"I thought of holding a Roman ball for Robert's birthday," Lady Derring said, the matter of the missing book already forgotten. "Classic themes are always best, don't you think?"
An image of the portly earl in a toga, his balding head draped in laurel, flashed in Elizabeth's head and nearly proved her undoing.
"Indeed, my lady," she managed, albeit in a somewhat strained voice. Her vivid imagination was her greatest gift as well as her greatest curse, her father had once told her, but lud, how dull life would be without it.
Lady Catherine cast her a suspicious look. "Are you all right, Miss Mattingale?" she asked sharply. "Your voice sounds queer."
"A tickle in my throat, ma'am," Elizabeth assured her, hiding a smile behind her teacup. "I shall be fine in a moment."
"And so I should think," the countess replied with a grumble. "People who fancy themselves invalids are tiresome beyond enduring. For myself, I have always enjoyed the best of health."
"Yes, my lady," Elizabeth repeated, wisely not mentioning that only yesterday Lady Derring had laid claim to the most delicate constitution in the shire.
"So, it is decided, then." As usual, the countess was oblivious to Elizabeth's wry tone. "A Roman ball for his lordship's birthday, and a costume ball for the first week. Now"—she picked up her quill and frowned thoughtfully—"all that is needed is something truly spectacular for the last evening our guests are here. Something that will be all the talk when we all return to London." She looked at Elizabeth, clearly expecting her to pull some wondrous idea out of thin air.
Elizabeth didn't disappoint her. "All things Russian seem to be quite the thing at the moment," she said, remembering the gossip she'd overheard between her grandmother and their neighbor. "A ball with Russian foods and music should prove quite entertaining for your guests."
"A Russian ball?" The countess stirred in interest.
"Yes," Elizabeth said, warming to her theme. "We could serve salmon and other delicacies, and vodka for the gentlemen."
"Vodka?" the countess asked, clearly unfamiliar with the term.
"A potent drink that is much favored in Russia," Elizabeth explained. "Rather like whiskey in Scotland."
"Well, if it is popular in Russia, then we must by all means serve it here," the countess said, her dark brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "And you are right about the popularity of all things Russian. The last edition of La Belle Assemble did have several fashions that were à la Russe." She paused and cast Elizabeth a speculative look.
"You seem rather knowledgeable about Russia," she said, her tone frankly suspicious. "Never say you have been there?"
"As a matter of fact, my lady, I have." It was all Elizabeth could do to keep the smugness out of her voice. "My parents and I spent two years in St Petersburg while my father was writing a book on the history of one of the more prominent families. Prince Zaramoff, as I recall."
"A prince?" Lady Derring gasped, all but clapping her hands in glee.
"Yes, my lady." Elizabeth hadn't the heart to tell the older woman such titles were common in Russia, and every other person of note was either a prince or a count of something.
"When was this?"
It took Elizabeth a moment or two remember. "Three . . . no, four years ago," she said, remembering her sadness at leaving the stunning beauty of the port city. "It was shortly before my mother took ill and died."
"And you know a prince; fancy mat," Lady Derring said, ignoring Elizabeth's mention of her mother. "What was his name again?"
"Zaramoff," Elizabeth provided, smiling at the memory of the jovial prince with his huge mustache and booming laugh.
"Zaramoff." Lady Derring was tapping her chin again. "I know I have heard that name before, but I can't think where. Ah, well." She shrugged. "It hardly signifies, I suppose. But your idea for a Russian ball is excellent, Miss Mattingale, thank you. See to it, won't you?"
Elizabeth thought of the work involved in arranging such a ball and gave the teapot another wistful glance. "Yes, my lady."
Dressing for dinner that evening, Elizabeth took special pains with her appearance. From her limited knowledge of men, she knew the three dandies who had attempted to accost her would now regard her as a challenge, and would do their best to set up a flirtation with her. Since she couldn't expect Lord Falconer to spend his entire stay rescuing her from their importuning, she would have to find some other means of dissuading them.
