The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  He’d known it all along. She could tell by the way he stood so very still, observing her, listening so intently, as though it was really the sound of her voice he wished to hear, rather than her words. There was something strange about his eyes, too, in the gloom of the ridiculous pavilion. They made her feel uncomfortably warm and excruciatingly nervous. For a long time he simply stared as a fluttery sensation grew within her.

  Finally he asked, “Would you like me to tell you what I learned about M. Chartier?”

  “Of course.”

  “Absolutely nothing of any significance,” he admitted. “I spent a great deal of time sitting behind a hedgerow outside Bournemouth. There’s some suspicious activity around the manor house the Chartiers live in there, and a revenue officer took it into his head that I might have something to do with it. When I’d finally convinced him who I was, he could provide very little information. He’s been on the lookout, but he can’t say for sure whether it’s spying or smuggling or something quite innocuous that’s going on. Mr. Selsey, the revenue officer, had made a raid on the beach just before I got there, as it turned out, but someone had warned off the boats and they didn’t land. Which meant absolutely nothing happened while I was there, of course. A completely wasted journey. It needn’t even be Chartier who’s involved.”

  “Is that... where you went when you left London?” she asked.

  “Yes. An associate had sent me word that something was going on. Unfortunately, he was in London talking with me when Selsey raided the beach, or we might have spared ourselves a great deal of time.”

  Amelia nodded and took a few steps away from him, feeling the need to be outside the strong field of attraction which seemed to surround him. She wanted to break that unnerving pull toward him, but, not watching where she was going, she stubbed her toe on a piece of stone, and bit back the cry of pain that rose to her lips. With her back to him, she stood wiggling her toes inside her shoe, trying to work the ache down to something manageable. He must have spoken to her, but she didn’t hear him.

  When he spoke again, it was to press her. “Well, have you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching down to pick up the offending stone and toss it into a corner. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I asked if you had stopped doing any investigating on your own, as Peter suggested.”

  “Peter didn’t suggest; he told me to stop. So naturally I have,” she informed him self-righteously. Her toe still hurt, so she added, “And I’m well aware that you were the one behind his ever questioning the practice.”

  “Are you?” He had come up with her now, a slight smile playing near the corners of his mouth. “He didn’t tell you so, did he?”

  “No, but I assure you I’m quite clever enough to have figured it out for myself.” She glared up into his watchful eyes. “It’s a great waste, you know. I was able to pass along some useful information.”

  “But at what cost, my dear Lady Amelia?”

  His gaze was unnervingly intent, and there was that about it which made her feel somehow self-conscious. She turned her face aside, saying dismissively, “Cost? There was no cost at all, I assure you.”

  “I see. These unscrupulous fellows talked to you just for the sake of your beautiful violet eyes, did they?”

  Amelia found she couldn’t make her beautiful violet eyes meet his fierce black ones. She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Men are notoriously muddle-headed when they’re dealing with women, Lord Verwood. Perhaps you’ve noticed that.”

  He gave a bark of laughter and reached out to touch her cheek with a tender finger. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve noticed that, especially when the woman is you.”

  The sound of a carriage could be heard on the drive now. Without looking at him, Amelia headed for the open door. “Our other guests are arriving,” she called back. “I should be in the house to make them welcome.”

  She didn’t check to see if he followed her as she scurried along the gravel path of the house.

  Chapter 13

  Verwood had discovered that his room was in the same wing as Lady Amelia’s, though a fair distance away. Not that this provided any unique opportunity for him. For the first day of his stay, after their original walk together, he never saw her except in the company of her family and guests. He didn’t see much of Peter, either, since his friend was determined on making Mlle. Chartier comfortable and providing for her entertainment. This didn’t necessarily mean that he neglected his other guests, but it certainly limited the time he could spend with them.

  But Verwood was enjoying himself immensely. He had three unique encounters before noon on the second day. First, he ran into M. Chartier on the north staircase, headed down to breakfast. The young man was dressed rather formally for a casual house party, with shirt points high enough to make it uncomfortable for him to turn his head very far. He had an unusual way of overcoming this obstacle; he seemed to stand a little higher on his toes, as though this would raise him above the collar and make it possible for him to converse with his head at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Ah, Lord Verwood,” he said, bouncing slightly to get even more leverage. “I was delighted to find that you form part of the house party. This last week in town I didn’t see you at all.”

  “No, I was called away, unfortunately.” There didn’t seem much chance of M. Chartier having heard he’d been in Bournemouth, so he decided against informing him. “To come here, I don’t mind missing a part of the season, but for a business trip…”

  “Ah, just so, just so.” Chartier lowered his voice conspiratorially. “All the same, it was a dangerous week to miss. A young girl’s affections are quickly attached, I fear. And I am not a brother who would stand in the way of his sister’s happiness, you understand. Still,” he added in a more encouraging tone, “I feel sure there is time. Veronique is not one to make a hasty decision. You mustn’t let her carefree air fool you. She has a practical streak which will, I believe, allow her mind to guide her heart.”

  The gist of this declaration was, if not alarming, at least slightly unnerving to Verwood. “But surely Lord Welsford is by far the most desirable parti,” he demurred.

