The Bridal Season (29 page)

When Merry had whispered in his ear that Elliot had returned,
he’d fully expected his son to rejoin them. He hadn’t. So after bidding his
guests good evening, he’d sought his son. He’d found him prowling the length of
the library, his back and shoulders tensed as a caged tiger’s.

“It’s a shame Lady Agatha was taken ill,” Atticus said
carefully.

Elliot stopped his stalking. “Yes.”

“She doesn’t seem a woman in fragile health.”

“No.”

Atticus knew his son. Elliot was proudly self-sufficient. He’d
never willingly burden another with his problems, and the watch he’d kept on
his emotions was ever vigilant.
She’d
been changing it. But now...

“Still, Eglantyne says Lady Agatha has been most assiduous in
her work, quite determined to have it completed before she leaves. Undoubtedly
that accounts for her indisposition.”

“I am sure you are correct,” Elliot murmured. He stared
unseeingly out into the night.

“Did you go to see how she was faring?” Atticus asked mildly.
“I hope you found her comfortable?”

Elliot looked up, frowning thoughtfully. “Excuse me, sir? You
were saying?”

“How did you find Lady Agatha?”

“With her fiancé.” Elliot’s frowned deepened, his expression
absorbed and his voice distracted. “And, no, she does not look well.”

Atticus’s jaw dropped. A sense of betrayal swept through him,
stunning him with its force. In no manner, by either direct word or inference,
had Lady Agatha suggested she was betrothed. How dare she play so fast and
loose with Elliot’s affections? How
dare
she pretend to a freedom she
did not own?

“Dear God, Elliot,” Atticus said, aghast. “I had no idea...
I... I don’t know what to say. That she was affianced never occurred to me.”

Elliot looked up. “It didn’t occur to anyone else, either,” he
said slowly.
“Anyone.”

“Elliot,” Atticus began, but his son had picked up his coat
from the chair on which he’d flung it.

“I’m going into the village,” he said. “Don’t bother waiting
up for me.”

“We can’t let him rob the Bigglesworths. Especially since he’s
already announced he’s Lady Agatha’s fiancé.”

Cabot paced back and forth in Letty’s room, his hands clasped
in a white-knuckled grip behind his back. “Can you imagine the scandal? The
Bigglesworths will be the laughingstock of Society, first to be duped by a
feather merchant pretending to be a duke’s daughter, and then to be robbed by
her associate. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Sheffields called the wedding
off.”

Guilt and remorse combined to set Letty’s hands shaking like
an old woman’s. She clenched them and unclenched them, focusing on making them
still so that she wouldn’t have to think. There was nothing she could do except
that which she already was doing.

Cabot stopped his incessant pacing. “Why, do you know he’s
downstairs with the Bigglesworths right now? Introduced himself as smoothly as
oil on flat water, registering offended surprise that you hadn’t told them
about him.”

He blew out an unhappy sigh. “He can do the gentleman act when
he wants to, you know. A young flash modern, but still just enough manners to
make him look authentic. You taught him that.”

Letty twisted her hands together. “I know.”

“He told them he ‘couldn’t stand to be separated from you for
one more day’ and that he was sure they’d understand and, by the way, was there
some small inn somewhere that might accommodate him while he was here?’

“It made me cringe to hear. Miss Eglantyne did exactly what
you would expect: She begged him to stay here.”

“Oh, no,” Letty murmured, sitting heavily on the edge of the
bed. “Poor Eglantyne.”

“Yes,” Cabot avowed. “And looking guilty as sin.”

“Guilty?” Letty asked in confusion. “What has she to be guilty
about?”

“Oh, Letty,” Cabot said despairingly. “Didn’t you notice... of
course not, you were too occupied with him and that’s exactly how they wanted
it to be.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss Eglantyne and the rest of the staff have been doing
everything within their powers to make a match of you and Sir Elliot.”

Dear God.
The fools. The darlings. “And you allowed
them to do so?”

“I didn’t have any alternative,” Cabot defended himself. “How
was I to explain that the two of you were unsuited for one another? And how was
I to know that their machinations would actually bear fruit.”

She glanced up.

