Lady Roma's Romance

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “Come, let’s run.”

  She moved like Atalanta, swift and free. The few stragglers hastening onward saw an undoubted lady, skirts slightly raised, running like a boy. Her stylish bonnet must have been singularly well made, Bret thought, since it stayed on her head despite an activity the milliner must never have envisioned.

  Watching her, Bret felt an echo of the gladness she must feel. No one could run like that unless she loved the freedom it represented. In his head, he knew he couldn’t catch her or even keep up. Once he would have matched her stride for stride. Yet he found himself, hat in hand, hurrying as fast as he had since he’d wrecked himself. It hurt him, but he continued, glad of the walkways that ran beside the street.

  She glanced back with a laugh, but as soon as she saw him, she stopped. Bret slowed to a walk as he approached. Her goddess-like serenity was marred by the stern glance she threw upon him, yet even that had a great regal quality, like a queen preparing to rebuke a minister. Bret doubted he would hear any mawkish sympathy from her. Queens and goddesses were more apt to blame one for misfortunes they themselves would have foreseen and avoided.

  Whatever she would have said, however, was drowned when the deluge came down upon them as though the wineskin of heaven had been sliced in half.

  Blind, deafened, and drowned, Bret reached out and caught Lady Roma’s hands. Pulling her close to him, he shouted, “Which way?”

  She tugged on his hands and led him, quickly, but not at a run, some slight distance. Bret realized that she would have reached her cousin’s dry-shod if she had not stopped to wait for him. They had been caught in the first downpour, but within a few moments, the fervor faded. It was still enough to make it hard for Bret to keep his eyes open. His hat was useless, having the new smaller brim. Wet through, cold, he yet felt a certain warmth from the feel of Lady Roma’s hand.

  She let go to knock upon a black-painted door. When it opened, the butler stared. “My lady?”

  “Good afternoon, Ganderby. Is my cousin at home?”

  “No, my lady,” he said, standing aside at once to let them pass in. “She has gone to spend the evening at Mrs. Granleigh’s.”

  “Good. I should hate for her to see me like this. Too much reminiscent of a drowned rat.” Shivering, she was stripping off her gloves. “Oh, this is Mr. Donovan. I’m afraid we were caught in this downpour. Can you help us?”

  “Certainly, my lady. There is a good fire in Mrs. Derwent’s room. I shall send her maid up to you at once. And if Mr. Donovan will accept me as valet... ?”

  “With the greatest will in the world, Mr. Ganderby,” Bret said. “So long as there is a fire somewhere for me as well.”

  “And perhaps a brandy, sir?” the butler said in a low voice as he watched her ladyship drip her way up the stairs.

  “You’re a genius, Mr. Ganderby.”

  “One for me as well, Ganderby,” Lady Roma called over her shoulder. “I shall be down directly.”

  Chapter Three

  Ganderby confided that he’d spent several happy years valeting for the Honorable Philip Tregillian when a younger man. He had not lost his touch with a hot iron. Bret sat in the kitchen, his feet in a basin of steaming water, watching the portly butler run the sadiron over his damp shirt. ‘The key, of course, is to keep the iron moving,” he said as one imparting a secret of the ages. “Mr. Derwent’s man does not have quite my touch with an iron, though I say it who should not, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Do you miss serving as a valet?”

  He pondered the question with an air of grave consideration. “Each form of service has its own challenges and pleasures. Naturally, the larger responsibilities of butlering give a man greater scope, yet the satisfaction of seeing the perfection of one’s art, as it were, heading out to meet the admiration of the world . . . there is nothing quite like it, sir.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet a man who takes a just pride in his work, Mr. Ganderby.”

  “Thank you, sir. If I may make so bold, sir, may I say that no civilian occupation would be considered of the slightest value were it not for our gallant soldiers.”

  “You may say whatever you please. I am hardly in a position to stalk out of the house in high dudgeon,” Bret said, wondering why feet had to be so lumpy and pale. “But why express these patriotic sentiments to me?”

  Ganderby turned on him the pitying smile a man gives a friend who stares agape at a magician’s trick when he knows the secret himself. “One may always distinguish the soldier from the common herd, sir. A certain neatness of dress, the careful handling of boots, a perfection of posture . . . these things are clear indications to the trained eye.”

