Minette’s first thought was that Arabella did not resemble her brother in the slightest. She was short and rather plump, with shining nut-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a high, rosy colour in her cheeks. She was inappropriately attired in a dashing pelisse of clove-pink taffeta, much embellished with cords and epaulettes. Her matching high-crowned quilted bonnet sported several nodding ostrich plumes and was tied under her ear with a large satin bow. How she had prevailed upon her protectors to permit her to venture forth in an ensemble more suited to a bird of paradise than a schoolroom miss, Minette could not imagine. It was soon explained, however.
Having divested herself of her pelisse and bonnet, Arabella allowed Minette to usher her into the morning room, where a fire had been blazing for hours, making the room cosy enough for Arabella to feel no chill, even though she was wearing a low-cut gown of diaphanous muslin, even more unsuitable than the pelisse. ‘How do you like my rig?’ she demanded, seeing Minette’s wondering eye taking in all the gown’s beauties. ‘Something like, ain’t it? Old Priddy, that’s our headmistress, you know, would have a fit, for she sent me off in the carriage in the drabbest old coat and close bonnet. But I had arranged with Madame Marlot to have my outfit waiting for me in her shop, and I instructed John Coachman to stop and hopped out and was all changed within ten minutes, I’m sure. And the other gowns I had purchased were all corded up in a trunk ready, and it was loaded and we were away. I shall burn all my old gowns, for I don’t intend to wear any of them ever again, and I am perfectly certain my abigail will not want them, so dowdy as they are!’
Minette swallowed. ‘Are all your new gowns like this one?’
‘Yes, isn’t it beautiful?’
‘Indeed, it is. But I am afraid you will take cold. I could lend you a shawl if you feel chilly.’
‘Oh, a fig for that! What is the point of purchasing a gown and then hiding it beneath a shawl?’ She seemed to realise that this reply was a little ungracious and added, ‘But, thank you, for the offer.’
Minette found herself liking this blooming, bumptious girl. She had a zest about her that was stimulating, quite unlike the enforced and studied refinement with which Grandmère had insisted on inculcating her granddaughters. She smiled and answered, ‘Very true. But it seems a shame to waste it upon me and the servants. Only think how vexatious if you were to spill something upon that fine muslin.’
By this time, they were sipping tea and partaking of little sweet cakes and, certainly, there was a recklessness in the way Arabella brandished her teacup about that made the spoiling of her gown a very real threat.
‘Oh, I shall go upstairs and change in a moment.’ She popped a little pink iced cake whole into her mouth and said rather thickly, ‘You have been ill. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask how you are recovered. Philip said it was a very bad attack.’
‘Philip?’ murmured Minette, inattentive and preoccupied.
Arabella’s eyes widened. ‘Why, Rochford, I mean of course.’
‘Oh, of course. I was not attending.’ She smiled. ‘My head is still a little woolly, I’m afraid. But I am well on the way to being recovered.’ Privately, she was thanking God that she had not ventured to address him as George. Eugénie had never thought to mention that in the family he was known as Philip.
She watched as Arabella hesitated with her hand outstretched over the plate of cakes. Then she made her choice and pounced upon the largest of the remaining fancies like a fox onto a rabbit. Grandmère would have been appalled at such a display of greed and, had either of her granddaughters been guilty of it, the consequences would have been severe. Minette, fascinated by the way the flimsy muslin strained over her young visitor’s ample bosom, resolved to let Mrs Pritchard know that, from thenceforward, only wafer thin slices of bread with the merest dab of butter should be served with tea.
She glanced out of the window and saw that the sun had broken through the clouds. The snow had melted into slush, but the gravel pathways through the home woods had been cleared and were reasonably dry. ‘Shall we walk a little in the gardens? You must be stiff and cramped after your journey.’
‘Oh no. I thought I would lie down for a while and read. I have the most exciting book on the go at the moment. It is called The Monk. Have you read it?’
