by Shirl Henke
Both gentlemen demurred, the viscount heartily, Rob with unvoiced reservations. What was his clever mother going to do? He watched warily as the two diminutive figures retreated into a small sitting area down the hall from the ballroom.
Once they had taken seats on a small sofa behind several large urns filled with flowers, Abigail said in a warm conversational tone, “Now, child, you must tell me all about how you and my son became acquainted. He speaks ever so highly of you.”
Verity clapped her hands together in obvious delight. “The earl is a most remarkable gentleman. We first met at a small gathering my aunt Hortense held last winter. The dear lady shares his concern for the abolition of slavery—oh, but mark me, she is no bluestocking. In fact, she is complete to a shade, an absolute fashion arbiter.” She fingered the lace on her skirt. “Of course, I had only entered half mourning for my dear Charles at that time, so I was forced to wear a deep shade of purple,” she explained with a slight curl of her lip. “But in spite of that, the earl did not seem to mind how wan it made me appear. He is such a kind gentleman.”
“I understand you have a child,” Abigail said, not wanting to hear more about “offensive” colors.
“Elgin is the light of my life. Such an adorable little one. He will be two in the autumn. His nursemaids all dote upon him, and your son has fallen prey to his winsome ways as well…“
As Verity rhapsodized on about how brilliant her son was, according to reports from those left in charge of his upbringing, Abigail noted that almost every incident the baroness related was secondhand. How often did she actually hold Elgin? Had she ever changed his soiled linens or sung him to sleep herself? Abigail doubted it. She suspected that the younger woman had used the child to gain Robert’s attention. After all, his countess would have to give him an heir.
Having exhausted her repertoire on Elgin, Verity complimented Abigail on her lovely gown and remarked about the sapphire pendant’s beauty.
“I must confess that both the dress and the jewel belong to my youngest daughter. Life in the country does not require the widow of a parson to wear such finery. I borrowed Catherine’s clothing and some jewelry for the trip to London,” Abigail said.
“That is a pity—oh, I did not mean to imply that your borrowing your daughter’s things is in any way improper, but that you should not be allowed to have beautiful gowns and jewels of your own,” Verity said. “After all, you are now the mother of an earl.”
“You have exquisite taste, my dear, but such things are for the young and I am far from that,” Abigail replied.
“I could never imagine a time when I will not want to be all the crack—oh, that is, dressed in the very latest fashion,” she explained at the older lady’s a puzzled look.
“Life in the country is…different. Even Catherine wears plain cotton day gowns more often than any finery,” Abigail said. “Do you spend any time at your late husband’s seat?”
“Oh, my, no. It is far to the west, a dreary place near the Cornish border. My father’s estate is closer, but in need of—” She stopped short. “What I mean is that Father dislikes the country, so we stay at our city house.” Realizing that confessing a desire to use the earl’s money to redecorate the viscount’s manor would be ill advised, Verity cast about for a change of subject. Just then a snatch of conversation from passersby provided her with a new topic.
“I say, old chap, the proposed legislation to abolish the exploitation of climbing boys is long overdue,” one gentleman insisted.
His companion responded with heat, “Climbing boys have been on the streets of London for generations. Why forbid them now? ′Tis against the natural order of things.”
As they argued, oblivious of the women behind the palms, Verity said, “I could not agree more with the gentleman wearing that clever gold waistcoat. The natural order of things is that boys be allowed, indeed encouraged, to climb. Why would someone wish to pass a law against climbing?”
Abigail blinked. “I do not believe they were alluding to boys climbing, but to climbing boys, my dear,” she corrected gently. She cannot be so dim! Then again…
“That was precisely what I was addressing, Mrs. St. John,” Verity responded, dispelling any hope of misunderstanding that Abigail had held. “At Middleton Hall when we were children, my brothers climbed everywhere, into trees, on top of the stable roof, into the haylofts. Oh, they were ever so adventuresome!”