  Bret noticed Ganderby showed considerable tact in not mentioning any of the other indications, those that showed all was not well with the former soldier’s finances. Though the signs of wear on his coat were well camouflaged, Ganderby would have seen them at once. The painstaking darn in the toe of his stocking would have spoken eloquently even to a less observant soul. The army had taught him that a badly darned sock could lead to a sore, a sore to a wound, and a wound to a lack of need for a stocking ever again.

  Settling back and taking up his glass, Bret sighed in contentment. “I wish I’d had you with me in the Peninsula, Mr. Ganderby. I should have been the envy of the regiment.”

  Half an hour later, all was dry save for the heavier woolen of his coat. He stood before the kitchen fire, one booted foot upon the fender, staring down into the radiating coals. He heard a step behind him, too light to be the butler’s. Bret turned his head. Lady Roma stood in the doorway. She wore a brown silk gown, some inches too short, that doused the golden lights in her eyes. Yet nothing could make her look dowdy, not with such a smile. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Donovan. My cousin has returned early from her engagement and would very much like to meet you.”

  “Is she a dragon?”

  “No, not in the least. The dearest creature. Kind-hearted to a fault.”

  Ganderby appeared, bearing a crimson, gorgeously embroidered man’s dressing gown in his arms. “Permit me, sir,” he said, holding it open. “Just until your coat has dried.”

  Mrs. Derwent sat in her china blue and pale yellow drawing room, one small plump foot tapping ceaselessly under the frilled hem of her newest day dress. “And another thing” she said as soon as the door opened. “That fiend, Madame Le Gros, will see me no more over her threshold. She had no better sense than to turn Lucy Preston out in an exact copy of this dress, only in plum. Plum! I requested it and the wretched woman gave it to Lucy. Lucy Preston looks like nothing on earth in plum. It quite washes her out. I protest, I felt quite sorry for the creature. And what should happen then, but that despicable beast Jasper Morningstreet. . . you know him, dearest.”

  “No, Cousin Dina, I don’t believe I do. However, may I make Mr. Donovan known to you?”

  “How do you do, Mr. Donovan?” Mrs. Derwent said, poking out her hand. He saw a fair woman, with almost white blond hair such as is seen in children, still with a girlish complexion, who might have been anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. Her unlined face and her figure seemed younger, but her look of ingrained discontent and the pecking quality of her voice shaded elder. He bowed over her hand with some grace, despite a remaining stiffness in his knee. Fortunately, the voluminous garment he wore covered his clumsiness.

  “I’m sorry to hear of the disaster that overcame you, Mrs. Derwent,” he said. “Your dressmaker showed great lack of tact. However, I must say that this particular tint of blue could not be more becoming to you.”

  She fluttered her pale lashes at him. ‘You are very kind, sir. But I shall write her a scolding letter and threaten to take my custom elsewhere.”

  “My cousin is well known as one of the best-dressed women in Bath,” Lady Roma confided. “No doubt that’s why Miss Preston begged her for a copy of your gown, Dina.”

  “Ah,” said Bret, “I believe you’ve hit it, my lady. Imitation being the sincerest for
m of flattery and all that.” Bret was startled when Lady Roma quite blatantly winked at him with the eye her cousin could not see. A moment later, he was turning a laugh into a cough, but Lady Roma had already returned to her cousin.

  “No doubt that is what happened,” she said. “Write your note to Madame. I’m sure she’ll apologize.”

  “She’d do better to see that my next gown does not come quite so high as this one. Even Mr. Derwent thought it outrageous to ask so much.”

  “You look amazingly well in it, Dina. Tell your dressmaker that you had intended sending me to her but are reconsidering doing so. I am not so great a catch as you are, but I have a greater need for gowns. Everything I own is quite antiquated. I feel a perfect dowdy, especially beside you, my dear.”

  “Oh, Madame is a genius, there’s no question about it. But the greatest beast in nature, nevertheless.”

  Some of Mrs. Derwent’s high color faded along with her dudgeon as she stroked the gleaming fabric complacently. Then she glanced at Bret, and he was surprised to find that her large, soft blue eyes could become very sharp, indeed. “Are you making a long stay in Bath, Mr. Donovan?”

