by Diane Farr
“Mr. Horton?” gasped gentle Emily, with such honest horror that there was a general shout of laughter. Emily blushed.
“Well, perhaps not Mr. Horton,” amended Mrs. Campbell hastily. “But I am afraid there are so many sadly underbred young men in the neighborhood—gracious, how excessively vulgar I sound!”
“Never mind, my pet. We understand you perfectly,” said Mr. Campbell, appearing vastly entertained by his wife’s discomfiture. “You are not a mercenary person—you merely wish, like any parent, to see that your daughters do not make the same mistake you did.”
Mrs. Campbell straightened indignantly and turned a little pink. “Now, that is exactly what I do not mean, John, and well you know it!” she cried. “I have never regretted choosing you, although I might have married Mr. Maltby, and he was as rich as a nabob.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Campbell, bowing gravely from his chair.
Mrs. Campbell looked very wise. “It is a mistake to let material considerations outweigh the promptings of one’s heart,” she pronounced. “I would never dream of urging my girls into loveless marriages, whatever the gentlemen’s circumstances. But—but—” She broke off, suddenly confused.
“But,” her husband suggested helpfully, “it is just as easy to like a wealthy gentleman as a poor one.”
Over her children’s laughter Mrs. Campbell, very pink indeed, pretended to rap her husband’s knuckles with her teaspoon. “Laugh if you must, but it’s perfectly true! Harriet was very happy with Lord Lynwood.”
“Yes, but after she married we scarcely saw her,” Mr. Campbell reminded his wife. “The disparity in your circumstances led to an estrangement between you.”
“Oh, not an estrangement, John!” said Amabel, distressed. “It has been difficult to see her as often as I would like, because we never go to Town, and Harriet so rarely comes to the country. And then, she is accustomed to having everything so very grand—armies of servants at her beck and call, and everything of the finest—I can’t help feeling a bit awkward, trying to entertain her here at Rosemeade.”
Mr. Campbell patted his wife’s hand affectionately. “Dear heart, Harriet’s life isn’t far removed from what you were accustomed to in your father’s home.”
Amabel frowned. She did not like her darling John to draw unfair comparisons between the life he had given her, and the life her sister led. “Fiddle! My father chooses to ignore it, but his fortune was made in trade, you know. And not a large fortune, at that! You only knew him after he was knighted, dearest; I promise you he never put on such airs when I was a child.”
“Well, you mustn’t think I don’t appreciate the sacrifices you made in marrying me.”
Amabel smiled blindingly at her husband. “Sacrifices! How can you, John? I wouldn’t trade my life with you for a hundred thousand pounds!”
She glanced proudly around the table, thinking that a finer group of healthy, well-grown offspring could not be found. The Campbell children had not been taught to admire their own appearance, but they were a good-looking family, with regular features, fair skin, and beautiful complexions. The family resemblance was elusive, however. Their father’s Scottish ancestors had bequeathed height and red hair to Caitlin, Hector, Nicky, and Agnes, but Amabel was a petite and golden-haired creature who had endowed Isabella and Emily with her flaxen curls and exquisite daintiness.
Mrs. Campbell lost no time in accepting her sister’s invitation. Though they had only been half serious at the time, Mr. Campbell and Caitlin had each judged correctly: Lady Lynwood had couched her invitation in vague terms only because she could not recall the names of Amabel’s numerous progeny, and once it was made plain to her that the Campbells possessed two eligible daughters she instantly broadened her invitation to include them both.
Chapter II
Caitlin slipped unseen through her hostess’s elegant French doors, her face burning with mortification. She took a deep, grateful breath of the crisp night air. Perhaps it could douse the fire in her cheeks before anyone noticed how flushed she had become.
How she wished she could escape! She felt caged. Caitlin crossed the terrace and clutched the balustrade, hard. The coldness of the marble seeped through her gloves and she shivered, welcoming the sensation. She welcomed anything that would distract her at this moment.