‘No, I have not! Nor should you. It is a most unsuitable work for an unmarried girl.’
‘How do you know if you haven’t read it?’ asked Arabella reasonably.
Minette was rather nonplussed by this. ‘Grandmère says—’
‘I daresay. But you can hardly expect me to regulate my conduct by your grandmother’s ideas of what is proper. Now can you?’
‘No—no—I suppose not.’ It was quite a new idea to Minette that Grandmere’s decrees were not all powerful outside the family.
‘Besides, Philip knows I am reading it, and all he said was that all the good characters were so boring that it made one cheer for the wicked ones.’
Minette laughed. ‘Well, if he does not object—’ She smiled coaxingly and said, ‘I am going to walk, for I feel quite dull shut up in the house all day. Will you not give me your company?’
‘Oh, very well. I must change first, however.’
‘Indeed, you should. And put on some serviceable boots.’
Both ladies retired to their chambers to change their clothes into raiment more suitable for the outdoors and presently emerged, Minette in a midnight-blue woollen cloak trimmed with ermine and Arabella in a drab pelisse that reduced her immediately to schoolroom status. Minette, feeling that this compliance deserved a reward, insisted on lending her supposed sister-in-law her sables, which were accepted with acclaim.
They walked in the extensive grounds for over an hour and, when Arabella at last returned to her bedchamber, it was to indulge in a sound nap, not a salacious novel.
Minette, also lying down but not sleepy, gave herself up to serious thought. The masquerade she had undertaken remained quite unforgivable in her own mind, but she thought she might claim some mitigation for her sins if she were to be of use to Arabella. Much as she loved Eugénie, she knew her sister would not make the smallest push to influence or care for the child. But Minette could see that she might give Arabella the guidance of which she stood in need. She was a girl of hearty appetites, unaccustomed to restraint. Having spent an afternoon with her, Minette understood why the Duke was worried about inappropriate flirtations. She shrewdly judged that there had already been some indiscretions. Well, she thought she could see how to influence the girl. Marriage, and early marriage at that, must be their goal. Arabella must, therefore, be convinced that the way to win a husband was to behave and dress like a lady. After marriage, she could give free rein to her passions and, presumably, surprise her delighted husband very much. Tact would be needed, of course. Minette could not even hint that the attire purchased with such delighted expectations from the Bath modiste was vulgar in the extreme. But she thought that a proposal to visit a more exclusive establishment in Bond Street would not be met with any resistance, and she could, she was sure, rely upon any of the proprietors of these emporia to provide a wardrobe for a debutante as demure as it was expensive. She would write to the Duke with the proposition and—she sat up suddenly as a fresh bugbear entered her head. Her own neat handwriting was nothing like Eugénie’s dashing scrawl. How was she ever to avoid putting pen to paper for months on end?
She sank back against her pillows. For the present, her illness could be her excuse. Arabella could write on her behalf as she had not yet the strength to hold a pen. She could only hope that Arabella would not think it strange that a woman who could walk briskly for an hour on a winter’s afternoon was unable to inscribe a short note.
She need not have been concerned. This leap of mind was far beyond Arabella’s capabilities. She greeted the suggestion with acclaim and willingly penned a note to her brother.
‘Pray, dictate to me. I shall tell him I am inscribing it on your behalf.’ She sat down at the walnut bureau i
n a little bustle of importance, picked up a quill, mended the nib quite unnecessarily, and said, ‘I am quite ready, Eugénie.’
Minette dictated a short note, cool but polite. In it, she informed the Duke that she proposed to bring her sister-in-law to Town the following week and spend two nights in Curzon Street.
‘And end it Yours, etc., Minette, if you please.’
Arabella glanced up, puzzled. ‘Minette?’
Minette felt her cheeks burn fiery red. ‘No, no sign it Eugénie, of course.’
‘But why did you say Minette at first?’
