With that, she continued on her way. Stratford watched until she had gone out of sight, a smile of appreciation tugging at his lips. He was recalled to his surroundings by the discreet cough of the servant behind him and was soon announced to Miss Helen.
Seated upon a long, low, armless settee of Egyptian design, as was the current rage, Helen favored her fiancé with a bashful smile as he entered and set aside the issue of La Belle Assemblée with which she had been occupying her time.
“Do you hope to find the fashion to perfect your beauty?” he asked when he saw the magazine. “You should not bother, for it cannot be done. Yours, my dear, is already the very perfection of beauty.”
She tried to laugh this off, for as always, his flowery tribute set her in an embarrassed quake. “No—no! I am merely passing the time.”
Stratford sat down easily beside her, watching her fingers nervously entwine themselves together. “About last night, Helen—”
“You need not explain!” she broke in. “I was not the least upset, I assure you!”
“I must nevertheless beg your forgiveness,” he persisted soberly.
“There—there is nothing to forgive,” she whispered.
“I give you my word, Helen, that you need never fear being put in such a position again.”
The young girl stared down at her hands, caught the glimmer of the diamonds about the glossy sapphire and seemed to gather up the courage to speak. Taking a deep breath, she raised her gaze to meet his and said, “My lord, let us understand one another. I do not intend to be a bothersome sort of wife. This is—this is to be a marriage of—of convenience, is it not?”
His downturned eyes seemed to slant even more than usual. Her direct speaking surprised and perversely annoyed him. He was in the habit of making women love him through no effort at all, and the thought that he was to marry one who, to all appearances, did not love him in the least affronted his vanity to no little degree. For no accountable reason, his lordship instantly blamed her sister Rose for this, and wondered briefly how he would bring the interfering Miss Lawrence to regret her negative influence upon his fiancée.
None of this showed on the viscount’s dispassionate face. He answered quite smoothly, “Of course it is, my dear. Have you, as yet, given any thought as to a suitable wedding date?”
“I have always thought the—the autumn a—a beautiful time for weddings,” she stuttered.
“Autumn!” He saw her face pale at his exclamation and swallowed his opposition. “Very well, if that is what you wish,” he said instead. “It’s longer away than best pleases me, but I’d not object to September.”
Helen rapidly assented to September, fearing the temper she saw lurking behind the hard glint of his eye should she put forth a suggestion of October or, more preferably, November. Stratford did not remain long after this, leaving Helen alone on the Egyptian settee, where she reflected with melancholy on how quickly five months could pass.
*****
From having seen, in Lord Stratford’s well-expressed opinion, rather too much of Miss Rose Lawrence, fashionable London fell to seeing practically nothing of her at all. She busied herself with the preparations for her sister’s ball, which she had been reluctantly persuaded to attend, and with keeping at a distance from the viscount. Other than trips to Elizabeth’s dressmaker for gown fittings, Rose’s few excursions were sightseeing outings with Daniel Baldwin.
It was on the afternoon of their tour of the Tower of London that the subject of his lordship’s recent grievous behavior was broached, Baldwin stumbling over an apology for his cousin.
“I expect someone said something to set him on,” Rose said thoughtfully. She read the question in her companion’s eyes and continued, “The wager about my sister—did you, perhaps, lecture Stratford about it?’
“I spoke to him,” Baldwin replied stiffly. “I could not stand by—”
“And this was before or after he actually followed through with this scheme?”
“Before, but—”
“There you see! It’s little wonder he’s as rash as he is, with you to spur him on.” She put up a hand to silence his protest. “It’s true, you know. It quite puts me in mind of Nell and Freddy. If they were to pass a tree walking to church of a Sunday, she would promptly adjure him not to dirty his good clothes by climbing that tree—a thing Freddy would have no thought of until that very moment. Naturally, Freddy would be climbing that tree directly. He’d need, you see, to prove himself to be his own person. It is the same, I dare say, with your cousin.”