She was still unaccustomed to the heat generated by a throng of overdressed people in a salon lit with dozens of candles. In another sense, she was unaccustomed to the coldness that could be generated by these same people. But the spring night was familiar; it smelled fresh and damp and wild. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back at Rosemeade.
A wave of homesickness struck her and she opened her eyes again, embarrassed. How idiotish! She would be home again soon enough. And doubtless would remain there forever, thought Caitlin, her mouth twisting wryly. Her London Season was not proving an unqualified success.
A spattering of glove-muffled applause caused her to turn and gaze through the windows behind her. Standing outside in the darkness, Caitlin realized she was invisible to the silk-clad, smiling people surrounding Miss Whitlock’s harp. It was a rather lonely sensation. She wondered sadly if she had been invisible to most of them all along. There was more than a pane of glass dividing Caitlin Campbell from the brightly lit room. The haut ton suddenly seemed as alien to her as a tribe of Hottentots.
But no; she had it backward, hadn’t she? She was the Hottentot. The laughter that was never far from Caitlin’s eyes lit them for a moment, as it occurred to her that an actual Hottentot would receive more respect from these aristocrats than John Campbell’s daughter. It was a mistake to wear a silk gown and her mother’s pearls tonight. Had she donned a grass skirt and tied a bone in her hair, she might have passed for visiting royalty.
The humorous image faded in the face of her agitation, and Caitlin walked the length of the terrace in a vain attempt to recover her spirits. The overheard remark that had driven her onto the terrace haunted her. The redhead? Oh, she is nobody, my dear . . . How lightly Lady Elizabeth had said it. How casually she had dismissed Caitlin as a mere tuft-hunter. To Lady Elizabeth Delacourt, born a duke’s daughter and recently betrothed to an earl’s heir, Caitlin Campbell was an insignificant bumpkin.
Returning to the salon and feigning an interest in Miss Whitlock’s harp seemed impossible. Alone on the terrace, Caitlin was in a unique position to slip away. Oh, if only she dared! She stepped to the balustrade again and leaned over it, peering into the gardens beneath the terrace. Why, one could see the square from here. A little path ran right to it. Five minutes of brisk walking would bring her to her aunt’s door in Half Moon Street.
Her impulse to escape was so strong, she actually took a step or two toward the garden before catching herself and stopping. Poor Lady Lynwood would swoon if she caught her headstrong niece traipsing down the London streets after dark! Aunt Harriet would not countenance Caitlin’s walking alone in London, even in broad daylight. They had already had several “discussions” regarding her impatience with that particular edict.
Still . . . tonight, and only tonight, it was just possible that no one would ever know. Aunt Harriet was not with her, and neither was Emily. Tonight was the night of Emily’s formal presentation, and, never having been presented herself, it had not been possible for Caitlin to accompany her sister and aunt to the Queen’s drawing rooms. Rather than sit alone at Lynwood House and wait for their return, Caitlin had accompanied her friend Serena to this dreadful party. Lady Serena Kilverton was the only kindred spirit Caitlin had found in London. Serena’s mother, Lady Selcroft, was very kind, but most of the extremely select company this evening had treated Caitlin with decided coolness.
She sighed with frustration. The night was calling to her, but this was not rural Hertfordshire. London offered a young lady many delights, but midnight tramps were not among them. Caitlin turned reluctantly to return to the stuffy salon.
Before she could reach the French
doors, they opened, throwing a bar of light across the terrace. Two young women walked out. Caitlin caught a glimpse of Lady Elizabeth’s elegant profile before Serena blocked her view. Serena’s high-spirited little face was set in an uncharacteristically mulish expression.
This was awkward indeed! Caitlin hesitated. Should she make her presence known? Or should she turn away and seek another entrance into the house? They had not seen her yet. Caitlin began to step forward, but Lady Elizabeth’s first words halted her in her tracks.
“It is a great mistake to encourage persons of that order,” said Lady Elizabeth calmly. She sounded kind but firm, as if she were speaking to a wayward child. “Pray do not think that I am criticizing you, my dear Serena, but I consider it my duty to give you a hint. By September I will be in the nature of an older sister to you, you know.”
