she contained it entirely. Her fingers holding the teacup did not so much as quiver. She did, however, look at Deverill cautiously, as if no longer certain what to make of this handsome, rich and titled suitor. “I didn’t know you counted Lord Elgin amongst your friends, my lord.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “He and my father had a long-standing relationship.”

“What happened to him…for a man to lose track of his nose like that—” She broke off here and shook her head mournfully. “He has my sympathy, of course.”

“I will be pleased to pass along your regards,” he said, the irony apparent to no one but Catherine.

“Thank you.”

“As I was saying, I have been assured that your daughters have been only once before,” he explained. “As once is not enough to absorb their magnificence, I thought to offer them my escort for a second visit.”

“You thought?” asked Eliza with a suspicious glance in her daughter’s direction.

Intercepting it, Deverill said, “Entirely my idea. In fact, Miss Fellingham was hesitant to say yes because she feared you wouldn’t approve. I’m afraid I cajoled her into agreeing.” He gave Catherine a fond look for the benefit of her skeptical parent. “I thought she should see the marbles again, and since I enjoy her company, I suggested that we go.”

Catherine was so impressed with Deverill’s performance that the need to clap well-nigh overcame her good sense, but she caught herself just in time. This, however, left her hands perched awkwardly in midair and she poured herself some more tea even though her cup was already half full.

“And taking Melissa?” Liza had yet to be convinced. She recalled Catherine’s uncharacteristic behavior of the previous week and suspected she had something to do with Deverill’s invitation.

“Miss Fellingham explained that she couldn’t in all good conscience go when her sister Melissa was the real enthusiast,” he explained reasonably.

“Did she? How thoughtful,” said her fond parent through practically clenched teeth.

“So naturally I suggested that Melissa come along as well.”

“How nice.”

“Lady Fellingham, perhaps you’d like to join us?” Deverill offered graciously.

The teacup clattered on the saucer at the very suggestion. “Join you?” she managed, her voice faint.

The marquess nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, there’s plenty of room in my carriage, and I would be delighted to give you a private tour of the marbles.”

“A private…oh, dear…you are…I can’t…” Eliza’s face contorted as she foundered for a proper reply to such an indecent yet generous proposal. Finally, she said, “Thank you very much, my lord, for your, uh, kind offer, but I already have a plan for this afternoon. I am going to visit with my dear friend Arabella.”