The Bridal Season (18 page)

“And that,” said Cabot, “is precisely why you have to stay and
arrange Miss Angela’s reception.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Letty asked flatly without looking
up. “I won’t even be here tomorrow night. I wouldn’t be here today if the
dratted train ran on a regular schedule.”

She cast a weathered eye on the satchel. It stood where she’d
left it. No sense in unpacking. She’d already purchased the train ticket. Not
to Whitlock, as she’d told Sir Elliot, but south to York. She had one more
night in which to be a lady. One more night in which to—One more night. He
probably wouldn’t even be there.

“Letty. You can’t leave. I mean it.”

“Just watch me,” she said, feeling suddenly dismal.

She snipped off a length of the lace she’d selected, stabbing
pins into it as she fixed it to the seam.

“If you leave,” Cabot said, “I shall immediately go to Sir
Elliot and tell him who—and what—you are.”

Letty stopped what she was doing. “The man I knew wouldn’t
have blackmailed a friend,” she said.

“You leave me no choice,” Cabot replied, refusing to drop his
gaze.

It was she who broke off their staring contest. She was being
unfair. Cabot was only trying to do right by the family who’d earned his
loyalty. It wasn’t Cabot’s fault that what he suggested was exactly what she
most wanted to do. But that didn’t mean she’d risk her life to do so.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cabot,” she said. “I’ve kept to my part
of the bargain. I said right from the beginning that I wouldn’t be here more
than a few days. You didn’t object then. Nothing’s changed. The Bigglesworths
are in exactly the same boat as they were when I arrived. Why, they wouldn’t
have even received Lady Agatha’s letter until today. At most they’ll have lost
a few dozen hours in which to find a new wedding planner.”

“And what do you expect them to do when they discover they’ve
been abandoned by their miracle worker and duped by the woman they put on a
pedestal?” he asked.

That hurt. But she was growing used to her heart being pricked
and bruised. It didn’t matter if you hurt. It only mattered if others saw the
weakness. And Cabot wouldn’t see hers.

“They’ll just have to find someone else,” she said.

“What with all Anton’s money, I’m sure someone in London will
be willing to light a fire under his staff.” She only wished she felt as
certain as she sounded.

He gave her a look that spoke volumes, but refrained from
comment.

She hated this feeling, this alien, horrible, bewildering
sensation of guilt. She didn’t have anything to feel guilty about—well, not
very much, anyway.

“Besides,” she said defensively, “the Bigglesworths should be
glad I came. And they will be as soon as they see Angela’s dress made up to my
design and her looking every bit like a princess in a fairy story.”

“I know,” Cabot said. “That’s exactly why you should stay.” He
sat down on the settee next to her and took hold of her hand. “You can do this,
Letty. I know you can. You’ve your mother’s eye for style and your step dad’s
sense of drama.”

She gave him a sour look. “Being raised by a first-rate
costumer and a second-rate magician beneath the footlights of West End music
halls doesn’t exactly qualify one to plan a Society wedding, Sammy.”

He lifted the skirts of the gown she was working on. “Yes, it
does. Why, only look what you did for Miss Angela and what you’re doing here.
You’re as dab a hand as your mother with the needle, Letty. And you needn’t
worry about the food, or dishes, or the waiters and other attendants. The
caterer is already taking care of all that.”

When she didn’t reply, he went on. “I heard Miss Bigglesworth
telling Grace Poole about your idea of tricking the place out in an Oriental
manner. She’s

“Dear Lord,” Letty said faintly. She felt a bit ill. She’d
been carried away by her role, was all. Carried away by the challenge and
excitement of being a part of something. Something that didn’t have an ulterior
motive to it.

“I was just babbling,” she said. “Just rambling so as they’d
think I knew what I was talking about.”

“But you do!” Cabot insisted. “I heard what you said about
capturing the audience’s fancy, and you’re right. A wedding reception is a
production just like any of a dozen you’ve been involved in. I remember how you
were always playing about with the stage settings of our acts.”

“I just muddled about a bit and besides, those were stages,”
Letty protested desperately, because—God help her—she was beginning to think
that just maybe she could pull this off. If she did, it would be the biggest
con of her life. And the prize? A young girl’s happiness.

