As always, a lamp burned in the front bow window of Sue’s little house. Rod knocked on the door, then used his own key to let himself in. Emerging from the parlour. Sue caught him sniffing the savoury smell of frying onions.
“I’m ravenous!”
“Liver and bacon, with onions, as you can tell. A plebeian dish, I’m afraid, but the liver would not keep. Enid has made a fricassee of chicken as well, and a sweet omelette, but I could not find any good fish.”
“My dear, a feast fit for a king. I shall do it justice.” He kissed her cheek, then took off his coat and hung it on a peg behind the door, taking the jeweller’s box from the pocket. He put it in her hands.
Her eyes flew to his face, with an almost fearful expression. “Roderick...is this goodbye?”
“No, no. Why should you think that? It just seemed to me a long time since I gave you anything pretty.” With another twinge of guilt, he put his arm about her waist, not as slim as it used to be but a cosy armful. “Come into the parlour and open it.”
Reassured, she exclaimed in delight over the delicate tracery of gold, the lustrous perfection of the pearls. He unfastened the plain gold chain she was wearing and put on the new necklace in its place. The creamy white skin above her low-cut silk bodice lent the pearls a richer sheen, and the gleam of gold drew answering highlights from her dark gold hair. She was as lovely, as desirable as ever. Why had the notion of leaving her ever crossed his mind?
Her maid announced dinner and they moved into the tiny, intimate dining-room.
While they ate, they chatted about a book Sue was reading, an amusing novel he had bought her by the author of
Pride and Prejudice.
The heroine of
Emma
aspired to rule the lives of all those about her, for their own good. In her own way, and with the best intentions, Emma stirred up as much distress as did Rod’s mother.
“You are troubled,” said Sue as they returned to the parlour. She poured him a glass of brandy and herself a cup of tea. “Do you wish to talk about what is amiss?”
Taking a chair opposite hers at the fireside, he told her how the marchioness had invited the Trevelyans deliberately to discomfit the Kilmores. He would not have dreamt of criticizing his mother to anyone else but Will—and Thea, he realized.
In inviting Thea to be frank with him, he had had no intention of reciprocating with equal frankness. A quagmire spread before him. If he did not tread with care, he might find himself initiating all sorts of topics that ought not to be discussed with a young lady of gentle birth. He had taken upon himself to guide her, not to lead her astray.
Sue recalled him to the subject of his mother’s mischief. “You blame yourself for not preventing Lady Hazlewood’s scheme. You must not. It was simply an oversight.”
“As head of the family, I must hold myself responsible for the behaviour of family members. I have not the excuse of fearing her ill health, since I know it to be imaginary.”
“You cannot be responsible for her every little action. Rod, must she live with you? You said she has a generous jointure. Can she not set up her own household, with your help if necessary?”
“It would present a very odd appearance, when I have a large house in Town and a vast mansion at Hazlemere. Unless I take a wife.”
“No!” Her soft cry of protest startled him. She busied herself refilling his glass and her own cup as she continued with forced calm, “You would be no more comfortable in a marriage of convenience than you are at present, perhaps less. I don’t believe you can be satisfied with anything but mutual love.”
“And I have no...
little
expectation of finding love after so many years without success, so I must find my comfort where I may. Come here, Sue.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the morning, buffeted by a blustery, invigorating west wind. Rod took Achilles for a gallop across Hampstead Heath. By the time he turned homeward, a ragged pall of clouds hung threateningly over the city.
Not a good day to take a young lady driving in an open vehicle. The rain might hold off, but the boisterous wind would rock the light curricle dangerously. He dared not risk overturning. If, as he suspected, Thea urgently wanted a private word with him, she must contrive the opportunity.
He ordered out the Town carriage to carry him to Russell Square that afternoon. When it rolled up to the front door, he was amused to see the jubilant expression of his new under-footman, hanging on behind. For once Billy had triumphed over the ragamuffin who had usurped his seat in the curricle. Whether he would soon enough attain the impassivity proper to a footman was questionable, however. Rod was prepared to give him his chance, but if the marchioness caught him grinning like that, he’d be back in the stables in no time.
On the other hand, Lady Hazlewood’s presence was scarcely conducive to grinning, so perhaps the lad was safe.