“That may well be true, but Stratford had entered upon the wager before I spoke out against it. At least, I was there when Maret offered him the wager. I did protest, but . . .” Baldwin floundered into silence, remembering how his words had, indeed, seemed to encourage Stratford’s devilment.
“I did not mean to sermonize and must ask you to forgive my interference,” Rose said with an apologetic smile.
“What you have said, you’ve no need to apologize for. I’m only too afraid that you’ve hit upon a truth I should have seen long ago.”
They walked on, a meditative frown marring the set of Daniel’s straight mouth. After passing through the mint and the armoury, where they viewed with interest, among other things, the sword used to decapitate Anne Boleyn, Rose suggested they quit the Tower, having seen, she felt, quite all worth seeing therein.
Rolling home in the sensible equipage Baldwin had deemed suitable for the excursion, they conversed on various topics, lighting at length upon the upcoming ball.
“The great wonderment of it, for me, is that my mother has not spread word of the betrothal abroad, for she is the greatest rattle,” Daniel said with a good-humored smile.
She laughed. “Speaking of rattles, I have been overcome with amazement at Amelia’s discretion, for I fully expected her to trumpet the news throughout the ton.”
A guarded expression settled over Baldwin’s countenance. Rose studied him, an understanding gleam gracing her eyes, but it was with only the barest hint of amusement that she said, “I have noticed—I hope you won’t think me impertinent to mention it—but I thought I detected a certain warmth in your regard toward Amelia.”
With no little effort, she gradually drew the tale from her reluctant escort. It seemed that he had, indeed, once cherished a fondness for Miss Thacker. But he had been, he informed Rose, brought to his senses before matters had progressed too deeply.
“She has a levity of mind that I cannot admire,” he stated in a severe tone. “And she suffers a sad want of conduct.”
“Surely you judge her too harshly. She is but seventeen, and the delights of the season to one just out of the schoolroom can indeed be heady.”
“When I tell you that I once—just once, ma’am—asked her to forego the pleasures of a party to spend a quiet evening with my family, and that her answer was to dance the night away, you will readily see how little Miss Amelia Thacker cares for my regard!”
Rose turned her gaze upon her lap, hiding the ready laughter in her eyes from Baldwin’s outraged view. Judging it wisest to let the matter rest for the time being, she began to speak of inconsequential tings and so easily passed the rest of the journey home.
In the meantime, having at last prevailed upon Maret to accompany him on one of his daily visits to Brook Street, Stratford dispensed easy advice to Elizabeth Thacker on the methods best suited to make her ball that epitome of success, a dreadful squeeze, while leaving Helen’s company to his friend.
When a lull fell in their discourse, Helen took a deep breath and confessed on a rush, “I am exceedingly glad you have called today, Mr. Maret. I’d begun to fear that you were displeased with the thought of Lord Stratford’s marrying me.”
“How could you think, my dear Miss Helen, that I would ever be so foolishly lacking in taste as to be displeased with you?” he inquired with the drowsy smile which so fascinated her.
“That was prettily said.” Helen’s lovely lips parted
in a smile far different from the strained one with which she received the viscount’s compliments and its effect on Maret was intense.
He exhibited no trace of his usual weary manner as he leaned toward her, his green eyes shining darkly. “I am not, in general, one to give advice, my child, but you wish to make a success of your marriage—”
“I do wish it,” she interrupted gravely. She stared at the magnificent ring flashing on her finger and added resolutely, “I would welcome any advice you honored me with, sir.”
Maret hesitated. Then, with a glance at the viscount sitting casually across the room, he said slowly, “Stratford does not respond well to criticism. Should you attempt to lecture or nag at him, he will invariably run counter to your wishes. At the same time, you must not be afraid to speak your mind. Do so, directly, then leave the matter, and Colin will respect you the more for it.”
“Do you know, sir, that my sister gave me much the same advice?” The faint lifting of a thin blond brow evidenced his interest, and she went on with a smile. “Rose told me that whenever the viscount does what I should not like, I should look him in the eye and tell him to quit being so nonsensical.”
