Cicely sniffed. “A rinse wouldn’t answer there, ma’am. Miss Brandon should cut her hair and put it in curls. She’s too fine-boned for the style she has now, and her maid ought to know it.”
“And those clothes,” a cool voice said from the doorway. “Miss Brandon is drowned in ruffles. I declare her mother has the taste of a gypsy.” Lady Honoria Melton smiled charmingly at Jessica as she came into the room. “Miss Brandon should dress in the simplest lines and plainest fabrics, then she would look delicate and appealing, and Deyncourt wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
She began to leaf idly through some fashion magazines, which the chambermaid left in all the ladies’ rooms.
“Like this, or this merino walking dress. Don’t you agree, Miss Whinburn?” She gave the magazine to Jessica. “Nothing is more important in society than looks, other than reputation, of course—especially to someone like Deyncourt, who must keep up his position. Appearances can always be mended, but a lady’s reputation, once damaged, is irreparably lost. Yet gentlemen may sow their wild oats without it making them in the least ineligible to marry well. Sometimes I think it’s unfair, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Jessica replied. “I would hope that character counted for something.”
The Incomparable laughed aloud. “Character! Lord Deyncourt doesn’t care a fig for character. He just wants an unsullied bride. I expect him to offer for me, but I don’t expect him to admire my character.”
Jessica felt totally at a loss. “Yet I think you are very kind, Lady Honoria, to lend a complete stranger such a skilled lady’s maid.”
“Think nothing of it,” the Incomparable replied in her lovely voice. She gave Jessica a dazzling smile. “When my future husband has decided that you are another of his lame chicks, what else could I do?”
The Incomparable Melton accompanied Jessica down to breakfast, where they found the company in an uproar. Everyone was talking at once, while Peter plied the earl with questions.
“What is it?” Jessica asked. “Has something happened?”
Deyncourt gave her his full attention, almost as if he believed she merited it.
“Indeed, Miss Whinburn. You may know that when Bonaparte escaped Elba in March, royalist resistance collapsed in France, so he entered Paris unopposed. Wellington has been gathering our men in Belgium for the last month. Yet Napoleon has been deplorably unable to take the hint. He plans a military spectacle to effectively thumb his nose at the great powers. War is inevitable. We face movement and machinations all across Europe.” He turned back to Peter. “I must return to London. The Corsican Monster gave no thought to our domestic convenience, I’m afraid.”
Immediately after the meal, the earl made his farewells. Jessica looked straight into his eyes as he took her hand. He met her gaze and gave her a slight wink, which she found infuriating, before he bowed over her fingers with the perfect, impersonal courtesy of the trained diplomat.
“Goodbye, Miss Whinburn. I trust when we meet again in London, you will be entirely recovered from your indisposition?”
“It is a matter of complete indifference to me.”
“What, that you recover?” He looked at her in genuine surprise.
“No, whether we meet again. For I find your use of Miss Brandon unconscionable.”
But he merely smiled at her, before he strode away to mount his horse for the journey to London. The house party was to break up the next day. Cranby would escort Lady Honoria and Miss Brandon back to London in his carriage. Jessica was to remain in Lady Steal’s care for a few more days until her ankle was entirely mended, then Peter would bring both ladies to town. Honoria insisted that Cicely, the maid, stay with Jessica until they should all meet again in London, and it seemed churlish to refuse.
* * *
As soon as his most urgent business was done, Michael went straight to see Lady Emilia Shay. Her parlor was ablaze with cut flowers brought up daily from the country.
“This story you tell me of my great-niece is most singular, Deyncourt. To travel alone in a donkey cart! She was a very odd and outspoken girl, if I remember. Tell me, is she pretty?”
Something stirred in his heart as Michael recalled Jessica’s translucent skin and her wild hair, flaming like the fine fire of her spirit. “She is unusual.”
“You mean she grew up to be plain? I won’t believe it. Even as a child she had good bones.”
