“No, ma’am. But I wish I knew.” She yearned to understand Lord Wintringham, to understand what had turned Fitz’s friend of long ago into the unapproachable Lord Winter. Yet as long as be was in London she would go in dread of coming face to face with him by chance.
The butler interrupted her melancholy reflections with the delivery of a basket of grapes. Jane popped one into her mouth and read the accompanying card.
“From Lord Ryburgh’s succession houses, with apologies for being prevented by a previous engagement from paying a courtesy call after the ball,” she reported. “Oh Gracie, he is already wooing me with his crops! Try one, they are very sweet.” Laughing, she held out the basket.
* * * *
Tooling his curricle across Henley bridge, Edmund recalled how Jane Brooke had looked forward to seeing the pleasant little town with the Thames meandering through the wooded valley. And later, when Windsor Castle came into view, he thought of her again. Not that he needed reminding.
He had fought to put the impossible, impertinent minx out of his mind, without the least degree of success. That final, stolen kiss haunted him. How sweetly tender her lips had been, her skin like rose-petals—he groaned, a flickering flame stirring in his loins at the very memory of holding her close. For a moment she had yielded, clinging to him, a moment of rapture before she pulled away, sparks of righteous indignation flashing in her eyes.
She had threatened to swoon or scream or slap his face. Not for an instant had he doubted that the third would be her choice, but instead she had slain him with wit. In truth, he had behaved no better than young Reid.
Worse, for he was no ingenuous youth. He
must
see
her to apologize.
That was the only conceivable reason for wanting to meet her. She had cut up his peace, insinuated herself within the walls that held the world at bay. She had forced him to see those walls as a defence, not the symbol of superiority he had thought them. Alfred had been inside the walls when Edmund built them; Fitz, absent during the building, had breached them by failing to notice them; but in twenty years Jane was the only other person to touch the man within. Miss Jane Brooke had observed the walls, and blithely ignored them.
He dared not let her come close again, yet he owed it to his honour to apologize. Until that was done he’d not be able to forget her. For just that purpose he was on his way to Town weeks earlier than he had planned, hoping that she had not already found a position and departed for some distant corner of the kingdom.
Not that he had much hope of finding her in the vast metropolis, he thought, driving through the Tyburn Turnpike then swinging right into Park Lane. His only chance was that the lawyer, Selwyn, might know where Miss Gracechurch was lodging. Fortunately, the fellow’s first edition of Bacon made a reasonable excuse for calling on him.
Left into Upper Brook Street, and a moment later he pulled up in front of the classical symmetry of Wintringham House, facing south across Grosvenor Square. His groom jumped down and took the reins.
The front door opened as Edmund strode up the steps. His London butler, Mason, bowed and reported, “Mr. Alfred arrived with your lordship’s luggage half an hour since, my lord.”
“Very good.” Edmund brightened, recalling that Alfred had intended to ask Miss Gracechurch’s abigail for her direction. As he handed over his hat and gloves and permitted the waiting footman to relieve him of his driving coat, another possible way to track down Miss Brooke dawned on him: Lavinia Chatterton. She and Jane had been thick as thieves. He’d be damned if he’d go anywhere near Lavinia, but Fitz could find out whether the girls were corresponding. Fitz, though no hardened gamester, was often to be found at the tables at White’s in the early evening. “I shall dine at my club,” he informed Mason.
“Yes, my lord.” If the butler spared a thought for the roast turning on the spit, the pie crust browning in the oven, no reflection of it appeared on his wooden face. His master was to try him more highly.
“And I shall want a note carried to Bloomsbury in a few minutes.”
“Bloomsbury,
my lord?” Mason faltered. The Earl of Wintringham’s frosty stare pierced to his bones. “Certainly, my lord; one of the underfootmen shall await your lordship’s convenience.”
Edmund found Alfred in his dressing-room, unpacking his clothes. “I shall dine at White’s,” he announced.
“Right, my lord. The fawn marcella waistcoat?” The valet grinned. “They’ll be fit to be tied in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen? What the devil do you mean?”
“Well, it stands to reason. You don’t come to Town that often, my lord, and they’ll be wanting to impress you with extra-special grub your first night.”
“They may impress me tomorrow night,” said Edmund impatiently, “and I’ll have something to say if the quality of the ‘grub’ deteriorates thereafter. You can have the evening off. I daresay you are eager to call on your sweetheart.”
