“Francis!” she said warmly, leaping to her feet. “B-Bonnie,” he stammered. “I am immensely pleased that you are so pleased to see me.”
He did, in fact, blush with pleasure, and Bonnie felt a little stab of guilt for having misled him. Francis really was a “good lad,” and she counted it excessively cruel of Fate to have rendered him so very dull.
“Mama and I were most alarmed by your relapse,” he continued, “and I came to inquire as to your condition. You . . . you seem somewhat better.”
“I am vastly better,” Bonnie assured him. “No, not merely better: I have altogether recovered from my injury. Indeed, I was thinking to go out, but I . . .” She recollected that he didn’t know her suspicions of Lady Pamela, that he—like everyone else—believed she had been jostled off the footpath. “I remembered your advice that I should not leave the house unaccompanied,” she finished rather lamely.
“And now you need not!” Francis said. “Mama was in hopes you’d be well enough to come to Orchard Street and discuss the final arrangements for the assembly. She intended me to drive you, of course, and we can detour through Hyde Park.” Bonnie was far from wishing to discuss the ball with Lady
Hellier, but she did long for a dose of fresh air, and she enthusiastically bobbed her head. "Yes,” she agreed. “Let me fetch a bonnet and gloves, and I shall be back in a moment."
She hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber, where she found Nell waving a feather duster in the general direction of the dressing table. Bonnie had previously observed that these daily "cleanings" produced scam result: however formidable her talents as an abigail. Nell was a perfectly wretched chambermaid. But Bonnie had not complained and never would, for she had come truly to love the crusty old woman; and as she snatched her leghorn hat out of the wardrobe and put it on, she explained the nature of her and Francis’ outing.
“I shall be back in ample time for dinner," she concluded, drawing on her gloves.
"And what will you be wanting to eat?” Nell asked. "Alice has both chicken and veal, and as Mr. David won’t be home, the choice is entirely yours.”
Bonnie had forgotten that the earl would be dining at Brooks’s, and she shook her head. "Do not tease yourself about dinner; I shouldn’t want Alice to cook a meal just for me. When I get hungry, I shall go to the kitchen and prepare a sandwich." She hurried out of the room before Nell could protest and sped back down the stairs.
Though Bonnie had seen Sir Robert’s high-flyer phaeton— had even noticed the ladder—she had failed to register how prodigious elevated the seat was from the ground, and she stumbled to a halt at the edge of the footpath and stared upward in sheer horror. The longer she looked at the carriage, the more it came to resemble the oak tree behind the rectory, and she had learned a bitter lesson from that ill-conceived adventure. No, she would never climb so high again—
"Come along now,” Francis said cheerfully. He had clambered nimbly up the ladder and was extending his hand. “I can raise the top if it rains”—he waved his free hand toward the increasingly threatening clouds—“but that isn’t half such fun. Let us try at least to make it through the park with the roof open.”
Bonnie gritted her teeth, gripped his hand, began to ascend the ladder, and—via another of Papa's miracles—safely reached the seat. Francis stowed the ladder and clucked the horses to a start, and they trotted up Duke Street and into Oxford.
How far she had come, Bonnie thought wryly as her terror subsided and she began to enjoy the ride. A little more than two weeks ago she had been observing the daily parade of the ton to Hyde Park. In fact, she recollected with a shock, she had walked down Orchard Street to Oxford; that ironic circumstance had not occurred to her before. Another twist of Fate.
At any rate, she was now ensconced in the very sort of vehicle she had so admired, and instead of gazing enviously up at the elegant passengers in the carriages, she was peering down at the pedestrians on the footpath. She glimpsed a young woman at the intersection of Oxford and Park—a girl carrying a portmanteau—and wondered if she, too, might be fleeing an unreasonable employer. Bonnie started to give her an encouraging smile, then remembered, with another jolt, that her own future was far from settled. If Aunt Grace refused to take her in, she might be standing at just this comer a few weeks hence. . .
