by Sue Swift
“Petronius Arbiter? I am surprised, sweet Kate, that Petronius put you to sleep.”
Kate, irritated, frowned at Devere and snatched at the book. There was something immensely annoying about being watched as one slept. Did she drool, or twitch, or even (heaven forbid) snore?
“You seem to be unusually interested in my choice of reading material, my lord. Be advised I merely refresh my knowledge of Latin.” Quinn glanced at her. His expression was unreadable. “Be advised that your choice of reading material tends to border upon the salacious, my ward.
It is not unnatural for you to have an interest in, umm, such matters. Perhaps it is time for you to marry, and for some strong male to teach you what you wish to know.”
Kate gasped. “Ma-marry, my lord? I’m only seventeen.”
“You are six months away from your eighteenth birthday.” He cocked his head. His eyes mocked, or did they flirt? “Bryan St. Wills seems to be an eligible partí, and a good friend.”
“Bryan? He’s the merest child.”
“He must be at least twenty, sweet Kate. I assume from his deportment his birth and breeding are appropriate.”
She pressed her lips together and sought to disguise her discomfiture in idle chatter. “The St.
Wills are originally French nobility, I believe. Bryan’s father sold off the family properties just before the Revolution, and they came to England to settle.”
“Their true name?”
“Saint-Guillaume. My lord, I have no desire or intention to marry Bryan St. Wills. Recently he seems to have developed a tendre for Louisa.” Kate stretched, fumbling with her hair.
“Is that so?”
“It’ll amount to nothing. Louisa seems intent upon her boring baronet.” Kate sniffed.
“Willoughby Hawkes?”
“Yes. I fail to understand the attraction.” Kate jabbed a hairpin into her topknot, securing a stray ringlet. She realized, to her embarrassment, that the pose lifted her breasts inside the flimsy muslin.
Moreover, her guardian watched her as closely as a gentleman at a track observing the finish of a hotly contested race on which he’d wagered his entire fortune.
“I confess, I have never before heard Wicked Willy called dull.”
Quinn said nothing about her appearance. Had her imagination run riot? “Is that how he’s known, as Wicked Willy? Why so, my lord?”
“Er, nothing you need to worry about,” Quinn said hastily. “It’s just that, when a cove’s been on the loose for a time, he develops a reputation, so to speak.”
“And you, my lord? Have you not been, as you say, loose for a time?” Prompted by Sybilla’s gossip, Kate probed.
Quinn squirmed. “I am, I assure you, quite unexceptional.”
Kate raised her brows.
“But you, sweet Kate, what manner of man catches your eye?”
“Certainly not a frowny old man like your friend Wicked Willy. What care you, my lord?” Kate pushed some more.
“Quinn,” he corrected. “You are my ward and my charge and my obligation to see you are, er, disposed of properly.”
“Disposed of properly?” The rein on Kate’s temper loosed. She stood up, shaking out her skirts.
“My lord, I am not an item of yours to dispose. I am a person who has a life. Good day to you, Lord Devere.” She turned to go into the house. Her back was to Quinn, so he could not see her angry tears.
“I beg your pardon.”
“What?” she snapped.
“You requested my presence. I do not believe it was to discuss your marital prospects.” She kept her back turned. “I’ll join you in the drawing room in ten minutes, if you please.” She stalked into the house.
* * *
Kate was livid, not only at her guardian for his patronizing treatment, but also at herself. She’d become convinced through the gipsy’s maunderings that Quinn was her heart’s desire and could be her own for a snap of her fingers. She was infuriated to find Devere still perceived her as a precocious child, one who needed instruction from a cub like Bryan St.
Wills.
She stamped upstairs to her room, and, after ringing for Bettina, stared out the window at Bruton Street with sightless eyes. Perhaps Devere was right.
Perhaps the solution to all her problems was a quick marriage. Married, she would cease to be a target for Herbert or a drain on the Penroses’ generosity.
Marriage would also provide the stability Kate had lacked since her grandfather’s death.