  “He’s a nephew of Lady Brownlow’s, Dina,” Lady Roma said. “Quite a favorite nephew, if I am any judge.”

  “On which side?” Dina Derwent asked.

  “On my mother’s,” Bret said.

  “Quite like Roma and I, then. Her mother was my mother’s younger sister. Of course, they were as different as chalk and cheese which is why Roma and I do not resemble one another.”

  “But you do,” Bret said, and both ladies looked at him in surprise. He infused a measure of wicked warmth into his smile. “You’re each as pretty as a morning in June.”

  Mrs. Derwent showed the dimples in her cheeks, just like little dints in cream. Lady Roma frowned and shook her head, further imperiling the loosely gathered knot of hair at the back of her head. “Mr. Donovan is Irish, as I doubt you need to be told, Dina.”

  “So, naturally, you can’t believe a word I say,” he said and shook his head in imitation of Lady Roma’s disapproval. He wanted her to laugh, but she only turned to her cousin.

  “Mr. Donovan is helping Lady Brownlow with some legal difficulties and thus will be remaining for some days in Bath.”

  “Oh, don’t speak to me about the law,” Mrs. Derwent protested, flinging up a hand. “I’ve heard nothing else since Derwent came home. If he isn’t wanted at some dire assizes or other, some old woman is demanding he be executor of her will. Dreary, dry as dust, and he always expects me to take an intelligent interest. I don’t mind listening, but I really can’t be bothered to comment on the beastly cases.”

  “Mr. Derwent is famous for his probity and sense of duty,” Lady Roma explained. “He’s executor and trustee for any amount of people. Why, my own father’s will names him.”

  “And it’s to be hoped dear Uncle lives to be a thousand,” Mrs. Derwent said piously. “Besides, looking after Yarborough while they locate that ne’er-do-well cousin of yours would be a constant occupation, and Derwent has quite enough to do as it is. I merely thank God that no one has, as yet, left Derwent guardian to minor children. I think that would send me clean distracted, for I know he’d insist on having them live with us. Ah!” she exclaimed, sitting up even straighter in her chair, “tea!”

  No digestive biscuit and lukewarm fluid here, Bret thought, noticing Ganderby’s strong arms shaking under the weight of the tray. It wasn’t the silver alone that made the tray heavy. Tiny tarts with glazed fruit like a jeweler’s work of art were nestled amid sugared cakes oozing sweet cream or brilliant jelly. Glistening buns fat with the promise of citron and sultanas were in no way humbled by the nearness of delicate biscuits, light enough to bounce when one tumbled off the table. Sandwiches, heartier than the usual dainty female fare, jostled on the lower level of a two-level porcelain server.

  Ganderby bowed before his mistress. “I made so bold, ma’am, to send up a slightly more substantial tea, considering that Lady Roma and Mr. Donovan were wet through and must recruit their strength.”

  “Oh, yes, Ganderby,” Mrs. Derwent said, already reaching forth to steal a bun. “I feel the need of something a bit more strengthening myself. I came away from Mrs. Granleigh’s before the refreshments.”

  “Did you really walk out, Cousin?” Lady Roma asked, taking a biscuit. She poured out for the three of them as their nominal hostess had her hands full.

  “Naturally. What else under the circumstances? I pleaded a headache which I’m sure was no lie,” she said, taking a cup. “The room really was unbearably stuffy. It may be autumn and raining, yet I can’t feel that it is tempting fate to have so many persons mewed up inside a ballroom.”

  “Was there to be entertainment?”

  “Never tell me that foolish woman failed to send you an invitation?” Something like real emotion came into the fluting, complaining voice.

  “Oh, yes, she did. But the date ...”

  It was plain that Mrs. Derwent attached no special meaning to the date. She gazed at Lady Roma, puzzlement written on her brow, then simply dismissed the matter from her thoughts.

  “Entertainment? I suppose one could call it that. A few Italian songs, a piano and harp and oboe trio—Mr. Smayle played beautifully as always. Other than that, nothing worthy of the name.”

