by Candice Hern
"I do indeed," he replied. "You are very talented, Miss Forsythe."
She blushed to the roots of her hair and dropped her gaze to her lap. "Thank you, Mr. Archibald. You are very kind to say so."
"Not at all. And I thank you for the wonderful picture." The words sounded empty when measured against the swell of emotion in his breast. She had given him, freely, something of herself, and made especially for him by her own hand. He could not have treasured it more if it had been the rarest of West Indian black orchids. He swallowed heavily against the strange lump in his throat.
"I am so glad you like it," she said. "I hoped you would, for I so appreciate the flowers you have sent to me." She laughed and quirked a brow as she looked up at him. "At first I thought that perhaps all the female guests received such tokens, 'compliments of the Chissingworth gardens.' But I soon discovered that I was the only one so well favored. I will admit to you that I have often felt inadequate here at Chissingworth among such fine company. My sister and I do not normally move in such circles. Ha! We do not normally move in any circles. In any case, being singled out as the only recipient of Chissingworth violets has made me feel very special indeed. Thank you so much, Mr. Archibald."
Her warm smile made him feel very special indeed. Not because he was one of the highest peers in the land, but because she thought he was quite the opposite and liked him anyway.
It pained him to consider what she may think of him once she discovered his deception.
Later that evening, as he tried to work in his office off the old conservatory, he was constantly distracted by thoughts of Miss Forsythe, by images of her dancing gray eyes and those magnificent, dark, animated brows. He wondered who she was and how his mother had managed to include her among the guests. If the girl was as ill circumstanced as she implied, he could not imagine the duchess condescending to associate with her. Perhaps he should ask his mother.
But, no, that would not do. If Stephen so much as hinted at an interest in a woman, his mother would start fussing and scheming and causing all sorts of trouble. Besides, how could he explain that he was interested in a woman who thought him the gardener? Even the head gardener? The duchess would never understand. He did not understand it himself. Was he, in fact, 'interested'?
All his adult life, he had avoided Society women, even those on the fringes, as appeared to be the case with Miss Forsythe. The moment they were presented to His Grace the Duke of Carlisle, their interest became decidedly predatory. Though at two-and-thirty he should be expected to marry and set up his nursery, he had no intention of doing so. Let his cousin Henry inherit. Stephen had no wish to be saddled for life with a woman who cared only for his rank and fortune. As he suspected his father had been.
And, of course, the reason Miss Forsythe so intrigued him—well, one of the reasons, anyway—was that she seemed to like him for himself. She was the first and only woman in his entire life about whom he could honestly say that.
But how much longer could he keep his true identity secret? Twice now he had been forced to interrupt staff gardeners before they could address him as "Your Grace" in Miss Forsythe's presence. She must think him an insufferable bully with his workmen. Once, as they strolled about the gardens chatting comfortably about this and that, she had mentioned her impressions of the house and its grandeur. "The duchess," she had said, "gave some of us a tour of the house. She mentioned there are over one hundred and fifty rooms at Chissingworth. Can you imagine? One hundred and fifty rooms?"
"One hundred and seventy-eight, actually," he had responded without thinking. "There are fifty-four large rooms—salons, reception rooms, dining rooms, and the like. Ninety-six bedchambers and dressing rooms. Three kitchens. Eighteen assorted offices and workshops. None of that includes the servants' quarters, some of which are not in the main house itself. I've forgot how many rooms they occupy, but at last count there were eighty-seven house servants. Another twenty-three work the stables, and thirty-five tend the gardens."
Miss Forsythe had stared at him openmouthed, and he suddenly realized that he had been blithely spouting off statistics that were second nature to him. "Good heavens," she had said at last, "it is almost like its own small community, is it not? You know Chissingworth well, Mr. Archibald. You must have spent many years employed here."
"I have lived here my whole life," he told her. "As did my father and his before him."