“My sweetheart?” said Alfred, startled.
“I distinctly recall your telling me that you were enamoured of Miss Gracechurch’s abigail. Have you so soon forgot our stranded travellers?”
“No, my lord, but Miss Ella wouldn’t give me her direction.”
Edmund smiled at his disgruntled tone, though it meant he had lost one chance of finding Jane Brooke.
He walked to St. James’s Street through the gas-lit streets of Mayfair, quiet at this hour between Society’s afternoon and evening engagements. The dandies who sat all day in the bow window of White’s, quizzing passers-by, had gone home to primp, but the card rooms were never unoccupied. As he passed through, in search of Fitz, a number of acquaintances greeted him. None asked him to join them.
He found Fitz at the faro table, a game involving a minimum of skill and a maximum of chance. A good deal of noise and laughter arose from the players, idle, sociable young men more interested at present in fellowship than the turn of the cards. Serious gambling for high stakes would become more general later, and continue until dawn.
“I’m off, fellows.” Fitz pocketed a couple of guineas with an air of satisfaction. Standing up, he caught sight of Edmund and smiled a welcome. “Why, hullo, Ned.”
Several of his companions looked up. Their boisterous jollity faded at the sight of the earl. Some nodded; others murmured politely, “Servant, my lord,” or, “How do, Wintringham.” Edmund nodded in response as Fitz came round the table to join him.
“You here already?” enquired Fitz superfluously. A sudden thought seemed to strike him and he went on in an apprehensive voice, “You ain’t going to do the Season this year, are you? Her ladyship come with you?”
“My aunt is gone down to Kent, where my cousin Wrexham is involved in some sort of domestic crisis. Were she here, she would probably attempt to force Lavinia or some other noble chit upon me, but in her absence I have no intention of doing the pretty to a swarm of bread-and-butter misses. I dine here tonight. Will you join me?”
“Sorry, old chap, I’m a family man now, remember. Daphne is expecting me. I’ll take a glass with you before I go.”
“How does Lady Fitzgerald go on?” Edmund asked as they made their way to the common-room.
“Blooming, though she won’t be dashing about Town for a few weeks yet. I say, why don’t you come and take pot luck?”
“Thank you, but are not the fair Lavinia and Lady Chatterton residing with you? Pray convey my respects to all three ladies.” They sat down and he ordered a bottle of claret from the waiter who rushed up to them.
“You need not fear that Lavinia will resume the pursuit,” said Fitz as the waiter departed. “Jane Brooke persuaded her she wouldn’t like to be married to you.”
“Has she been corresponding with Miss Brooke?” He tried to hide his eagerness.
“Corresponding?” Fitz gave a nervous start. Edmund realized his mama-in-law would doubtless disapprove of a friendship between her daughter and a penniless nobody. “No, that was at the Abbey, remember. They were thick as thieves.”
Edmund swallowed his disappointment. “But as soon as Miss Brooke left the Abbey, Lavinia was in full cry again,” he pointed out.
“Only because she’s afraid of Lady Wintringham. She ain’t afraid of her mama.”
“I believe I shall keep my distance nonetheless.”
Fitz refused to stay for more than one glass of wine, confessing with a happy laugh that he was a henpecked husband. After a delicious but solitary dinner, Edmund walked home, past houses blazing with light, carriages queuing before their doors and music wafting from within. He retired to his library—not so extensive as the Abbey’s, but a good size for a town house—and took up a favourite book.
The printed words blurred before his eyes. One chance left. What would he do if Mr. Selwyn was unable to help him find Jane?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thursday was Lady Hornby’s At Home day, and Jane and Miss Gracechurch were expected to remove themselves from St. James’s Place between the hours of eleven and three. Therefore, although the ladies had not yet left the house, the butler denied them when Lord Fitzgerald and Miss Chatterton rang the doorbell at ten minutes before the hour.
If he expected them to leave calling cards, in the normal way, he was sadly disillusioned.
“We
must
see Lady Jane!” insisted Miss Chatterton. ‘‘If she is really not at home, where did she go?”
Thus caught between a rock and a hard place, Arbuckle breathed a silent sigh of relief when Lady Jane’s voice came from behind him, “Why, Lavinia, and Lord Fitzgerald. Miss Gracechurch will be down shortly and we are just going out, but do come in for a moment.”
