by Anne Gracie
She was tired, Abby thought, seeing her leaning heavily on her nephew’s arm as he escorted her into the house, but there was no mistaking the bright gleam of satisfaction in the old lady’s eyes as she looked around her.
All her favorite pieces of furniture, glowing with beeswax, and flowers in every room—no mean feat, given the unseasonal summer they’d had. That the flowers were Lord Davenham’s doing was another surprise. Abby had mentioned that flowers would be nice, and he’d ordered them by the armful, apparently.
Lady Beatrice wandered from room to room, her shrewd old eyes taking in everything. “Excitingly new and different,” she said, “and yet all my favorite things are here. I feel completely at home.” She plopped down in her favorite chair and smiled at Abby. “I detect your fine touch, Miss Burg—”
“Everyone helped,” Abby interrupted hurriedly. She hoped Lord Davenham hadn’t noticed. Lady Beatrice must be very tired to have slipped like that. “Do you like it?”
The old lady looked around again and nodded. “I’m going to be happy here; I can feel it in my bones. Featherby, I think such an event calls for some—”
“Champagne, my lady?” said the perfect butler, and produced the bottle and glasses with a flourish.
* * *
Max left for Manchester the next day. Before he departed, he spoke to his aunt, who was just finishing breakfast in her bedchamber. “While I’m gone, Freddy has agreed to keep an eye on things here.”
She waved the idea away. “I don’t need an elegant young fribble to look after me. He can take the gels out and about—they’ve seen nothing of London so far.”
“No, I’ve told him they’re to stay close to home for the moment. They can walk in the park, as long as they have Freddy or a footman with them. Nothing else.” A high-pitched mewing caught his ears. Max looked around. He could see no sign of anything.
“Close to home? Walk in the park?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this about me wanting to bring those gels out in society? Because if it is, Max Davenham, if you think I’m going to keep those gels hidden away just because you don’t know who their people are—”
“It’s not that.” The mew sounded again, louder and more anxious.
“What is it then?”
Damn. To spare his aunt anxiety, Max had told her nothing of the attack on Abby. He sought refuge in autocracy. “Just do as I bid you, Aunt Bea. I know you want to take those girls out and about in society, but trust me, it will not do.” He held up his hand. “Don’t argue. My mind is made up.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be back in a week or ten days.”
She pouted. “The Parsleys, I suppose.”
He inclined his head. “The Parsloes, yes.”
“I do hope when you get there you won’t find dear Miss Parsley fallen down a pit.”
Max ignored that. “While I’m gone, you can call on Freddy for anything you need. I hope to see you fitter than ever when I return.” He spotted the source of the sound.
She snorted. “Fitter than ever? Stuck in the house all the time? I’m supposed to have excitement! The doctor said so.”
Max stood up. “Until I return, you’ll just have to get your excitement from those novels you love so much. And from this little demon.” He reached up and carefully detached Max the kitten from the top of the curtains. “Badly behaved kittens frequently end up as cat-skin waistcoats,” Max informed it severely.
“Oh, the novels, yes, I’d almost forgotten,” his aunt said with such a change of tone, his suspicions were immediately aroused.
Max put the kitten down. “What had you forgotten?”
“That the only excitement I ever get these days is from books. And the gels too, it seems. Oh, well, we’ll just have to manage, won’t we? Good-bye, Max, dear. Travel safely.”
Her expression was entirely too saintly for his comfort, but he’d left strict orders with Freddy, Featherby and Abby, and he had a long journey ahead of him. “Good-bye, Aunt Bea.”
* * *
“Don’t speak to me of my nephew,” Lady Beatrice said. “He’s utterly infuriating.”
“I know,” Abby soothed. She had a fair idea of what Lord Davenham had done to annoy his aunt before he left. Much the same as had annoyed Abby.
“He’s ordered me—ordered, mind you—that you and the gels are not to go out into society! When we’ve just moved here to be closer to society!” She snorted. “He’s become completely autocratic—he has the notion that men rule the world. Well, so they might, but they don’t rule me!”