“Which she still does. No, I mean that she has extraordinary eyes, a clear profile, and a neat figure, and many of your acquaintance might well consider her attractive. But she also has freckles, and, in her own words, a head of hair like a tree full of oranges. Yet she would seem to have a curious attitude for a young lady. I don’t believe she takes much thought to her appearance.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. Unusual? Yes, I remember the hair. She shall start a rage and make a grand match.”
“That does not seem to be her intention,” Michael said.
“She must! What else can she do when there’s no inheritance? I cannot provide for her after I’m gone. That fool of a father—to leave her desperate and in want. My poor niece married him for love, and he was a charming, handsome man, but feckless. After his wife died, he raised Jessica without any propriety. I declare I have never been more shocked. Sir Shelby let the girl run around without chaperone or guidance. He raised her like a boy—taught her Latin and Greek, and how to bring down a bird with a gun. It was beyond anything.”
“You offered your advice?”
She laughed a little bitterly. “I offered to send a governess.”
“Since Miss Whinburn behaves with a certain imprudence and does not seem to understand society’s finer rules, I am to assume the offer was rejected?”
“It was.”
Michael allowed a brief pause as Lady Emilia dabbed away a trace of tears, then he asked, “What was Whinburn House like?”
“Oh, a ramshackle old place out on the moors, the Cheviots brooding to the north. There was nothing there but sheep.”
Which was not what he meant at all. What of that expert fall of cards sliding through Jessica’s hands? He feared that a great deal more had taken place at Whinburn than was related to the care of sheep.
“So you quarreled,” he said.
“We never corresponded or saw each other again. Yet the girl is all that is left to me of family.”
“Then you will give her a home, Lady Emilia?”
“Of course. Indeed, I am most anxious to have her join me here in London.”
“So am I,” the earl said with a wry smile. “I’m afraid that if she stays much longer at Tresham, my ward will make a cake of himself over her.”
“Fustian! You told me yourself that Steal has offered for Miss Brandon. He has too much honor, surely?”
“He is also very young.”
“And how did you manage to bring the engagement about so rapidly?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. It was no sooner suggested than done—to my astonishment, in truth. It’s absurd to think that my ward holds me in that much awe, yet he proposed almost as soon as she arrived and was accepted. Nevertheless, he is definitely becoming enamored of Miss Whinburn.”
Lady Emilia sniffed. “If you think that my niece is so lost to decency as to encourage him, it is surely not beyond your powers to distract her attention. Besides, if I am to launch her in society, I should appreciate your help.”
Michael gave the old lady an amused glance. “She doesn’t wish to be launched in society. She wishes to do Greek translations to earn her own keep.”
“Balderdash! We’ll see her wed, Deyncourt. I rely on you to flirt with her outrageously enough to attract everyone’s attention, and thus help me find her a match.”
With an odd lurch of the heart, the earl remembered Jessica’s brave defiance at Tresham. Thank God it seemed that he had kissed her with impunity—then he shuddered at the arrogance of the thought.
“You can hardly think it appropriate that I, of all men—�
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“Nonsense! The past is the past. No one remembers it.”
“And yet it remains. Fortunately, she has taken me in a strong dislike.”
“Fiddlesticks! You are the most accomplished rake in London. Surely you could exert a little innocent charm?”
Michael leaned back in his chair.
“Oh, no, Lady Emilia,” he said. “Miss Jessica Whinburn is your protégée, not mine.”
* * *
Yet it was some time before Jessica was able to travel, for in her impatience to be well, she twisted her ankle again on the stair. Lord Steal pressed her hand with solemn meaning, but disappeared to London. Jessica was once again left alone with Lady Steal.
“I declare, we are so fortunate in Lord Deyncourt,” Peter’s mother said. “I thank heaven every day that such a nonpareil has charge of my son. The earl does everything to perfection.”
Every day the sentiment was repeated with small variations. Jessica listened with an odd pain, almost as if she could not afford to believe it. So she thrust away the memory of those lean hands gently bathing her forehead, and clung to the knowledge that he was ruthless and arrogant.