  “The invitation said Galati would be there. Didn’t she sing?”

  “Oh, yes, if you can call it singing. Galati’s voice has fallen off amazingly since last year. I’ve never known such a drastic change in anyone. Not that it has made any difference in her price or her pride. She still sang only two songs, though foolish persons begged her for more. I can only assume that tone deafness is proving fatal to more people’s tastes every year.”

  “My cousin loves to be severe,” Lady Roma said, chuckling.

  Mrs. Derwent tore a small chunk from her bun. “No one takes me seriously,” she said, chewing in her cheek and looking exactly like a plump and pretty squirrel. “I can’t think why not.”

  After a moment, she bethought herself of something. “Did I tell you that Jasper Morningstreet was there? He asked after you especially, Roma.”

  Lady Roma looked blank. “You said he was there, but I can’t imagine why he should send any special message to me. I don’t think I know the gentleman.”

  “Oh, you remember him. You must. He made his admiration for you very plain. At that dreadful crush last Season at the Ambertons. Or was it Lady Tripsmere’s Venetian breakfast? At any rate, he’s rather tall with the most delightful wavy black hair. Quite the handsomest fellow I’ve seen in all my life. His father’s a bishop or a cardinal or something like that.”

  “Goodness me, Dina, he couldn’t be,” Lady Roma said, flicking a laughing look at Bret. “Not a cardinal, at any rate.”

  “An archbishop, then. Not Canterbury, though. I’m sure you must remember him. Think. Mr. Morningstreet has blue eyes, very blue, indeed, and a dent in his chin.”

  “He sounds almost too attractive,” Lady Roma said.

  “Oh, yes. He reminds me very much of one of those unfortunate people in Byron’s poems.”

  “You’ve read Byron?” Lady Roma lost control of her tone for a moment, leaving Bret in no doubt that she’d not believe her cousin had read any such work even if Mrs. Derwent were to pledge her word on a mountain of Bibles.

  “Goodness, no,” Mrs. Derwent said, not seeming to notice Roma’s lapse. “Derwent did, though, and told me more than enough to content me. I saw him once, you know. All the women were staring at him while we were speaking together, brazen creatures.”

  “Byron?” Bret couldn’t restrain himself from asking.

  “No. Mr. Morningstreet. He’s quite brown still, I noticed, despite the weather. He was in India, you know. Or was it Afghanistan? No, I have it. China. He was in China. Or America.”

  “Nonetheless, I don’t recall the gentleman at all.”

  “Well, he remembers you, and
that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure Lady Roma has too many admirers to count,” Bret said. Mrs. Derwent dimpled at him, but Lady Roma herself only sighed.

  “I’m not overwhelmed,” she said. “But you may introduce your Mr. Morningstreet when next you see him, Dina. Such a paragon must be seen to be believed.”

  Bret found that he did not appreciate Mrs. Derwent’s fervent promise to bring Lady Roma and Jasper Morningstreet together. They’d known each other well during their army days, unless there were two Jasper Morningstreets in the world, which seemed unlikely. Mrs. Der went was, if anything, under rating Jasper’s looks. Not only was he infernally handsome, but he had a decided flair for the ladies, judging by certain adventures he’d heard tell of. The really delectable tart he was nibbling suddenly lost all its flavor.

  Then Bret laughed. He should know better. He did know better. “Poor fellow,” he said. “He won’t be able to stir from his home if every woman in Bath is to take a peek at him.”

  “I suppose it is a little vulgar,” Lady Roma said. “If my cousin said that he was pleasantly spoken and possessed a well-informed mind, I doubt I should so much as cross the street to espy him. Yet tell me that he is an Apollo and I will deign to meet him. What a shallow creature I am!”

  Bret laughed. “Consider him as an Elgin Marble come to life and the experience will be an educational pleasure as well as an aesthetic one.”

  “Do beautiful maidens inspire you with only antique admiration, Mr. Donovan?” Lady Roma asked with a playful light coming into her eyes. She sparkled with no more but no less charm than when gently teasing her cousin.

  “We were not speaking of me, but if we were, may I remind you that we promised each other no Roman references?”

  “But the Elgin Marbles are Greek,” she said.