And so they swept out of the house in a flurry of muslin, leaving Francis to retire to his library alone. His tedium was soon relieved, however, by a morning caller.
“Lord Eynsford,” announced the butler. His lordship entered, looking properly bored.
“All alone, Francis?” he asked. “How disappointing. I had hoped to once again encounter your charming wife and to thank her for yesterday’s dinner.”
“You will have to make do with me,” said Lord Exencour. “I will admit that I am not as beautiful as my wife, but perhaps I may be as amusing?”
“I think not,” said the marquess. “Lady Exencour is a very witty woman.”
“Alas, she has gone out. Lady Morgan has leased a house, and Isobel decided that it must be furnished. I doubt I shall see them for many hours.”
Lord Eynsford paused in the act of taking a pinch of snuff. “Lady Morgan has leased a house?” he repeated.
“She has,” said Lord Exencour. “In Kensington.”
“Kensington?” echoed the marquess in an astonished voice.
Lord Exencour laughed. “You look almost as shocked as Lady Exencour did. Believe me, Lady Morgan has had the unfashionable nature of Kensington explained to her at length, but she remains determined. She feels it will suit her exactly.”
“If she means to avoid the ton, that is certainly the place to do it,” observed Lord Eynsford. “I presume, then, that not only shall I not see Lady Exencour today, but Lady Morgan will also continue to prove elusive.”
“Confess, Phillip, your interest is piqued by a woman who has no desire at all to meet the wealthy Marquess of Eynsford,” said Lord Exencour.
“I am certainly entertained by the notion,” admitted Lord Eynsford. “But you need not fear that I will pursue her. I do not go where I am not wanted, and it seems Lady Morgan does not care for men of the world. I will take it as a lesson that I am not irresistible.”
“And so you return to the quest for a damsel fresh out of the schoolroom?” asked Lord Exencour.
“Precisely,” said Lord Eynsford. “I invite you to visit Almack’s with me and give your opinion on the most likely candidates.”
“That will never do, for I will find none of them likely,” responded Lord Exencour. “I married a woman with five Seasons behind her; my taste obviously does not run in that direction.”
“A pity. I had hoped that you might guide me, for I confess I do not know what to say to an eighteen-year-old.”
Exencour laughed. “A thought to ponder further before you find yourself leg-shackled to one, Phillip. Perhaps you will yet be lucky, and the perfect woman will miraculously appear before you.”
Eynsford smiled. “Possibly. Or perhaps I must seek her out; in any case, the problem will not be solved today. Come Francis, accompany me to Tattersall’s. Haversham is rolled-up and selling off his cattle; I’ve had my eyes on his chestnuts for months now.”
Lord Exencour agreed cheerfully, and the two gentlemen were soon on their way, engaging in a merry debate on the qualities of the unfortunate Haversham’s horses. The marquess’ behavior gave no indication that he was inwardly pondering the information he had received of Lady Morgan’s imminent removal to Kensington.
On rising that morning he had felt a certain embarrassment over his sentimental thoughts from the previous evening and had concluded that he had best forget about Lady Morgan, a woman he barely knew and who clearly did not wish to encounter him. Yet when Exencour had informed him that she was not home, he had once again felt a strong sense of disappointment. It would be best, he felt, if he could meet her and learn that she was insipid, or stupid, or dull, and so be able to forget the past and banish her from his mind. And yet, how was he to do this? He could hardly pay a morning call on a widow he was unacquainted with, and if she was to live in Kensington, he was unlikely to ever meet her. It was as though she were intentionally thwarting him. A way must be found to meet the lady, if only to rid himself of the image that haunted him.
Chapter 12
In less time than might have been imagined, Letitia was settled in her house in Kensington. Isobel, once she had given way, was determined that Letitia should be as comfortable as possible, and a small army of tradesmen and servants descended upon the house, measuring, cleaning, and sewing until all was in readiness. A few pieces of Letitia’s own furniture had been brought from Morgan Park, some small pieces had been purchased, and Isobel pressed other items on Letitia as loans.