She wanted to marry for love and had convinced herself that Quinn was her desire and her fate. It did not seem so. What manner of man would suggest marriage to another if he was sincerely attached?
Even if she married Devere, he might not change his rakish habits. She would be miserable in a loveless marriage. She loved, but she needed love, craved love’s return as much as she required air to breathe and food to eat.
Kate knew persons of her class rarely wed for love. The custom was for young noblewomen to marry suitable noblemen early and produce children.
She had heard rumors that, later in life, a woman might take a lover who would be more to her preference than her husband. There were many second sons and third daughters who did not resemble their fathers.
She hated the idea of such a sham. It clashed with her innate honesty and loyalty, and she refused to accept this future for herself. She resolved to wait, to look beyond Devere. She would be introduced to the ton in just a few months, and would have ample suitors from whom she could choose. She hoped she would have forgotten her tendre for the Earl by that time. Puppy love, nothing more! she told herself.
After having brushed her hair, rinsed her face, and arranged a tucker in her bodice, she entered the drawing room to face her guardian with a calm demeanor. Quinn surveyed her modest apparel and frowned. She reminded herself that she didn’t care.
His moods could be his own.
“My lord,” she said, seating herself in the wing chair. “There is the possibility that Lord Herbert’s designs on me have become something more than conjecture.”
Devere listened to her tale with a solemn mien as Jenks came in with the tea tray. Kate poured as she talked, then offered him the cook’s prized apple tarts.
She knew Quinn liked them as much as did Pauline.
When she finished her tale, he rubbed one side of his Roman nose and fiddled with his lorgnon. She stared at his long, restless fingers, and, despite her resolve, envisioned those elegant hands caressing her body the way they had stroked her palm. She bit her lip to destroy the distracting, useless, unaccustomed sensations, pleasurable feelings she had no words to describe. She only knew they threatened to devastate her fragile composure.
When he finally spoke, breaking the silence which had arisen, she was startled by the unusual timbre in his voice, a dark, serious note. Her good-natured guardian, however irritating, was rarely anything but jolly. “Well, Kate, ’tis a pretty problem you’ve brought to me. It is true that Lord Herbert is to be invested into his title this week, so he is in London.”
“Truly, sir? No one has mentioned it to me.” Quinn shrugged. “The information is available for all to read, in the Times and the Morning Post. But worry not, we’ll get to the bottom of this coil, you’ll see.” He had an odd brooding glint in his eyes as he stood up hurriedly.
Kate was surprised anew. “You’ll not finish your tea?”
“Ah, er, no. No, thank you, my lady. I have recollected an errand which must take place before the day is out.” Devere gripped the bell pull and shouted for his curricle before he remembered he had walked from Berkeley Square.
* * *
He had asked her forgiveness before he stalked out, all long limbs and flashing, polished Hobys, but she was dismayed by the entire encounter. She still sipped her tea when the Penrose ladies came back from Burlington Arcade, full of tales and stories of their happy day. They were to attend Macbeth at Drury Lane two evenings hence, wasn’t it exciting?
asked Pauline. Louisa had found several ells of the loveliest silver-blue sarcenet; did cousin Kay not want some to trim her blue bonnet?
She heard them all as if they were very far away, or as if they were speaking another tongue, and she a visitor to their strange land. She shook herself loose of her mood and reentered their world, feeling as though she’d been insufferably rude. Lady Anna watched her with a thoughtful expression. “Did my brother visit, cousin Kay?”
Kate lifted her teacup, pleased to see that her hand did not shake. “Yes, we discussed the events of yesterday.”
“And?”
“And, nothing. He said nothing, merely recalled an engagement elsewhere.” Kate did not want to mention the presence of her uncle in London while Louisa and Pauline were in the room. She continued.
“He seemed to be in a peculiar mood.”
“No more so than some, I vow.” Anna eyed Kate.
“Do you accompany us tonight to the Lambs? Lady Caroline is expected to read from her new novel.”