But there was no point in dwelling on such a depressing contingency: Fate would have its inevitable way. So Bonnie smiled at the girl after all, and when she returned her eyes to the road, she saw that they were entering Hyde park. This might also be a once-in-a-Iifetime experience, she reflected, and—emulating Francis’ example—she bowed to or merely nodded toward the various carriages they passed.
They reached the house in Orchard Street at half past five, which was not a moment too soon, for fat drops of rain began to fall even as Francis shepherded Bonnie into the vestibule. Lady Hellier was seated at the rickety bonheur-du-jour desk in the library, pawing through an enormous sheaf of papers on the surface, but she jumped to her feet as they entered the room and rushed forward to greet them. After some ten minutes of happy clucking over her niece’s astonishing recovery. she got to the point of her summons: with the assembly now only two days away, they must review every detail so as to ensure that the evening would be flawless. Bonnie stifled a sigh, removed her bonnet and gloves, and trailed her ladyship to the desk.
As Lady Hellier had indicated, the ensuing discussion was a review; they had covered every detail before, and many of them more than once. But Bonnie nodded politely as her ladyship leafed through her voluminous papers, and agreed again that the roses would be yellow and she would wear a yellow gown to match and they would serve sweetbreads and saddle of mutton for supper.
At length—at great length—Lady Hellier checked off the last item on the last sheet of paper, whereupon Bonnie learned that she had yet a further duty to perform: she must accompany her ladyship to the saloon and determine the arrangement of the furniture. She managed another nod, albeit a weary one, and trudged in Lady Hellier’s wake up the stairs to the drawing room. Inasmuch as the saloon furniture was nearly as dilapidated as that in the library, Bonnie’s honest opinion was that it should be hidden in the attic on the night of the ball. But she couldn’t say so, of course, and she approved her ladyship’s plan to move the Adam couch to the front wall and the mahogany sofa to the back . . .
“I believe that is it,” Lady Hellier said brightly when the last piece of furniture had been accounted for. “And we finished just in time. Dinner will be served in five minutes.” “Then I certainly shan’t trouble Francis to drive me home.” Bonnie said. “If it wouldn’t be too inconvenient, perhaps you could desire one of the grooms—”
“Nonsense!” her ladyship interposed. “I intended you to eat with us; your place is already set.”
“No, thank you," Bonnie protested. “No, I really couldn't." “Well, you cannot drive about in that." Lady Hellier gestured toward the window, and Bonnie heard the furious tattoo of rain on the glass. “I’m sure David would concur, but if you fear he will be worried. I shall send a message to Grosvenor Street.”
“No. Uncle David is at Brooks’s—”
“It is settled then,” her ladyship said firmly. "You will dine here, and with any luck, the rain will end before we’re done.”
She was trapped. Bonnie realized, repressing another sigh. It would, indeed, be absurd to set out in a driving rainstorm when nothing but a sandwich—a sandwich of her own making—awaited her at the other end of the journey. She reluctantly inclined her head and followed Lady Hellier back down the staircase and into the dining room.
Evidently Francis had also intended Bonnie to stay for dinner, for he met her just inside the archway and guided her to one of the threadbare chairs. Sir Robert, already seated at the head of the table, watched this proceeding with considerable puzzled interest, as though he was vainly attempting to recollect the identity of their mysterious guest.
“You do remember Bonnie?” Lady Hellier p
rompted as she sank into her own chair. “Cornelia's daughter? From Barbados?”
"Betty. Betty, of course. To your health, my dear.” The baronet lifted the glass beside his plate, drained it, held it aloft. “More brandy, Briscoe,” he commanded.
“Briscoe is indisposed this evening," her ladyship snapped. “You told me so yourself.”
Bonnie surmised that the butler was “indisposed” to approximately the same extent as Sir Robert himself, who was so foxed he could barely sit erect. But the attending footman obediently trotted to the table and refilled the baronet’s glass, and Lady Hellier went on.
“You no doubt recall, Robert, that Bonnie suffered an accident last week. But she has fortunately recovered, and it is in her honor that we’re conducting our ball Friday night.”