Give me patience, Lord. Abigail could see the baroness’s beautiful face beaming at her supposed cleverness. “I believe you did not hear the arguments clearly over the music from the ballroom. Those gentlemen were discussing legislation pending in Parliament regarding the little boys who sweep chimneys.”
Verity realized she had been too eager to discuss a matter in which she had no interest. What went on in Parliament was best left to gentlemen, but if her future mother-in-law wished to discuss it, she must do so. “Yes, of course, you are correct. I misheard, but nevertheless, why would any member of Parliament wish to forbid the little sweeps from exercising their natural inclinations? All boys, even the poor, wish to climb and there are so few trees in London. Where would they climb if not up chimneys?”
Finding oneself at the bottom of a well, the wisest course, child, is to cease digging. “My dear, the climbing boys are very young, tiny children who—”
“But that only proves that they are most suited to do what comes naturally to them while they are yet small enough to fit.” Pleased with herself, Verity failed to read the consternation in Abigail’s eyes. “I understand that they are from the lowliest classes, but this must be a means of earning money to aid their families—and they can do so while engaging in natural play!”
Marie Antoinette possessed more sense! Having lived nearly three-score years, Abigail St. John was not surprised by much. But that Robert would ever consider this poor creature a candidate to become Countess of Barrington stunned her. As she steered the conversation back to fashions, something she knew the baroness would be far better equipped to discuss, she felt a small measure of relief. Her son had expressed doubts about Lady Oberly’s suitability…and Amber Leighigh had come into his life. Perhaps the one had something to do with the other, she thought, smiling inwardly.
Rob had found it apparent on their carriage ride home last night that the baroness had not passed Abigail’s inspection. Although his mother only spoke ill of anyone under extreme circumstances, she expressed a repugnance for the old viscount. She was also concerned about whether Verity would make a good wife for a man consumed with his work in Parliament since the lady possessed no interest in political matters.
The next morning he found her seated at the small escritoire in his study, busily at work. “What are you writing, Mother?”
Abigail raised her head and gave him a winsome smile. “Why, I am writing a note to that charming young widow, Amber Leighigh, inviting her to tea.”
Chapter Sixteen
Rob froze midstride. His mind raced. What could he say? That it would be a bit awkward considering she was a member of the demimonde? Or, that she was not really a widow? That she only wore black and veiled her face because she was hiding from some enemy who had tried on numerous occasions to kidnap or kill her! Think, blast it all, think!
Ignoring his tongue-tied response, Abigail chattered on about how delightful and well-informed she had found Mrs. Leighigh to be. The more he considered the matter, the more he agreed. Fantasia, whatever her real name, possessed every qualification for being his countess—except for one glaringly obvious disqualification. Still, she had always been very discreet about her identity. Perhaps no one in London had ever seen Lady Fantasia’s face or knew her identity, except for the small coterie of loyal servants surrounding her…guarding her.
No! Whatever was he thinking? She had been a prostitute, albeit one of the highest order. Many of her customers must, at one time or another, have seen her face before she became the mysterious Lady Fantasia. Perhaps it was one such man from whom she now hid,
who wanted to keep her as his exclusive play toy. Still, that left him with no acceptable explanation to deter his mother from inviting “Mrs. Leighigh” to tea.
He reached out for the missive, saying, “I shall have Frog deliver it at once. Perhaps I can join you this afternoon.”
Abigail shook her head. The expression on her face was one she normally reserved for Maggoty. The big sheepdog he had owned as a boy always managed to track mud across the hearth just after the floor had been scrubbed. “You have a meeting this afternoon with Mr. Wilberforce, do you not?”
“I shall make my excuses and reschedule.”
“No, you will keep your appointment with that good gentleman. I shall entertain Amber myself.” The steely gleam in those blue eyes was formidable enough to halt Napoleon’s legions.
Amber, was it now? Fantasia had certainly ingratiated herself with his mother, and Abigail St. John was not an easy woman to deceive. “What if she refuses?” Which she most certainly will do…won’t she? He prayed she would.