“No, of course they don’t,” Abby agreed.
“He thinks all he has to do is utter an instruction and I’ll obey him.”
“Surely not.” Abby hid a smile. Lord Davenham could surely not be so deluded.
“He does. Thinks just because he’s moved me into this place he can dictate terms.”
Abby made another soothing sound, and Lady Beatrice turned on her. “And why are you mm-hmming at me in that irritating manner? I’m not a wet hen to be calmed! You can’t possibly believe my nephew is right. Why aren’t you joining in the criticism?”
“I don’t think it’s right to criticize a man behind his back when I’m living under his roof.” She’d already had—and lost—the argument with Lord Davenham.
Lady Beatrice snorted. “Ridiculous notion. I can.”
“Yes, but you’re his aunt.”
Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette and stared at Abby. “So you don’t find him annoying?”
“I find him stubborn, suspicious and autocratic.” And kind and . . . too attractive for her peace of mind.
Lady Beatrice leaned back against her pillows. “And they’re not criticisms?”
Abby smiled. “No, ma’am, merely . . . observations.” Their eyes met and they both laughed. “Very well,” Abby admitted, “he does drive me to distraction at times, but he has good cause. We might not be the adventuresses he thinks us, but we are adventuresses. We’re not who we say we are, and he wants to protect you from us.”
“Nonsense, you’re all dear, good gels, and deep down Max knows it, else he would never have allowed you to move into his house. But like all the Davenham men he wants to have his own way in all things. Take it from me, my dear, flouting him is good for his character.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
Chapter Seventeen
“It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble.”
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
The house seemed unwontedly quiet without Lord Davenham. Or perhaps, Abby thought, it was because the girls went out more often, now that they lived so close to all the fashionable shops in Oxford Street—not shopping, for they had little money to spend, but gleaning inspiration for the outfits Daisy was designing for them all. Or being taken for drives in the park by Mr. Monkton-Coombes.
Lord Davenham’s restrictions had not gone down well with the other girls either. Of course, they loved being escorted by Mr. Monkton-Coombes—who could object to such a handsome, entertaining and fashionable escort?—but the girls soon started to object to being shadowed everywhere by the new footmen, Turner and Hatch, dressed in livery.
“It’s silly,” Jane said, when Abby discovered her and Damaris returning home yet again with no escort. “We don’t need an escort.”
“It’s for your own safety,” Abby said, although privately she thought it was a little overprotective.
“Yes, but you were attacked, not me or Damaris or Daisy, and you said yourself he must be a cutpurse, so why must we be shadowed every step? It’s like being in prison!”
“In prison you can’t go anywhere,” Abby pointed out dryly. “Now stop complaining; you know perfectly well we promised Lord Davenham we wouldn’t go anywhere without an escort, and since it’s his house we live in, he makes the rules.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“No, but I did for all of us,” Abby said firmly. “So please don’t do it again.”
&n
bsp; “We only went across the park to get an ice,” Damaris said soothingly. The location of Gunter’s just across the park was a constant temptation. “We were visible all the time from the house.”
“Oh, and Abby,” Jane exclaimed, diverted. “You’ll never guess who we saw outside Gunter’s—at least, I saw, because Damaris doesn’t know him.” She didn’t wait for Abby to guess. “Sir Walter Greevey.”
Abby had to think for a moment. “Oh, the man who found you that job in Hereford? Did you speak to him?”
“No, for he was getting into his carriage and had his wife with him—at least, I think it was his wife—she was quite old. I waved at him but I don’t think he recognized me, because he drove off without a sign. I wish he had, because he’s ever so nice. He would have bought Damaris and me an ice, I’m sure—he always used to bring the girls little treats at the Pill.”
“Well, hurry along; the ladies for the literary society will be arriving shortly.”
The literary society was going very well. Lady Beddington had put the word out among her friends and acquaintances, and each day more people came. No young men yet—apart from Freddy Monkton-Coombes, who’d attended the last one, but Lady Beatrice had hopes.
