Lucille knew that the last thing Miss Ditton wanted was for her to be an unwanted third to her tête-à-tête with Seagrave, and since Lucille had no wish to feel like an unwelcome chaperon, she graciously declined the invitation. Peter was pulling a reluctant Hetty to her feet in order to join them on the trip to the beach and Polly was packing up her paints and going across the grass to join her mother and Mrs Ditton in the sun. Lucille tilted the brim of her straw hat against the sunlight and settled down again with her book. Gradually the piping voice and girlish giggles of Miss Ditton faded away, as did the low tones of Peter and Hetty, engrossed in their conversation. A bee buzzed near at hand amid the sea thrift. Lucille’s eyelids grew heavy, the dazzling bright light and the heat all combining to make her feel very sleepy.
It was a blade of grass tickling her nose which brought her back to the present. She opened her eyes to find that she was looking directly into those of the Earl of Seagrave, in much the same way as she had done the time he had found her asleep in Cookes’s drawing-room. The difference this time was that he was smiling at her and the effect on her was consequently greater than before, both mesmeric and compelling. She felt light-headed at his proximity. Lucille blinked and cleared her throat, determined not to lose her common sense in the face of this unexpected attack on her emotions. The blade of grass was not now in evidence, but she was certain that he had been teasing her with it all the same.
‘Surely you cannot have abandoned Miss Ditton on the beach, my lord? She may be swept away by the tide!’ Lucille struggled to sit up straighter, aware that Seagrave’s lazy gaze was appraising her in a way far too reminiscent of the looks he used to give her before she had been transformed into a respectable young lady. Since she had resumed her own identity, his behaviour had been impeccably proper, underlining to Lucille just what the differences were in the way society treated a lady and a Cyprian.
Only occasionally did she catch him looking at her with a watchful, almost calculating look which puzzled her, and once she was surprised to see in his eyes the same heat she remembered from their encounter in the woods, before his customary, cool detachment had closed his expression down again.
‘I am sure Peter is capable of taking care of Miss Ditton, even given his preference for Miss Markham’s company!’ Seagrave said indolently.
‘But it is not Mr Seagrave’s society Miss Ditton sought!’ Lucille said tartly, then realised that her waspishness could be easily attributed to jealousy. She changed the subject hastily. ‘Are the rock formations very fine, my lord? I have read of some in Derbyshire which are accounted well worth seeing!’
‘Well, ours certainly cannot compare with the Derbyshire peaks,’ Seagrave acknowledged wryly. ‘I think it must have been some drunken fisherman who first espied an outcrop of rock here and likened it to Queen Elizabeth’s face! I cannot see the likeness myself! And any caves around here are used for more serious purposes than pleasure visiting!’ He sounded quite grim for a moment.
‘Smuggling, my lord?’
‘That and other things.’ The gold-flecked eyes were very serious as they met hers. ‘Will you walk with me a little, Miss Kellaway?’
Lucille looked round. Polly had gone to join the others on the beach and Mrs Ditton was asleep, overcome by the warmth of the sun, her mouth slightly open as she snored quietly. Lady Seagrave also looked as though she were dozing, although Lucille could have sworn that she had seen the Countess’s eyes open and close again very quickly a moment previously. In the meantime, Seagrave had, with his usual authority, decided that she would agree to his proposal, and had pulled her to her feet. He took her arm and steered her towards a path that was cut through the springy turf.
‘Have you heard of the Fen Tigers, Miss Kellaway?’ Seagrave asked as they fell into step together.
‘I understood them to be the men who had originally drained the fenland in the seventeenth century, sir,’ Lucille said, wondering what he meant.
‘That’s true,’ Seagrave smiled down at her. ‘How very knowledgeable you are, Miss Kellaway! However, there is a band of men calling themselves the Fen Tigers who are currently roaming the land around Ely and Cambridge. They are mainly disaffected farm workers and even tenant farmers who claim that rents are too high and wages too low.’ Seagrave sighed, looking out across the dazzling waves. ‘I have always tried to preserve good relations with my tenants here at Dillingham, but I have heard that such unrest is spreading eastward. They burn barns down and attack farms and their owners. They have many hiding places, both for men and their weapons.’