“Ball." Sir Robert frowned. “Yes, I believe there was some mention of a ball.”
“Some mention!" her ladyship screeched. “I’ve been talking of nothing else since Monday ...”
But she apparently decided she must start all over again, and she proceeded to describe the plans for the assembly in excruciating detail. The same plans Bonnie had heard twice or thrice or half a dozen times before, and in normal circumstances, she would have been fairly wild with boredom. As it was, however, she found it quite challenging to pretend to consume her food, which—from the watery broth at the start of the meal to the watery lemon pudding at the end—was uniformly inedible. She wondered if David would be comforted to learn that the Helliers were not expending undue sums for a cook. Perhaps she should warn him to steer well clear of his bilberry jelly... and I am confident the ball will be a grand success." Lady Hellier concluded as the pudding bowls were cleared away. "No, more than merely confident. I believe Bonnie will be so pleased that she’ll permit me to arrange her wedding as well."
"Wedding!” Francis choked. “You are speaking somewhat prematurely. Mama."
Somewhat prematurely indeed, Bonnie thought dryly: she had yet to meet an eligible duke or marquis, and her ladyship was already planning the nuptial ceremony. She was more amused than embarrassed, but she appreciated Francis' concern for her feelings, and she flashed him a grateful smile.
"I believe the rain has stopped," Lady Hellier said, tilting one ear toward the dining-room window. "Just as I predicted it would.” Her smug expression suggested that, far beyond predicting, she might well have ordered this improvement in the weather. "Have the phaeton brought back round, Nixon." She waved peremptorily at the footman, and he galloped out of the room. "And pray bid Bonnie a proper good-night, Robert.”
"Umm?” The baronet shook his bald head, and Bonnie suspected he had dozed off long since.
"Bonnie is leaving,” her ladyship said frostily.
"Umm, yes. To your health, my dear.”
Sir Robert fumbled for his glass, but before his swollen fingers could find the stem, his head began to droop again. With an apologetic smile of his own, Francis rose, assisted Bonnie out of her chair, and escorted her into the foyer. Lady Hellier retrieved her hat and gloves from the library, and as Bonnie tied her bonnet ribbons, Nixon opened the front door and announced that the carriage was ready.
Once she had conquered her fear, Bonnie had come quite to like the high-flyer, and the drive back to Grosvenor Street was especially pleasant. The clouds had blown over, leaving a full moon behind them, and in its brilliant light, the wet streets and houses fairly sparkled. Indeed, she rather regretted that the journey was so short, and when the carnage stopped in front of David’s house, she gave Francis another appreciative smile.
“I thoroughly enjoyed our excursion,” she said. She judged it best not to mention dinner. “Thank you for a lovely time.”
"You are welcome,” he mumbled.
Bonnie waited for him to position the ladder, but he did not. Instead, he continued to sit, staring straight ahead, and had he not been fumbling with his neckcloth, Bonnie might have collected that he had fallen asleep as well. But eventually he cleared his throat and turned in the seat to face her.
“I ... I pray you will not feel that I am also speaking prematurely,” he stammered. “When I tell you that despite the brevity of our acquaintance, I have grown most . . . most fond of you.”
“I’m very fond of you too, Francis.” She was speaking sincerely: whatever his mother’s sins, Francis had been excessively kind.
“Yes, I dared to hope as much when you greeted me so warmly this afternoon. Were it not for that, I should have sought to postpone my ... er ..." He gulped. "Well, let me not hide my teeth. What I wish to say is that I ... I am offering for your hand.”
Bonnie was so startled that her head began to spin, and she briefly feared she would topple out of the carriage. She gripped the seat to steady herself and gazed at him in consternation. desperately groping for some sort of response.
“My hand?” she gasped at last. “Good God, Francis, I am your cousin. ”
“That presents no obstacle,” he said eagerly. “The Regent himself is wed to his cousin.”