“When I sold my house in Clarges Street after I married Francis, we had no need for so many furnishings, and yet I could not bear to part with some of them,” she observed. “You would be doing me as great a favor as I am doing you, for I am sure they will come to harm stored away.”
The end result was gratifying. The house, while small by the standards of the haut ton, was well-suited to a widow and her children. There was plenty of space for a nursery and play room, while still allowing Lady Morgan a drawing room and a morning room. There was a small dining room, should she wish to entertain once she came out of mourning, and well-situated bedrooms. The house was gracious and airy, the rooms well proportioned, the furnishings elegant, the street quiet. Letitia felt that she finally had a home of her own.
She had been fond of Bainstall Court, but it was her parents’ house, and Morgan Park was an ancestral estate, belonging to her husband, inherited by her son. For the first time she felt able to decorate as she pleased, and though she could afford no extravagances, the results were delightful. She soon settled into a quiet routine, walking each day with Jamie and Emily in Kensington Gardens, supervising her small staff, visiting the lending library, and entertaining the few friends who came by to visit.
Her life would surely have seemed dull to Isobel, who was accustomed to managing her own estates, conducting archaeological research, and attending parties each evening, but Letitia found it perfect. Her disposition was naturally retiring, and the years of her marriage had been full of strain; the simple routine of running a small house to her own satisfaction appealed to her immensely and restored her spirits.
Isobel was her most frequent visitor, and she found Letitia one day in the morning room, perusing a letter with a perplexed look on her face.
“Isobel,” she said, “you will scarcely credit it, but I have received a letter from Bainstall.”
“From your cousin?” said Isobel. “I thought he washed his hands of you when you were so foolish as to come to stay with me. Whatever does he want?”
“I am not completely sure, as he makes little sense, but I think perhaps he is contemplating my re-marriage.”
“Your what?” squealed Isobel. “Do not be ridiculous. As though you would be thinking of another marriage now, especially to someone of his acquaintance! If you wish to marry again, I will help you to find a husband.”
“Such as Lord Eynsford?” asked Letitia mischievously.
Isobel colored slightly. “Am I so obvious? ‘Tis only that he is so very handsome, kind, and rich, and I think you would deal extremely. But of course it is your choice to make, Letitia. But surely you would prefer a husband I found to one of Bainstall’s choosing!”
Letitia shook her head with a smile, and then looked back down at her letter. “Perhaps I wrong him, but do listen to this: ‘You will be surprised to hear from me, Cousin, as you must be aware of my disapproval of your actions. I was grieved when you refused the shelter of my home for the frivolous enticements of London and Lady Exencour’s companionship. But I am pleased to learn that you have moved out of her home and into one of your own and therefore attempt again to provide you with the guidance you need. Despite my distrust of Lady Exencour, her husband, with the exception of his unbecoming levity and his indulgence of his wife’s odd notions, is accounted a reasonable gentleman, and may have been able to advise you how best to go on.’” She looked up as Isobel gave a gurgle of laughter.
“I must tell Francis,” she said. “He will be honored. Pray, continue.”
&nbs
p; Letitia smiled and resumed her reading. “‘However, as head of the family I am responsible for you despite your flouting of my wishes, and I therefore put pen to paper to counsel you.’”
“How vastly accommodating of him,” observed Isobel. “Your cousin obviously has a passion for organization.”
“I think he means well,” said Letitia, a doubtful note in her voice. “He did not expect to inherit the title, as my father was still quite young when he died and it was not inconceivable that he would yet father a son. I fear his new consequence has gone to Bainstall’s head.”
“So it seems,” said Isobel. “What does Lord Bainstall counsel you to do?”
“That is what I am wondering,” said Letitia. She picked up the letter again. “‘I recommend to you, dear Cousin, my friend Archibald Wolfe, Bishop of Mainwaring. He is currently in residence outside of London, and I have asked him to call on you in hopes that he may be able to guide your footsteps while you are far from me. He is a worthy man, a widower these two years, with a sober turn of mind and a good understanding. I trust you will make yourself agreeable to him. I believe it is unnatural for a woman to be long without the guidance of a man, and I trust that Dr. Wolfe will be able to influence you in a positive way.’” Letitia looked up and met Isobel’s eyes, which were brimming with mischief.