Feeling that she was sinking ever deeper into a slough of deception and trickery, Minette answered quickly, ‘It is a name used for me since childhood by my family. I forgot for a moment that your brother has never heard it.’ She managed a natural-sounding laugh. ‘Conceive of his astonishment if an unknown lady wrote and proposed to stay with him.’
‘Minette is very pretty though. Prettier than Eugénie, I think.’
‘I think so, too,’ acknowledged Minette. Then, impulsively, she said, ‘Why do not you use it instead. It would be so comfortable for me. Almost like being at home.’
Arabella blushed. ‘I should like that. It would be as though we were really sisters.’
Rochford was not at home when the two ladies arrived in Curzon Street in a carriage liberally splashed with mud and dripping from a downpour that had caught them in the area of Dartford. Fortunately, the Duke’s carriage was of such excellent manufacture that the ladies had been warm and dry inside while the unfortunate coachman on the box was drenched to the skin.
They scurried indoors and, despite being sheltered under an umbrella held by a stalwart footman, their shoes and petticoats were soaked. Minette, glancing at her companion, saw that she was staring at the extremely handsome young manservant with a gleam of decided interest.
Minette then encountered the housekeeper of the town house who had bustled forward to meet them in a rustle of starched linen. Arabella, who, whatever her shortcomings, had not the least height in her manner, greeted the elderly lady with acclaim. ‘Dear Mrs Mason, how happy I am to see you.’
‘And it’s a treat to see you, Miss, looking fine as fivepence, too.’ She turned to Minette, the indulgent smile was replaced by a cool civility, and she dropped a slight curtsy. ‘Very pleased to see you looking so well, your Grace, I’m sure.’
Minette briefly wondered what her sister had done to upset her housekeeper, but she merely nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’
At that moment, the front door opened, and Rochford appeared in the entrance hall. Arabella gave a most unladylike shriek, ran to her brother, and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Philip, oh Philip.’
He laughed and lightly kissed her cheek. ‘Do not be such a hoyden, Bella. What have I done to deserve this welcome?’
‘As if you didn’t know! I should have died if I had stayed another hour in that horrid school. You were an angel to take me away. And even more of an angel to let me come to town with Minette.’
Minette, watching Rochford with his sister, thought how well the softened expression on his face became him. Then he lifted his gaze and looked at her over Arabella’s curly head. His expression changed to one of involuntary welcome, which he quickly covered with indifference. He bowed to his Duchess, and she smiled politely in acknowledgment.
‘Minette?’ The Duke’s voice was puzzled.
Minette gave a little shrug. ‘It is a pet name of mine, used only in the family. I have asked Arabella to use it. It feels strange and lonely never to hear it used anymore.’
‘Minette,’ he said thoughtfully, savouring the name. ‘It suits you.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I must go and take off these wet things. Bella, dear, I’m sure your shoes are soaked.’
Regrettably, Arabella lifted her skirt a good six inches and regarded her silly little satin slippers, which were indeed darkened with damp. ‘You were quite right; I should have worn my kid half-boots. These are ruined.’
Rochford patted his sister’s arm dismissively and said, ‘I have ordered dinner for seven o’clock. I thought we might attend the play afterwards. Would you like that, Bella?’
‘Yes, indeed! At least—it is not Shakespeare, is it? Because if it is—’
‘No, no, do not be afraid. It is the latest farce, and I can vouch for it that it is very funny.’
The Duke turned to Minette and said, ‘Do you feel well enough to accompany us, my love?’
The endearment burned in her ears. It was warmly spoken, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had never addressed Génie in just that tone. There was danger here; he must be checked. She was about to decline the invitation when Arabella interposed loudly. ‘Of course, she will. You are quite recovered, are you not, dearest?’
There was no help for it, particularly as she wished above all things to go. ‘Certainly. I should like to go to the play.’