And that was exactly the sort of thing Rod might let slip to Thea, giving her a very odd notion of his loyalty to his family. He
must
take care what he said to her.
The Kilmores’ butler admitted him to the house just as she came down the stairs, wearing a walking dress of straw-coloured merino. In one hand she carried a muff, and over her arm a dark brown cloak.
“I see that you, Miss Kilmore, like your sister, mean to deprive us gentlemen of all cause for complaint about dilatory females,” he quizzed her.
Her all-too-rare smile revealed an unexpected, hitherto-unnoticed dimple. “I cannot let my little sister outdo me in politeness,” she said, descending the last few stairs.
“Unfortunately, your efforts are for nothing. The weather is too inclement to drive in the curricle, I fear.”
“Oh no!” Her face fell. “But it is not raining. I looked out just a moment ago.”
“The wind is blowing in gusts strong enough to overset a light carriage, even with my weight as ballast. I cannot expose you to the danger.”
“Then can we not walk in the park?”
“My dear girl, you would be blown to pieces.”
“I do not mind if you do not. I loved to walk on the moors on just such a day as this, and I do miss the exercise. Besides, Mama and Penny and Meg have gone to call on Lady Cowper, who left her card yesterday as she promised, and some others. I ought not to entertain you here alone, ought I?” she asked uncertainly.
“No, nor to ride alone with me in a closed carriage.” He wondered what was so desperate that she would brave the elements to talk with him. “If you truly wish to go to St. James’s Park, you must bring your maid.”
The abigail was appalled when the carriage stopped at the end of The Mall and Billy, holding onto his hat, came to open the door and let down the step.
“You’ll never walk in this wind, miss!” cried the maid. “It’ll blow you off your feet.”
“I am not so feeble,” Thea retorted. “If you do not care to come, Farden, you may wait in the carriage. Lord Hazlewood’s footman will go with us.”
“That I will, miss,” said Billy, “but if y’lordship pleases, I’ll leave me ’at be’ind.”
Stepping out into the blast. Rod grabbed his beaver as it lifted from his head. “You may. Billy. Miss Kilmore, will you object if I do likewise?”
“Not at all,” she said, tightening the drawstrings of her cloak’s hood. He handed her down and told the coachman to follow them.
Leaves swirled about them as they set out down the avenue. Thea walked with a countrywoman’s swinging stride, heading determinedly into the wind. Despite the drawstrings, her hood soon blew back and she raised a laughing, pink-cheeked, pink-nosed face to Rod.
“I shall not try to keep my hood up, since no one is here to see.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “Is it not exhilarating? May we walk across the grass to the lake?”
“By all means.” His delight matched her own. He could never have imagined that behind her timid façade dwelt this vital, free-spirited creature who revelled in battling the elements. She belonged in the country, wandering across the moors she loved, through fields and woods, or tending her vegetable garden. Only her devotion to her family could have dragged her to an alien world of drawing rooms and scandalmongers.
They reached the lake and strolled along the bank. Most of the ducks, swans and pelicans had deserted the ruffled water to roost under the trees. A bare willow thrashed its drooping branches and the ground was littered with twigs.
Thea was pensive now. Rod was not surprised when she glanced back to ensure that his footman was out of earshot, then turned to him and said, “I need your advice.”
“I thought so. What is it?”
“It’s Penny.” She hesitated, the colour in her cheeks heightened. Her eyes cast down, she took a deep breath before blurting out, “She is afraid that Jason is unfaithful, and I cannot reassure her because I do not know. Do you think it is just a fancy due to her condition?”
Rod fought to hide his consternation. “My dear Miss Kilmore, how can I possibly say?”
“Gentlemen do take mistresses,” she persisted.
It was his turn to colour, glad that she was not looking at him. “They do.”
“Even married gentlemen. I...I think Papa probably did.”
“Even married gentlemen. It does not necessarily indicate any lessening of regard for the wife.”
“Oh, fustian! Penny loves him, and she is very unhappy.” She stopped, took his arm, and gazed up at him with pleading eyes. “Can you...could you possibly find out if Jason has a mistress?”
