Shock stilled her hand as she reached for the cup the duchess offered. “Shopping?”
“Yes! We shall begin on Bond Street at my modiste. She is the finest in the city.”
She glanced in wonder at Arabella’s excited face, then back to the duchess.
“Richard wishes it, Mary,” the duchess said softly. “I fear it might upset his health if you do not agree.”
Quelling her natural instinct to politely refuse such generosity, Mary added this debt to the one she already owed him. Somehow, someday, she’d repay them all.
She searched the duchess’s face for some sign that she knew the truth, to no avail. She must go on as before, even though her insides were weak with regret and guilt.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I will, of course, do anything that might help Richard.”
Her simple words brought a shout of laughter from Richard’s fiancée. “Mary, you’re so droll!” Arabella clapped her hands, sending a speaking look at the duchess. “I’m sure Her Grace would agree with me that, in all the length and breadth of the land, there is no one in less need of help than Avalon! I’m sure he’ll order his memory loss away as easily as he has always bent the ton to his wishes!”
Mary was struck at once by Arabella’s rather callous view of Richard’s illness. How could his own fiancée believe that Richard was such a hard man, when Mary had spied his vulnerability immediately?
“Well, we are off,” Arabella sighed, standing up and bending over Her Grace’s hand affectionately in one graceful movement.
Bowing to the inevitable Mary slowly rose. “Are you not joining us, Your Grace?”
“I was just telling Arabella I will stay here. I understand Miss Barton has a fine hand with a garden. I will invite her to take luncheon with me in the conservatory so we might discuss the well-being of my flowers.”
Touched by this kindness to Lottie, who barely left her room for fear she’d do something to disgrace them both, Mary sent her a grateful smile.
Arabella gasped. “Why, you are quite beautiful when you smile!” Tapping one cherry red slipper, she narrowed her eyes, studying Mary. “With your hair and the way your eyes slant just so, I believe I shall strive for a more exotic look. Come, Mary, we have much to do!”
Mary found herself caught up in Arabella’s flurry, and before she knew it they were in front of a shop with a discreet sign proclaiming Madame Beaudin, Modiste.
Arabella whisked her through the doorway and into a back room hung with narrow mirrors. Obviously, they were expected.
Madame Beaudin herself, a tall raw-boned woman with ebony hair pulled back in a severe bun, surveyed Mary from all angles as she walked slowly around her.
“Everything is here for perfection.” She stopped pacing to purse her lips. “The neck, a quite fine bosom, the narrow waist, the long line of hip and thigh. That she should be clothed in this abomination is disgraceful. Mimi, remove it from my sight at once!”
Mary was overcome with embarrassment. She couldn’t quite believe the compliments, so she fastened on the one thing that was familiar—the contempt of her clothes. Her grandfather was right; she wasn’t fit to be in society.
“What Madame Beaudin is saying, Mary, is that you’re a beautiful girl, but your clothing does you no justice.”
Taken aback at Arabella’s momentary softness, Mary smiled in return. “Dreadfully so, I’m afraid.” She was surprised at the other girl’s obvious kindness to her. She wasn’t certain she’d be so cheerful if her betrothed asked her to help another woman look more modish. She was afraid she’d be overcome with jealousy.
Arabella seemed oblivious to anything but designs and fabric. Bolt after bolt of material was considered for walking costumes, riding habits, morning dresses, and ball gowns. Mary’s mind swam in confusion. This wasn’t her world. She would never need such clothes back in Hexham where she belonged.
Her attempts to stay Arabella fell on deaf ears. A morning dress of buttercup yellow with long sleeves and a softly scooped neckline, another of a pale peach stripe with two ruffles at the hem, and a third of cameo-pink satin with Spanish sleeves were ordered. Two walking costumes, one of gray, the other soft sapphire, each with a matching pelisse and half boots of kid were added. An emerald green riding habit, with a most fetching hat adorned by a white plume, caused even Mary to nod in speechless wonder.