After donning her plainest gown, Elizabeth reached for one of the starched caps she'd purchased when she'd decided to become a companion. She hated the thought of wearing one, for if she had any vanity it was her hair. It was the same warm golden-brown as her mother's hair and, unbound, it flowed almost to her waist. Still, if it came down to wearing a cap or being mauled, she knew which fate she preferred. Sighing, she bound up her hair and stuffed it beneath the starched square of muslin.
By hurrying, Elizabeth managed to be the first to arrive in the dining room. Her employer let it be known that she expected Elizabeth to make herself useful whenever possible, and that meant seeing to things that were normally the province of the hostess. She'd just finished checking the seating arrangements when she heard a noise behind her. Thinking it was the housekeeper coming in for a chat, she glanced casually over her shoulder. The sight of Lord Falconer, dressed in a black velvet jacket and cream satin breeches, had her starting in alarm.
"Oh, Lord Falconer," she said, bobbing a hasty curtsy. "I beg your pardon, sir, I hadn't heard you come in."
"There is no reason you should have," he replied, the deep voice she remembered devoid of any expression. His black hair was brushed back from his forehead, throwing the sharp bones of his face into prominence. It was a handsome face, she thought, but cold. She brushed the thought aside and gave him a polite smile.
"Is there something I can do for you, my lord?" she offered in the diffident tones she had spent days perfecting. Companions were expected to be diffident, and although she'd yet to perfect the skill, she was determined to succeed.
"No, thank you, Miss Mattingale," he said, his golden eyes remote as he studied her. "I only wanted to make certain you had recovered from this afternoon's unpleasantness. Should it happen again, I want you to come to me at once. I shall attend to the matter for you."
"How? By calling them out?" The question slipped out before Elizabeth could stop it. She bit her lip in mortification, but it was too late to call the words back.
He smiled; not the gentle smile he'd given her earlier, but something hard and deadly. "Yes, that is precisely what I will do."
Elizabeth wasn't certain how to respond. Thanking someone for offering to kill another human being seemed wrong, but good manners dictated she say something. She thought for a moment.
"Hopefully it won't come to that, my lord," she said, then, because she thought that sounded rather abrupt, she added, "Thank you for your concern. It is very kind of you."
He studied her for several seconds before inclining his head with regal hauteur. "You are welcome, Miss Mattingale," he said. "But I mean what I say; I want you to tell me if anyone bothers you."
Sensing his implacable determination, Elizabeth's sense of curiosity was piqued. "Why?" she asked, thinking not only of her employer's younger son and his equally pestilent friends, but also of many of the other members of the so-called aristocracy it had been her misfortune to encounter. Men who felt their wealth and titles entitled them to behave however ill they desired to those they considered beneath them. And, of course, to such men everyone was beneath them.
The marquess continued regarding her, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "Because I am a gentleman," he replied, as if somehow privy to her thoughts. "I was raised to believe that means more than a mere accident of birth; it means I have an obligation to protect those who are under my care." His gaze sharpened as it met hers. "I take my obligations very seriously, Miss Mattingale."
Elizabeth was surprised to feel her heart pounding in her ches
t. Disconcerted, she blurted out the first thing to pop into her mind.
"I am not under your care."
He raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you not?" he asked softly. "I shouldn't be so certain of that if I were you." While she continued gaping at him, he smiled again, offering his arm with a low bow. "If you are ready to join the others in the drawing room, Miss Mattingale, it would be my honor to escort you."
Two
Adam awoke the following morning to bright skies and birdsong. After two days of pouring rains, the sight was enough to have him leaping out of bed and ringing for his valet. With his host's permission he'd had his latest purchase from Tattersall's sent down, and he was itching to take the full-blooded Arab gelding for a proper gallop. By rushing through his breakfast and morning ablutions he was soon on his way, whistling beneath his breath as he started down the main staircase. His good mood vanished at the sight of the three men making their way up the stairs toward him.
"Lord Falconer." Geoffrey Derwent gave him one of his annoying smirks. "Off for a ride, are you?" he added, indicating Adam's green jacket and doeskin breeches with a sweeping gesture of his hand. "How ambitious you are. 'Tis scarce twelve of the clock."