She allowed Arabella to link arms with her and escort her to her bedchamber. They parted at her door. Minette had taken a few steps into the room before she noticed a man’s brocade dressing gown flung upon the bed and a shaving-stand in the corner and realised that, whether from innocence or ignorance, Arabella had conducted her to Rochford’s bedchamber. She whirled around, pale and breathless with fear of discovery, but it was too late. The door opened once more, and Rochford stood on the threshold.
Even in her confusion, she could not help noting how commanding his tall, elegant figure appeared framed in the doorway. The ruin of his face was nothing when set beside the power she acknowledged in his gaze and the virility he seemed always to hold in check as though not to frighten his young bride. Suddenly, she fancied she glimpsed the truth. What if the Duke had not turned from Eugénie as her foolish sister had thought? What if he was simply giving her time to know and trust him before— Ah! Bon Dieu! What was she to do?
‘To what do I owe this wholly delightful visit?’ he asked in a voice of courteous enquiry.
She pulled herself together. ‘I wished to speak to you privately.’
‘I am enchanted. But, had you summoned me, I should have been pleased to wait upon you in your own chamber. But perhaps you thought your invitation might be misinterpreted. I am not sure you were wise to choose this alternative, however. It is even more liable to—er—misapprehension.’ He was watching her with a lurking smile at odds with his formal words.
She forced a little laugh. ‘Oh, I do not fear that, Sir. I do not think you are very apt to misread a situation.’
‘You flatter me.’ He smiled and left the doorway, walking forward with a hand held out. ‘I am pleased to see you looking so blooming, my love. You are quite recovered?’
Reluctantly, she laid her hand in his and, lifting it, he just brushed it with his lips. The slight touch set her heart beating faster, and an exquisite colour suffused her cheeks. She could not doubt that he noted it, but he said nothing, merely conducting her to a chair by the fire and settling her there before taking up a stance beside the fireplace, resting his shoulders against the wainscoted wall.
‘Well?’
She reflected that, as she really had wished to speak to him about his sister, this was a perfect opportunity. It was, however, unexpectedly difficult to begin with him standing over her, his expression blandly courteous.
‘It concerns Arabella.’
He laughed. ‘I thought you would not tolerate her for very long. You wish to send her back to school?’
‘No! Of course not!’ Indignation lent her a more natural tone, and she continued with less constraint. ‘She is a dear child, and it would break her heart to be sent away again. But I am worried about her.’
‘As am I,’ he said rather wearily. ‘Do you have any suggestions to make?’
Minette considered and then said carefully, ‘She is the oddest mixture of precocity and innocence. She seems never to have been taught to think seriously, and her head is full of romance and—well—well it does not help
that you allow her to read books like that horrid Monk.’
He looked a little taken aback by this attack. ‘I have never censored her reading, certainly. Surely, she has sense enough to know that it is all quite absurd and not to be taken seriously.’
‘That is just what she does not have.’
‘Will you tell me what you apprehend?’
‘I fear that she could be easily wrought upon, even—even—seduced by any attractive male who shows any interest in her.’
He nodded as though she were merely confirming his own observation. ‘She is a considerable heiress, too, which makes her a target. That is one of the reasons I left her so long in that wretched school.’
‘I think that was a mistake. She needs more society, not less, so that she may meet the kind of young men who would make her an eligible husband. Then there would be less danger from the other kind.’
‘You wish to bring her out? But she is not yet seventeen.’
‘No, not that exactly, but if there were the prospect of a few entertainments, it would give me the opportunity to buy her some more suitable clothes and perhaps instil some measure of decorum. I mean if she were to be convinced it was necessary for social success.’
‘I had no notion you were such a managing female. Nor that you would take so much trouble over my delinquent little sister. If you think you can do all this, by all means make the attempt. You have my blessing.’
‘Thank you.’ She rose and said, smiling, ‘I must apologise for invading your male sanctuary.’
‘Believe me, there is no need to apologise.’ His smile faded, and he added, in an undertone, ‘I only wish I were as welcome in your room as you are in mine.’
Magical Masquerade: A Regency Masquerade Page 5