Yet he had kissed her, and her blood still burned at the memory—
Then one day the dry blackthorn along the lanes began to swell with buds, until the hedges were alive with white, like an unseasonable snowfall of petals.
Jessica’s ankle was healed at last, and Lord Steal returned to escort his mother and her guest to London.
The morning before they planned to leave, Peter insisted that Jessica allow him to show her the apple blossom in the orchard. Taking her hand in the crook of his mulberry sleeve he led her into the lane.
A gust of wind sprayed them suddenly with petals.
As Jessica stopped to brush them off, Peter grasped her by the hand.
“I wish you weren’t so dashed pretty, Miss Whinburn,” he said awkwardly. “With the petals on your shoulders, you look like a bride.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t quite—”
“Well, hang it all, can’t you see? I’m in love with you. If I hadn’t made such a dashed botch of everything, I’d have asked you to marry me.”
“Whatever are you saying, Lord Steal?” Jessica gazed at him in amazement. “We have barely seen each other these last weeks, and you are already betrothed.”
“Only because Deyncourt would never have allowed me to offer for you. Actually, it’s not all his fault. He can be a jolly decent fellow really—stood me the blunt to cut a dash in town last Season, though I know he don’t care for my taste in clothes or friends. Well, that don’t signify. It’s just that he’s afraid I’ll go the same way as Father. It didn’t seem to matter until I met you.”
He dropped suddenly to one knee and threw out one arm in a dramatic gesture. Jessica forced herself to remain grave. She could not be so cruel as to let her amusement show, but really Lord Steal did look quite ridiculous.
“Lord Steal, this is outrageous,” she said as sternly as she was able. “You have no business saying such things to me when you have an understanding with Miss Brandon. Though I hold you in the esteem with which I might hold a brother, I have no desire to marry you. Please get up. You are spoiling your trousers.”
He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and gave a rueful look at his Cossack pantaloons, which now sported a mud patch on one knee.
“Not even if Miss Brandon cried off?”
“Especially if Miss Brandon were to cry off.”
He gazed at her with an unmitigated infatuation. “Well, you have to say that. It’s only ladylike.”
“Fustian! I have never in my life cared for being ladylike and I shan’t start now.”
“You’re only bamming me, aren’t you? You would never do anything to truly cause comment out of the ordinary.”
“How can you say so? Lord Steal, you have entirely mistaken my character.”
“Well, dash it all.” His face was the picture of self-indulgent misery. “Forget it then. Shouldn’t have said anything really.”
They walked back toward the imposing edifice of Tresham Hall in a distinctly uncomfortable silence.
* * *
Early the next morning, Jessica sat beside Cicely in the Tresham chaise. Lady Steal had decided not to come to London, after all. The countryside was too pretty to leave, and town so tiresome. Peter could escort Jessica, and with Cicely as chaperone it was quite proper.
Jessica could not suppress a surge of excitement. She quickly thrust aside a fleeting concern about the upcoming meeting with her great-aunt, and steadfastly refused to think about Deyncourt. Yet he was there, in that great capital, busy with affairs of state. He had no doubt forgotten her.
Peter climbed up on the box where he had decided to sit with the coachman. Two footmen stood up behind.
Jessica was finally to travel in style.
Taking a last farewell of Lady Steal, with much waving of lace handkerchiefs and blowing of kisses, they bowled out of the drive and set off for London.
It should have been an uneventful journey. There had been a low-lying mist producing a distinct chill in the air as they left, but it was confidently expected to burn off.
Instead, as they trotted along the country lanes on a shortcut that Peter was sure of, the mist thickened to fog. Every landmark disappeared in the murk. The horses dropped to a walk and then to a crawl. Several times they stopped altogether, as Peter and the coachman debated their route.
Jessica was not surprised when several hours later, a very damp and disheveled Lord Steal joined the females in the carriage, and announced that they were lost.
