The Earl's Invention

by Diana Campbell

  “There they are!” she said brightly. “Lady Hellier and Sir Robert and Francis, I mean. We must bid them good evening.”

  "We must do nothing of the kind,” David snapped. “To the contrary, we can readily claim we failed to see them in the crowd.”

  Bonnie had not anticipated this complication, but even as she groped for an objection. Lady Hellier waved her hand frantically in their direction. “Well, they have now seen us.” She tried to sound regretful. “So let us greet them at once, and then we shan’t have to speak with them again.”

  The earl snorted with exasperation, but before he could voice another protest, Bonnie seized his elbow and tugged him ahead. She would never have imagined that it could require nearly ten minutes to traverse a distance of twenty feet, but in the event, she judged them lucky to complete the journey at all. Viscount Peyton’s guests were packed literally shoulder to shoulder, cheek by jowl; and when she and David reached the Helliers at last, Bonnie glanced down at her satin slippers. As she had feared, they were in ruins—trodden on so many times that they were nearer black then white. She sagged against the earl again, panting for breath, and once more fanned her face.

  “What a mob!” Lady Hellier shouted above the ceaseless din around them. “I should not permit half these people to darken my door.”

  “A mob indeed!” Sir Robert bellowed. “I have been waiting upwards of an hour for my first glass of champagne! I note that footmen are circulating on the other side of the room. I told you, Judith, that we should go to the left ...”

  The baronet ranted on, and Bonnie drew herself shakily up and assessed the situation. She was standing immediately beside Francis, but she had recognized long since that they

  could not converse in the carnival atmosphere of Lord Peyton’s ballroom. They would have to repair to the corridor or to one of the lower floors, and she discreetly plucked his sleeve.

  “I must talk to you,” she whispered.

  “Eh?” He bent toward her, cupping his ear. “What was that?”

  ”I said . .

  But the din was not ceaseless after all; as often happened in large groups, everyone seemed to drop his voice at the same instant. Even Sir Robert’s tirade had sputtered to a close, and in the relative hush, Bonnie calculated that her next words would be readily audible.

  ”I said,’’ she finished lamely, “that it is most uncomfortably crowded."

  “That it is." Lady Hellier emitted a sniff of disdain. “And as I indicated, I should not permit half these people in my home. You may be assured, dear’’—she gave Bonnie one of her chilly smiles—‘‘that while our assembly will be smaller, it will be vastly more elegant ..."

  She continued in this vein, and as she did so, the level of noise in the ballroom once more swelled to a roar. Her ladyship was compelled to raise her voice higher and higher, and at length, when she was virtually screaming, Bonnie judged it safe to tweak Francis’ sleeve again.

  ”I must speak with you," she hissed.

  "I cannot hear you!”

  Francis shook his head and apologetically spread his hands, and Bonnie's eyes darted round the room. They were situated close to a wall, she saw; and perhaps, if she could maneuver Francis to the nearest comer, it would be sufficiently quiet to convey at least the gist of her message—

  ”... and I fancy we shall have a happy announcement for our guests!" Lady Hellier shrieked in conclusion.

  “Announcement?" David yelled. "What announcement?”

  Announcement. Dear God. Bonnie had not considered this contingency, and as she clenched her hands in horror, she distantly chided herself for her obtuseness. Her ladyship had probably planned from the outset to announce their engagement at her assembly. No, there was no "probably" about it: in view of her ultimate objective, she would not have wished to introduce her niece into society. Another of those peculiar hushes descended over the ballroom, and Bonnie clearly heard the snap of her fan splintering to pieces beween her fingers.

  "Did Bonnie not tell you?” Lady Hellier said.

  The earl frowned in puzzlement, and Bonnie struggled to collect her wits. Fortunately, the background noise had erupted again—had, if possible, reached yet a higher pitch—and she drew David’s head down and placed her lips directly against his ear.

  "She is referring to the announcement that I am your long-lost colonial relative,” she whispered. "She intends it to be very dramatic. Very . . . very happy.”

  "Umm.” He raised his head and nodded.

  "So we are to have an announcement!” Her ladyship beamed with delight. “There remains but to decide who is to make it. And since you are the head of the family, David—"

  The party just behind them burst into raucous laughter, and Lady Hellier stopped and peered irritably over her shoulder. She must remove the earl from the scene at once, Bonnie thought wildly, before the discussion could proceed. She would advise him she had suddenly taken ill, which—inasmuch as her knees were fairly knocking together and her stomach lurching with panic—was far from being a lie. She turned toward him and detected a disturbance at their left; evidently someone was attempting to force his way through the crowd.

  "David?”

  To force her way through the crowd. Bonnie amended; it was a female voice. Miss Elwell or Miss Godwin, no doubt, and she repressed an hysterical inclination to laugh. Maybe it was fitting that she should be rescued by one of his lordship’s barques of frailty. The top of the woman’s head became visible, and Bonnie observed that she was wearing a leghorn hat. Apparently, she reflected dryly, Mrs. Pruitt had not adequately explained the type of attire appropriate to a ton assembly.

  The woman forged doggedly ahead, and in the crush, her bonnet slipped from her head and came to rest on her shoulders. Her hair was red, Bonnie saw, the same pale red as her own. Except that it was streaked with gray, like Lady Hellier’s . . . Bonnie’s heart crashed into her throat, and she desperately assured herself that she was wrong. It could not be—

  “Cornelia!” David gasped.

