She was amazed at how much such an innocuous comment pleased her. The room at large buzzed with conversation and they were surrounded by other people, but there was a special intimacy to their sharing this small table.
“What did you think of Mr. Stephenson’s remarks?” she asked conversationally to cover her nervousness.
“I am inclined to think there is a great deal of merit in them. However, such a project as he envisions will not be easy.”
“Impossible, perhaps?”
“No,” he said. “We are seeing steam power put to more and more uses—in our knitting mills, for instance. But those are private entities. Mr. Stephenson’s project will take a tremendous amount of interest—not to say effort and funding—on the part of public entities.”
“You do not speak only of Parliament, do you?” She saw him raise his brows at this question.
“No. I do not. It must also involve bankers and businessmen. The sheer logistics will be staggering—mate—rials, right-of-way struggles—staggering!”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then, sounding a bit hesitant, he said, “Miss Richardson, I wonder if I might enlist your aid on a project of my own?”
“If I may be of help, certainly.”
“I gather you are familiar with the writers in this room—and their works?”
“Yes-s-s . . .” It was her voice that sounded hesitant now.
“Are you also familiar with the works of popular novelists?”
“Some of them.” She was suddenly on her guard.
“And the authors?”
“Some of them,” she repeated. “I know Mr. Scott, for instance, and Mrs. Edgeworth. Wh-what are you proposing?”
“I intend a rather scholarly analysis of the phenomenon of the modern novel.”
“I see . . .” But she did not see, really, what he was about.
“I shall, of course, include in my study the works of our friend, Miss Emma Bennet.”
“I see . . .” Now she not only felt foolish in repeating herself so, but she felt a twinge of apprehension slither through her. What was he up to?
“I shall interview such of them as I can. I would have liked to interview Miss Austen,” he said regretfully.
“Her death was very untimely—not, mind you, that death is ever considered truly timely.” She thought this a morose comment, so she added brightly, “But her work will continue to delight for some time to come.”
“Yes. I think hers will do so.”
“You—you wanted my help?”
“Yes. As you know more of London society in general than I—and apparently have some familiarity with the literary scene—I wonder if you could help me locate Emma Bennet so that I might interview her?”
Six
Annabelle was stunned. “L-locate Emma Bennet?” she stuttered.
“I thought you might have some ideas on the matter,” Lord Rolsbury said.
“N-not really.”
“Have you no interest in the matter at all? I should think you would bear some resentment of her high-handedness.” He gave her a penetrating look.
“Well ...” Annabelle struggled for a response. “In truth, the portrait of the heiress was not as devastating as that of the suitors.”
“Precisely. That is what led me to believe you must be known to her. Though I am forced to observe that the piece does not present a very flattering view of you, either.”
“I had not thought of it as flattering or unflattering.” She realized this was the truth. She had concentrated on caricatures of the other persons in the story and just let the character of the heiress develop in relation to those around her.
“I do not see much in the way of real characterization in the portrait of the heiress in that story,” Rolsbury said. “She has not your spirit—she is far too passive.”
Annabelle knew she would find amusement in this scene later, but for now she did not know whether to be offended or flattered. On the one hand, Rolsbury had just accused Emma Bennet of shallow character development. On the other, he apparently viewed Miss Richardson as far more likable than the heiress in the story.
She gave him what she thought must be a vacuous smile and said, “Thank you—I think. Probably the writer intended to focus on other characters.”
“Probably.” He sounded vague and she hoped he was tiring of the topic. “So? Can you help me?”
She chose her words carefully. “I do not see how I could possibly produce the information you need.” Lord! How she hated lying. She was surely no better at it than Letty.
“In your circles, you might come across something.”
“I will try to keep my eyes and mind open,” she said.
They went on to discuss other matters, but for Annabelle the easy camaraderie of the first part of their conversation was gone.
Several days into his research on popular novels, Thorne abruptly realized that he was violating the first rule of scholarship. He was trying to justify a preconceived notion instead of keeping an open mind to see what he could learn about what was, after all, a fairly new literary phenomenon.
True, telling stories was perhaps mankind’s oldest form of entertainment. The novel, per se, had appeared only in the last century, however. When he set about defining his terms and examining his primary sources, those brilliantly skewering judgments seemed no longer quite so brilliant.
He wanted to test some of his ideas, but the London Literary League was not due to meet for another two weeks. Few of his gentlemen friends possessed either the interest or expertise he wished for in such a sounding board, and Luke was a lost cause in that regard. His sister, Catherine, would be the perfect person with whom to have such a dialogue, but she was still in the country. Suddenly, the image of Miss Richardson popped into his mind.
Well, why not? It was worth a try, though he still harbored reservations about her. He had watched her carefully when he had asked for assistance in finding Emma Bennet. He was convinced she was being evasive. Was she protecting a friend? Was it possible that Lady Wyndham was Emma Bennet? Or Lady Hermiston? Miss Richardson herself? No. He had now read other of Miss Bennet’s works and they showed a maturity of viewpoints that went far beyond those of someone who had as few years as he knew Miss Richardson to have. Why, she was of an age with Luke!