"I thought to ride out to the ruins," Adam replied, eyeing the three warily. He'd come to think of them as the enemy, and he'd learned from St. Jerome never to trust an enemy.
"Heavens, the thought of such industry quite fatigues me," Derwent sighed in his die-away fashion. "I must now repair to my rooms and rest, lest I show the ladies a haggard countenance. Come, Charles." And he minced away, leaving Colburt to trail in his wake. To Adam's annoyance William remained behind, shuffling his weight from one foot to another as he stood blocking Adam's way.
"Is there something you wish, Mr. Carling?" Adam asked, taking care to show no emotion as he tugged on his riding gloves. The lad was up to something; all that remained was discovering what that something might be.
William's face reddened. "No," he began, and cleared his throat. "That is to say," he continued, his gaze fixed on his feet, "a moment of your time, my lord, if you would. There is something I should like to discuss with you."
Adam kept his surprise hidden behind a mask of indifference. "As you wish," he said coolly. If the lad was about to stammer an apology, he would take great delight in reminding him that it wasn't he who was owed an apology
He followed the earl's younger son down the stairs and into the elegant drawing room the countess had set aside for her guest's use. A bouquet of lilacs and tulips in a crystal vase was set on the polished mantel, and he wondered if Miss Mattingale was responsible for the charming arrangement. He doubted his flighty hostess possessed the wits to do something so original.
William stood in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. "I was wondering, sir, if you've spoken with m'father this morning," William asked, still not meeting Adam's gaze.
So that was it, Adam realized, his lips twisting in well-bred scorn. The young whelp was terrified he had tattled to his papa. He needn't have worried. Adam wasn't one to carry tales, although he had no intention of letting William know that.
"No, I've not yet had the pleasure," he drawled, deliberately infusing a note of unspoken menace in his voice. "Why? Is there anything you wish me to say?"
William jerked, his gaze flying up to meet Adam's before he lowered it again. "No, no such thing," he said, shuffling. "I was only wondering if you'd seen him, and how he seemed to you."
The question took Adam aback. "How should he seem?" he asked, frowning in thought. The earl wasn't the most loquacious of men, but as he himself had often been accused of being as closemouthed as a clam, he didn't consider that to be a failing.
"I don't know," William admitted. "I'm almost certain it's all a hum, but one never knows." He lifted his head to send Adam a strained smile. "Sorry to have bothered you, my lord," he said, bobbing his head in apology. "Enjoy your ride."
The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind as he rode over the hills and down to the sea. Had it been anyone else, he would have suspected them of deliberately planting the uneasy doubts in his mind, but he didn't think William possessed the cunning. Derwent did, most assuredly, and he didn't trust Colburt so much as an inch. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with the earl, perhaps there was. In any case, it would do no harm to ask. With the Czar's ambassadors due to arrive in London within a week, it was best not to leave even the smallest detail to chance.
Relieved he'd decided upon a course of action, Adam threw himself into the ride. He spent the next hour riding hell-for-leather across the countryside, taking Shalimar over hedgerows and fences as he raced away from the house. Along the way he lost his hat and the veneer of smooth sophistication he wore as easily as other men wore their fine lawn shirts and elegant velvet jackets. With his black hair tumbling about his forehead and his cheeks flushed from wind and the sheer pleasure of riding, he looked little like the man who had set out from the Hall. The knowledge pleased him on same basic level, and feeling quite satisfied, he turned Shalimar around and started for the stables.
On impulse he decided to ride through the village instead of the fields, with the idea of stopping for a pint of ale at the tiny inn. He had just dismounted and was about to toss the reins to a linkboy who'd run up to greet him when the door to the milliner's shop across the lane opened, and Miss Mattingale stepped out. The hatbox swinging from her arm explained her presence, and he wondered if she had come in one of the estate's many carriages. When she turned and began walking in the direction of the Hall, he had his answer. His lips thinning in fury, he remounted his horse and set out after her.
"Miss Mattingale," he called out, urging his horse into a trot. "Hold there!"
He thought she hesitated for a moment, but when she turned to face him a smile of cautious welcome was pinned to her lips.