“May it be as scandalous as her first.” Louise laughed. Lady Caroline Lamb’s outrageous conduct concerning the poet George Gordon, Lord Byron, had not been forgotten. Her doings never ceased to amuse the ton. Society had been greatly titillated by the publication of Glenarvon, the melodramatic satire which slashed Lady Caroline’s own family to shreds.
All hoped her new book would be equally shocking.
“No, I do not believe I shall be abroad tonight,” said Kate. She did not feel she could tolerate shallow social intercourse in her current emotional state. “But what is this excursion to Drury Lane?”
“It’s for Pauline, mostly. Kean in Macbeth,” Louisa said.
“As though you won’t enjoy it,” grumbled Pauline.
“It’s for all of us.” Anna sought to pour oil on the troubled waters.
“Mother, we had such a fine time at Lady Ursula’s, p’raps we should invite her to share our box?”
“Why, what a thoughtful idea, Pauline. Yes, you may write to Lady Ursula today and invite her, with my compliments. Shall we also invite Bryan St.
Wills?” Anna tipped her head to one side to regard both Kate and Louisa.
Louisa winced while Kate agreed. “And, ma’am, I saw the nicest girl at the luncheon. Her name’s Lady Sybilla Farland. If there’s room in the box, might we invite her also?”
“That would make a party of seven, all females but for St. Wills and your father.”
“Poor Bryan!” mocked Louisa.
Her mother ignored her. “We shall also invite Quinn. Kay, I am afraid your new friend will have to wait for another occasion.”
“We could ask Sir Willoughby,” suggested Pauline pertly.
Louisa blushed and held her tongue while Anna considered. “Well, the dessert denied is the tasty morsel most sought. Correct, Louisa? Yes, that would be fine.”
Louisa bounced in her seat.
Her mother fixed her with a quelling stare. “I’ll write to him myself. Shall we serve a light dinner for the party before we set out? Perhaps Quinn or St.
Wills knows of an escort for Lady Ursula, to round out the party.” Anna speculated aloud. “You do understand, Lou, that you will not in any case be partnered with Sir Willoughby.”
Kate could see, glancing at Louisa’s excited, flushed face, that Louisa had not thought about the details of the evening. “Why, what do you mean, Mother?” Louisa asked.
“It is unlikely Lady Ursula will attend. I’ve certainly never seen her at the theatre. So, as ranking peer, your uncle will escort me and you will be partnered by your father,” Anna stated calmly. “To do anything else would be quite inappropriate.”
“Who cares about propriety?” snapped Louisa.
“We do. If your tendre for Sir Willoughby does not turn out as you hope, you will be glad of my caution,” her mother said. “Don’t scorn my advice.
Restraint, Louisa. Men are hunters. They love the chase, and will treasure the object of their desire all the more if it has led them a merry dance.” Louisa’s brow furrowed as Pauline asked, “Who will escort me?”
Anna thought. “St. Wills, if he attends. ’Twill give you a touch of adulthood, child.” Anna ruffled Pauline’s hair. “And you, Kate, will accompany Sir Willoughby.”
“Stuck with the boring baronet.” Kate looked at Louisa as Pauline and Anna laughed. “I’d trade with you, Lou, but I’m afraid Lady Anna has laid down the law.”
Chapter Eight
Bryan St. Wills lost no time in pursuing his new love interest. Though he had been sent down from Oxford he was resolved not to neglect his education in any way; he merely set himself to acquiring different skills. Gambling and wenching, cocking and racing were the chief pleasures of young males of his social class. Bryan was determined to experience all.
The very day after Lady Damaris’ luncheon, Bryan presented himself at the door of the Farland mansion at Cavendish Gardens. Again dressed in green, he attempted to make himself exceptional among his dandyish peers by wearing only the one distinctive color. His waistcoat and unmentionables were lemon yellow. His groom walked his horses, tethered to his curricle, around Cavendish Square.
Bryan hoped to take Sybilla driving in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five o’clock.
The door was opened by a footman who
informed him that Lord James and Lady Mathilda were both absent from the household. Bryan presented his card and begged to be honored by the company of Lady Sybilla. The drawing room in which he waited was decorated in the first stare of fashion.