In fact, the other works—all predating the short Innocence Betrayed—showed a more polished maturity than that short, satirical piece did. Surely, there was only one Emma Bennet?
During a morning call at Wyndham House, he found a moment of relative privacy in which to ask Miss Richardson to go driving with him later.
She gave him an arch look. “I thought it was Luke with whom I was to be seen on such an outing.”
He grinned. “I think our reputations will survive our being seen in a public place like the park.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
He was pleased at the teasing note in her response. “I do say so. And I wonder if we might assume a less formal means of address between us? I notice that it is ‘Luke’ and ‘Annabelle.’ Might it also be ‘Thorne’ and ‘Annabelle’?”
“Why, of course, if that is your wish. ‘Thorne’ it is.”
“Annabelle.” He gave her a mocking little bow to seal their agreement. “I shall call for you later then.”
Annabelle dressed carefully for the outing with Lord Rolsbury—Thorne. How easy it was to think of him in more intimate terms! She had to warn herself that she must be careful around him. After all, the man still intended to take Emma Bennet to task. She finally donned a brown-and-gold-striped day dress that complemented her coloring. A gold-colored light woolen shawl and a saucy straw bonnet were the finishing touches.
He handed her into the carriage rather smoothly, then tossed his walking stick on the floor and clambered in himself somewhat awkwardly.
“I have not mastered my technique yet,” he said with an embarrassed chuckle.
“And here I was thinking you did that very well,” she ass
ured him, pleased that he felt comfortable enough with her to make such an allusion to his infirmity.
He picked up the reins and signaled his tiger, who had been holding the horses’ heads. The boy climbed up behind them and Thorne concentrated on driving as they left the quiet residential street for more trafficked thoroughfares. Annabelle admired the ease with which he managed his team. She was keenly aware of his body so close to her own and the occasional contact from the swaying of the carriage.
She knew she was babbling as she made idle conversation that demanded little of his attention while he drove. Finally, they entered the park and he visibly relaxed.
“This is the first time I have driven in town in years,” he admitted apologetically. “I usually have my coachman contend with all this city traffic.”
“Well, I am flattered that you took on the great challenge for me,” she said, deliberately trying to put him at ease.
He nodded. “I am not merely playing the role of the white knight out to slay the dragon of city traffic. I confess I had an ulterior motive in asking you to accompany me.”
“Oh, dear,” she said in a teasing mockery of shock. “Am I to fear for my reputation, after all?”
He chuckled. “Not yet, at least. I wanted to talk books with you.”
“Books?” She wondered where this was leading.
“Yes. I have been doing a great deal of reading lately.”
“I see . . .”
“By the by—have you discovered anything of Miss Bennet that might be of use to me?”
“I ... uh ... no. I think not.”
“Pity. I have been reading her earlier works, trying to get a grip on her thinking.”
“Oh?” She hoped the monosyllable sounded indifferent enough that he would change the subject.
They were detained momentarily by Lady Oglethorpe, who stopped to greet them. She rode with two other middle-aged ladies in an open carriage driven by a coachman. All three women eyed the earl and his companion with speculative looks.
When they had driven on, Thorne said, “I suppose we will be an on dit in certain drawing rooms this evening.”
“Probably,” she agreed, glad the subject had been changed.
Only it had not. “Yes. Well,” Thorne said, “as I was about to say, I find Miss Bennet’s work to be terribly uneven.”
“I ... uh ... I am not sure what you mean.”
He looked at her, a question in his gray-green gaze. “Have you read her earlier work?”
“Yes. I daresay I have read them all,” she replied and hoped she had not said more than she should.
“Well, then—would you not agree that the earlier works are far superior to Innocence Betrayed?” He pronounced the title with particular contempt.
“In what way?” She felt both defensive and genuinely curious about his reactions.
“Why, in nearly every way that matters. The characters that have not been drawn upon real people are, ironically, far more genuine portraits. The earlier stories themselves have more substance as well.”
She felt somewhat chagrined, for this assessment of her work coincided with her own judgment—now. She was pleased that he found the early works laudable, and it was frustrating to have to conceal her pleasure. However, the implied criticism of her latest effort rankled. It was not that bad, after all.
“Well . . .” She drew the word out slowly, trying to think.
“You do not agree?”
“Not entirely. But perhaps the circumstances of the writing were different.”
“Oh, no doubt they were.” This comment had a particularly bitter tone. His attention was diverted as he manipulated their vehicle around another.
To forestall his returning to the matter of Emma Bennet again, she asked in a brightly conversational tone, “What other writers have you dealt with in your research?”
He named several and they spent the rest of the drive discussing the relative merits of the works of Mrs. Edgeworth, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Miss Austen. They found they quite agreed on Miss Austen, but argued vehemently about certain aspects of the works of the other two.
By asking an astute question here and there, she managed to keep him away from the subject of Emma Bennet. She found herself enjoying matching wits with him—and just being with him.