“I begin to perceive, child, that your sister is a woman of extraordinary sense,” he said. “I must confess to a longing to meet Miss Lawrence.”
Crossing toward them, Stratford had caught this last and said with rare affection, “I, too, long to see such a meeting. But Miss Lawrence has virtually disappeared. I’ve not had the fortune to see her all week. Where has she been hiding?”
“Why, she has been touring the sights with Mr. Baldwin,” Helen answered without regarding her effect. When she went on to innocently inform Stratford of the constant attention his cousin was devoting to her sister, she was unaware of the depth of his displeasure, for he covered it well. He asked in an even tone where the two of them had ventured.
“I do not know precisely where they have been each day, but I do know that today they were to see the London Tower. Rose has a guidebook, you see, which tells about all the sights to be seen in the metropolis.”
“Do you think, Helen, that there is anything . . . of a serious nature . . . between them?” Stratford asked with a casual air.
“In truth, I have been wondering . . .” she replied slowly. Then looking at him with a tremulous smile, she added, “But would it not be the most tremendous thing! We could perhaps have a double wedding!”
This pleasant prospect did not appear to afford his lordship with much satisfaction. Perceiving this, Maret led the conversation onto a less volatile path, helping to surmount any obstacles during the remainder of the visit.
Though he lingered as long as was socially acceptable, Lord Stratford was again denied the opportunity of seeing Miss Lawrence, for she had not returned before he and Maret rose to leave. The viscount strenuously suppressed an impulse to travel home by way of the London Tower, proceeding instead to Gentleman Jackson’s Salon in Bond Street, where he expelled his excess of repressed choler by sparring with the great man himself. Jackson was heard to remark that m’lord would do better if he could but keep his passions out of the business.
Had he so desired, Mr. Maret could have enlightened Jackson, for he well knew that Colin Phillips never kept his passions out of any matter.
*****
The Viscount Stratford was not alone in his disparagement of the possible pairing of his cousin Baldwin and Miss Rose Lawrence. Amelia Thacker had grown increasingly downhearted during the week, and upon Rose’s return from the Tower, she loudly announced she had the headache and flounced from the sitting room. Rose accepted her young cousin’s departure with equanimity and sat talking with her aunt for a full hour before excusing herself to make her way upstairs.
Entering Amy’s room before the sound of her knock had died away, Rose found her cousin sitting before her gilt dressing table, staring morosely into her mirrored reflection.
“I trust the headache is better?” Rose asked as she came to stand behind Amy.
“Yes, thank you,” sniped the girl.
“You know, Amy, I had the oddest notion that you were suffering from something quite different.”
“Did you?”
“Well, yes, I must own I’ve been thinking you to be in love,” Rose admitted.
“Love—ha! And with whom, I pray you, should I be in love?”
“Oh, someone like . . . Mr. Baldwin, perhaps?”
“Mr. Baldwin is stuffy!” Amy enunciated firmly. “He—he thinks I am nothing but a sad flirt.”
“Well, and so you are,” Rose agreed. Before the indignant young lady could remark to the contrary, Rose went serenely on, “But you are not wild, Amy. Mr. Baldwin knows this, surely.”
“He is stupid and stuffy and I’m sure I do not care in the least what he thinks!” she declared dejectedly. After a moment, she added, “At any rate, I have been thinking Mr. Baldwin has shown a decided partiality for you, Rose. Have you—have you not formed a tendre for him?” she asked in the voice of one not desiring to receive an answer.
“Oh, Amy, don’t be absurd!” Rose replied on a laugh. “I am no longer of an age for such fancies.”
Though many would have argued this point, Amy seemed much struck with the force of this sensible argument, and a smile spread over her lips. In a moment, however, an unhappy thought effectively removed the smile.
“Still, it is apparent that Mr. Baldwin has formed one for you,” she insisted glumly.
“Well, you know, I’ve not wanted to mention is, Amy, not knowing how you would feel about such a thing, but it’s my belief that Mr. Baldwin has been escorting me about town just to have an excuse to call here and perhaps see you. His eyes always follow you when you’re in the room, you know.”