But when Arabella insisted that the neckline of an ivory silk evening gown be cut deeper to display Mary’s bosom to perfection, she called a halt.
“Absolutely not!” she declared, removing the silk that spilled across her body like moonbeams. “I shall have no need of such a gown.”
“Oh, pooh!” Arabella pouted, her face as pretty as ever. “I shan’t fight with you. All in all, we have done quite well.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle,” Madame Beaudin nodded. “How shall Miss Masterton’s hair be dressed?”
Both women studied the heavy auburn locks. The assistant, Mimi, pulled out the pins, and an abundance of hair fell straight down her back to her waist.
“It won’t hold a curl. My mother once put it in curling papers for two full days to no avail,” Mary offered.
“Then we shall trim it slightly and pile it loosely upon your head with combs. It will drive the gentlemen mad as they anticipate it tumbling down upon your shoulders,” Arabella declared with a breathless laugh.
Mimi giggled as she buttoned Mary back into her offensive dress.
Madame appeared not to notice as she smiled at Arabella in appreciation. “Mademoiselle knows men and what they admire.”
“I’m not sure about that any longer,” Arabella replied, with a whimsical smile that seemed out of character.
Mary was shocked to see a faint flush color her pale skin. Wishing to somehow repay her kindnesses, Mary tried to diffuse the sudden awkwardness.
“Obviously you know what Richard admires. I’m sure he’ll return to normal soon.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Arabella shrugged with that pretty pout again turning her lips. “I know this reprieve can’t go on forever.”
Even if stunned disbelief hadn’t stilled her tongue, Mary didn’t know Arabella well enough to question such a shocking statement. Particularly when its implications sent a soaring joy singing through her veins.
But, just as quickly, sadness followed in its wake like a splash of icy water. No matter what happened between Richard and his fiancée, Mary had no place in his life. Of that there could be no doubt.
“There is no doubt about it, Miss Barton, you are a genius with flowers!” The duchess eyed the stunning creation of roses, an artful tangle of ivy, and lacy stems of pinks that Lottie had put together after they had finished a cozy luncheon.
“You’re ever so kind, Your Grace. I’d be happy to help your gardener do arrangements for the house,” Lottie offered, as the duchess hoped she would. It was the perfect vehicle to ease Lottie’s nerves and involve her in the flow of life here.
“I’m sure he will be as pleased as I am at your offer.” She placed her teacup firmly on its saucer and folded her hands in her lap. “Miss Barton, may I ask you a few questions about the time you spent with my son?”
She could see by the tightening of Lottie’s soft lips that she was steeling herself to deflect any questions about Mary.
“Was he terribly upset at his memory loss?” she asked carefully.
“At first. Then he seemed content to slide into life on the horse farm.” Lottie stopped, considering for a moment. “Knowing who he is now, that seems hard to believe. It’s a hard life, Your Grace. And he was ever so helpful. Rebuilt the stable when Ian came to London with the ring.”
“Yes, the ring. I have much to be grateful to Mary for,” the duchess said, weighing her words wisely. “She appears to be as concerned about Richard’s health as I am.”
�
��She is, Your Grace!” Lottie declared with round-eyed fervor. “Why, Mary stayed by his side night and day when he lay in that dreadful coma. Poor soul! Once we thought we’d lose him, but Mary refused to give up hope.”
“Were they happy together before I arrived?”
She could sense by Lottie’s hesitation that she might have overstepped the boundaries, so she hastened to clarify. “The way Richard leapt to her defense when her grandfather attacked her so viciously indicates deep feelings. It is not usually my son’s way to demonstrate such overt…”
Lottie blinked at her in what the duchess could only believe was surprise. “Fair couldn’t keep his hands off her. Playful he was.”
“Richard? Playful?” Shock at her offspring’s actions was such a rare occurrence that she had to consider these new feelings about him and label them correctly.
