The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (11 page)

But how ungrateful she was to think thus!

Y THE END OF THE MORNING
C
ORA HAD DECIDED
that she was not going to marry a gentleman.

The duchess was writing letters in her private sitting room. Lady Elizabeth had taken the carriage to Lord Fuller’s on Grosvenor Square to assist Lady Fuller in the final plans for her ball—one of the last the Season would have to offer. Lady Jane had made a secret assignation to meet the Earl of Greenwald quite accidentally either in the park during a morning walk or at the library, depending on the weather. It really was not an
assignation
, Jane assured Cora, flushing with guilt. It was more that he had said that he
might
ride in the park if the weather was fine and she had commented on the strange coincidence that she might walk there—if the weather was fine. Presumably they had made similar commitments to the library if the weather was
not
fine.

And so Cora had agreed to accompany Jane. Indeed, it was essential to the plan that she do so. Jane could not possibly go alone to the park, even if a maid trailed along behind her as she would do anyway if the two of them went.

Cora never particularly enjoyed walking alone with Jane, although she was excessively fond of her. Jane was small and dainty and pretty and always behaved with perfect decorum—except perhaps when she made
almost-assignations with earls who had not yet made any formal offers for her.

“Mama would lecture me for a month without pause if she thought I had arranged to meet his lordship in the park,” Jane herself confessed. “Alistair would not need to lecture. He would merely have to look at me in a certain way and I would wither up and die. But of course I have made no such arrangement. If he happens to be riding in the park and I happen to be walking there and we happen to meet and stop to exchange civilities, that cannot be deemed an arranged meeting, can it?”

Cora was not quite sure what all the fuss was about. But she did know that Jane fancied herself in love and as a result had departed ever so slightly from strict propriety. The fact cheered Cora a little. But she still disliked walking out alone with Jane. She felt so very large and clumsy beside her. She always had to reduce her stride to about half its usual span and she always had to resist the urge to droop her shoulders in order to look shorter and less conspicuous. Miss Graham had told her she must never do that. Apart from the intrinsic virtue of good posture was the fact that a tall person who hunched over only succeeded in making herself appear taller and more conspicuous.

And so they walked in the park side by side, their maid a little distance behind them, and Cora soon forgot about the awkwardness of her person in her enjoyment of the morning. The sun was shining and the air promised heat later on. But this morning it was only comfortably warm with a stiff breeze to fan the face and make one imagine that one was almost in the country.

It was the perfect morning for a quiet walk. Of course, sooner or later the Earl of Greenwald would ride by and pause for a chat, but apart from that there were peace and a cozy chat with Jane to be enjoyed. The park was always pleasantly empty and quiet during the mornings.

And then Mr. Parker rode toward them—for one moment Jane thought he was the earl and had almost visible heart palpitations. Mr. Parker paused when he came up to them, inclined his head and touched his hat, reminded them that it was a fine day, and then invited himself to dismount and walk a little way with them since indeed it was such a fine day.

And then Mr. Pandry and Mr. Johnson appeared, walking briskly together, also in the opposite direction from that taken by the ladies. They too paused with the usual gallantries, decided that it was far too fine a day to hurry anywhere, and turned to stroll with the ladies and Mr. Parker.

Before their walk was half an hour old, they had gathered no fewer than eight fellow strollers and enjoyers of the weather—all male and all congratulating themselves with jocular good humor on their good fortune in being able to take a turn about the park with the heroine—and with Lady Jane Munro, of course.

All of them had either danced with her or applied to dance with her the evening before, Cora noted. Several of them had called upon her grace since she had emerged from her sick chamber. A few of them had sent bouquets or posies. One of them had kissed her hand last evening after she had danced a minuet with him. A few of them were handsome. Most of them were taller than she, and even one who was not was on an exact level with her when he wore riding boots. All of them were gentlemen. One of them was heir to a baronet—he had informed her of that last evening. Three of them had been presented to her by the duchess, four by the duke, and one by Lord Francis Kneller.

This, Cora supposed, giving her parasol a twirl, was what success felt like. She knew beyond a doubt that all these gentlemen were interested in her, even though all of them were scrupulous about dividing their attentions
between her and Jane. For one thing, none of them were titled gentlemen. They had been presented to her because they were possible matches for her. None of them would be allowed within a mile of Jane as a suitor. But even apart from that practical fact, Cora knew with her woman’s intuition that their interest was all in her.

Eight gentlemen—
gentlemen!
—strolled in the park when they might be off elsewhere about their more congenial masculine pursuits. Eight gentlemen hung on her every word, laughed at her every sally into wit, jostled with one another to be closest to her—though all were well-bred enough to keep a proper distance, of course. Eight gentlemen were giving serious consideration to making her their wife—subject to her acceptance. It was a good feeling.

It was success.

And it would be hasty success. The Season was almost over. There was no time for a leisurely courtship. She would receive a few more marriage offers before she returned to Bristol, she knew. Mr. Bentley already had offered—and had been refused. She had panicked when it came to the point, though she had no possible objection to him beyond the fact that he must be at least three inches shorter than she was—it might be four, but she could hardly ask him to stand back to back with her while someone measured merely to satisfy her curiosity.

She could be a married lady—with the key word being
lady
—before Christmas. Papa would be proud of her. Edgar would nod his approval. Her children would be assured a place in society. She would be able to sponsor Edgar’s children. Not that they would need sponsorship—if he ever married and had them, that was. Edgar had been to good schools and he was successful and wealthy in his own right apart from being Papa’s heir, and he was very gentlemanly. Besides, times were beginning to change, as Papa always said.