He volunteered no more information and steered the conversation toward more prudent subjects. It was clear she simply assumed that he was the product of succeeding generations of Chissingworth gardeners. She never questioned his knowledge of the place and never suspected he was its owner. But how much longer could he sustain this ridiculous pretense?
He did not like to think how their budding friendship would change once she realized who he was. Would her open, unaffected, sweet manner turn into obsequious fawning? He did not like to think so. He preferred to think of her as completely unspoiled, though he realized she was probably no such thing. Nevertheless, he intended to keep his illusions intact for the time being.
With a sweep of his arm, he brushed aside the assorted clutter on his desk and propped up Miss Forsythe's painting against a stack of books. There. Now he could admire it while he worked. In the next breath, however, it slid down flat upon the desk. Damn. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a handful of tacks, but looking around the room, he could find no hammer. Without further thought, he bent down and began unlacing his boot, then tugged and tugged until it was free. Using the heel of his work boot, he tacked the picture to the edge of the bookcase above his desk.
"A new addition to your collection, Carlisle?"
Stephen turned to see a grinning Miles standing in the doorway. "Well, come on in, old chap. Clear off a chair and have a seat. And yes, this one is new. It's quite a good one, don't you think?"
Miles bent over the desk to peer at the picture. "Yes. Very nice. Violets, eh? Very nice." He turned to locate a chair, removed a stack of journals from one, and sat down.
Stephen reached in a lower desk drawer and brought out a silver flask and two drinking glasses. After pouring each of them a finger or two of whiskey, he settled back in his chair and crossed his stockinged foot over his booted one. "And so, how-goes the search, Miles? Any prime candidates among mother's guests?"
"Several, actually." Miles grinned, then took a swallow of whiskey. "You might want to reconsider your commitment to stay away."
Stephen laughed. "Not a chance. But tell me about the young ladies, anyway."
"Well, let's see. There is Miss Philiipina Cummings."
"Sherrington's daughter?"
"Yes, that's right. Very pretty, very energetic, and very young." Miles took another sip of whiskey. "Lady Alice Landridge is here. A trifle forward for my taste. Oh, and speaking of which, Sophia Onslow is here."
"Lady Onslow? The merry widow? You had better watch your step with that one, my friend."
"Don't worry, I will," Miles replied in perfect seriousness. "But, to continue. There is Miss Fenton-Sykes, red-haired and full of life. And Lady Rosalind Farnsworth, a raven-haired beauty. Oh, but the real beauty is Miss Forsythe." Stephen almost choked on his whiskey. "She is the most exquisite thing you have ever seen, Stephen. Pale, cornsilk blond hair and enormous blue eyes. Flawless skin. Perfect features. She almost appears to be not of this earth, she is so ethereal and graceful."
Stephen did not recognize this creature as his Miss Forsythe. She was very pretty, to be sure, but there was nothing particularly ethereal about her. On the contrary, she seemed fresh and real and delightfully earthbound. Could she appear so different in Society? Compelled to offer some remark, he said, "She sounds a paragon, Miles. When shall I wish you happy?"
Miles chuckled softly. "Stephen, you know I am not one to move so quickly on such a momentous decision. In any case, the heavenly creature is not for me. She is a bit too . . . too breathless and . . . well, empty
-headed. I suspect her sister holds claim to all the sense in the family. Now, she just might be a serious contender."
"The sister?" Ah. Now he began to understand.
"Yes. Miss Catherine Forsythe. Very pretty, though she has not the staggering beauty of her sister. She seems very bright and quite . . . well, quite innocent and unaffected."
Stephen smiled to think that even in Society, his Miss Forsythe maintained her open, unpretentious charm. He expected no less from her, for he was beginning to think her just about perfect.
"And," Miles continued with a sheepish grin, "she seems to like me."
Not quite perfect, then, Stephen thought with uncharacteristic jealousy.