Only one thing—other than the Emma Bennet discussion—marred the outing. At one point, she noticed a familiar rider approaching. Viscount Beelson was almost upon them before he apparently recognized the occupants of this particular carriage. He gave them a hard stare, then in a silent and sardonic pantomime, he tipped his hat to her and rode on.
“Is it my imagination—or did Lord Beelson just give you the cut direct?” she asked in appalled surprise.
“You did not imagine it. But do not refine upon it, Annabelle. Beelson and I have an unpleasant history.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice. She was intensely curious, but his closed expression suggested it would be a subject best not pursued at the moment. She would ask Luke about it later.
When they returned to Wyndham House, Thorne signaled his tiger to take charge of the horses, then descended from the carriage and turned to assist Annabelle. As she stepped down, she stumbled and fell against him. He reacted quickly to catch her, but his leg gave out and they were suddenly in the rather awkward position of holding each other up. Her bonnet was knocked askew and her hair brushed his face. She smelled of lilacs.
He heard her draw in a quick breath and she held his gaze for a long moment. His glance fell to her mouth—that kissable mouth—and he knew that if they were not standing in the street he would act on his impulse to kiss her. And he also felt that she would be receptive to such.
Then the moment was gone.
He released her and reached for his walking stick. “I am sorry,” he said. “My leg—”
She smiled. “No. ’Twas my fault. My foot caught on the step. These dratted slippers match my dress, but they are not very sturdy footwear.”
“ ’Tis generous of you to blame female vanity instead of male clumsiness, but I cannot accept such sacrifice.”
“Then we shall have to share equally.” She took his arm as he walked her to the door.
He thanked her and returned to the carriage as the butler admitted her to the house. He felt a sense of loss and realized his farewell had not been empty courtesy. He truly had enjoyed the outing and would have gladly prolonged his time with her.
Careful, old man, he admonished himself. After all, this was the woman for whom his brother had offered. Thorne had no intention of being a party to causing Luke unnecessary pain.
While she dressed for dinner, Annabelle thought over the day. As she became better acquainted with him, she found she enjoyed Thorne more and more. He engaged in some of the same boyish teasing that she found so charming in Luke. But there was far more depth to Thome—and Luke’s mere touch did not change her pace of breathing or send her heart tumbling erratically.
In a less public place, would he have kissed her? She rather thought he would have. And she knew very well that she would have welcomed his embrace. Jezebel! She laughed at herself. Not to say want-witted. Was she forgetting his real purpose in the Wainwrights having anything to do with her? He merely intended to quell damaging gossip in order to facilitate his serious work in Parliament. And he obviously had no intention of dropping his quest for Emma Bennet.
Marcus had spent much of the last few days away from home. Annabelle knew he was preoccupied with several matters before Parliament.
At dinner, Harriet asked her husband, “Has Lord Rolsbury given his maiden speech in Lords yet?”
“Yes. Two—maybe three—days ago.”
“You did not tell me.” Harriet’s voice was mildly accusing.
“I tried to. The other night. Remember? You had other things on your mind.”
Annabelle saw Harriet’s brow wrinkle in bewilderment, then it cleared and a blush suffused her face. “Marcus!”
“Ye
s, love?” His tone was innocence, but he wore a wicked grin.
“Oh, never mind,” she said in a wifely I-shall-deal-with-you-later tone. Then she added, “So—how did Rolsbury’s speech go? Was it well received?”
Annabelle leaned forward, keenly interested.
“I thought it went very well, though reactions were mixed.”
“Why?” Harriet asked.
“What issues did he address?” Annabelle asked.
“He spoke primarily of labor unrest in the midlands and the need for reform to allow workers some rights to organize.”
“I can just imagine the reaction to that idea in certain quarters,” Harriet said.
“Right,” her husband agreed. “Teslake took particular umbrage—accused Rolsbury of disloyalty to his class.”
“Teslake? Is he not a particular friend of Lord Beelson?” Annabelle asked.
“He is,” Marcus affirmed.
“And both have interests in knitting mills in Manchester if I recall correctly,” Harriet said.
“Yes, they do, though I believe Teslake’s primary source of wealth comes from elsewhere. Coal mines. So Rolsbury has made no friend in that quarter.”
“I do not understand,” Annabelle said, waving aside second helpings being offered by a footman. “What have coal mines to do with workers in textile mills?”
“Both employ a good many children,” Marcus explained, “and Rolsbury was particularly outspoken in accusing employers of abusing child workers. He went so far as to suggest that such children should, instead of working, be in school—at public expense.”
“Hmm. I am not surprised,” Harriet said. She signaled the servants that they might clear the table for the next course. “His article in the Review contained similar ideas.”
“Reading is one thing. Hearing the man speak is quite another.” Marcus leaned back in his chair. “He is a very effective speaker. There will be those—more of Teslake’s lot—who will not welcome this new addition to Parliament.”
“I wish Annabelle and I could have heard the speech,” Harriet said longingly.
Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 7