Abigail smiled serenely. “I believe the lady will accept.”
When Amber received the note, she was stunned. Why on earth had the earl sent his mother’s invitation? He should have made up some Banbury story to convince her to cease matchmaking. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and massaged the ache starting to build. Surely he does not want me to agree to this madness…or does he?
Well, if he allowed the invitation to be sent, then he could live with the consequences. Abigail’s primary reason for coming to London had been to see if Baroness Oberly would make a suitable countess for the earl. Amber hoped his mother was too keen a judge of character to approve of the vacuous female. Besides, she temporized, she really enjoyed Abigail’s company and the older woman would soon return to her family obligations at home.
She would tactfully explain the impossibility of a second marriage between Barrington and herself, and that done, would learn Abigail’s opinion of the baroness.
As she penned a reply, she considered how his city house might be furnished. The décor would be bold and masculine, spartan to a fault, she was certain. A tiny smile curved her lips. Would he make some excuse to remain at home when she arrived? He knew he could count on her utter discretion, but still…Their relationship had taken quite a few unintentional turns since they first struck what was to be a short-term business arrangement.
“We shall see how you deal with this, m’lord,” she murmured as she reached for the bellpull.
That afternoon she was admitted to the lovely brownstone house. All she had previously seen was the front. Stepping into the foyer, Amber glanced around and was pleased that her guess about décor had been quite on the mark. With the exception of two small landscapes, the pale blue walls were bare of adornment. Polished oak floors gleamed beneath her feet and an octagonal rug in dark blues and greens was centered in the foyer. An Adams pier table on the far wall next to the winding staircase was the only furniture besides a cane umbrella stand by the door.
“This way, m’lady,” the butler said with the deference he might show to a royal duchess. “Mrs. St. John awaits you in her parlor. If you will follow me, please.”
As she climbed the steep wooden stairs, Amber held on to the smooth curve of the oak railing, looking ahead to the long hallway at the top. She could see three doors set on each side. Which room was Rob’s? Did he sleep in the nude here as he did with Gabrielle? If so, she would wager he had only recently stopped wearing nightshirts. A small ripple of wicked pleasure curled deep inside her belly as the thought flashed through her mind. Then the servant tapped softly on the first door.
When Abigail bid her enter, Amber saw the cozy sitting room was furnished in the English country style with sturdy rounded chairs and a straight-legged table set for a light repast. The linen cloth on it was edged with tatting, most probably done by Abigail herself. Beyond the sitting room, a door opened to a sleeping chamber with a four-poster bed plumped with several pillows. Like the upholstered furniture in the sitting room, the bedcover was a soft blue edged with tatting.
“Good afternoon, Amber. I am delighted that you were so gracious as to accept my invitation,” Abigail said, approaching her and giving her a warm embrace as the butler discreetly closed the door behind him.
“It was very kind of you to extend it.” She raised the veil on her bonnet as she glanced around, noting several portraits on the walls. One was of a striking man who bore an incredible likeness to the earl, with the exception of his clerical collar and plain black long coat. He had the same green eyes, she noted. But these were open and utterly warm, with no secret fears or haunted past in them.
“That is my husband, Lucas. Robert is his very image,” Abigail said softly, her voice warm with memories.
“I can see the resemblance,” Amber replied. “′Tis quite remarkable.”
Abigail chuckled. “What a handsome man such as Luke ever saw in me, I shall never know, but I will always be grateful. Even as a girl, I was plain as a hedgerow.”
Amber turned to her friend. “You are no such thing. Why, you have the loveliest eyes I have ever seen,” she protested.
“My best feature, little doubt, but the rest of my face is bony and quite unremarkable. I’m too short and too thin by half to suit the tastes of most men.”
“Although I do not agree with your assessment of your appearance, I’m certain that your husband judged you by the beauty of your soul.”