“Don’t deny it, Letty. I’ve seen how you react to one
another.” The paternalistic disapproval abruptly vanished, leaving only
fatherly exasperation. He sat down beside her. “What the devil were you
thinking, girl?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”
I was feeling. I still am feeling, God
help me.
“And Miss Eglantyne was also involved?”

“Yes. And from the look of her when she was presented with
your ‘future husband,’ she is overcome with remorse at having interfered in
your life. She doesn’t do that sort of thing, you know. She must have felt very
strongly to act as she did.”

“If you are trying to make me feel guilty, you’re too late,”
Letty said. “I am already full up with guilt.”

He sighed heavily. “Forgive me, Letty. I’m as much to blame as
you are. But we mustn’t let Nick hurt them more than... well, we mustn’t!”

Letty stood up. “He isn’t going to rob the Bigglesworths. I
promise.”

She lifted the satchel she’d packed Lady Agatha’s belongings
in and dumped the contents onto her bed. She began stowing different clothes
inside, warm clothing that she could wear on a packet ship across the North
Sea.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I shall write Sir Elliot a letter and tell him who Nick
Sparkle is,”
and who I am,
“and what he plans to do.”
And what I
planned.

“But, Letty—”

“I’ll go into Little Bidewell at first light. The passenger
train departs the station at ten. I’ll be on it.” She folded a shirtwaist. “If
you could just hold off sending the letter to Sir Elliot until noon, I’d be
much obliged.”

Cabot frowned. “What about Nick? What if he comes looking for
you?”

“He won’t. Nick Sparkle never met a morning he didn’t despise.
If he asks after me, tell him I’m sick in bed. He ought to believe that readily
enough.”

Cabot nodded. “All right. You’ll stop Nick from stealing from
the Bigglesworths, but what about the scandal? What about Miss Angela?”

Was there no end to the skein she must unravel? Letty closed
her eyes briefly. Her head throbbed. She had to concentrate on Angela. She
mustn’t think about Elliot. About what his expression would be when he read her
letter, about the repugnance he would feel, about how disgusted he would be at
having told her he loved her.

“Tell the Bigglesworths that I once worked for Lady Agatha.
They’ll believe you.” She held up her hand forestalling him. “As you once
pointed out, it’s in Lady Agatha’s best interest to support me if she returns
to England.

“And if she doesn’t return, who’s to refute my claim that I
was once her assistant? Nick? We only met five years ago. You’ve known me
longer. You can support me.

“Tell the Bigglesworths that I only fell into bad company
after my mother died. Tell them I know what I’m doing, and that everything will
be fine as long as they don’t mention me to the Sheffields.”

“You don’t think anyone in Little Bidewell will tell the
Sheffields?” Cabot asked, unconvinced.

“With whom in Little Bidewell is the Marquis of Cotton’s mama
going to be exchanging tattle?” Letty asked flatly. She snapped the satchel
shut. “No. You need only get the wedding over and done with. Later, if
something should leak out, well, it will only make the Sheffield’s dinner
parties more interesting. Scandal is always more palatable if it’s anecdotal.”

It didn’t matter that it was her life, her heart, that would
be discussed, then abandoned along with the fish course.

Cabot’s gaze met hers and slid away. “Is there any reason the
Bigglesworths shouldn’t follow the plans you made for the wedding party?”

She flushed. “Everything is nearly done,” she said quietly.
“Grace Poole and the caterer are taking care of the food and the service. I’ve
ordered in all the decorations. The favors and garlands are complete.

“Angela, Eglantyne, and you, for that matter, know how things
are to be arranged, and I have no doubt the servants can set things up. I’ve
left sketches. Merry does my room; I’ve no doubt she knows where all the bills,
receipts and correspondence are kept.

“Don’t worry. Everyone I’ve contracted with in London is
trustworthy and utterly dependable.”

She realized how amusing that must sound coming from someone
who was running away, and smiled. “I mean it, Cabot. It will not be a walk in
the park, but it’s doable.”

A professional knows

when the performance is over.

THE DAWN CREPT IN MOIST AND GRAVID, the air condensing on the
backs of the dray horses standing before the greengrocers. The peony at the
front of the teashop bowed under the weight of dew and the lace cafe curtains
drooped.

Letty stood on the platform outside the train station with her
ticket in her hand. Ham had dropped her off in town a half-hour ago. It would
be another hour before her train left.