“Why, Dr. Wolfe sounds ideal for you, Letitia,” she said. “A sober gentleman, able to cure your willful ways. I am sure he will make you a perfect husband.”
“So I am not wrong in thinking that he means this Dr. Wolfe as a suitor?” said Letitia. “It seemed very plain to me, and yet I could not imagine that Bainstall would be seeking to marry me off already. Why, Alfred has been dead only a few months.”
Isobel picked up the letter and looked at it curiously. “I would venture that the impropriety of a young woman living alone offends him more than the impropriety of a widow being courted,” she observed. “And a bishop’s courting will not involve much romance, I would imagine. You would do better to consider my candidate, Letty,” she teased.
Letitia responded to this sally with a smile, but still looked vexed. “This puts me in a very uncomfortable situation, Isobel. Dr. Wolfe will surely present himself here, and I will be obliged to be polite to him. I find the situation most distasteful.”
“I am in complete sympathy,” declared Isobel. “You must do your best to drive him away. Believe me, if you behave with a great deal too much levity, and perhaps betray that you have more learning than simply a smattering of French and the ability to paint watercolors, he will conceive an instant disgust for you. I cannot imagine what Bainstall has told him of you, but whatever it is, it cannot be accurate, as your cousin has no idea what sort of person you are.”
“I wonder what sort of person Dr. Wolfe is?” said Letitia. “He is a bishop, after all.”
“Surely you cannot mean to take him seriously?” said Isobel. “If I knew you wished for suitors I could have produced a dozen eligible, charming, and wealthy men who are not bishops. Your beauty is still remembered, you know.”
“Of course I do not mean to encourage him,” said Letitia. “I was merely wondering if he would be at all interesting, since I will be forced to receive him if he calls upon me.”
Isobel picked up the letter. “He is ‘worthy...with a sober turn of mind and a good understanding,’” she read. “A dead bore, obviously, exactly like Bainstall. Letitia, you must allow me to introduce you to Lord Eynsford. If this Bishop were to encounter him here, Eynsford would surely give him a sharp set-down. He is very good at that, you know.”
“You are incorrigible, Isobel. I do not care for Dr. Wolfe as a suitor, nor do I care to meet Lord Eynsford. You are nearly as bad as my cousin!”
“An unkind cut, Letty!” said Isobel. “My choice is at least young and handsome, while I feel sure that Dr. Wolfe is of middle years and stout. But you know I am only teasing; I would never pester you if you did not wish it.”
The talk turned to other matters, with Isobel supplying her friend with the latest gossip and the newest novels that she had purchased that morning. It was a pleasant time, and Isobel spent some hours, returning home late in the afternoon to find her husband and Lord Eynsford ensconced in the library. She greeted them casually, for the marquess had become quite a fixture at Strancaster House over the past weeks.
“Such a delightful visit I had with Letty,” she said, stripping off her gloves. “Her house is charming, and although I hate to see her hiding herself away in this manner, she seems very content.”
“I trust she is finding ways to amuse herself?” asked Lord Exencour.
“Oh, yes. She is quite taken with managing a house for herself. She walks in Kensington Gardens each day with Jamie and Emily, and the children are thriving. I am convinced Letitia is right and Kensington is very good for them.”
Lord Eynsford looked up. “She is fortunate to have the Gardens so near. Did you say they walk there each day?”
“Every day in the early afternoon. Letitia is quite comfortable, for she is certain she will meet no one she knows, and that seems to fulfill her present wishes. I am glad that she is happy, but I hope that in time she will go out more into the world.”
“Doubtless Letitia will grow more at ease as time passes,” said Lord Exencour. “You must not cause her discomfort by teasing her to go about before she wishes to.”