Jane, dressed in a modish pelisse of blue-and-green striped
gros de Naples,
led the way into the Chinese salon. Fitz shut the door firmly behind them.
“He is come!” said Lavinia dramatically, sinking onto a chair.
“Who is come?” Jane asked, though she had a disquieting feeling that she could guess.
“I told her there was no urgency,” Fitz grumbled, “but she would have it you must know at once. I met Ned—Wintringham—at White’s last night. You could have knocked me down with a feather. Well, I mean, he said he was coming up in April and it’s still March.”
“He is not...” Jane clasped her hands tightly before her “...he is not come for the Season?”
“No, no; no fear of that. I asked him outright.”
“But White’s, Jane! It is just around the corner, in St. James’s Street. You might come face to face with him at any moment.”
“I hardly think so, Lavinia dear,” she said soothingly, though her heart pounded at the very thought. “After all, it is unthinkable for ladies to walk or drive in an open carriage in St. James’s Street. On fine days we often go out through the garden directly into Green Park. I always carry a key to the door in the wall in case I want to come back that way.”
As she spoke, the door opened and Miss Gracechurch came in. “Jane, it is time we... Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Chatterton, my lord, I did not realize you were here.”
“That’s quite all right, ma’am,” Fitz assured her, “We are on our way. I say, if you have no pressing engagements, won’t you come back with us to see Daphne?”
“Yes, do,” said Lavinia. “She would be beyond anything pleased.”
Jane shook her head. “Much as I should like to visit Lady Fitzgerald and the baby, suppose
he
were to call on you!”
“Ned? Not a chance. He don’t care to run the risk of meeting Lavinia,” said Fitz with brutal frankness.
“Well, I’m sure he need not worry,” his sister-in-law said indignantly. “You may tell him I would as lief not meet him either!”
Torn between disappointment and relief, Jane agreed that the Fitzgerald’s house was probably safe, so thither they all repaired.
Daphne was delighted by Jane and Miss Gracechurch’s visit, and the baby cooed and gurgled and blew bubbles at them. They stayed for some time, before going about their errands. As Thomas followed them along Bond Street, from milliner to haberdasher to Hookham’s Circulating Library, Jane kept a nervous watch for Lord Wintringham’s tall figure. Twice she was startled by glimpses of the backs of broad-shouldered Corinthians heading for Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, but the earl did not appear.
Thomas was depositing the last armful of packages in the carriage when a cheery “View halloo!” announced that Lord Charles Newbury had spotted them.
“Care for an ice?” he asked. “M’sister says Gunter’s is the place to treat a young lady, and Berkeley Square is just a step away, down Bruton Street.”
Though bright, the day was chilly, but Jane liked the ingenuous young man and did not want to refuse him. He was so obviously pleased with himself for knowing about Gunter’s. After consulting Gracie, she accepted the invitation and sent the carriage home.
Lord Charles hustled them along Bruton Street at a pace uncomfortable even for country-bred ladies. Arriving breathless at the famous confectioner’s, they both chose a warming bowl of turtle soup rather than ices. Their host entertained them with a detailed description of a curricle race he had witnessed the previous day.
“Ashburton lost, so I’m out of pocket,” he confessed, “but luckily Tuesday was Quarter Day so the dibs are in tune at present. I don’t want you to think I’m a gambler. Lady Jane,” he added anxiously. “I’d far rather drive in a race than bet on one. It’s just there ain’t much to do in London compared to the country.”
“You do not care for the city, sir?”
“Not I. Wouldn’t come near the place if it wasn’t for needing a rich...” Lord Charles turned scarlet and stammered, “Forget what I was going to say.”
Amused, Jane took pity on him. “I enjoy the amusements of Town,” she said, “though I like life in the country also.”
“You do? I knew you was a right one!”
Miss Gracechurch said that it was time to leave, since Jane had an appointment to drive in Hyde Park with Lord Ryburgh. Lord Charles’s face fell at the news but he offered to escort them back to St. James’s Place, an offer that was gently but firmly refused.
As they strolled down Berkeley Street, Jane said gloomily, “Now I know why the marchioness wants me to marry him. He would carry me off to the country and she need never see me again. As would Lord Ryburgh, who is as obsessed with agriculture as Lord Charles is with sport.”