“Good God, no!” His explosive response made her take a step backwards. He reached out to take her hands. “I beg your pardon for startling you, but it is quite impossible. For one gentleman to spy on another is out of the question.”
Stubborn despite her alarm at his vehemence, she asked, “Could you not lead the conversation round to...to that subject? And see what he said?”
“No. Even if I were on sufficiently intimate terms with your brother. Though admittedly there are many men tasteless enough to gossip about their
chères amies,
I am not one of them.”
“Then you have...?” She pulled her hands from his and clapped them to her mouth, her face crimson now. “Oh, I did not mean to pry. It is none of my business.”
He closed his eyes, appalled at where mutual frankness had led him, just as he had feared. Who was he to hold himself superior to those of his indiscreet fellows who boasted or complained of their ladybirds?
“You are angry,” she said timidly. “I’m sorry.”
He was about to lose her trust, and that he could not endure. “Not angry with you,” he said with a rueful smile. “It was my fault entirely. My tongue ran away with me.”
“As did mine with me.” Her smile was shy, but not fearful—thank heaven!
A yellow maple leaf was caught in her dark hair, and one braid, lashed by the wind, was escaping its pins. Rod did not dare offer to pin it up because what he really wanted to do was loosen its strands and bury his face in the soft silkiness. He was disgusted with himself. So this was what came of discussing lightskirts with a respectable young lady!
Plucking the leaf from her hair with unnecessary concentration, he said severely, “You would not speak so freely to anyone else, would you?”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “Of course not, Lord Hazlewood.”
Her use of his title struck him as extraordinarily funny. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, “after such a conversation as we have had, surely you can bring yourself to address me as Roderick—when none are by, of course.”
“If you will call me Thea.”
“I will.” He realized she was shivering. “Come, Thea, you are cold from standing. Do you wish to return to the carriage or walk on?”
She chose to walk on. The vigorous pace she set soon returned the roses to her cheeks. They circled the lake, talking of trees and the distinctive countryside of different parts of England.
Later, when Rod changed for dinner, Pelham produced a yellow maple leaf from his greatcoat pocket. “Tricky, that wind,” the valet observed.
Entering the house, Thea threw back her hood. Dunmow’s startled gasp, quickly stifled, sent her to the hallway mirror. How dreadful that Roderick had seen her looking as if she had been dragged backwards through a haystack!
Not that he had seemed to mind. In fact for a moment she had thought he was going to...but of course that was wishful thinking—or rather, sheer imagination. He had probably been wondering whether to suggest that she pin up her hair.
She hurried upstairs, a horrified Farden at her heels.
“Didn’t I tell you, miss, you’d get proper tousled in that wind? What his lordship must think!”
“It is much too late to worry about his lordship. Just help me tidy my hair before Mama comes home.”
She had just settled in the drawing-room with a book when the others returned and joined her. Meg was
aux anges.
“Everyone was so very amiable, Thea. You should have come with us. Lady Cowper welcomed us most kindly and introduced us to several people. I do believe we shall have vouchers for Almack’s in the spring.”
“Do not set your sights too high, my love,” warned her mother.’ ‘Recall that any one of the patronesses can deny them.”
“Why should they? Anyway, we shall have plenty of other entertainments. Thea, Lady Turner has invited us to an informal dance next week.”
“Sir Gideon’s doing,” said Penny drily, “I suspect he is well nicknamed ‘Giddy,’ for he is wildly enamoured of Meg after only two or three meetings.”
“He does cast sheep’s eyes and sigh a great deal.” Meg laughed. “But Maria—his sister—says he is forever falling in love, so I shall not take him seriously. Jane Lewin was at Maria’s house, Thea, and she says her mama will ask us to her musicale. And the Duchess of Trent invited us to a card party.” She wrinkled her nose. “It sounds horridly dull.”
Thea turned to Penny in surprise. “You called on the duchess?”
“She asked me to, remember? One does not lightly ignore the request of a duchess, nor refuse an invitation.”
“I only wish we could,” said the dowager unhappily. “She makes me uneasy, and I do not know how to play at cards.”
“Not at all?” Penny asked. “Thea? Meg? None of you play? Heavens, I shall have to teach you. Loo will be best. It is simple and usually played for low stakes.”