“You do not care for the idea.”
“I would not mind coming to Town only occasionally. In the country I can be myself instead of always acting the rôle Society expects of me. However, I have no desire to give Lord Charles my fortune or Lord Ryburgh his heir.”
“Jane!”
“I beg your pardon, Gracie, but the only reason
he
has come to Town is to find a wife to provide an heir to his title and estates.” She smiled wryly. “Especially the estates, and all that grows thereon.”
“Have you met no one—eligible or ineligible by her ladyship’s peculiar standards—whom you like well enough to consider marrying?” asked Miss Gracechurch as they reached Piccadilly.
Lord Wintringham’s face flashed before her mind’s eye, to be instantly chased away. What nonsense! She was not even sure that she liked him at all. She was saved from having to find an answer by the need to watch for a gap in the stream of stage coaches, barouches, phaetons, landaus, and drays.
A slow-moving carrier’s cart allowed them to cross at last. They entered Green Park and started around the reservoir.
“No one,” said Jane. “How can I consider marrying any gentleman who only knows me as a prim and proper milk-and-water miss? How shocked he would be after the wedding when he discovered my true nature!” She giggled.
“I suppose you cannot be expected to keep up appearances for ever,” said Gracie with a smile, then went on hesitantly, “I was surprised, this morning, to find you so adamantly set against meeting Lord Wintringham. I was under the impression that you were on comfortable terms with him.”
To her annoyance, Jane felt her cheeks grow hot. She was glad of an excuse to turn away her face: to gaze at a flock of graceful, white swans, with their bright, orange beaks, that swam nearby.
She had not told Gracie about Lord Wintringham’s kiss, nor did she intend to do so. And that last evening at the Abbey, she recalled, Gracie had been absorbed in conversation with Mr. Selwyn when she and Lavinia sat down to play duets and the earl stalked out wearing his Winter face.
“Some of the time we were on comfortable terms,” she said noncommittally, “and some of the time on most uncomfortable terms. I never quite knew what to expect of him. I wish I had not pretended to be plain Miss Brooke. He himself told me that he abhors deceit.”
“My dear, in those circumstances, surrounded by those companions, had you announced yourself as Lady Jane, daughter of the Marquis of Hornby, he would never have believed you. He would have thought you a bold liar, an adventuress, in short a deceiver.”
“So either way I could not win his regard.”
Gracie gave her a commiserating glance. “I fear not. I am sorry to learn that you wished to.”
“Oh, I do not care a fig for his opinion,” Jane said airily. “Only, if he finds out who I really am, there will be a horrid scandal.”
“I cannot suppose Lord Wintringham to be given to gossiping!”
“No, but he has only to mention it to one person for the world to know. Where gossip is concerned, London Society is as bad as a country village, I vow.” She sighed. “The worst of it is, I shall have to be even more on my best behaviour now, lest the tattlemongers find reason to gossip of Lady Jane Brooke. One mention of my name in My Lord Winter’s presence and he will guess the whole.”
“It seems to me, my dear, that you care more for the earl’s opinion than for all the rest of the world. You have painted in your mind an exaggerated picture of his importance, which I daresay a single meeting will cut down to size. Perhaps the impression he has made upon you is due to his being the first eligible and attractive gentleman you ever met.”
“Attractive! Not he!” Jane denied with unnecessary vehemence.
They came to the green-painted gate in the brick wall of the Hornby mansion. Jane dug the key out of her reticule. As they walked up the garden between neat beds of crocus and daffodils and bare rose-bushes, an unexpected flash of homesickness surprised her. At home, though hills and hollows would still be blanketed with snow, green shoots would be poking through the soil in sheltered corners of the gardens of Hornby Castle. Winter was hard in the north, but how welcome was spring! Here in the city one rarely noticed the changing seasons.
Why had she been so eager for London when, in retrospect, life at Hornby had been so delightfully simple?
When they reached the house, Lord Ryburgh had just arrived. His ruddy, weathered face, the face of a farmer, broke into a smile on seeing Jane and he bowed awkwardly over her hand, unused to doing the pretty.
“If you don’t mind, Lady Jane,” he said, “instead of Hyde Park we’ll drive out of London a little distance. I want to see how the winter wheat is doing hereabouts compared to Norfolk.”