“Yes, Your Grace. Mary, too, which is something that warmed my heart, seeing that she is usually such a serious child. Loaded down with responsibility she’s always been. Caring for her late father’s dream of a successful horse farm, while fending off that dreadful Sir Robert Lancaster’s advances, and him urging her to wed in order to satisfy her father’s debts.” Warming to the subject, Lottie leaned closer. “To answer your question, Your Grace. Yes, in spite of Mary’s guilt, she was happy, and so was your son, before you came.”
The duchess stared intently into Lottie’s round face, and what she saw there caused her to nod. Richard had at last met his match. She hoped that her restless, intelligent son had a vestige of sense left to realize it.
The moment Richard collapsed in a deep wing chair at White’s opposite Lord Fordham, he realized that the younger man was speechless with fright. A slight movement of his hand brought a waiter at once, and Richard ordered three glasses of rum punch.
Twirling the crystal between two long fingers, he watched both Fordham and Charlesworth take a long drink.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me, Fordham,” he drawled, taking a sip and letting the rum roll around on his tongue.
Young Lord Fordham gazed at him in awe. “Your Grace, before a stable fell on your head you never even spoke to me. The fact that we’re drinking together will raise my credit higher than I’d ever dared hope. I’m in your debt!”
Amused despite his knowledge of the absurdities of his world, Richard gave the boy a kind smile. “Actually, I need your help in tracing someone once connected to your family. It is Charlotte Grenshaw, who, I believe, was once married to your late grandfather’s youngest brother.”
A sandy curl fell over Fordham’s eyes as he nodded. “I recall stories about him. A real black sheep. Went to the colonies, you know. Died there young of over-indulgence, so the stories go.”
“I’m searching for information concerning his widow. Can you help me?” he asked lazily, not by a flicker of an eyelash giving any indication that this was of paramount importance.
“Of course!” the young man exclaimed. “I’ll ask my grandmother. The old gal knows by heart every family scandal in the last fifty years. Loves to drag them out at just the right moment to embarrass us all.” A deep flush crossed his face at this revelation. “I’ll ride to Fordham Manor right now to talk to her, and report to you immediately upon my return!”
The boy jumped to his feet and raced from the room before Richard could utter another word.
Chuckling, he turned to say something to Charlesworth, but the words died in his throat as he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure from the corner of his eyes.
Sir Robert Lancaster. Here?
“Richard, what is it? Has your memory returned?” Charlesworth leapt to his feet, hovering over him.
“That man in black, just leaving—find out why he is here, who sponsored him!” Richard bit out the commands so sharply, Charlesworth spun on his heels without question to do his bidding.
He would have gone after Lancaster himself, but he was still paralyzed by what he had learned last night about Mary, Lancaster, and, most importantly, himself.
Charlesworth returned quickly, setting another drink in front of him. He realized, to his chagrin, that he had downed the other without tasting a thing.
“You look like you need this,” Charlesworth said with a quirk of his lips.
Richard tossed the entire contents down his throat, then looked up into his friend’s face. “It was Sir Robert Lancaster, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Charlesworth perched on the chair beside him and leaned closer. “I was told he recently arrived in London. His sponsor is Baron Renfrew. Does this have anything to do with your business with Fordham?”
Pleased by Charlesworth’s shrewdness, Richard met his gaze evenly. He’d do very well by Bella, indeed.
“Yes, my friend. The pieces of a rather complex puzzle are finally falling into place.”
Chapter 9
Mary’s grandfather’s actions were forming a distinctly unpleasant pattern in Richard’s mind. Caught up in thought, he had to look twice at the doorway of the card room through which he glimpsed Baron Renfrew himself, to be utterly sure he hadn’t conjured him up.
His mother was correct. He was now, and always had been, convinced that the focus of his will could achieve whatever he wished. Such arrogance staggered him, especially now that he’d met Mary and couldn’t find a way to set all to rights. Yet a remnant of his old self-confidence brought him to his feet.
“Come, Charlesworth, let me introduce you to Mary’s grandfather,” he purred, flicking his friend a lazy smile.