Serena tossed her head with an irritated little laugh. “Thank you, but I have not required a governess for several years now! And if I needed one, I doubt that Mama would consider Richard’s fiancée a suitable candidate for the post.”
Lady Elizabeth’s calm appeared unruffled. “Nevertheless, I have considerably more experience than you in these matters. I cannot stand idly by and watch her encroach upon your good nature.”
Serena’s reply was quiet, but it carried to Caitlin quite clearly. “In what way do you imagine I am being imposed upon?”
Lady Elizabeth laughed gently. “Oh, I daresay you have no notion of it! But claiming friendship with Lady Serena Kilverton, you know, can add tremendously to the consequence of a mere Miss Campbell. You are furthering her social ambitions by lending her countenance.”
Caitlin felt stunned by the unfairness, the sheer meanness, of such a remark. Lady Elizabeth’s refined accents droned on, delicately warning Serena against her friend, but Caitlin could not stay to hear more. She turned blindly and walked into the garden. The evening had taken on the odd, sick quality of a nightmare.
Well, the fact that Lady Elizabeth was marrying Serena’s brother in September explained a great deal. Caitlin had not thought of that before. No wonder her ladyship was meddling in what otherwise, surely, did not concern her.
Tears of anger and humiliation sprang to Caitlin’s eyes. Caitlin was no fool. She knew there were advantages attached to friendship with an earl’s daughter. But Caitlin would have befriended Serena if her father had been a bootblack. High-spirited, fun-loving, affectionate Serena! It was impossible to picture any brother of hers choosing Lady Elizabeth for his life’s companion! Viscount Kilverton must be very different from his sister.
Caitlin dashed her angry tears away impatiently and tried to steady herself. What did it matter what the ton thought of her, after all? She would go home to Rosemeade in a month or two and never see these people again.
Ah, but it did matter. It mattered to Emily. If the beau monde thought of the Campbell girls as upstarts trying to climb above their natural station in life, what were Emily’s chances of forming an eligible connection? Aunt Harriet had certainly married well, and as the nieces of Lady Lynwood, Caitlin and Emily had the entrée almost everywhere, but facts were facts. The Campbell girls might be attractive, they might be well-mannered, they might be anything you choose, but they had neither rank nor fortune to recommend them.
She suddenly became aware that her restless feet had taken her, unbidden, to the edge of the garden. She stopped. One or two more steps would bring her onto the pavement that lined the square. The street, for some reason, was much lighter than the garden. Caitlin placed one hand against the stone wall beside her and, taking care to remain in shadow, leaned round the corner of the house to investigate this phenomenon.
Stone-faced mansions lined the square, their manicured entries illuminated by flambeaux and their windows blazing with light. Linkboys and liveried coachmen stood idly about, waiting for highly polished doors to open and guests to depart from their evening’s engagements. The picture of stately, well-lit respectability was dazzling to Caitlin’s country-bred eyes.
Her earlier fantasy of walking home returned to tantalize her. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought. It would be shockingly unconventional, but what did that matter? It was absurd to follow the rules when the rules were both inconvenient and unnecessary! There could not be anything dangerous about walking a few short blocks in this elegant neighborhood. And a brisk walk would do much to restore the tone of her mind.
Very well, she would do it! She would not stop to scold herself back into submission; she would not stop for anything! She stepped into the light with every appearance of poise and assurance, left a brief message for Lady Selcroft with the nearest linkboy, and was off.
By the time this daring plan had been put into execution, Caitlin was feeling much more cheerful. Action had an elevating effect on her spirits. She crossed the square briskly, turned the corner onto Curzon Street, and soon left the clusters of linkboys and coaches behind.
It seemed strange to see Curzon Street with all the shops closed and the street completely empty. Were it not for the marvelous new streetlights, she would never have recognized it. Her footsteps echoed strangely, and she found it necessary to step carefully in these dimly lit, unfamiliar surroundings. Still, the night was lovely, and the solitude refreshing.