“He was an excellent judge of character, as am I. Alas, I fear Robert, although a keen judge of men, has not inherited our perspicacity when it comes to women.” She walked over to the table and said, “Please do have a seat. The cushions are quite comfortable. I made them myself.”
Amber took the chair indicated as Abigail sat down across from her. Ignoring the leading remark about Rob’s judgment in regard to women, she said, “I never even learned to embroider, much less sew a seam.”
“Ladies are taught embroidery. Country women such as I learn sewing. Although Lucas’s father was an earl, mine was a parson. We lived a simple life, but were content with such. Will you pour, my dear? I fear my brother-in-law’s heavy silver teapot quite intimidates me. I should hate to drop it and smash such delicate china. All of this came to Robert when he inherited the title.”
“Along with a great many responsibilities. I am certain he takes them quite seriously.” As Amber spoke, she poured the tea into two of the thin porcelain cups, offering one to Abigail.
Both women busied themselves with lemon slices and sugar from the small loaf sitting beside a basket of freshly baked scones. A moment passed before Abigail said, “Robert does indeed take his duty most seriously—too seriously at times, I fear.”
“How so?” Amber asked, sipping the tea and remembering the baroness’s fondness for her custom blend of the nasty stuff.
“His rush to search out a proper woman to be his countess. At least I have peace of mind knowing that it will not be that poor child, Verity Chivins.”
Amber almost smiled before stopping herself. “You did not think the lady suitable?” She studied Abigail over the rim of her cup.
Rob’s mother gave a surprisingly indelicate snort. “The Lord forgive me for saying this, but the baroness has less sense than my father’s old mule. Clarabelle could not plow a straight line with two men leading her. Every furrow was as wavy as the Atlantic Ocean! Lady Oberly confuses climbing boys with boys who climb.”
As she explained the previous night’s misunderstanding, Amber felt the laughter bubbling up inside her. “There are so few trees in London?” she repeated, struggling not to choke on the bite of scone she had just swallowed.
“Indeed. Can you envision her entertaining his friends from Parliament with such astute observations? You, on the other hand, would engage their interest and further his causes quite handily.”
Now Amber did choke, coughing until she had to upend her teacup, drinking with unladylike gulps to wash down the lodged piece of bread. Abig
ail quickly stood up and came around the small table, thumping her on her back. “There, there, my dear. I did not intend to startle you, but I am a forthright woman—and a determined one. You are the wife for my son.”
Regaining her breath, Amber rasped out, “No! I would not suit, not at all. We come from different worlds.”
“Perhaps. You were obviously raised as quality while Robert was the son of a country parson. If your fortunes have been reversed in recent years, it signifies nothing. You are educated and concerned with the same issues as Robert. You possess a keen mind and ready wit, not to mention being head-turningly beautiful. I suspect the latter would be accounted an asset in a wife by many members of Parliament.”
“You do not understand…”
“Pray, enlighten me, then,” Abigail replied gently.
Rob stood frozen on the other side of the door, the knob in one hand, the other raised to knock. How fortunate that his meeting with William and several other MPs had ended earlier than expected. He had overheard his mother’s startling pronouncement and knew that he dared not allow this dangerous conversation to go any further. Rapping sharply, he entered.
“Why, Robert, what are you doing home so early?” his mother asked accusingly.
Foiling your plans…I hope. Fantasia looked dazed. Abigail’s words had obviously shocked her as much as him. “I did not realize that my political affairs need conform to your schedule, Mother,” he said, trying for a light tone.
While regaining her composure, Amber watched the interplay between mother and son. This could develop into quite a contest of wills. It would be wise for her to retreat and let them sort the matter out, but before she could say anything, he turned to her.
Bowing, he said, “Good afternoon, Mrs…Leighigh.”
“M’lord,” she replied coolly, noting his deliberate hesitation over her name. A name he believed to be false. How ironic that it was truly her own. “I think it would be wise if I took my leave—”