  Chartier dropped his voice even lower, bouncing more agitatedly now, though Verwood was directly before his eyes. “Indeed, it would seem so to many. Perhaps to everyone but me.” With a flip of his hand he dismissed such material considerations. “It was you who gave me good advice on my sister’s behalf, you who took a personal interest in her welfare. To me that is no small consideration. The earl... well, he is a handsome fellow, possessed of a fine old title and sufficient funds to make a young girl’s head turn. This I know. But has he served his country in battle as you have? I think not. Has he led aught but a life of privilege and frivolity?”

  Since Chartier paused at this point, Verwood murmured, “No.”

  “And he is young, yet. Several years your junior, if I am not mistaken. With an understandable pride in his family. He would give grave consideration to the matter of marrying an unknown girl such as my sister. Not that she hasn’t perfect breeding! But…” He shrugged. “There is no way for us to prove this with documents and registries, you see. You, I think, would not be so concerned with such details, eh?”

  “I trust my own judgment,” Verwood assured him.

  The Frenchman’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically. “I knew it! Just as I myself do. So take heart, mon ami. Nothing is settled as yet.” And he bounced down the remaining stairs in an ecstasy of rational optimism.

  * * * *

  Verwood’s next tête-à-tête occurred directly after breakfast, when he was trying to figure out a way to manage a ride alone with Lady Amelia. She had spoken with him briefly in the breakfast parlor, but had left before he was finished eating, explaining to the others that she had several household matters to execute before she would be free. This disturbed no one at all, since Peter was already arranging to drive Mlle. Chartier into Rye and Miss Harting
had offered to give M. Chartier a guided tour of the house, which Lord Verwood was invited to join if he hadn’t seen enough the previous day.

  His guide of the previous day refused to meet his amused look, and promptly excused herself. When he was finished eating, he had every intention of tracking her down, but as he left the breakfast parlor, Miss Harting waylaid him on his way across the hall. “In here,” she whispered, motioning toward a small vestibule off the large room.

  Curious, he followed her.

  It was a room where Peter met local petitioners, and was consequently furnished only minimally, and with none-too-comfortable chairs, to discourage a lengthy audience. Miss Harting seated herself on the most agreeable of them, and waved him onto a ladder-backed item that had all the luxury of a fourth-form seat. He waited patiently for her to speak.

  “She’s not easy to manage,” she began. “I think you will just need a few pointers from me. Peter wouldn’t be the least help to you. That’s not saying she’s stubborn, you understand, just a trifle strong-minded, which no man of principle should object to in the least.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed, folding his hands casually in his lap.

  “The first thing to remember is that she’s been given a lot of freedom in her life, and it wouldn’t do to threaten that. Though she doesn’t seem to realize that marriage would allow her an even greater latitude, you and I know that’s the case.” She glanced sharply at him to make sure he was paying attention.

  “Indeed.”

  “Then you must remember that she lost her parents under very trying circumstances, and she has rather a ‘thing’ about the French. I don’t believe she will be positively rude to Mlle. Chartier or her brother, but she isn’t likely to be quite so warm and giving with them as she is with those of us who know her well.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “And there’s her age, of course. She’s attained her majority, and come into her fortune, and can’t see that Peter and I have quite the authority over her which we were used to have. She’s not disrespectful! It is just that sometimes she equates her own age with wisdom and experience which she doesn’t have, and won’t achieve for some time.”

  “How true!”

  Trudy’s brows rose at this fervent expression of agreement. Deciding that he was perhaps mocking her niece, she said sternly, “I daresay you were just the same at her age.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  Placated, she continued. “She won’t marry without affection, so you will have to try your best to please her. That shouldn’t be so very difficult. Mind you, I suspect she’s already half-inclined in your favor.”

  At this Verwood’s head came up abruptly. “What makes you think that?”

  Trudy twitched away the details with her pudgy fingers. “Little things. I know her fairly well, my dear Lord Verwood. She’s quite skilled at concealing her emotions.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” he contributed.

  “And not at all reluctant to speak her mind. What you must understand is that she’s a bit grumpy from time to time. I think it’s a strain of her mother’s melancholia. Nothing to be alarmed about! Just the tiniest bit, when she’s thwarted or doesn’t understand her own mind.”

  “Was Lady Welsford much afflicted?”

  “Only occasionally. Once or twice a year she would be sunk in gloom for a week or two before she perked up again. Amelia isn’t affected in that way. In her it is more often a show of temper. She is not as placid a female as her mother was.”

  “I see.” Verwood shifted slightly on his hard chair. “Are these shows of temper ever... violent?”

  “Violent?” Trudy frowned at him. “Don’t be ridiculous! I warn you of them merely because you are likely to be the recipient of a cross word now and then, not because she’s likely to run you through with a sword! In your case she simply does not know her own mind, and it is bound to make her a bit... edgy.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.”

  In a move of startling swiftness, Trudy hauled herself off the chair and onto her feet. “I’m sure that will be enough to guide you for the moment, Lord Verwood. As I watch your progress with her, I may just point out something here and there. I feel sure you are a man who will accept my guidance with a good grace, else I wouldn’t have offered it.”