The baron glanced up from a hand of solitaire. Scarlet rushed into the puffy face above his dreadfully tied cravat when he realized that they were coming his way.
“Good day, Baron. Are you acquainted with Lord Charlesworth?”
Without ceremony, Richard sprawled in the chair across the table from the old baron. Clearly at a loss, Frederick hovered beside him. Mary’s grandfather remained grimly silent, his beady eyes flicking uncertainly between the two men as Richard smiled gently.
“We were just discussing the ball at which my mother is planning to introduce Mary to the ton.”
“You’re a devil, Avalon!” the old baron hissed, his face quivering. “I told you I’d have no part of this!”
“Sir, your granddaughter is quite lovely. I don’t doubt she’ll become all the rage,” Charlesworth offered gallantly, in a vain attempt to slice through the awkward tension pulsing across the table. At the look of horror draining all color from Renfrew’s blotchy skin, Charlesworth glanced at Richard with troubled eyes.
“Freddie, would you mind leaving the baron and me alone to discuss the upcoming festivities?” Richard nodded briefly to reassure him.
“I’ll be in the reading room if you need me,” Charlesworth responded cryptically. He didn’t even bow to the ugly-tempered man who glowered and was so ungracious.
Richard endured, with some degree of enjoyment, Renfrew’s uneasy glare.
“The chit ain’t no concern of yours!” the baron sputtered, then drained his glass in one gulp. “What the devil are you up to, Avalon?”
“I was just asking myself the same question about you.”
Richard crossed his ankles and smiled, so that any curious observer would think they were having a friendly chat, instead of the careful interrogation he had every intention of performing.
“I caught a glimpse of Mary’s neighbor, Sir Robert Lancaster, in here a few moments ago. Imagine my surprise when Charlesworth learned you had sponsored him. Here, I thought you’d never gone near Mary all these years. Yet you are obviously a close friend of the man who has attempted to force her into marriage and who holds her late father’s debts.”
“Didn’t know you had your lackey snooping for you,” Renfrew sneered.
“What an apt description for Lancaster!” Keeping his tone decep
tively lazy, Richard leaned closer. “You’ve had your lackey making sure your daughter and her husband stayed in debt all their lives. You’ve spied on Mary and kept her buried away, haven’t you, Baron? I can’t but wonder what you fear from your beautiful granddaughter.”
Absorbing a hiss of air, Renfrew surged clumsily to his feet. “It ain’t none of your damn business, Avalon. Don’t muddle in affairs that don’t concern you. You might regret it.”
In response to so paltry a threat Richard flung back his head and laughed up into the older man’s face.
His lips rolling over his teeth, Renfrew smirked back. “You’ll see. Mark my words!”
“Yes, I believe I will see, Baron, everything. You mark my words!” Faint contempt seasoned his voice.
Richard’s lazy smile still curved his mouth as the baron stalked out. He rose swiftly to find Charlesworth and spent the journey back to Avalon House dodging his perceptive questions. Frederick had been a surprisingly able ally in the aftermath of Waterloo two years ago. Now, Richard realized with a start of surprised pleasure, he had become a trusted friend.
“I’m not quite sure myself what’s afoot,” he confided. “I’ll have a better idea once I hear what Fordham’s grandmama has to say.”
The unflappable Wilkens opened the front door, and they entered the gracious hallway.
“Where’s my mother?”
“All the ladies are in the afternoon room, Your Grace.” The butler’s deep voice echoed with importance.
Placing a hand on Charlesworth’s shoulder, Richard urged him to follow. “Say nothing to the ladies. Just be aware Lancaster is not to be trusted. If you should see him anywhere near Mary you must make it known to me at once.”
With a stern twist to his kind mouth, Frederick nodded solemnly. “Of course, Long. At once!”
Satisfied at this day’s work, Richard flung open the doors. All three ladies instantly looked up from their needlework. From the comfortable scene they presented, it appeared that they were all in great charity with each other.
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