“I’m afraid we’re not going to reach London today,” Peter said with the most woebegone expression.
“Then let us find a suitable inn as soon as we reach the next place and put up for the night.”
“This is just the kind of ramshackle tangle in which a gentleman should never land a lady,” Peter wailed. “You must think me a perfect nincompoop.”
“Why? Because we have been caught in a fog?”
“Deyncourt would never have let it happen.”
Jessica laughed aloud. “Of course not. The earl can order the rain, sun, and snow to his liking. Pray do not distress yourself, Lord Steal. It’s of no consequence at all whether we arrive today or tomorrow.”
She was not sure if that was entirely the case, however, when they pulled into the yard of the Blue Boar. It was not quite the standard of place to which Cicely, at least, was accustomed. To make matters worse, a band of soldiers was encamped there for the night.
Nevertheless, the landlord was able to provide them with decent rooms, and they ate a filling, if not elegant, meal in a private parlor. Jessica eventually sank gratefully into a chair in her bedroom. She felt exhausted. Her weeks as an invalid had robbed her of much of her usual energy. Now she simply longed to be alone, so she dismissed Cicely for the night. Honoria’s maid sniffed as she curtsied, then she flounced away to her own room on the floor above.
Steal had pressed Jessica’s hand once, then disconsolately gone off to his own room just down the hall.
Jessica closed her eyes for a moment. She thought she understood very well what the young man was suffering.
Peter was thoroughly miserable, of course, but in a dramatically enjoyable way. He had no doubt convinced himself that he had done his darnedest to overcome his feelings, but to no avail. To be afflicted by unrequited love was bad enough—though extremely romantic—but when a fellow was engaged to someone other than the object of his affections, it was obviously the end of anything.
And then to land in such a place as the Blue Boar, when his only desire had been to impress the lady!
Jessica suppressed a smile. She did not mean to be heartless, but she suspected that, by allowing him to feel suitably sorry for himself, the situation rather gratified the young man’s fancy.
Ah, well! Given time, he would get over it. In the meantime, there was little she could do about it.
She bent to unlace her boots, but was startled by a knock at her door. She opened it to find a chambermaid.
“I’m sorry, miss, to disturb you so late, but there was no time earlier for me to make up the fire, and Landlord’ll have my hide if it’s not done ready for morning.”
“Of course, go ahead.” Jessica stepped aside to allow the girl into the room.
Impulsively, she walked down the hallway to look out into the yard. Hopefully, the fog had begun to lift. As she turned toward the window, an officer came running up the stairs. They nearly collided.
He caught her by the arms to steady her. “My sincerest apologies, ma’am. I trust you’re not hurt?”
Behind them, the door to Lord Steal’s room was flung open. Jessica looked around into the barrel of a pistol held in the uncertain grip of that young gentleman. He was obviously foxed.
Waving the pistol in a grand gesture, he staggered toward them.
“Unhand the lady, sir, or answer for the consequences!” The last word tangled itself up into a flurry of sibilants.
The officer looked from one to the other. No doubt he was fully prepared to have Jessica faint in his arms at such a shocking situation, but she laughed and gently pushed him away.
“Is this gentleman of your acquaintance, ma’am?” he queried softly.
“Oh, yes, he’s my cousin,” Jessica lied quickly. “You had better go. I do apologize for his behavior, but I’ll be quite all right.”
With a surprised look at her and one more glance at the wavering pistol, the officer bowed and quickly left them.
Jessica had no intention of having ladylike vapors. Instead, she walked calmly up to her would-be rescuer.
“Lord Steal, you are quite overset. I am gallantly rescued. Please, come back into your room.”
She took Peter by the arm and steered him through his open doorway.
As they entered, he mumbled something about protecting her from all comers. Pushing her suddenly into the room ahead of him, he slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock, before thrusting it into his jacket pocket.
“Mush keep you safe!” he insisted.
“Lord Steal, please give me the key.”
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