The society met three afternoons a week; there was little on in London at this time of year, so those members of society who disdained country living were delighted to have an afternoon entertainment, something refreshingly different from the usual round of morning calls.
Abby had chosen a very popular and quite fashionable book to start with, and though most of the members of the society knew of it and could discuss it in vague terms, it was surprising how many of them hadn’t actually read it. For some it was simply that the print was too small and gave them a headache, but as many confided to Abby later, they hadn’t bothered because they never found books entertaining.
It was very gratifying to find the large drawing room filling up for each meeting—they’d even had to send out for more chairs. And each time more people brought a friend or relative, and soon, Lady Beatrice and Abby hoped, they would bring young men.
“My nephew will be so cross,” Lady Beatrice had declared gleefully, “but he cannot object, because I’m not taking you gels out and about in society—which he strictly forbade—society is calling on me.”
* * *
A few days later, society of a different kind came calling. Abby and Lady Beatrice were sitting quietly in the cozy back sitting room, enjoying a welcome patch of late-morning sunshine, when Featherby appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat.
Lady Beatrice looked up from her game of patience. “Yes, Featherby, what is it?”
“Excuse me, m’lady, but there is a . . . a person at the door, asking to see Lord Davenham.”
“He’s gone to Manchester, as you very well know,” Lady Beatrice responded.
Featherby did not move.
Lady Beatrice picked up her lorgnette and eyed him. “A person, you said?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“You know I don’t receive persons, only ladies and gentlemen. Send the fellow away.”
Featherby stayed where he was.
Lady Beatrice eyed him narrowly. “You’re suggesting I see this person?”
“I am, m’lady.” Featherby presented Lady Beatrice with the silver salver, in the center of which lay a lavishly embossed visiting card.
She picked up the card between thumb and finger, scrutinized it, turned it over, then dropped it back on the silver tray. “You’ve informed him that Lord Davenham has gone to Manchester?”
“I have, m’lady. He seemed to find it highly amusing.”
Lady Beatrice exchanged a long look with Featherby, then sighed. “Then I suppose we must admit the wretched man. Send him in then, and bring us some tea. And take this, will you?” She passed him a kitten, which he received with aplomb.
Abby folded her sewing. “Would you like me to leave?”
“Good gad, no—stay where you are. The dratted Parsleys have come to town.”
A moment later Featherby announced the visitors. A chunkily built middle-aged man entered the room, looking around him with what Abby felt was the eye of an auctioneer, calculating the value of everything he saw. Some of the furniture, she could tell, did not meet with his approval.
He was dressed in a coat of green tweed, a plainly tied neck cloth, a checked waistcoat and brown breeches—not a fashionable outfit, but clearly expensive. The materials were of the finest quality, as was the heavy gold chain of his fob watch.
A man who knew his own worth, Abby thought, and felt no need to trumpet it. Nor to pander to fashion.
The young woman with him, on the other hand, might have stepped straight from the pages of La Belle Assemblée. Pretty as a doll, with eyes of bright china blue, she was dressed in a white muslin dress over which she wore a deep-pink-and-white-striped redingote. Over a cluster of fair ringlets she wore a fetching straw bonnet trimmed with dark pink ribbons and pale pink artificial roses. She smoothed her pink kid gloves nervously and stared at Lady Beatrice with much the same expression as she might regard a viper.
Lady Beatrice held out a gracious hand. “Please forgive me for not rising. I have been unwell.”
Mr. Parsloe took the proffered hand, shook it and said, “An honor to meet you, my lady. My daughter, Miss Parsloe.”
The young lady curtsied and murmured a polite greeting.
Lady Beatrice eyed her coolly, and indicated Abby. “My niece, Miss Chance.”
Abby curtsied. “How do you do, Mr. Parsloe, Miss Parsloe.”
Featherby brought in the tea tray, and Abby occupied herself pouring tea.