Lucille shivered as the sun went behind a solitary cloud. For some reason the talk of unrest and discontent had made her think of the anonymous letter-writer and his threats to drive her from Dillingham. She had thought to receive no more letters after her true identity was announced, assuming that the author would realise his mistake. But the letter that had been awaiting her on her return from Dillingham Court that day had been followed by two more, always delivered after dark, and each more lurid than the last.
‘That was what you meant about the caves being used for other purposes,’ she said, shivering again.
Seagrave nodded sombrely. ‘I have frightened you,’ he said, watching her. ‘I do apologise, Miss Kellaway. I have not, I hope, inadvertently touched on matters which are distressing to you?’
Lucille’s startled blue gaze met his dark, unreadable one. The sun had emerged from behind its cloud and she suddenly felt far too hot. The words of the most recent anonymous letter seemed to burn into her mind, with their implication that she and Seagrave were lovers. Looking up, she realised that he was still watching her with that stilled, concentrated look that was far too perceptive. She gave herself a little shake.
‘Gracious, my lord, how could that be so?’ She knew that she sounded both shaken and unconvincing. ‘I know nothing of secret hiding places or rural unrest! It all sounds most disagreeable!’
‘As you say, Miss Kellaway.’ Seagrave was still watching her intently. ‘But there might be something else, something closer to home—’
‘No, indeed!’ Lucille bit her lip, realising immediately that she had betrayed herself with that hasty denial.
They had stopped walking, and were standing facing each other across the grass, almost in the manner of antagonists.
‘You always were a bad actress,’ Seagrave said softly, almost consideringly. ‘I do not believe you, Miss Kellaway! Can it be that Cookes has some secrets too? Perhaps as a hiding place…But no—’ it was frightening how quickly he could read her ‘—it is something else, isn’t it, something more personal—?’
‘Lucille! Nicholas!’ Polly was coming across the turf towards them, dangling her straw hat from its ribbons. ‘The others are ready to go now. Are you—?’ She broke off, looking from her brother’s tense face to Lucille’s studiously blank one. ‘I beg your pardon! I did not realise that I was intruding.’
‘You were not, Polly!’ Lucille was quick to reassure her friend. ‘I shall be ready directly!’ She slipped her hand through Polly’s arm and turned gratefully away from Seagrave. She did not look back, but she knew that he was watching them as they made their way to where the carriages were waiting.
Seagrave chose to travel back with Mrs and Miss Ditton, a fact which made Lucille glad for once. She felt sure that the constant scrutiny of those dark eyes would have broken down her resistance. But as she was once again surrounded by the lively chatter of Polly and Hetty on the way home, she reflected that there were some undercurrents beneath the bright and happy surface of life in Dillingham, and some had already touched her too closely.
Lucille was not by nature given to melancholy, however, and by the time the night of Lady Seagrave’s impromptu ball had come round, two weeks later, she had managed to throw off her low spirits and was looking forward to the event with almost as much excitement as Hetty. Lady Seagrave had helped her to choose a dress, a simple confection of sapphire silk and silver gauze which perfectly matc
hed the blue of her eyes. That was one benefit conferred by age, Lucille thought wryly—she was not obliged to wear the whites and pastels of the younger girls! With her silver hair drawn into an artistic chignon rather than a severe bun, she felt agreeably chic in an understated way, which was perfectly appropriate for a lady of her mature years who would be seen rather in the light of a chaperon to Hetty than her older sister.
Hetty, heartbreakingly pretty in a plain white figured gown, was waiting in the drawing-room for Lucille to give her the seal of approval. When she saw her adopted sister she rushed forward to give her an impulsive hug.
‘Oh, Lucy, you do look fine! You will not want for partners tonight!’ She gave her a sly, sideways look. ‘I’ll wager Mr Farrant will be quite tongue-tied when he sees you!’
Lucille sighed, thinking Hetty was probably right. It was unlikely that the Earl of Seagrave would be affected in the same way.
She held Hetty at arm’s length and smiled. ‘Well, my love, you are no dowd yourself! I take it that Mr Seagrave cannot have arrived yet, or no doubt I would have found him paying you the most extravagant compliments!’