"Good day, Lord Falconer," she said, dropping a graceful curtsy. "You are up and about at an early hour this morning. Did you enjoy your ride?"
"Very much so," he replied, taking in her maroon cloak and gown of cream-and-gold-striped cambric in disapproval. Although the sun was quite bright the wind was sharp, and the thin cloak looked inadequate to the task of keeping her warm.
"How did you get into the village, if I may ask? Surely you didn't walk?" he queried, thinking that when he spoke with the earl he would also drop a flea in his ear about the shabby way his wife was treating her companion. As master, it was his responsibility to make certain those under his roof lacked for nothing.
"No, my lord," she replied, a spark of annoyance shimmering in her silvery blue eyes. "I rode in the gig with Mrs. Keys, the cook. But she is visiting her sister, who is the vicar's housekeeper, and rather than wait for her, I decided to walk back to the manor. It's such a lovely day, even though I fear it may rain again."
Adam was in no mood to discuss the vagaries of the weather. "It is over four miles to the house," he reminded her, angered at the thought of her walking that distance on what was certain to be muddy and slippery roads. He recalled his journey from London, when the horses had struggled through deep ruts.
"Only if one keeps to the road," she answered coolly. "If you cut through the meadows, it is less than half that. And I don't mind walking. Indeed, I quite like it." This last was added with a defiant lift of her pointed chin.
Adam's lips twitched as he resisted the sudden urge to laugh. The companion's recalcitrant nature put him strongly in mind of his friend's new wife, and he didn't doubt but that Lady St. Jerome would heartily applaud Miss Mattingale's attempts to put him in his place. But however much he might enjoy her spirited defiance, that didn't mean he intended letting her go blithely on her way. Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his gloved hand and tilted her face up to his.
"Miss Mattingale," he began, his lips curving in a wry smile, "you must know I won't let you walk back on your own. It would be a violation of all that I believe in, and I cannot allow it."
There was no mistaking the
fury sparkling in her jewel eyes as she glared up at him. "Your pardon, Lord Falconer," she said, freeing herself from his grip and taking a deliberate step backward, "but I don't believe it is within your province to allow me to do anything. You are not my employer."
"No," he agreed, unaffected by her temper, "I'm not. But I still have no intention of letting you do as you propose. And you needn't bother casting daggers at me," he added, as her eyes narrowed even further. "Didn't I tell you I considered you to be under my care?"
For a moment he didn't think she would answer; then she gave a muttered exclamation. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you wretched tyrant! Have it your own way if you must." And with that, she turned and walked back toward the village.
Intrigued as much as he was amused, he trailed after her. "Where are you going?" he asked, easily matching his longer strides to hers.
"Back to the parsonage to wait for Mrs. Keys," she muttered, delicately lifting her skirts as she navigated the muddy lanes. "Although given the way she and her sister were gossiping, I shall be fortunate to see the Hall before next Sunday!"
Adam bit his lip to keep from chuckling at the acerbic observation. "You might take the gig now and send it back for Mrs. Keys in an hour or so," he suggested.
"Yes, as if I should put poor Dobbin and the groom to such bother," she grumbled, clearly unimpressed with his stratagems.
Adam slid her a thoughtful glance, considering several alternatives. Had he come upon her on the road or in the meadow, he could probably have taken her up behind him without risking too great of a scandal. Unfortunately he knew enough of village life not to suggest such a thing now. Pity, he thought with a rueful sigh. He would rather have enjoyed a few more minutes in the tart-tongued lady's company.
That was too close! The moment she reached the sanctuary of her room, Elizabeth flattened herself against the door, her eyes squeezing shut in relief. If she lived to be as old as Granny Dithers, she didn't think she would ever be half so frightened as she'd been when the marquess had surprised her coming out of the milliner's shop. Perhaps it was true what the Bible said about the guilty fleeing where no man pursued, she decided, moving away from the door and removing her cloak. But for herself, she'd never known five more uncomfortable minutes in her life. It seemed she would need to take even greater care if his lordship was going to be popping up when least expected.
The Sinister Spinster Page 2