The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  The boy nodded vigorously. “He wasn’t at home. His housekeeper wouldn’t help me. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “I see. Tell me about your mother’s condition. What I mean is, how does she look? How is she acting?”

  “She’s all white and moaning and grabbing her stomach. Twice she’s thrown up, and there was blood in it.” Tommy’s eyes were wide and he looked about to cry again.

  Amelia turned to Robert. “Dr. Wells has gone into St. Giles Rookery before for me. See if you can get him. If not, try Dr. Harper. Take Tommy with you and stay with his mother until the situation is under control. I’ll be responsible for any expenses, of course, but you’d better take this.” She dug in her reticule and produced several pound notes. “Do what’s necessary to have the children taken care of temporarily... if Mrs. Carson should have to go into hospital.”

  She turned her attention back to the boy. “Robert is going to take care of everything, Tommy. He’ll bring a doctor for your mother. He’ll find someone to take care of you and your brothers and sister while your mother’s ill. I want you to be a brave boy and help him all you can. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” His voice wavered slightly.

  “What if... my mother…”

  Amelia hugged his small frame against her. “Let’s be hopeful, Tommy. Sometimes things look worse than they are. You’ve kept up your end of the bargain about school, and we won’t let you down... or your family. Hurry along, now; your mother needs help.”

  After they were gone. Amelia remained standing in the Blue Room for a few minutes, staring at the closed door. So many suffering people. How little she could do for them, how few of them she even heard about. She stiffened her slumping shoulders and fixed a smile firmly on her lips before going out into the hall. To her surprise, she found all three people waiting there, presumably expecting an explanation. She had no intention of giving one.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said, addressing her remark somewhere between Peter and Trudy, and purposely not glancing toward Lord Verwood at all. “I’ll just get my wrap.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Peter exclaimed. “I’d like to know what that was all about, Amelia.”

  “Why, nothing,” she said, raising innocent eyes to his. “The boy is a protégé of mine. There’s some trouble in his family and I’ve arranged for Robert to take care of it. I won’t be a moment.”

  “You’ll have to change your dress,” Trudy said ominously. “There appears to be a stain on it.”

  Amelia glanced down at the damp mark left by the child’s tears. “It’s nothing. By the time we get to the party it will be dry.”

  Unsatisfied, but unwilling to comment further in front of their visitor, Peter and Trudy watched her hasten toward the stairs. Lord Verwood, for his part, did a rapid calculation concerning whether the urchin was young enough to be Lady Amelia’s child, and decided it was impossible. Then he contemplated the chances that the boy had something to do with Lady Amelia’s prohibited activity. This seemed much more likely and he frowned as he watched her graceful tread up the stairs. She really was an amazingly attractive woman, with the most delightful figure. From this angle her obstinate chin did not cause any doubts. Her profile was almost classic, after all, and Verwood studied it—and the rest of her—until she disappeared around the corner upstairs.

  Trudy muttered something that sounded like “Troublesome chit!” and rolled back to the drawing room, leaving the men standing in the hall. Peter found himself under close scrutiny by his new friend and threw up a hand in mock despair. “Don’t ask me what it was all about. I haven’t the slightest idea. But I don’t think it had anything to do with that other matter. One never knows what Amelia’s about, you know. She has all sorts of secret plots afoot. Nothing disreputable or dangerous, I assure you. She just seems to like to keep her own counsel; it makes her feel less... oh, smothered, I suppose.”

  “She called the boy her protégé,” Verwood reminded him.

  “Yes, well, I think she’s had something to do with a minister in St. Giles Rookery,” Peter confessed. “One of these fellows who runs an orphanage and points out promising boys for the support of wealthy patrons.”

  “Mmm.” Verwood looked totally unconvinced, and he didn’t like the sound of Lady Amelia having “something to do” with a minister. Not all men of the cloth were above suspicion, after all. “St. Giles Rookery is not a place one would like to see one’s sister frequent.”