Hetty blushed. ‘Oh, Lucille! He isn’t…he cannot be trifling with me, can he? I try not to hope too much, but—’ She broke off, her pleading blue eyes fixed on her sister.
Lucille gave her hands a comforting squeeze. ‘Mr Seagrave has been most particular in his attentions,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘and I am sure that he would not be so careless of your reputation as to draw such attention to you only to dash your hopes. But you have not known him long, Hetty…’ she hesitated ‘…are you certain of your own feelings?’
Hetty’s eyes lit with a shine that was almost incandescent. ‘Oh, yes! I knew from the moment I first saw him! Even when I was refusing his help, I knew my protests were in vain for—’ she gave a delicious little shiver ‘—what happened between us was inevitable!’
Lucille did not have the heart to utter any warnings in the face of such transparent happiness. She heard the sound of the Seagrave carriage draw up outside and found herself hoping fiercely that matters would work out for Hetty. That way the Seagrave brothers would only have broken one heart between them rather than two.
The ballroom at Dillingham Court was brilliantly lit and already full when Hetty and Lucille arrived. This was Lucille’s first ball, and she suddenly found herself daunted by the prospect. Clearly Lady Seagrave’s idea of ‘a small party for close friends’ involved a hundred people and a monstrous amount of organisation. The Earl, looking immaculate in the severe black and white of evening dress, was waiting with his mother to greet their guests. Lucille, suddenly overcome by shyness, had to be almost pushed into the ballroom by Hetty, and found herself confronting Seagrave with all thoughts flown completely from her head. He gave a charming but entirely impersonal smile.
‘Good evening, Miss Kellaway. I hope that you enjoy the ball.’
His indifference piqued Lucille. ‘You are all goodness, my lord. I shall endeavour to do so.’
At that, his gaze focused properly on her face in the most disconcerting manner and Lucille’s heart gave a little jump of apprehension. Why could she not have held her tongue! Then Seagrave smiled with genuine amusement.
‘I had forgotten that you would probably have preferred to be at home with your books this evening, Miss Kellaway,’ he said. ‘No doubt our frivolous pursuits will not interest you!’
Lucille gave him a dazzling smile, reminiscent of Susanna at her best. ‘On the contrary, my lord, I am growing a little tired of the assumption that I am only interested in scholarship! It should be possible to dance every dance, I imagine!’
‘Entirely possible,’ the Earl murmured, with a cynical look at the ranks of men barely holding back from besieging her. ‘But only if you spare one for me, Miss Kellaway! Astringent conversation is the antidote I shall need this evening!’ He gave her his rare, heart-shaking smile and continued, ‘But here is a gentleman who, I am persuaded, will do his best to entertain you in the meantime!’
He stood back to allow Charles Farrant to approach Lucille, and watched in amusement as Lucille’s pack of admirers closed in.
Mr Farrant was delighted to see her and he was more tenacious than he appeared. Before anyone else could cut him out, he grasped her hand firmly and pulled her onto the dance floor. ‘Miss Kellaway! How charming you look, ma’am! May I beg the honour of the first dance?’
One of Lucille’s responsibilities at Miss Pym’s was to teach the young girls dancing, so she was not entirely unfamiliar with the dances that were taking place. However, there was a great deal of difference between a schoolroom and a fashionable ballroom, and she was glad that it was Charles Farrant guiding her through the set of country dances. Had she been dancing with Seagrave, she reflected ruefully, she would have been so distracted that she would no doubt have stepped all over his feet.
Charles Farrant escorted her off the floor and stuck by her side like a limpet, his face becoming gradually more flushed as one man after another attempted to prise Lucille loose. She secretly found it a charming novelty to be so much in demand, although a natural cynicism, confirmed by the sardonic amusement she saw on Seagrave’s face as he contemplated her, made her realise that it was mostly her fortune that was the attraction. She emerged from the mêlée with her dance card full for most of the evening and her new circle of admirers vying with each other to entertain her. The experience was not an unpleasant one, particularly in view of Seagrave’s obvious indifference.