Jane met Gracie’s eyes and a gurgle of laughter escaped her. “I had best change this pelisse for something warmer,” she said hurriedly, and dashed upstairs to fetch her fur-lined cloak—and to warn Ella that Lord Wintringham had come to Town.
* * * *
“I got your note, Miss Ella.”
“I reckoned you must’ve, Mr. Alfred, seeing as you’re here.”
“How did you hear we was come to Town?”
“That’s for me to know and you to wonder.”
“Come here often, do you, to St. James’s Park?”
“Aye, when I can. I like the band. Them soldiers play such pretty music.”
“Not as pretty as you, Ella.”
“Get along wi’ you! Fair words butter no parsnips.”
“I mean it, Ella, honest. I’d like fine to walk out with you. Where are you living now?”
“I can’t tell you, Alfred, and that’s God’s truth.”
“Why not? Your Miss Gracechurch wouldn’t mind if I called, would she?”
“Give over asking questions, do. I can’t, and that’s that, and it’ll do you no good scowling at me.”
“Was I? I didn’t mean to. Only it’s a havey-cavey business, you not willing to say where you’re lodging.”
“I won’t walk out wi’ a fella as don’t trust me.”
“I trust you, promise I do. I’ll meet you here, or anywheres you say. I’ll meet you on top of Paul’s steeple if you’ll gi’ me a kiss.”
“What, wi’ all them people watching! Oh, a’ right, then. Just a quick un. Mmm. I wish I c’d tell you, Alfred, I really do.”
* * * *
Edmund had to wait three days before Mr. Selwyn was at leisure to entertain him. In the meantime, he went to see his own lawyer, Mr. Thorpe Senior of Thorpe, Morecambe, and Thorpe.
Among other business, he wanted to arrange an annuity for his cousin, Miss Neville, since she had left the protection of his household. It was his duty as head of the family, but he couldn’t help thinking that Jane would undoubtedly approve. Old Mr. Thorpe, however, without demeaning himself by useless argument, made plain his disapproval, as he did of any change unlikely to earn him large fees.
Edmund’s banker was more accommodating in the matter of a few minor changes in investments. Too many of his clients took no interest in the management of their financial assets, he confided, unless there was a drastic loss for which the bank could be blamed.
Duty drove Edmund to sit through an endless debate in the House of Lords on a minor change in the laws governing the East India Company. He had no interest in the question, but his vote might help garner support for his position on another subject when he did care about the outcome. For the same reason, he spent an afternoon at White’s discussing politics.
The three days passed slowly. Early each morning, hours before the arrival of the fashionable promenaders, he rode in Hyde Park. He visited the booksellers of Paternoster Row and St. Paul’s Churchyard, where he purchased several new works. By chance be came across Boswell’s
Life of Johnson,
of no great value but he bought it on impulse. Jane might like to have it—if he was ever on such terms with her as to be able to give it to her.
If he ever saw her again.
At last Saturday evening came. Edmund dressed in his finest evening clothes, fit for a banquet at Carlton House, and then bethought him that such sartorial splendour might embarrass the lawyer. To Alfred’s loudly expressed exasperation he changed into the less modish, more comfortable evening dress he generally wore in the country.
He was glad be had taken the trouble when he reached the narrow, cramped house in Hart Street. Mr. Selwyn’s greeting was a trifle wary. They went into a tiny sitting-room and exchanged polite common places over an excellent sherry.
Holding his glass up to the light, Edmund decided the fine old wine was the exact colour of Jane’s hair. He longed to ask after her, or at least after Miss Gracechurch, but they were on terms too formal for any but the most casual enquiry. He had been foolish to hope that Selwyn might help him contact ladies who had chosen to conceal their direction.
After a few uncomfortable minutes the housekeeper announced dinner. The dining-room was not much larger than the sitting-room, able to seat eight at a pinch. The food was good, though plain. The wine, a burgundy rather than the more popular claret, was superb.
“Fine wines are one of my two indulgences,” Selwyn confessed, “the other being books, as you are aware.”
Once they began to talk of books, they quickly regained the easy fellowship of the days at Wintringham Abbey. After dinner they took their brandy, a richly mellow armagnac, across the passage to the library. As big as the sitting and dining-rooms combined, it clearly showed where the lawyer’s priorities lay. Edmund examined his Bacon and one or two other books of interest to the collector. He uttered all the right comments and expressions of admiration, but all the while he was wondering how to introduce the names of Miss Gracechurch and Miss Brooke.
Chance saved him the trouble. “Shall we play a game of chess?” the lawyer suggested, indicating the board on a small table at Edmund’s elbow.
“You appear to be in the middle of a game. I would not wish to interrupt it.”
“The positions are engraved upon my memory. I can easily set it up again.”
Edmund studied the board. “Are you playing black or white? Black? You have your opponent on the run, I believe.”
“Miss Gracechurch is an exceptional woman,” he said, his long face flushing unexpectedly, “but she has little time for chess at present. We play a few moves whenever she visits, which is more rarely than I could wish, since she is not often free and my afternoons are generally occupied in court or in my chambers.”
Edmund scarcely heard the latter part of this speech. Rearranging the chessmen for a new game, with more care than the task warranted, he said casually, “So Miss Gracechurch is still in Town? And the young woman who was travelling with her... What was her name... Miss Brooke, was it not?”
“Miss Brooke is also in London,” Selwyn said, his gaze shrewder than Edmund liked. “I have seen her twice or thrice.”
“I...er...I expect I ought to pay my respects to Miss Gracechurch.”
“You will understand, my lord, that I cannot divulge a lady’s direction without her permission. However, if you wish I shall inform Miss Gracechurch that you consider it incumbent upon you to present your compliments...in person.”
“Please do.” Edmund suspected that the lawyer was amused; he was too gratified by the outcome to care. “Shall we play?”
Not until his carriage bore him homeward did his optimism fade. After all, why should Jane agree to receive him? She had been friendly, but no more so to him than to anyone else at the Abbey willing to respond to her overtures. That last evening, she had paid more attention to the others, chattering with Reid and playing music with Lavinia when she could have talked or played chess with her host.
At least she must be acquitted of any deference to his rank or wealth!
And then he had forced his attentions on her, his kiss no more welcome, than young Reid’s. Indeed, she had little cause to like or trust him.
Edmund reminded himself that the only reason he wanted to see Miss Jane Brooke was to apologize.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Lord Wintringham entered, Jane curtsied. In Mr. Selwyn’s small room his large presence was overpowering, and she was glad that nervous anticipation had kept her standing. Determined not to be intimidated, she raised her chin as if that would make her taller. She wished she had dared wear one of her new gowns instead of the far from modish green-sprigged muslin of Hornby vintage. Not that the most fashionable of morning dresses was likely to wipe the austere expression from his lordship’s face.
What right had he to look so forbidding when he had agreed to—nay, requested!—this meeting? she fumed indignantly.
Miss Gracechurch, seated by the fire, smiled and nodded. “How do you do, my lord,” she greeted him.
“Miss Gracechurch, Miss Brooke, your servant.” He bowed, unsmiling.
Mr. Selwyn exchanged a dismayed glance with Miss Gracechurch and ventured an innocuous remark upon the weather. “The present alternation of sunshine and showers is said to be typical of April,” he observed, “yet it is still March. I am always slightly surprised when Nature does not conform to our expectations.”
Gracie said something about March winds, and Jane mischievously added a word on the subject of February fog. Whether My Lord Winter had anything to say of January ice and snow she never discovered, for the housekeeper came in with the tea tray. Without asking, she set it before Miss Gracechurch.
A maid followed with a tray of cakes and biscuits, which she put down on a small table by the window. Jane took the cup of tea Gracie poured for her and moved over to the window, where she stood sipping, gazing out at the tiny fenced garden, bright with daffodils. This encounter with the earl was not going at all as she had imagined it, not that she ever knew what to expect of him.
He came to join her, standing on the other side of the table, and picked up one of the plates of biscuits. “Do you care to try a macaroon, ma’am?”
“Thank you, sir.” She nibbled on the sweet confection of almonds and egg-whites while he went to offer the plate to the others.
Returning, he took a slice of seed cake and balanced it on his saucer. “Miss Brooke,” he said stiffly in a low voice, “I have sought this opportunity to apologize for my unpardonable behaviour. Dare I hope to be forgiven?”