“And where is your other daughter, Mr. Parsloe?” Lady Beatrice inquired when they had been served.
He looked puzzled. “Other daughter?” He spoke with a broad northern accent.
“I meant Miss Henrietta Parsloe.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “This is Henrietta. I have only one daughter, my lady.”
Lady Beatrice’s brows snapped together. She was silent a long moment, then exchanged a speaking glance with Abby.
Abby had no difficulty reading her mind; she was just as shocked. How could Lord Davenham have been betrothed to this young girl for nine years? She looked barely eighteen.
They drank their tea in silence, the only sounds in the room an awkward clinking of china and silver. Lady Beatrice made no effort to put the Parsloes at their ease; she was very much playing la grande dame. Abby hadn’t seen this side of her before.
Mr. Parsloe seemed to notice nothing amiss. “To think Lord Davenham has gone up to Manchester to call on us and we’re down here, trying to call on him.” He chuckled. “We might have passed him on the road, but we didn’t see him, did we, puss?”
“No, Papa.”
“He wrote to tell us to expect him any day, then wrote again to say he’d been delayed because you had visitors, my lady.” It almost sounded like an accusation, Abby thought.
“Indeed?” Lady Beatrice said in arctic tones.
“Aye, he did.” Mr. Parsloe seemed unaware it was a snub. He gave Abby a critical inspection. “I suppose you would be one of those visitors, Miss Chance.”
“Yes, myself and my sisters.”
“Younger or older sisters?” he asked, not seeming to realize it wasn’t polite to ask. Or perhaps he didn’t care.
“Younger.”
He pursed his lips, seeming displeased. “Ah, well, Henrietta’s here now.”
There was another long, uncomfortable silence broken only by the clatter of tea things.
“I see your London weather is no better than what we’ve been getting up in Manchester.”
Lady Beatrice gave a bored sigh.
“Really?” Abby murmured, to keep the conversation going. It was a bit of a shock to see Lady Beatrice behaving in such a cutting manner; she was normally so kind.
Not that Mr. Parsloe seemed to notice. “Nay, we’ve not had anything that could be cal
led summer. My girl here has had to bring her winter clothes, haven’t you, puss?”
“Yes, Papa,” Miss Parsloe murmured, twisting her pink kid gloves restlessly. She saw Abby noticing and immediately smoothed the gloves out.
There was another long silence. “Aye, feels more like a mild winter than summer,” said Mr. Parsloe. “Mark my words, we’re going to pay for this.”
“Indeed?” Lady Beatrice said again.
“Oh, aye, with weather like this the crops will fail, and there’ll be shortages all ’round.” He rubbed his hands, though whether it was a response to the chilly atmosphere in the room or at the prospect of the shortages, Abby couldn’t tell. “A shrewd man would be well advised to buy up whatever grain he can—the price is going to soar once the shortages start to be felt. And so I’ll be advising your nephew.”
“Profiting off human misery?” Lady Beatrice said icily.
Mr. Parsloe was unoffended. “Bless you, my lady, it’s how business works, but there, I should know better than to discuss such matters with softhearted ladies. Members of your sex simply don’t have a head for business, but that’s how we men like it; isn’t that so, Henrietta?”
“Yes, Papa,” Henrietta murmured. Abby couldn’t make her out. In one way Henrietta seemed quite composed, looking around her with an air of disinterest, but then there was the way she was treating those gloves.
He chuckled, then, as silence fell again, glanced around him in search of another topic. “Now, this is more like it. I took a look at Davenham House before we came—I’ve been wanting to see inside that house for nine years.”
Lady Beatrice stiffened.
“A grand old house in its day, I daresay, but sadly shabby now.”
“Indeed,” Lady Beatrice said in a freezing tone.
Mr. Parsloe nodded, seemingly unaware of the offensiveness of his comments. He was apparently of the school of men who prided themselves on their blunt speaking. “You won’t have noticed it, my lady, having lived there all your life, but young people expect things to be bang up to the knocker, don’t you, puss?”