Chapter 7
By the next day, it seemed all the expected guests had arrived, and Catherine was astonished to find that their numbers now surpassed sixty. Imagine such a house, that could comfortably lodge so large a crowd! From bits of overheard conversation she discerned that even husbands and wives were given separate accommodations. The sheer size of the place simply boggled the mind.
And yet, nothing could have better served Catherine's plans. The very fact that the house could so easily entertain such numbers meant a wider selection of prospects for the Forsythe sisters. Surely one of the many gentlemen—or perhaps even two—-could be brought up to scratch.
That evening, as the ladies followed the duchess from the dining room, Catherine hurried to catch up with Susannah, who had been seated at the opposite end of the immense table that comfortably seated the entire party. The room itself—once an Elizabethan banqueting hall with its elaborate double hammer-beam roof still intact—was also enormous. Everything about Chissingworth was enormous. How were they ever to return to the tiny, cramped row house in Chelsea after such a place as this?
Catherine was jostled about by the boisterous herd of females and became hopelessly separated from Susannah just when she most wanted to have a word with her. Two dozen and more chattering women nudged her along up the great staircase and toward the Apollo Salon.
It seemed every room at Chissingworth had a special name. With so many rooms it was no doubt the only way of identifying one salon from the next, one sitting room from the next. Catherine had been astonished when she had first seen the Apollo Salon on her tour with the duchess that first day. It was a large drawing room, entirely painted from ceiling to floor with scenes from the life of Apollo. The ceiling itself depicted the birth of Apollo, and around the walls were scenes from his childhood, the foundation of Delphi, his various exploits—amorous and otherwise—as well as his servitude in the pastures of Mount Ida. Not a square inch had been left unpainted by the Italian master Antonio Verrio in the seventeenth century. Larger than life figures seemed to float down from the ceiling and step right out from the walls to dominate the human inhabitants of the room.
As the lively group entered the salon, a shrill voice rose above the din. "Good Lord, Isabelle! How do you manage to live with all these gods and goddesses disporting themselves so . . . so enthusiastically? How is one supposed to carry on a sedate conversation with all these naked bodies constantly drawing the eye. It is quite discomposing."
Shrieks of laughter rang out from the group and the duchess's reply was lost. A plump, middle-aged woman at Catherine's elbow caught her eye and grinned. "Leave it to Leticia Malmsbury to get straight to the point," she said. "Thank goodness Her Grace is not offended by the tactless old biddy. I cannot imagine why she continues to invite her. I say, are you not one of the Forsythe girls? Sister to that goddess incarnate who has the young men drooling all over their neckcloths?" She chuckled before continuing. "Forgive me. I do not believe we have been introduced. "I am Lady Fairchild."
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady," Catherine said with a slight curtsy. "I am Miss Catherine Forsythe. And, yes, the goddess is indeed my sister, Susannah." She smiled in the direction of her sister, who had managed to work her way to the opposite corner of the room, and did indeed outshine all the larger-than-life painted goddesses frolicking on the walls and ceiling. She really must speak to her before the gentlemen returned. "I hope you will forgive me, ma'am," Catherine said, "but I must have a quick word with my sister. If you will excuse me . . ."
"I beg your pardon," Lady Fairchild said as she laid a hand upon Catherine's arm, "but where did you get that dress? I mean to say, who is your modiste? Could it be Madame Michaud on Clifford Street?"
Good Lord. That Lady Fairchild. The mother of the girl whose cast-off dress Catherine wore at this very moment. She had been off her guard as she sought out Susannah. Had she paid better attention, she could have avoided the woman altogether and been halfway across the room by now. Her stomach clenched up into a thousand knots as she waited to be exposed as a fraud and a thief.
And so soon! It had only been three days and she was still surveying the land, so to speak. No attachments had yet been formed. It was far too early in the game. Dear God, she thought, do not let my plans come to naught so quickly.
Lady Fairchild glared at her, but Catherine was unable to compose herself enough to stammer more than a few noncommittal syllables.