“Of course I will not,” said Isobel. “Her cousin is doing quite enough of that. Only imagine, Francis, he has written a letter recommending his friend, Dr. Wolfe, to her, and telling her he will come a-calling. He is a bishop and a widower, you must know, and both sober and sensible!”
Lord Exencour laughed. “So Letitia is to have a suitor. Well, you need not fear for her, Isobel. I have no doubt that she can defend herself quite ably from a bishop.”
“But it did perturb her,” said Isobel, “and I can hardly blame her. She is quite uninterested in being courted, and now she is faced with someone to whom she must be polite. I could strangle Bainstall, I think. Only fancy, Francis, he said in his letter that despite your unbecoming levity and your indulgence of me, he thinks you may be a reasonable gentleman.”
The marquess had been inspecting the shine on his boots, but at that he looked up. “I think you have reason to call this gentleman out, Francis,” he observed. “That is an intolerable slur on your character.”
“You see, my lord, what poor Lady Morgan must put up with?” asked Isobel.
“If I were forced to deal with such a person, I might conceive an antipathy for the peerage myself,” agreed the marquess. “Of course, I have done that, to some degree. It is merely that my position and sex make it possible for me to flout Society, rather than having to hide from it. Lady Morgan has my sympathies.” He returned to the inspection of his boots.
The marquess soon took his leave. He was thoughtful on the drive home, as an idea slowly grew in his mind. The past weeks had not served to erase the thought of Lady Morgan from his mind, or rather the thought of the young lady with whom he had once danced. It was foolish, he felt, to dwell on the memory of youthful encounter, but if the thought could not be banished, it could be challenged by reality. It was necessary to meet Lady Morgan, and prove to himself that she held no power over him. If he could not call on her as Lord Eynsford, perhaps there was another way to meet her.
His lordship’s groom watched as his master drove, and saw with concern the look in his eyes. Chisholm knew that look well, and he reflected that his lordship was up to something, no doubt about it, and it was likely mischief.
Chapter 13
The Marquess of Eynsford stood before his mirror, surveying his reflection. The glass reflected back a very Nonpareil of fashion, dressed with great restraint and elegance. His bottle green coat and buff pantaloons fit as though they had been sewn onto his body, the cravat was of an impenetrable whiteness, its elaborate folds arranged in a wonderful style of his lordship’s own creation. Spotless white topped riding boots sho
ne brightly, reflecting the room almost as clearly as the mirror. His golden curls were cunningly tousled, his only decoration a single fob and an emerald ring. He was the very image of a fashionable gentleman: tall, broad-shouldered, aristocratically featured, a haughty expression in his blue eyes.
“Terrifying,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” said his valet, who hovered nearby in case any slight element of his master’s dress should be out of order.
“I said, terrifying,” answered his lordship, raising his quizzing glass and gazing into the mirror with a thoughtful expression.
The valet’s face fell. “I think your lordship looks very fine,” he ventured. “That coat has an excellent cut.”
“No doubt,” said the marquess. “I am sure it is very fine indeed, Boothby. But do you not find me a trifle overpowering?”
“Overpowering, sir?” asked the valet.
“Or frightening?” murmured his lordship.
“I am sure I do not know what your lordship means. You look precisely as you should.”
“Perhaps that is the problem,” observed the marquess.
Boothby gave up the struggle to understand and stepped forward with a brush, energetically sweeping some nonexistent lint from the coat. The marquess waved him away.
“Have done, Boothby,” he said. “I am impeccably dressed. And yet--tell me, Boothby, if you were a young lady who did not care for gentlemen of fashion, would you find me overwhelming?”
Boothby appeared to be confused. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“I’m sure you heard me, Boothby.”
“I think any woman who does not find you handsome is a fool, my lord,” said the valet stoutly. “You have a fine figure and wear your clothes very well.”
“Thank you, Boothby. You comfort me.” The marquis turned from the mirror and confronted his valet. “If I wished to resemble a solicitor, or perhaps a banker, to which tailor would I go?” he asked.
An Indecent Charade: Letitia's After Dark Regency Romance Page 7