  “Amelia never goes there unaccompanied,” Peter protested. “Robert always goes with her, and undertakes any number of commissions for her.”

  Robert, so far as Lord Verwood was concerned, was less above suspicion than any minister could ever be. Why, the fellow must be as large as a prizefighter, and was, in addition, more handsome than most of the actors one saw at Drury Lane. He looked like a soldier in that elegant Welsford livery, not like a common chore-runner.

  Verwood’s imagination seemed to be turning more lurid by the moment, and he brought himself back to reality with a stern effort. “She’s your sister, Peter,” he said. “I’m sure you know how to keep a rein on her.”

  Not wanting to confess that he’d never had the slightest idea how to do such a thing with the ardent Amelia, Peter merely shrugged and said, “She’s a very level-headed girl, Alexander, for all her enthusiasms. Very generous, too, you know.”

  Though Peter referred to her charity, Verwood had other sorts of visions of generosity and carefully repressed a shudder. A time would come, he feared, when he would have to be more blunt with Peter about Lady Amelia’s indiscretions. However, when he brought up the matter, he wanted to have a little more information, so he determined on a course of continuing to watch the young lady. Delay, he realized, might be hazardous in her case, but he was not a man given to acting on misguided impulse. He moved, when he did, with the proper grounding, and with considerable force.

  The party of four drove to the Stratfords’ in thoughtful silence, broken occasionally by a civil remark from one or the other of those in the carriage. Trudy, who had not been consulted on the viscount’s accompanying them, was a little put out with her nephew, though she did her best not to show it. Amelia’s mind was wholly occupied with the emergency at the Carsons’, but she had long since trained herself to disguise this sort of concern, knowing precisely what was expected of her at an evening entertainment. One more ball would be no more difficult to manage than any other facet of her very social life.

  The Stratfords lived on Portman Square in a magnificent house notable for its towerlike domed staircase and an ingeniously designed group of rooms planned en suite and carefully contrasted in shape, character, and proportion. The decoration of them consisted in the slimmest of pilaster orders supporting a minimal entablature and almost no cornice under the restrained riches of an Adams ceiling. Pastel colors of green, beige, and pink provided a mute background for the swirl of guests clothed in their finest gowns and magnificently cut coats. Everything was understated elegance, a refreshing change from some of the overly ornamented houses in which Amelia found herself.

  The guests, too, were the cream of the ton. The Stratfords had no need to prove their social prominence by inviting everyone in London, for the inevitable “crush.” Their festivities were always well-attended but the list of guests was never so long as to make the rooms crowded or uncomfortable. Amelia had always admired this flaunting of social convention, though she supposed it might merely indicate an overweening pride on their part, an implicit declaration that they refused to associate with less than the best people.

  Which was why she was surprised to see M. Chartier at the gathering. There was, in her mind, question enough about whether Lord Verwood would have been there if he hadn’t accompanied them. Had he actually received an invitation, or had Peter accepted the invitation for them, indicating that Verwood was Amelia’s escort? An interesting speculation, and one which Amelia might have mentally pursued if sh
e hadn’t been so struck with M. Chartier’s presence. She was astonished that the Stratfords even knew him, let alone invited him to their ball.

  For M. Chartier claimed no title, though half the Frenchmen in London seemed to do so without much cause. He was new on the scene, and not above suspicion, in Amelia’s eyes. In London one didn’t question a man’s loyalties simply because he was French, of course. The French aristocracy certainly had little good to say about Napoleon, but there were those whose attachment to their heritage made it seem beneficial for the French nation to conquer as much of the Continent as possible, Napoleon notwithstanding.

  Amelia’s first exchanges with M. Chartier had convinced her it would be worthwhile to learn a little more about him. A Frenchman living on the south coast could do a great deal of damage to the English, if he had a mind to. There was also his Gallic excitability to arouse her curiosity. He spoke passionately on any subject that surfaced, from horse racing to the more curious customs of English society, such as the fact that the kissing of ladies’ hands had gone out of style here. M. Chartier considered it a travesty that such a time-honored tradition should be so callously set aside.