"I only ask," the woman continued, raking Catherine from head to toe with a critical eye, "because several years ago she made a similar dress for my youngest daughter, Eleanor. A very similar dress. I would be willing to swear it was the exact same green silk, or very like, in any case. Of course, the lace trim at the waist is quite different, and the cording along the shoulders is unlike anything she made for Eleanor . . . in fact, it is really quite striking."
"Thank you," Catherine said, offering a trembly smile to Lady Fairchild and a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens for the talented needle of her sister. And suddenly, she saw a possible way out of this coil. It was devious. It was dishonest. But she had come this far and she could not afford to allow Lady Fairchild to expose her. "But how very odd," she said as she fluffed out her green silk skirt with studied nonchalance. "I was told this dress was a unique design. One of a kind, in fact. How disconcerting to know that your daughter had one so similar."
"Disconcerting, indeed!" Lady Fairchild exclaimed in a disgusted tone. "Why, she told us the same taradiddle. One of a kind, she said. The Gallic hussy! You can be sure I will have a word or two with her when I return to Town. Such people must not be allowed to take advantage of their betters."
"Oh, but I did not mean to imply that it was Madame Michaud who made the dress," Catherine quickly added. Despite her own desperate circumstances, she had no wish to be the cause of a perfectly innocent dressmaker losing her custom. "I only meant that my modiste had promised the dress was unique. But she is quite young, you see, and may not have fully developed her own style as yet. She mentioned that she had apprenticed with a famous Mayfair modiste. I confess I cannot recall who it was, but it may well have been your Madame Michaud. The girl may not even realize what a strong influence her former mistress still has on her own designs. I am sure any similarity was not deliberate.
Lady Fairchild snorted in derision. "Hmph! I still think it unconscionable that she would have so blatantly copied Madame Michaud's designs. You can be sure I will inform Madame of this shameless thievery. What is the upstart's name?"
"Oh, I really do not think that will be necessary," Catherine said in her most persuasive tone. She marveled that her voice sounded so calm when fear of exposure still gripped her and caused her heart to pound in double time against her ribs. "As I said," she continued, "the girl is still young and learning. Let us give her the benefit of the doubt, Lady Fairchild. I am sure neither of us wants to see her lose her business so soon. But I assure you, I will have a discreet word with her when we return to Town."
"See that you do!" Lady Fairchild heaved a sigh and gave one last lingering look at Catherine's gown. "Well, I must say I am glad that I shall not be forced to find another modiste. Madame Michaud has such a way with a needle. And so does your girl, if this dr
ess is any indication. She has done a nice job of it, if only she will learn not to steal someone else's designs."
Catherine nodded her agreement and quickly made her escape. Good Lord, but that had been a near thing. Though she was sure Lady Fairchild had been put off for the moment, Catherine nevertheless almost swooned with relief. By the time she had reached Susannah across the room, her racing heart had calmed, and a feeling of triumph had replaced that momentary surge of fear. By God, she was becoming as wily as MacDougal himself. Even so, she prayed that the encounter with Lady Fairchild was the last such she would have to face during the next few weeks.
"Susannah," she said, bending near her sister's ear, "could I have a word with you, please?"
Susannah excused herself very prettily to the Misses Neville and Lady Crisp and took Catherine's arm as they walked aside.
"Now, I want you to pay close attention, Sukey, before the gentlemen return."
Susannah turned her blue eyes on Catherine in rapt attention.
"I want you to make a special point," Catherine said, "to become acquainted with Mr. Septimus Phipps."
"Mr. Phipps?"
"Yes. He was seated next to me at supper. He is a handsome young man and well spoken. But, more important, I discovered he is next in line to inherit his uncle's earldom. The Earl of Whitfield, I believe it is. And the present earl is quite elderly, it seems. Besides which, Mr. Phipps is apparently quite well to grass on his own account."
"And you say he is handsome, too?" Susannah asked.
Catherine chuckled. "Yes, Sukey, he is very nice-looking. I believe you will like him. Please ask the duchess to introduce you."