Only a few people were on the streets, the dampness being
uncomfortable. Letty didn’t mind. The air smelled freshly washed and fertile,
green with spring’s promise and dark with earth’s wealth.

The scent awoke memories of walking hand in hand with her
mother down a country lane. She’d thought she belonged there, until Vernice
Fallontrue had told her she didn’t. Just like she’d thought her father would
love her if only he had the chance. And that the music hall was her home and
the performers her family... until her mother died and Alf had been too
grief-stricken
to
work. Then she’d discovered that her “home” held no
place for a girl who wouldn’t wear tights and who spoke with a high-class
accent. So she’d found work in the musical productions and been told she didn’t
have the emotional range necessary to make it big.

All her life she’d made the best of bad situations. Then one
night, soon after her mother had died, the same night Nick Sparkle had
introduced her to champagne, one cold, sleepless night when a girl from the
chorus had thrown herself into the Thames because she was pregnant, Letty
decided to make things happen
for
her and not to her.

She’d stood by that creed. No softness, because the world wasn’t
soft; lots of laughter, because if you were in on the joke, the joke couldn’t
be on you; no wanting what you couldn’t take, because the world never gave.

Or so she thought.

But here she was again, standing with a packed bag, waiting
for the next act. She was just a journeyman after all.

But life still hadn’t brought her to bay. She smiled. She was
still on her feet, still running strong. She looked down. Fagin, on the other
hand, didn’t appear to have any desire to run, walk or, for that matter, stand.
He huddled in a miserable little pile at her feet, staring up at her
disconsolately.

He hadn’t wanted to come with her. She’d had to lure him with
a bit of sausage and lead him after her with a braided length of satin.
Something tightened in her throat.

Fagin had never worn a collar in his life. He’d never needed
any encouragement to get him to follow her. He’d always been her shadow,
because if she disappeared he’d be on his own. Poor little blighter. In the
whole world she was the only thing he could depend on, and that had been more
through his vigilance than hers. She’d taken him for granted.

“Come on, Fay,” she coaxed. “We’ve had an adventure is all.
And we’ll have others, you’ll see. We’ll go to Norway. You think kippers are
tasty? Wait until you taste salmon.”

He looked off in the direction of The Hollies and Eglantyne. Eglantyne
who’d never taken his affection for granted.

“It’s a chance to start all over again and, by God, if that
isn’t a lark, what is?”

Fagin stood up to walk to the end of his tether. She felt her
smile freeze.

“G’day, Lady Agatha.” Mrs. Jepson’s nursemaid bobbed her head,
hurrying by pushing the perambulator in which the youngest Jepson wailed
enthusiastically. The gulls wheeled overhead, crying plaintively. A cat slunk
from under the platform and darted across the street. Fagin watched it
listlessly.

“All right,” Letty whispered, untying the satin ribbon from
around Fagin’s neck. “You just take care of Eglantyne, you hear?”

Fagin cocked his foolish, furry face, his gaze as somber and
impenetrable as ever. He didn’t lick her face. He wasn’t a licking sort of dog.
But he wagged his tail once, tentatively, and then trotted off down the street,
dodging the farrier’s cart as he headed back to Eglantyne, back home.

She watched him go with tears in her eyes, wanting to follow
him so much that it felt as if her spirit were pulling free of her flesh to do
so. But she couldn’t. She didn’t belong. She wasn’t Lady Agatha Whyte. She was
Letty Potts, whoever that was. She sniffed, trying
to
find a caustic
smile for the thought and failing.

There was only one possible way she could ever discover how
much of Lady Agatha was Letty Potts and how much of Letty Potts was Lady
Agatha. And that was ridiculous. She looked overhead. The spiraling flock of
gulls was fading back to the horizon, returning to the sea. In the distance,
Fagin was a small dark blotch, running now. “Get,” she whispered hoarsely. “Run
faster, Fay.”

She clutched the train ticket tighter and waited for the sense
of escape to come over her as it had a dozen times before, that heady sensation
of having just scooted through the clanging gate, of eluding the thrown net. It
didn’t come. She was running again, but she wasn’t escaping. She’d been chased
to ground a long, long time ago.