And a few more days with him.

“Letty—” He squeezed her hand.

“Just let me think for a minute!” It was madness to even
consider it. She pulled her hand free of his and clasped her head between her
hands, squeezing her eyes shut. Immediately, his image sprang to life, his
black hair tousled by the wind, the way he’d smiled before raising his eyes to
meet hers, his gaze intent yet deferential.

She’d never met anyone like him, a man who could set her pulse
to racing, and who made her want to be someone else. The men she’d known were
crude, rough, eager for the fight, hungry for the smell of fear and the taste
of blood. There was no violence or coarseness in Sir Elliot—the men she knew
would eat him alive—but he was still bewilderingly, potently masculine.

She gave a little moan. If she stayed, wouldn’t she just be
making it harder not only on herself when the time came to leave but also on
him?

For the last six years, she’d been used to thinking only of
herself, of taking care of Letty Potts first and last. She backed suspiciously
away from the notion of putting his welfare above her own. A habit like that
could make her soft, make her incautious. Besides, she thought defensively, in
what way would her staying be unfair to him?

He was Sir Elliot March. He had wealth, property, and friends
who both loved and admired him. She closed her eyes even more tightly,
struggling through a quagmire of conflicting emotions.

“Letty—”

“Someone would know. Someone would find out,” she said
frantically, opening her eyes.

“No, they won’t. You’ll be gone in a week or so, long before
any of the Society folk who might know the real Lady Agatha arrive. The wedding
is two months out yet.

“You’ll just make the plans and send out the instructions to
those places Lady Agatha recommended in her letter. Then you’ll go away. I’ll
help. Grace Poole will help, also. You can do this, Letty.
You can.”

“And what about Lady Agatha? What about when she comes back?”
Letty asked harshly. “Angela will be the laughingstock of the town if anyone
discovers she let a... a... limelight lark plan her party.” There it was again,
this odd insistence that she take into consideration others’ problems, even
ones that didn’t affect her.

“Who’s going to tell?” Cabot asked, his bulldog features
grave. “There aren’t any pictures of Lady Agatha. And you heard what she wrote:
She’ll be on her honeymoon for months.
When
she comes back,
if
anyone
even remembers to say anything about the party, she won’t dare admit she wasn’t
here. She’d look not only a fool, but a scoundrel. Her reputation would be in
shambles if it was learned that she’d abandoned a sweet, innocent girl to...”
he trailed off abruptly, his face turning brick-red.

“—to the clutches of a gold-digging confidence trickster?”
Letty supplied sweetly. She gave a little, painful laugh. “That’s all right,
Cabot. You’re right. No reason to suspect I’ll change now.”

He didn’t deny her allegation, and that hurt even more—and
that surprised her. Time was she would have laughed at such an estimation of
her and hooted “spot on, ducks” to her denouncer.

“There’s another reason you have to do this, Letty,” Cabot
said.

“Yeah? Besides the little matter of you turning me over to Sir
Elliot if I don’t? What’s that?”

“Because, despite what you think, I
know
that if you
don’t do this, no one else will.” He took her hand once more in his. “So, will
you do it, Letty?”

She tried to find another reason besides syrupy sentimentality
and a partiality to being “courted,” a reason that better fit her idea of who
and what Letty Potts was. She found one.

What a flash dodge it would be! The best of her jaded career.
Bless Sammy, he’d reminded her just in time who she was: Letty Potts, who dared
anything and anyone and laughed while doing it.

“Lighting, set, wardrobe. Plan a few entrances, teach the
bride to hit her marks, that about the size of it?” she asked roughly.

“Yes. Will you? Please. I’ll even give you the money order
Lady Agatha sent.”

She knew, right then, that if she decided to light out this
very minute, Cabot wouldn’t turn her in. He didn’t have it in him. He was soft.
Not like her.

And she also knew that he didn’t think she’d help the
Bigglesworths out of simple decency, or sympathy, or pity, or any of the
impulses that led people like Sir Elliot and the Bigglesworths and Dr. Beacon
to do things. Because Cabot thought she was hard. Not like them. And he was
right. So why did she feel like crying?