  “Cornelia!” Lady Hellier choked.

  “David!” She bounded the last few feet to his side and hurled herself against him. “David!” She stood back and fondly studied his face. “It really is my little brother, all grown up!” She glanced past him. “And Judith,” she said, her tone unmistakably cooling. “And Robert.” It cooled a bit further. “And is this your son?” Her sapphire eyes moved to Francis.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He reached out and wrung her hand, much as he had Bonnie's on the occasion of their first meeting. "Francis.”

  “Francis.”

  Cornelia nodded, then transferred her eyes to Bonnie, and Bonnie braced herself for the inevitable moment of exposure. Perhaps, she thought philosophically, it was for the best. Once she learned the truth. Lady Hellier would abandon any notion of an engagement, and the earl need never know he had been deceived.

  “And here is my own dear Bonnie.” Cornelia stepped forward and spread her arms. "Come now, child. Haven’t you a word of welcome for your mother?”

  The outstretched arms closed around her, pulled her close, and Bonnie felt Cornelia’s breath in her ear.

  “Nell told me what you are at,” she whispered rapidly, “and I shall play my part. But I suggest we leave immediately lest we confuse our stories.”

  “Y-yes,” Bonnie whispered back.

  Cornelia released her and smiled round the group. “I was so eager to see you that I couldn’t bear to wait till the end of the assembly. However, I now discover myself quite ex

  hausted from my journey. So perhaps, David, I could prevail on you and Bonnie to drive me home.”

  “So soon?” Lady Hellier snapped. “You’ve scarcely arrived. You have not even had an opportunity to hear of Bonnie’s—”

  “I shall tell Mama all about the ball!” Bonnie interposed shrilly. “Please do let us hurry, Uncle David. Mama is sorely in need of her rest.”

  In point of fact, Cornelia seemed possessed of considerably mor
e energy than Bonnie herself, and it was she who took the lead as they struck out across the ballroom. The crowd had thinned a bit, Bonnie observed—it took them only a few minutes to reach the entry—but she soon discovered that the guests had dispersed to other parts of the house. There was a great throng in the saloon, which was serving as a refreshment parlor, and the ground story was crammed with people evidently seeking relief from the crush on the floors above. Indeed, Bonnie saw when they stepped outside, many had carried their search for fresh air beyond the confines of the house; the front steps and the footpath were nearly as crowded as they had been when she and David arrived. Sufficiently crowded, at least, that it was impossible to conduct a private conversation, and they stood in silence while one of Viscount Peyton’s servants summoned the barouche.

  “Is that Lady Cornelia?” Kimball gasped, gaping down from the box.

  “None other,” she responded cheerfully. “But pray drive us out of this bedlam, Kimball. We shall talk at home.”

  Bonnie fancied that the “bedlam” of Lord Peyton's rout might well be audible for miles around, but as they turned from Curzon Street into South Audley, the roar behind them faded to a mere buzz. Cornelia untied the ribbons of her hat, which was still flapping round her shoulders, removed it, set it in her lap. and burst into laughter.

  “Good God, David. I said inside that you were all grown up, but I am compelled to wonder. You are approaching forty years of age, and I find you still perpetrating your pranks."

  "It is hardly a prank.” He sounded most indignant, but as the carriage rolled beneath a streetlamp, Bonnie detected the flash of his winsome grin. "Did Nell not explain the circumstances of our charade?”

  "I granted her no chance,” Cornelia confessed. "As soon as she advised me where you were, I set out for the assembly.” "Which was an excessively foolish thing to do,” the earl said severely. "Had Judith and Robert started posing questions about your life in Barbados, we should have been in a wretched hobble indeed.”

  "Perhaps it was foolish, but I truly could not wait another moment to see you. I’ve missed you, David. I've missed you every day for five-and-twenty years.”

  "I’ve missed you as well.” His voice was rough, and he elaborately cleared his throat. “And even if your arrival had destroyed our project, I should have been deuced glad to see you.”

  "Yes, the project.” Cornelia cleared her own throat. "As I said. I gave Nell no opportunity to explain. She had time only to warn me that you had engaged a young woman to pose as my daughter.” She patted Bonnie’s knee. "I should guess it has to do with your estate.”

  “So it does. Judith and Robert have been spending Francis’ inheritance somewhat prematurely ..." He described several of their more flagrant transgressions, then the fortuitous meeting with Bonnie which had prompted him to invent a niece.

  "Dear Judith.” Cornelia emitted a wry chuckle. "I collect she hasn’t changed a whit. I still judge it a prank, David, but I shall be delighted to abet it. Tell me the details you and Bonnie have concocted.”

  "I shall do so later. First you must tell me how you’ve fared through the years. Why the devil didn’t you write?” "Because I did not want Tom to suppose I regretted the life I had left behind. And I didn’t, David. Much as I missed you, I did not regret my marriage for an instant.”

  "You speak in the past tense," he said gently. "Is Tom . . .?”

  “Dead.” She nodded. “He died of fever six months since.”

  “I am sorry,” David murmured.

  “Do not be sorry. We had almost twenty-five good years together, and I daresay that's twenty-five more than Judith has had with Robert. Good years and prosperous ones; he left me exceedingly well-fixed. That is ironic, is it not? That Tom and I should grow wealthy while Judith and Robert slid to the very brink of poverty? I wish Papa could know."

  A note of bitterness had crept into her voice, but before she could say anything further, the carriage stopped in front of David's house. As Kimball leapt down from the box, