by Joan Smith
“He is not coming to inspect our home, Mama, but to see how heavily you are willing to come down to nab Derwent for Mellie. I think we might as well consider Derwent lost and—”
“Oh, Sal! How unfeeling—you know Mellie’s dear heart is set on him.”
“Yes, and his on her, for the next day or two. But when Monstuart arrives, he will scotch the plan.”
“He shan’t!” Mrs. Hermitage said with unusual vehemence. “If necessary we can do as Derwent says and live on our capital till he comes into his own.”
“He had no notion how poor we are when he said that. He wouldn’t take our life savings, yours and mine as well as Mellie’s. I would have a very poor notion of him if he did.”
“He would repay every sou; he said so.”
“Yes, repay it to his wife-—to himself, in other words. He was speaking of Melanie’s dowry. He didn’t know the true situation. When he learns it, he’ll renege.”
Mrs. Hermitage heaved a sigh of vexation but refused to be utterly despondent. “We have not met Monstuart yet. Let us wait and see what sort of gentleman he is. He might be very biddable. There is no saying.”
“He is as cunning as may be. He cannot be a sentimental man or he would have come at once when he received Derwent’s message. I even wonder about his morals. This Lady Dennison is obviously someone’s wife.”
“She might be a widow—or his fiancée.”
“Yes, if her husband left her well to grass. I wonder he doesn’t angle for Lady Mary himself.”
“Why, he would be too old for her. Derwent is twenty-three, and Monstuart is his uncle. He will be forty or fifty,”
“And a rake into the bargain. A hardheaded man who considers marriage a business transaction, and love a game to be played on the side.”
“I don’t know where you get such ideas, Sally. I’m sure you are sophisticated beyond your years. It is exactly the sort of speech that put all the men off at Bath.”
“I had that much sophistication before ever I left London. I do have eyes in my head, you know, and saw very well what was going on among your friends.”
Mrs. Hermitage’s fine eyes flashed blue fire. “If you are referring to Samantha Barnow, I will have you know she and your papa were just friends.”
“Yes, Mama, as Lord Monstuart and Lady Dennison are just friends. I am not seven years old; you don’t have to hide from me that Papa was a shocking flirt. Well, you had a few beaux calling in the afternoon yourself when Papa was at work. I seem to remember a Sir Darrow somebody or other dropping in with suspicious regularity, but never mind. I am neither judge nor jury. Perhaps there is some sense in what you say. Monstuart will be calling eventually, I trust, and till he leaves we shan’t bother trying to cut back. But as soon as he’s gone, whether the match with Derwent comes off or not, we must curtail our spending and hang on to what we can of that paltry fifteen thousand pounds.”
“Certainly we must, my dear. And I have just had a delightful notion. If Monstuart is fifty or so, as we think, I might make a few eyes at him and see if my fading charms have still sufficient strength to woo him.”
“As they woo Mr. Heppleworth, eh, Mama?” Sally smiled.
Mrs. Hermitage was forty, and a very stylish, well-preserved forty that might pass for a few years less. What white hair she had was well concealed by her blond curls. Time’s ravages to her complexion were hidden by a judicious use of the rouge pot. It was often discussed en famille that Mr. Heppleworth was infatuated with her. Mama had an inkling it was Sally he came to see, using herself as an excuse. A balding gentleman of forty-five would not like to make a complete cake of himself in front of his friends.
Sally fell silent, considering if her mother might be induced to have Heppleworth. He was a country gentleman, but a well-greased one, and would solve their money problems very tidily. She was a clever girl, but from considering Mr. Heppleworth an old man, she had never thought of his friendliness to her in any light other than avuncular. Many of her father’s old friends had flirted with her in the same gallant fashion.
“We shall see,” Mrs. Hermitage said. “If Monstuart doesn’t care for me, you can roll your eyes at him, Sal.”
Miss Hermitage had already decided Monstuart was a rake and a libertine. She had no intention of encouraging his advances. “I’m not that eager for Mellie’s marriage.”
“How about your own? You cannot be happy to see little Mellie beating you to the altar. And Monstuart is very wealthy, Derwent says.”
Sally considered the matter a moment. “Well, as you say, if he proves biddable ...”
Chapter Two
The Hermitages were not long in doubt as to what sort of a gentleman Lord Monstuart was. He landed in on them the next morning at an inconvenient ten-thirty, when they were not accustomed to receiving Derwent till eleven. When Monstuart arrived with his nephew, it was only Miss Hermitage who was up and ready to receive a caller. Mama was adding the coup de grace to Mellie’s blond crown in the shape of a blue bow, to match her eyes. It chanced that Sally was just sweeping down the curved staircase as the butler admitted the callers.
She surmised on the instant who the tall, severe-faced gentleman with Derwent must be, and was happy she had put on a fashionable gown of green sarcenet that set off her dark hair and ivory complexion to great advantage, for Lord Monstuart was obviously from the tip of the ton. He wore his dark hair in the Brutus style, with a dark blue coat of superfine that bespoke the tailoring of Weston. His meticulously tied cravat was done in the Oriental style. A curled beaver, a malacca walking stick, and York tan gloves were being handed to Rinkin as she came down.
Sally was aware of a close scrutiny from a pair of cold gray eyes, accompanied by a surprised lift of two slashes of black eyebrows. An aquiline nose and a square jaw lent distinction to a face that was interesting rather than handsome. Too young for Mama to wind ‘round her finger, she thought, and too wicked for me. She was almost frightened by his forbidding aspect, but familiarity with society allowed her to make the pair welcome with none of the discomposure she was feeling.
She asked Rinkin to inform Mama the gentlemen had arrived, and ushered them into the Rose Saloon. It was a room much admired in Ashford. The Hermit had not stinted in his furnishings, and Mama had not skimped in having the walls painted an ivory white, with gilt trim on the decorative medallions. It was a feminine room, with a rose-patterned carpet, rose velvet hangings at the windows, a fine white marble Adams fireplace, and many expensive bibelots gracing delicate tables and wall brackets.
Monstuart’s slate eyes flickered over it, showing no approval nor again any approval when they settled once more on Miss Hermitage. Still, that he did not show disapproval was felt to be a wonder to the young lady. There was some superciliousness in those brows, still raised at a questioning angle, and the lips, which refused to raise a fraction at the ends when introductions were made. Sally took a chair and set herself to the task of amusing the guests till her family came down.
She essayed a few comments to Lord Monstuart, who replied monosyllabically, with still that surprised look on his saturnine face. She soon found herself put off by his manner and turned to Der-went. “Mellie will be down presently,” she assured him.
“There is no hurry, Miss Hermitage,” Monstuart said. “We are happy for the opportunity to have a few words alone with you.”
She blinked her eyes at such a strange statement, but it was Derwent who made sense of it. “It ain’t Miss Hermitage I’m—that is, it’s Mellie you’ve come to see.”
Monstuart’s steely eyes froze a moment on Sally, till she felt her bones were turning to ice. It was an extraordinarily peculiar look, partly of surprise, but there was an assessing quality to it, too, as though he had slid her under a microscope for minute examination.
“Ah, forgive me. I was told I was to meet a beautiful young lady, and as I have done so, I fell into the error of thinking you were Derwent’s intended,” he explained. Sally felt no pleasure at the co
mpliment.
“Told you she was a blonde,” Derwent reminded him.
“So you did. I ought to have known it in any case, n’est-ce pas?” His eyes returned to Sally. “My nephew has an unswerving propensity in that direction.”
She noticed the startled expression was gone from his face. The eyebrows had settled down to a more normal angle, but the new arrangement of features was not more pleasing. He had assumed a sardonic smile. Now what is so amusing? Sally found herself wondering. He had been amazed that Derwent had chosen her—that’s what it was! She was naturally not flattered with this interpretation. That she would never in a million years have chosen Derwent was not considered. It was an insult for the uncle to think he would not have chosen her.
Monstuart was further surprised to see a flash of anger from the feline emerald eyes regarding him. He looked closely, wondering at the reason for it, but before he had time to consider it, the other ladies were in and being introduced. As soon as he saw Melanie, he knew it was she and no other Derwent would have chosen. A vastly beautiful blond doll, with a soft shy smile and pretty manners.
He was relieved that the whole family turned out in such high style and lived amid such opulence. To have let Derwent off the leash had been a foolish thing to do. Naturally he would be fancying himself in love, and it was kind of Fate to have cast such a respectable young lady in his path. Lady Mary’s plain appearance didn’t stand a chance against this porcelain doll.
He unbent somewhat from his first stiffness, enough to make a few polite comments to Mrs. Hermitage and his nephew’s choice. His errand was to look over the prospective bride; she passed muster within minutes, so far as appearance and behavior were concerned. From then onward, Monstuart’s gaze more often than not was on the sleek, raven-haired enchantress. He noticed that hers strayed frequently to him as well. She sat so still she might have been made of stone, but stone was not the material her supple body suggested. More like a jungle cat hiding to pounce on its prey.
It was unusual to find so elegant a creature in the country. Her hair, her gown, her manner—all had the aura of the city. From the corner of his eye, he observed her in three-quarter profile. From that angle a long sweep of black lashes projected, while her high cheekbone gave some indication of the face’s shape. Studying her in this surreptitious manner, Monstuart knew he had not seen such an Incomparable in several seasons. He was keenly interested in Incomparables. When he directed some inconsequential remark to Sally, she turned to face him, answering with a smile.
Her teeth were white and rounded at the corners in an unusual and attractive way. There wasn’t a sharp angle anywhere in her whole makeup. She was a delightful bundle of supple curves. Like Der-went first casting eyes on Melanie, Monstuart decided on the spot he would make a visit of indeterminate duration with his relations the Colchesters.
When the butler brought wine, it was Miss Hermitage who handed Monstuart his glass. He looked at her long-fingered, graceful hand, with a fine but small emerald ring on one finger, and observed her delicate pink nails, carefully manicured. He hadn’t seen such fastidious grooming on any woman outside of the muslin company, whose bodies were their only asset. When tasted, the wine to be proved unexceptionable. Monstuart was so favorably impressed that the image of Lady Mary DeBeirs began to recede from the forefront of his mind.
From the moonstruck expression on Derwent’s face, Monstuart saw little likelihood of detaching him from Miss Melanie. It would be a relief to have the lad settled down. He was demmed tired of pulling on his leash. He had no real authority over anything but the purse strings, and even that minimal control was dwindling as Derwent approached his majority. The rest of the visit would be mere formality. The dowry wouldn’t match DeBeirs’s, of course, but the Hermitages seemed a suitable connection. He turned purposefully to Mrs. Hermitage. “Shall we leave the youngsters and get the business settled, ma’am?”
Mrs. Hermitage cast an appealing glance on her elder daughter, who returned a look of sympathy but had no concrete help to offer. The words “lamb to the slaughter” popped into Sally’s head. With her insides shaking like a blancmange, Mrs. Hermitage led Lord Monstuart to the study. The closing of the door sounded dreadfully like a death knell.
Sally remained behind with the others. It was never pleasant being with the lovers. They ignored one totally and sat staring at each other and smiling, but today it was sheer hell. Sally’s mind was in the study with her mother and Monstuart. What would he say upon learning that there was not a penny of dowry? She found his character impossible to gauge. He appeared a cold person from the little she had seen; calculating, looking for a flaw. Yet he had expressed no open disapproval.
The meeting in the study was brief, but it was the most enervating quarter hour of Mrs. Hermitage’s life. Her husband’s rages at her extravagance were nothing to it, and his temper had always sent her, into a swoon. She was completely floored by the pair of steel-gray eyes staring at her as though she were a lunatic when she opened her budget to him.
“A thousand pounds! A thousand pounds!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “If this is a joke, it isn’t funny. If you’re serious, madam, it’s a demmed good joke.” But her pink face told him it was no joke.
When Sally heard the study door open, she could no longer hold her seat. She bolted into the hall to see her mother on the point of tears, her face fallen and her eyes anguished. Behind Monstuart’s back, she shook her head and threw up her hands in despair. Monstuart was striding at an angry pace toward the saloon, and upon intercepting Sally, he said coldly, “Tell my nephew to come now, please.”
His imperious manner sent her blood racing. “What has happened?” Sally demanded.
He turned a sneering face to her. “Negotiations have broken down. I was called here on a fool’s errand, as you have nothing with which to negotiate.”
Sally’s hands clenched into fists, and her lungs felt suffocated. Looking to the study, she saw her mother go back into the room, shoulders sagging. Her anger rose to see her so overwrought. “You have not forbidden the match out of hand!”
“I have forbidden it to prevent being out of pocket.”
“It won’t be your pocket!”
“No, and it won’t be my nephew’s either. Try another quarry, miss. You’ll find the bird you’ve chosen is not so easily plucked.”
“No one is trying to take advantage of him. He is in love.”
“He is ‘in love’ with one pretty face or another fifty times a year. He doesn’t marry them, however.”
“No, you mean to see him marry Lady Mary DeBeirs’s thirty thousand pounds, whether he likes her or not, and take care that no one else finds out about her fortune.”
Monstuart’s eyes diminished to slivers of ice. “You are well informed. She’s one of the ladies I have in mind, but whether he eventually marries her or someone else, you may be sure the Earl of Derwent will not marry a solicitor’s undowered daughter.”
He stalked to the doorway of the Rose Saloon, where some little hint of the altercation had already been overheard. Melanie and Derwent were standing, staring at each other in dismay.
“Come along, Derwent,” Monstuart said in the tone a schoolmaster might use to an unruly ten-year-old.
“I usually stay awhile,” Derwent was so bold as to mention, but in a tentative voice.
“Come!” The monosyllable sounded like the bark of an angry dog. With a last, languishing look at Melanie, Derwent went.
The three ladies immediately converged in the Rose Saloon. Melanie was weeping noisily. Mrs. Hermitage was not far from it, and Sally was foaming with fury. The reason for the match being disallowed was difficult for Melanie to comprehend.
“But why won’t you give me any money?” she demanded in a tone of pique, with an accusing look at her mother.
“Because we don’t have any,” Sally said with a snort.
“But Derwent is rich,” the girl replied in confusion.
“He will be richer when he
marries; you may be sure of that,” Sally informed her sniveling sister.
“I never had such a wretched experience in my life,” Mrs. Hermitage said weakly, and sank, puffing onto a petit point chair.
Sally’s heart constricted with pity, but her voice was hard. “What did he say?” she demanded.
“My dear, he as well as accused us of being fortune hunters, or worse. To speak of my having set up a velvet trap, bated with two ...” Words failed her, and like her younger daughter, she was soon weeping into a handkerchief.
Angry green sparks flashed in Sally’s eyes. “Two what?”
“Two well-plumed chicks,” Mrs. Hermitage gasped, and bawled harder.
Sally turned to the window. If the gentlemen had not already been on their way down the street, she would have run after them and banged their heads together. She was nearly as angry with Derwent as Monstuart. Most of all, she was angry that Monstuart’s insults contained a grain of truth. What were they doing but setting up an establishment well beyond their means, in the hope of trapping rich husbands? That both she and Mellie had been unaware of it salved her conscience somewhat, but it did not calm her nerves or lessen her anger one iota.
“I wonder you didn’t scratch his eyes out,” she said.
“Oh, my dear, and that is not the worst of it,” her mother continued. “He thinks you and I and all our relatives intend to batten ourselves on Derwent. ‘A set of dirty dishes,’ he called us. As though your Uncle Calvin or Aunt Stepney would think of such a thing. You and I are the worst of the lot in that respect.”
“I hope you didn’t tell him that!”
“I don’t know what I may have said. You have often mentioned visiting them in London, but I never agreed you planned to batten yourself on them permanently. One thing I did set him straight on is that we are not dirty, for I had that nice liver-shaped bathtub put in just last year.”