“Letty.” His voice was soft and pleading.

She blinked away the treacherous tears and faced him. “Stay
and help these folks with their wedding and in the meantime sleep in a feather
bed?”

“Yes.”

“Wear rich clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Eat fine food and drink fine wine?”

“Yes.”

“And then get a nice fat purse for me trouble?”

“Yes.”

And be with him.

“Sure,” she said. “I ‘spect worse things ‘ave ‘appened to a
girl.”

When the plot is thin,

add a fat costume.

NOT TWENTY MINUTES AFTER CABOT LEFT, stammering his thanks and
backing out of the room before Letty could change her mind, another knock
sounded on her door. She sat up on the bed where she’d flopped down flat on her
stomach to read, shut her book, and slipped it under the pillow.

“Come in.” Angela entered carrying Fagin. The dog looked
decidedly plumper than he had a few days ago. And much better groomed.

“Aunt Eglantyne asked that I bring Lambikins to you,” Angela
said, depositing the dog on a pillow. Fagin gave Letty a cursory glance before
jumping down, trotting to the door, and sitting down in front of it. He looked
over his shoulder at her.

“I think he likes Aunt Eglantyne,” Angela said.

What’s not to like? Letty asked herself. He was well fed,
safe, content for the first time in his life. And for the first time in his
life he didn’t have to worry about dodging London traffic or getting picked up
to be used as a bait animal in London’s illegal dog pits.

She didn’t blame the little blighter for wanting to suck every
bit of sweet from the situation that he could. She was certainly doing the
same. She and Fagin were two of a kind. Both living here under assumed names,
posing as things they weren’t. Wishing it could go on forever.

“And Aunt Eglantyne is ridiculously fond of him,” Angela said.

“Then they should be allowed to enjoy each other’s company,”
Letty said. “Please, will you let him out? I’m sure he’ll find his way. He’s
clever that way.”

“Thank you,” Angela said with her gentle smile. “Aunt
Eglantyne is most appreciative of the company. She would never say as much, but
I think she will be lonely after I’m gone.” She opened the door and Fagin at
once stood up and trotted out. He didn’t look back.

“Are you busy?”

“Busy?” Letty swung her legs over the edge of the bed and
picked up the tablet of paper she’d been scribbling notes on. She’d been trying
very hard to keep from thinking of Elliot and distracting herself by poring
over Angela’s copy of
Our Decorum
that she’d nipped from the library.

“I was just jotting down some ideas for your wedding party.”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I was just looking for my book and
wondering if you might have seen it.”

“Book?” Letty shoved
Our Decorum
farther beneath the
pillow behind her. She couldn’t very well own up to having it: What sort of
duke’s daughter would need to consult a book on etiquette? “What book?”

“Oh, just that silly book about Society manners I was
reading,” Angela said self-consciously. “I suspect I’ll find it later.”

“I’m sure you will.”
This afternoon. After I’ve finished
reading it. Who would have guessed the social world contained so many rules?

Still Angela hesitated, and Letty was reminded of her youth
and anxiety. “Have you heard anymore from Kip Himplerump?”

Angela colored fiercely. “No.”

“No? Well, there you go,” Letty said, pleased. “The snake has
tried his hand at blackmail, dangled his bait, and having discovered you aren’t
taking it, slunk back under his rock.”

“Do you really think so?” Angela asked eagerly.

“Of course. Do yourself a favor, Angie, and forget the whole
thing. You ought to be enjoying yourself. Not fussing after some girlish
peccadillo.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Yet another thing I don’t understand?” Letty murmured.

“Kip is most possessive. He felt he and I had an
understanding.”

“Well,” Letty returned reasonably, “he was wrong. Blackmailers
are basically cowards. Once you stand up to them, they back right down. Don’t
worry any more about it.”

Unless the blackmailer was Nick Sparkle. She shivered.

She hadn’t thought about him in days. She hoped—no, she
prayed—he’d given up trying to find her.

“What if he doesn’t back down?” Angela asked.

“You are going to be a marchioness, Angela,” she said, taking
hold of the girl’s shoulder’s and looking her gravely in the eye. “If Kip
Himplerump makes demands,
simply deal with him.”