Lucille’s exertions on the dance floor gave her little time to worry about Hetty, whom Lady Seagrave had promised to chaperon anyway, and it was not until the first break in the dancing that she had the chance to look around and espy her sister in the middle of a group of debutantes and their beaux. Hetty was tilting her head to listen to the words of a lovelorn potential poet, but her eyes were drawn repeatedly to Peter Seagrave, who was lounging just beside her chair in a distinctly possessive manner.
‘Peter is épris, is he not, Lucille,’ a soft voice said in her ear, and Lucille turned to find Polly Seagrave beside her, her warm brown eyes smiling. She was looking slender and fragile in silver gauze, but it seemed only to accentuate the pallor of her complexion and her faintly sad expression as it lingered on Peter and Hetty.
‘I am glad,’ Polly added consideringly, ‘for Hetty is a lovely girl and she cares for him too.’ She drooped a little. ‘I wish—’ she began, and broke off as her gaze alighted on a gentleman across the other side of the ballroom. She caught her breath on a slight gasp and dropped her fan, bending hastily to retrieve it.
Lucille, much diverted by this, wondered who the gentleman could be who had so disturbed Lady Polly’s composure. She had made no secret of the fact that she found most of her admirers tiresome boys or men without anything to commend them. Lucille had wondered whether this dissatisfaction related to some disappointment in the past, or perhaps to some ideal with whom she compared everyone.
‘Lady Polly, who is that gentleman—’ she began, only to be interrupted by a flustered Polly, whose manners were usually immaculate.
‘Gracious, it is so hot in here!’ She plied her fan rapidly and nervously, and spoke with more animation than usual. ‘Oh, look Lucille! That spiteful cat Thalia Ditton is here, and she has brought Louise Elliott with her, of all people! I had heard that the Elliotts were staying with the Dittons, but how Louise dares to show her face after throwing Nicholas over, I cannot imagine!’ Polly wrinkled up her pert little nose. ‘Did you hear that she tried to pass off the broken engagement as a misunderstanding? Perhaps she thinks to engage his interest again, but she’ll catch cold at that! Nicholas had a lucky escape there!’
Lucille, distracted as Polly had intended her to be, turned to consider Miss Elliott with curiosity and jealousy in equal measure. She had never suffered from jealousy before, and found it too painful to view as an educational experience. Miss Elliott, plump and fair, was smiling up at her recently betrothed w
ith a winning charm and Seagrave did not look in any way averse to her company. As Lucille watched, he murmured something in Miss Elliott’s ear and swept her into the dance. Polly gave a snort of disgust.
‘Lord, this ball is hardly better than the London crushes! Silly girls, tiresome men—’
Lucille laughed. ‘Are your admirers not to your taste then, Polly?’
Lady Polly grimaced. ‘They are such boys! Oh, I know some of them are older than I am, but they are so immature!’ She saw Lucille’s sympathetic smile and said hastily, ‘No doubt you think me too particular, for I know that I am generally held to be so! But—’
‘But what you need is a real man, Lady Polly!’
Polly jumped and blushed vividly, spinning around. ‘Oh, Lord Henry, I did not see you there!’ She got a grip on herself although her colour was still high. ‘Have you met Miss Kellaway before? Lucille, may I introduce Lord Henry Marchnight?’
Lucille found herself being appraised by the gentleman she had seen across the room. He certainly was a man who knew how to invest a look with all sorts of meaning. His warm grey gaze started at the top of her head and travelled languorously down her in open appreciation, before returning to her face as he gave her a broad smile.
‘Miss Kellaway…’ his voice lingered caressingly over her name ‘…it is a pleasure to meet the new sensation!’
Lord Henry was, Lucille thought, possibly the most handsome man she had ever met. He was tall, well built and fair, with a lithe physique which must be the envy of every aspiring sprig of fashion. And there was absolutely nothing about him which made her heart beat any faster. Polly, on the other hand, had a becoming blush in her pale cheeks and was plying her fan rather fast to cool it. Reflecting ruefully on the unpredictable nature of attraction, Lucille held out her hand to him. Her smile was serene but it was belied by the twinkle in her eye. She could not help but like Lord Henry.
The Virtuous Cyprian Page 17