Evidently Lady Farland spent much time selecting furniture and wallpaper.
Sybilla dashed in, stripping off a pair of heavy rough gloves. Bryan stared. He’d never met any lady, other than his friend Kate, who felt sufficiently secure in her person to meet a gentlemen dressed in anything other than her finest. Lady Sybilla wore a drab stuff gown and appeared to have dirt on her boots.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, extending a very white, very soft hand in Bryan’s direction. As he bent over it, he noticed the well-kept member belied her grubby state. “If you would care to give me a few minutes to make myself presentable…”
She trailed out of the room. As she left, he could hear her ordering the footman to bring tea, “And whiskey, if the gentleman desires it.” Not fifteen minutes later Sybilla was back, perfectly attired. Though Sybilla might not care about her appearance, her lady’s maid evidently knew her business. Today Lady Sybilla was dressed in pale jade silk.
Bryan dropped his teacup back into his saucer with a clatter. The cool elegance of the ensemble did not disguise Sybilla’s pleasure in his visit, revealed by her sparkling eyes and sweet smile.
“My curricle is outside,” he said. “Perhaps a drive?”
“After tea, yes. I’m parched.” She poured for herself, then freshened his cup.
He hesitated fractionally, then asked, “You are a particular friend of Lady Kate Scoville?”
“Yes, she told me that we two are among the few who are in on her charade.”
“If you are good friends, perhaps you will not mind me asking. Umm, in what pursuit were you engaged when I interrupted?”
“Oh, that!” Her rich laughter trilled. “Please do not reveal my pastime. It shames my parents greatly. I am a peasant, you see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“So my father says,” murmured Sybilla demurely.
“I have a passion for gardening, flowers in particular.
May I show you?”
The back garden of the mansion was surprisingly large for a London house, large enough for her to express herself in flowers, explained Sybilla.
“You have a particular fondness for sweet peas, I observe.”
“Yes.” She buried her face in a pot of bright pink blooms, humming as she inhaled their spicy scent. “I am engaged in breeding true colors, particularly blue.”
“Blue?”
She turned an excited countenance to Bryan.
“Have you never wondered why there are few purely blue flowers, sir?”
Bryan blinked. “Can’t say I have.”
“Well, I have. It is very difficult,” she informed him. “Most sweet peas are pink or white. Reds tend to be orangey—a horrible shade—and the blues are purplish, really. I am growing pure blue and red flowers. Each succeeding generation I come closer to my goal.”
Despite his complete disinterest in the subject matter, Bryan found himself warming to the conversation, and to the lady. Sybilla’s fascination with her flowers was infectious. Her movements, as she walked through her orderly flower garden, were swift and deft, and Bryan was struck by her resemblance to an inquisitive, restless hummingbird as she went from flower to flower. She even hummed as she fluttered around the garden.
“How, precisely, do you breed the flowers?”
“Oh, it is very complicated. Most flowers breed due to the motion of bees among them, drifting from blossom to blossom. I must protect the buds I wish to propagate.” She gestured at several stalks, which sported papers tied over their tips. “I transfer the pollen from one flower to another, using a paintbrush. I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect if I breed the bluest flowers together, the color will eventually come true. Also with the reds.” She waved at a different corner of the yard, where riotous red sweet peas dominated the landscape.
Impressed, Bryan concluded that there was a thinking mind behind those fine dark eyes. “I gather your parents do not approve of your hobby, Lady Sybilla.”
“No, but they do find it useful. I have taken to filling my father’s study and my mother’s boudoir with flowers. I have found sweet peas result in sweet tempers.”
He laughed and offered her his arm.
* * *
The evening of the theatre party, Kate stood in her bedroom adjusting her ensemble. She had not seen or heard from her guardian since that dreadful scene in the garden, after which he had walked out of the drawing room and, apparently, out of any meaningful part in her life. Try as she might, she could not banish him from her thoughts. Her brow puckered as she considered the situation.