“No—do they?” Amy breathed.
“Indeed they do,” Rose assured her with a smile. “Mr. Baldwin needs only to realize what a very well-behaved girl you can be to get over his priggish attitude.”
Amy cupped her chin in her hand and stared thoughtfully at her cousin. “You think that if I act prettily and don’t flirt overmuch at Helen’s ball, Mr. Baldwin will no longer hold me in dislike?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh.” She sat digesting this. As Rose got up to leave, however, she broke from her reverie to ask, “Would you like to wear my silver ribbon at the ball? You may—I shan’t be wearing it.”
Rose accepted her cousin’s burst of generosity, then left her to ruminate further on the arts of catching a man—even a man as stuffy, as obstinate and as, in Amy’s view, adorable as Daniel Baldwin.
Chapter 12
One pale hand brushed a blond lock off his brow as Maret listened to the viscount’s description of his afternoon session at Manton’s Shooting Gallery. They stood within the Thacker’s elegantly formal withdrawing room, both wearing the finest full evening dress. The stark black favored by Maret heightened the ethereal effect of his pallid coloring, while Stratford’s deep blue velvet intensified his own darkling good looks. His lordship appeared even more than usually restive, but this, Maret supposed, would be natural in a man on the night of his public betrothal.
The opening door disrupted Stratford’s tale as the men turned to watch Elizabeth Thacker glide forward. “Forgive us! Shocking of us to greet you so late, I know, but we’ve been at sixes and sevens the whole of the day.” Her broad smile charmed them both as with a swish of her aqua empire gown she sat upon a rosewood sofa with scroll end.
Entering quietly behind her aunt, Helen was utterly dazzling in a white India muslin gown embroidered with gold threat and with a long train coming off the shoulders. She curtseyed in a very pretty manner, then said as she gave her gloved hand to her fiancé, “Amy and Rose send their apologies. A last minute tear in Amy’s gown has delayed them, but they shall join us directly.”
“Dear child,” put in her aunt with a comic smile, “if I live through this ball of yours, I swear I’ll not give another! Amy shall have to make for Gretna Green
. You cannot imagine, my good men, what last minute crises I’ve been put to averting all day.”
Her light-hearted air set the conversation traveling along droll lines as they awaited the rest of the dinner party. Soon the drawing room doors opened upon a liveried servant who made the stentorian announcement that Lady Minerva Baldwin and Mr. Daniel Baldwin had arrived.
Remembering their last meeting only too clearly, Lady Minerva greeted her nephew with the merest inclination of her elaborately turbaned head a she swept past him to place her plump form next to her friend Elizabeth. By contrast, she extended a regal hand to Jacques and begged him to favor her with the name of his tailor, for whatever may be said of him, no one could ever fault the cut of his clothes and Daniel would do well to call upon Maret’s tailor as soon as may be.
Having long ago acquired the art of charming ladies, old and young alike, Stratford promptly presented himself before her and, bowing with an exaggerated flourish, said teasingly, “You see before you, dearest aunt, a miserable nephew anxious to make amends. He is even willing to go so far as to praise vociferously that golden headdress which now reposes so brilliantly upon your glorious curls.”
His tone was engaging; his smile even more so, and Minerva could not resist. Slapping at his wrist with her carved fan, she exclaimed, “Oh, Stratford. You are a sad rogue, indeed. It’s a wonder that Miss Helen is willing to have you, and so I declare!”
“I quite agree—it is a great wonder,” he murmured as he straightened to salute his cousin.
The latest breach between Daniel and his titled cousin had never been properly healed, but outward relations between them had remained cordial enough. Tonight, however, it was to be noted that this lordship was decidedly cool toward Baldwin.
Stratford’s humor did not improve when, on the opening of the double doors, Daniel became rather more keenly attentive. It was not to be known that the cause for his sudden interest was the pert blonde in the dashing primrose evening dress flounced with lace, for Miss Lawrence entered directly behind her, to stunning effect.
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