“But ... but I—"
“You needn’t answer now.” Francis awkwardly patted her shoulder. "Consider it for four-and-twenty hours, and we shall discuss it at Viscount Peyton’s assembly tomorrow evening.”
Bonnie wanted to tell him that there was nothing to consider, nothing to discuss, that her “fondness” in no way resembled love. Well, in no way resembled the emotion she had always fancied love to be. But even as she attempted to gather her wits, Francis secured the ladder, climbed out of the phaeton, and raised his hand to help her down. They crossed the footpath in silence, and when they reached the door, he smiled down at her. She feared for one awful moment that he intended to kiss her. but he merely doffed his hat, then opened the door; and she fled into the vestibule, slammed the door behind her, and collapsed against it.
Dear God! she inwardly moaned. Dear God. how had she got herself into such a bumblebath? She had been happy to see Francis, but she had never dreamed he would so utterly misinterpret her reaction. And now she had created the impression that she was actually considering his proposal . . . She spun around, threw the door back open, and peered into the street, but the carriage had disappeared. So it was too late to undo the damage yet tonight, and she crashed the door to again and dashed up the stairs, her mind churning rather faster than her feet.
Her initial inclination was to dispatch a note to Francis the first thing tomorrow morning; it would be cruel to keep him in suspense all day. But perhaps, she decided as she pounded down the first-floor corridor, it would be equally unkind to write a curt message of refusal and send Kimball to deliver it. Equally unkind and cowardly in the extreme. No, she owed it to Francis to decline his offer personally, and she could only
hope that during the ensuing four-and-twenty hours she would find some gentle means of doing so.
Bonnie reached the second-floor landing and sagged against the newel post. Her frantic race up the stairs, added to the shock of Francis’ proposal, had quite snatched her breath away, and rivulets of perspiration had begun to trickle down her brow. She tore off her bonnet, fanned her face a moment, then drew herself up.
“Where the deuce have you been?” David hissed.
Bonnie whirled toward the sound of his voice and saw him at the end of the hall, bathed in the lamplight splashing through the open door behind him.
“David!” she wheezed. “Thank God you are home.” She flung her hat on the newel post and tottered down the corridor to his side. She had not realized how very weak she was, and she clutched his arm for support. “The most dreadful thing has happened—”
“I asked where you have been,” he snapped, jerking his arm away. “I returned at six, and Nell assured me you would be back in ample time for dinner.”
“I did plan to be back, but—”
“As it was,” he interrupted coldly, “I was compelled to dine alone.”
“And was that my fault?”
A rhetorical question. Of course he thought it was
her fault: he invariably twisted events in such a way as to put her in the wrong. Bonnie clenched her hands and swallowed a sudden maddening lump in her throat.
“I planned to come back in time for dinner,” she reiterated as levelly as she could, “but it seemed foolish to do so. You had told Nell you'd be eating at Brooks’s, and I had told her to prepare nothing for me, and it was pouring rain. In the circumstances, I perceived no harm in accepting Lady Hellier’s invitation to dine with them.”
“And you were quite right.” The earl sketched a sardonic smile. “In the circumstances you describe, there would have
been no harm. Had I remained at Brooks’s, I should never have discovered your latest deception.”
“My latest deception,” Bonnie echoed wearily. “I presume you are suggesting that I deliberately plotted to visit Lady Hellier in secret. You no doubt believe she and I are scheming to make the ball as grand and expensive as possible. We did, in fact, discuss the assembly, and you may draw from that whatever conclusions you will. I am tired of arguing the point.” She was dangerously near to tears, and she bit her lip and started to step away.
“I wasn’t referring to the ball.” David’s fingers snaked around her wrist, drawing her to a halt. “I was referring to your statement that you were too unwell to go to Almack’s this evening.”
“I did not make that statement!” The tears had begun to sting her eyelids—tears of impotent rage—and she blinked them furiously away. "You pronounced me too unwell to go to Almack’s. And had you not left the house at the very crack of dawn this morning, I could have told you I’d recovered.”
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