Cora had been woolgathering. At the same time she had had her arm linked with Jane’s and had been occasionally patting her hand. Eight gentlemen and no sign of the very one they had come here to run into accidentally on purpose. But she felt Jane brighten suddenly, and sure enough, the Earl of Greenwald himself was cantering along the green, looking very dashing in clothes only Weston could have made. Even Cora was beginning to recognize the excellence of his tailoring.

The earl looked somewhat taken aback when he spotted the two ladies in the midst of a throng of gentlemen. One of those ladies—Jane—was busily conversing with one of the gentlemen. Cora raised a hand and waved to him, smiling gaily. Only then did Jane look up and appear surprised and prettily confused to see his lordship.

His lordship joined the parade.

Her grace’s maid paced determinedly behind, though what she would have done if the gentlemen had all decided to pounce en masse on her two charges was not at all clear, especially to her own mind.

And then something happened to cause mass diversion and mass entertainment. A series of shrieks turned everyone’s attention ahead along the way. But the immediate fear that someone was in distress was put to flight when it was seen that the screamer was a small hatless child who was chasing after his missing hat. The hat itself, a splendid confection in blue and white with ribbon streamers—all of which matched his outfit—was bowling merrily along in the breeze, pausing only long enough on the grass for the child to have it within a fingertip of his grasp before dancing gaily off again. A buxom woman—apparently the child’s nurse—was puffing along behind him, alternately urging him to catch the hat when he was close to it, and pleading with him to let it go when it blew away again.

The scene afforded great merriment in Cora’s group and inspired the gentlemen to elevated heights of wit.

Mr. Johnson whistled piercingly. “At it, lad!” he yelled.

The outfit and the hat were clearly new, Cora thought. She could imagine how very proud the boy must have felt this morning to don them and be taken into the park to display them for all to see. And now the hat with its gay streamers was in danger of being lost forever.

“Oh,” she said, handing her parasol without thought to the nearest gentleman and grasping the sides of her skirt. “Oh, the poor child.” And she was off and running.

The hat was bowling toward her group. But not quite in a straight line. If they stood still it would sail by yards away from them. The poor child would never catch it. And so Cora went streaking off to intercept the hat and left her admirers gawking after her and realizing too late that they had lost the chance to display superior gallantry in her eyes.

The trouble with wind, Cora thought, was that it never blew quite steadily. One could never predict with certain accuracy where it would blow a certain object by a certain moment. She made several grabs for the hat when it came close and each time it hopped when she lunged or came to a halt when she hesitated or changed direction when she had it for sure. But it was close. She would have it in just a moment.

This was
fun
, she thought, beginning to laugh and beginning to realize what a spectacle she must be making of herself for those who were watching. Coordination had never been her strong point.

She was laughing helplessly and with imminent triumph as her hand descended finally for the kill—only to find that the hat lifted itself straight upward and the top of her bonnet almost collided with a pair of muscular
legs clad in black leather pantaloons and boots designed to accentuate their muscularity.

“Dear me,” Lord Francis Kneller said, “fun and games, Miss Downes?” He was holding the hat between a thumb and forefinger.

She laughed at him. “You wretch!” she said. “It was mine. I had run it to earth.”

He raised his eyebrows and she realized several things. He was standing beside his horse, which had lowered its head to munch at the grass. On the other side of his horse was another with a silent rider on its back—the Duke of Bridgwater. From some distance away there was a chorus of gentlemen’s cheers. And from a very short distance behind there were the pantings of a winded child.

“My hat,” he cried with a gasp. “Give me my hat.”

“Dear me.” Lord Francis raised it higher. “What do you say, sir?”

“Give me it,” the child insisted, glaring.

“Not,” Lord Francis said, sounding infinitely bored, “until I hear the magic word, my young sir.”

“You must call me
your grace
,” the child said with haughty command.

The Duke of Bridgwater coughed delicately. Lord Francis’s arm stayed where it was. Cora’s jaw dropped and she stared at the little boy.

“Oh, your grace, your grace.” The nurse had come puffing into earshot. “You must not run off like that. It is only a hat. Make your bow and thank the lady and gentlemen.”

“He has my hat,” the child said, pointing.

The nurse looked helpless.

The Duke of Bridgwater’s voice sounded even more bored than Lord Francis’s had just done. “Even dukes say thank you for favors rendered, my lad,” he said. “Take it from someone who knows. Miss Downes has
done you a service even without being aware of your illustrious identity. Lord Francis Kneller has retrieved your hat and will be only too delighted to return it to you. It would not fit his own head after all, would it? Let us hear it now.”

“Who are you?” The child frowned up at him.

“A fellow duke,” his grace said with a sigh. “Who happens to be much larger and far better mannered than you are, lad. And who happens too to possess a far heavier hand, which at this moment is itching to be put to use. What do you have to say?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the child said, looking at Cora and inclining his head to her. “Thank you, my lord.” He bowed to Lord Francis, who tossed him the hat, which he caught.

His nurse behind him was bobbing curtsies indiscriminately in all directions. She took the child’s hand and hurried him away.

Cora looked into Lord Francis’s face and exploded into laughter, though she would rather not have done so with the duke close by. It had been such a ridiculous incident.

“Finchley’s brat,” his grace said by way of explanation. “The
late
Finchley, that is. He was not much of an improvement on his son, it pains me to say.”