  There were other things about him which disturbed her: his obvious attempt to ingratiate himself with gentlemen who were knowledgeable about the English position regarding the war with France; his lack of friendship with other French émigrés; his shifty eyes. This last bore no small amount of weight with her. Amelia was convinced you could tell a great deal about a person by his eyes.

  After the episode on the balcony, M. Chartier had changed his attitude toward her. He had never once looked her straight in the eye. Strange, that. For the last week or so, she hadn’t seen him at all, and had rather hoped he’d disappeared from the London scene altogether. But, no, here he was with a beautiful girl in tow, a sparkling-eyed French beauty whom he identified, to Peter and Lord Verwood, as his sister, Veronique Chartier. M. Chartier seemed reluctant to introduce her to Amelia, though he had very little choice in the matter. He managed not to meet her eyes, and to mumble her name.

  Amelia was surprised to hear Lord Verwood addressed with great familiarity by the Frenchman. M. Chartier was smiling and bowing and generally fawning all over the place when he got to the viscount. “This is my sister, of whom I have spoken to you, milord. You were so kind as to give me your advice concerning her introduction to London, and I’m pleased that you are one of the first gentlemen to whom I present her.”

  If Amelia expected the viscount to depress this sort of pretension, she was much mistaken. He greeted Mademoiselle Chartier with more finesse than she had previously believed him capable of, and went so far as to congratulate M. Chartier on having so lovely a relative. Really, it was quite sickening. But what distressed her most of all was Peter.

  At five-and-twenty, the Earl of Welsford seemed to have entirely escaped being touched by even the greatest beauties of the day. A very eligible bachelor, he had spent large amounts of time dallying with this young lady and then that one. He had a reputation for charm and wit; his looks were admired; his title and wealth were the envy of many. Amelia had known several women who would have been thrilled to elicit the kind of look Peter now gave Mademoiselle Chartier. It was compounded of frank admiration, a dreamy kind of awe, and, worst of all, just the slightest element of surprise.

  “Has anyone solicited the first set with you, Mademoiselle Chartier?” he inquired.

  “No, milord,” she replied, her eyes modestly downcast.

  “Then I wonder if you would do me the honor.”

  The biggest, bluest eyes Amelia had ever seen slowly swept up to meet his gaze. They were filled with innocence, humor, even a touch of self-mockery. “Nothing would please me more,” she sighed, and offered him her hand.

  As Amelia watched them walk onto the dance floor, she felt a momentary touch of alarm and found that her own gaze automatically lifted to Lord Verwood. He let out an inaudible exclamation as he, too, watched the couple, and then turned brusquely to her to ask, “Shall we join this set, Lady Amelia?”

  None of his polite phrases for her, of course. He almost made it sound as though she expected him to ask her, which she certainly did not. She was unaware that her nose twitched, but she was aware of her voice answering, “If you wish, milord.”

  His intent, she soon found, was to place them next to Peter and the lovely Veronique.

  Chapter 6

  Mlle. Chartier’s English was perfect, with only the faintest trace of an accent. Oh, but that trace was delicious. It even appeared, somehow, in her laughter, which was warm and spontaneous. Without the least observable effort to do so, she had all the gentlemen in the set hanging on her every word. Her excitement about being at the ball, about being in London, about meeting all these fascinating people, was more than evident—but not in a naive gushing of childish phrases. No, it showed in her eyes, which glowed with the thrill of it all. Her healthy pink cheeks radiated it and her voice echoed with its undercurrent.

  Not that she put herself forward in any way by speaking out of turn, or by speaking at all unless spoken to. But Peter questioned her, gently probing into her background and her interests. Verwood, too, though it was none of his duty, addressed remarks to her. Which of course meant that his undivided attention wasn’t aimed at Amelia, who couldn’t have cared less. She was not, however, quite used to being ignored by her partner and had an insane desire to flirt with one of the other gentlemen in the set, except that such a course of action would have discomposed some other lady.

  And she was curious to hear what the French girl had to say for herself. Amelia was convinced that M. Chartier was up to no good, and this introduction of his sister (was she really?) into society merely made her more suspicious. True, there was some similarity between the brother and sister, the same brown hair and blue eyes, a resemblance even in the delicate molding of the faces. On the other hand, her eyes weren’t the least shifty. Her gaze met that of each gentleman who addressed her with a becoming shyness which managed still to be open and friendly.

  Peter was at his most adroit, a blend of sophistication and charming wit. Yet Amelia could see real interest in his eyes as he asked, “Have you lived near Bournemouth long, Mlle. Chartier?”

  “Almost four years. My cousins are English and their family has lived there for hundreds of years.” Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at him. “I thought at first the place must be haunted, with all the strange noises at night, but it proved to be only the sea.”

  “Is the property right on the coast, then?” Verwood asked with a great show of indifference.

  “Oh, yes. I can look out my bedroom window and see the water.”

  “How delightful,” Amelia contributed. “There are only a few rooms at Margrave where the water can be seen, and none of them are the major bedchambers. But we can hear the sound. I find it immensely soothing.”

  “Margrave is in Sussex,” Peter explained.

  Mlle. Chartier nodded her understanding. “I believe Sussex is quite lovely.”

  “Have you never been there?” Verwood asked.

  “Oh, no. I’ve scarcely been out of Hampshire since I came to England.”

  The dance separated the two couples and Amelia studied Verwood’s face for some sign of his reason for questioning Mlle. Chartier. He had adopted a rather peculiar expression, one Amelia assumed was meant to convey to any interested observer that he was rather taken with the young girl. But he had it all wrong. Probably, Amelia felt, because he had no idea what it was like to feel smitten by anyone.

  “I had no idea you were so intimately acquainted with M. Chartier that he would seek your advice on his sister’s introduction to London,” she remarked.

  He gave her a sharp glance but said nothing, so she continued. “I find it rather odd that he would consult you. After all, what could you know of a young lady’s introduction to London society? You’ve only come here recently yourself and presumably know nothing of such matters as a debutante’s d
ress or the proper way for her to conduct herself. If you gave sufficient thought to the matter, I suppose you could tell him which invitations were best to accept,” she suggested, sounding markedly skeptical. “On the other hand, I rather doubt he has a great number of invitations from which to choose. In fact, I was astonished to find him here this evening.”

  “Why?”

  His bluntness was a wonderful goad. “Because, my dear Lord Verwood, he is new in town, the other French émigrés don’t recognize him, and his fortune isn’t known. That would ordinarily make him rather suspect amongst the ton, and especially by the Stratfords. Perhaps you spoke for him to them?”

  “I barely know them myself,” he murmured as he turned away from her to link arms with the woman to his left.

  Which merely confirmed her suspicion that Lord Verwood had come on her own invitation as her escort. Really, it was too bad of Peter to do that without getting her approval. She wouldn’t have given it. Lord Verwood was not at all her idea of a comfortable escort. When he paid attention to her at all, it was with a barely concealed disapproval. It seemed quite conceivable to her that there was something not altogether aboveboard about the viscount, despite his friendship with Peter. He was also on friendly terms with the Frenchman, after all. But since he’d managed to get himself there with them, she decided it was as good an opportunity as any to see if she could uncover something significant about him. So when they were rejoined by the dance, she offered him her most charming smile.

  “I imagine you have some ideas on the prosecution of the war that are a little different from the Cabinet’s,” she said. “Are you in agreement with Sir John Moore?”

  “Yes. I think he’s the most knowledgeable man around. But it was wise of the new government to send Cower and Paget off. Unfortunately, they’re probably too late, and there’s not a large enough contingent on the Continent to help the summer campaign.”

  “Do you think the Russians are doomed, then?”