As she walked, she became aware of a commotion of people running and shouting somewhere in the distance. This did not concern her unduly—until she realized the sounds were coming nearer. The streetlights suddenly seemed less bright. Her heart beat a little faster, and she quickened her steps.
A sudden cry of “Hi! There he goes!” in a thick Cockney baritone came from round the corner just behind her. Alarmed, Caitlin shrank back toward the doorway of the shop she was passing and turned to discover the cause of the disturbance.
There was just enough light to discern a tall man, who appeared to be in evening clothes, running toward her at top speed. She caught a glimpse of a gleaming white shirtfront and flying cape before he caromed into her with an exclamation, grabbing her arms to steady himself. Quick as thought, he pulled her with him into the recessed doorway, swinging her body in front of him so her back blocked all view of him from the street.
“Forgive me!” he uttered, and immediately pressed his lips to hers.
Too startled to protest, too amazed to think, Caitlin simply froze. She had never felt a man’s lips against her own, never felt a man’s arms hold her in just such a way. This forced intimacy with a complete stranger, a man whose face she had not even seen, was the single most astonishing event of her life.
Through her confusion, she could hear the sound of several pairs of running feet slowing as they approached. The stranger’s arms tightened around her, and as she tried to utter a muffled protest, he pressed his mouth even more firmly against hers. She heard a guffaw behind her, a rough voice sneering, “Love’s young dream!” and a smothered curse.
“ ’E must’ve gone round the corner, lads!” shouted another voice. And the feet ran on.
When the clatter of running boots on cobblestones began to fade, the stranger pulled his face away from hers. Caitlin’s eyes flew open with a shock of mortification, as she suddenly realized she had shut them like a swooning adolescent during his kiss. She raised a shaking hand to smooth her hair, and took a deep breath. Among her many conflicting emotions—anger, humiliation, fright, and, yes, a bubble of amusement—struggled for supremacy. She didn’t know whether to slap the stranger, hide her face and run away in shame, scream for help, or laugh out loud.
The light from the street was far too dim and wavering to make out his features. She wondered, in a dazed sort of way, if she might actually be in danger from this person. It was impossible to know whose booted feet she had heard pursuing him; perhaps it had been the Watch. For all she knew, this man was a criminal flying from the scene of his crime.
“Mademoiselle, you have probably saved my life,” whispered the stranger.
His accents were those of a gentleman. One heard stories of we
ll-bred young men playing stupid pranks for amusement. Perhaps he was one of these nincompoops.
“How gratifying!” Caitlin replied, with icy politeness. “Please don’t thank me; it has always been my ambition to rescue a gentleman in distress. And I warn you, if you beg my pardon I shall go into strong hysterics. My nerves cannot sustain another shock!”
“But I do thank you, and I do beg your pardon,” he said—although, to Caitlin’s annoyance, his voice quivered with amusement. She stiffened, and he quickly added, “Infamous, I know! But there was no time to think of another ruse. Those ruffians were hard on my heels.”
“Oh, pray do not give it another thought! I am refining too much upon what is, after all, the merest commonplace. I daresay a lady in London may expect to be accosted in this fashion a dozen times a day. I am persuaded I shall grow accustomed to it.”
“Ah, so you are new to London?” he inquired.
“If you dare to ask me how I am enjoying my stay—”
“I wouldn’t presume!” he interrupted, with a low laugh.
“Would you not? How very odd!” retorted Caitlin. “I had thought there was no end to your presumption.”
“You must think me a complete villain,” he remarked, but without a trace of embarrassment. “I really have nothing to say in my own defense—unless, of course, it is to point out that young women of virtue are not generally found alone and unprotected on the streets of London. And never, I might add, after dark.”
“One immediately perceives why!” Caitlin countered, flushing in the darkness. “Tell me, sir, are you in my aunt’s employ? One might almost suppose she had set you on—” But she stopped short, vexed at having said so much. Unfortunately, the stranger was too perceptive to let this pass.
“You have exactly hit it,” he said, mendaciously. “You clearly need to be taught more circumspect behavior. As you say, your aunt set me on.” The amusement crept back into his voice. “It only remains to discover—who is your aunt?”