  “I’m most grateful,” he said humbly.

  “Yes, I felt sure you would be.” She marched toward the door, but paused to add, “Of course, I wish you luck.”

  “I’ll need it,” he mused as she disappeared out into the hall.

  * * * *

  Just before the midday cold collation he was standing on the terrace outside the Summer Parlor when he heard the doors open behind him. For some reason he assumed it would be Lady Amelia and he turned to greet her with a smile. But it was only the elfin Mlle. Chartier, her eyes gleaming with their usual excitement. He bowed a little stiffly.

  “A beautiful day, is it not, Lord Verwood?” she asked, breathing in great draughts of the sparkling country air much as though it were wine. “London is a fascinating city, but no one would ever claim it is particularly clean, would they?”

  “No.” For a moment he could think of nothing more to say to her; then he remembered her morning’s excursion.

  “How did you like Rye?”

  “Delightful! So quaint, and more Flemish than English, I think. The earl showed me the parish church and the town hall and the Old Flushing Inn. He told me the inn is used by smugglers. Imagine! And there is a tower used as a gaol and a half-timbered building with gables that is used for a hospital. The English are so very practical.”

  “Smuggling is an old trade in this area,” Verwood said, wishing to stick with the subject for a minute. “Not condoned by the authorities, but participated in by a goodly number of the natives.”

  “Lord Welsford said it is mainly brandy that is brought in from France, and that this goes on not only in time of war, but always. Is the excise tax so high, then, that it is worth men committing a crime?”

  “It’s high enough to make someone think so. Other goods come in as well, in time of war especially. Gowns, gold, even family heirlooms. There must be a certain amount of smuggling activity even near Bournemouth.”

  If he had hoped this suggestion would discompose her, he was disappointed. “I suppose there is,” she said thoughtfully, “though it’s farther from France than Rye is. Perhaps if I’d lived there all my life I’d know more about it. Not that I should particularly wish to.”

  This was said with perfect good humor, not a trace of anxiety or concealment evident in the delightful, open countenance. Verwood wondered if the girl’s perpetual cheerfulness would drive him mad, were he to make some effort (as her brother encouraged) to win her affections. It was all well and good for Peter, who was himself possessed of a remarkably easygoing nature. But Verwood owned to a more saturnine disposition, and the girl’s incessant optimism struck him as almost foolhardy.

  Nonetheless, he decided, for the sake of pure devilry, or to see what information he could wean from her exuberance, to set up a bit of a flirtation with the girl. It would give him some much-needed practice, after all. Surely he had seen enough flirtations going on in London to have picked up a rudimentary knowledge of how they were conducted.

  “Do you ride, Mlle. Chartier?” he asked, offering his most pleasant smile.

  “A little. I’m just the tiniest bit afraid of horses,” she confessed.

  “They have a docile mare in the stables here. I was speaking with the stable boys just this morning. Perhaps I could convince you to have a ride with me after our meal. Nothing arduous, of course. Just a trot about the estate.”

  “That would be... lovely,” she agreed.

  “Good.” He turned toward the doors then, thinking it must be close to time for their luncheon, and found Lady Amelia standing there. She wasn’t smiling, but she spoke immediately. “Aunt Trudy sent me to find you. Won’t you join the rest of us in the din
ing room? You must be famished.”

  She addressed the remarks more to Mlle. Chartier than to him, but Verwood hastened to say, “I haven’t seen you around all morning, Lady Amelia. I hope no domestic problem has arisen.”

  She moved cool eyes to stare at him as though she’d never seen him before. “It was necessary for me to see that the Carsons were settling into their cottage,” she said, before leading the way to the dining hall.

  * * * *

  If this third encounter had not, perhaps, been as amusing as the other two, it was at least interesting. Throughout the meal Verwood divided his attention between the three women at the table, finding himself more often than not addressing only Gertrude Harting, as Peter captured Mlle. Chartier’s attention, and Lady Amelia appeared preoccupied. And even Miss Harting he had to share with Chartier, since the Frenchman still shied away from having much contact with Lady Amelia.

  When the party started to break up after their meal, Peter learned that Mlle. Chartier had agreed to ride with Verwood, and gave his friend a speculative glance. The viscount maintained a bland expression and Peter invited Chartier to try his hand at a little angling in the Brede. This left Amelia with no commitment for the afternoon, but Verwood did not include her in his invitation. Miss Harting scowled at him.

  * * * *

  Amelia watched from her bedchamber as Mlle. Chartier and Verwood walked down the path to the stables. They had both changed into riding costume and seemed on the most agreeable of terms, chatting and laughing as though their time together was the most amusing of possibilities.

  Amelia told herself that it was for Peter’s sake that she resented this instant camaraderie, that it threatened his own happiness with the young woman. It hardly mattered, at the moment, that the girl might be a French spy. Lord Verwood was obviously the most reprehensible of men for attempting to win Mlle. Chartier’s affections from his best friend. (Probably his only friend, Amelia thought bitterly.)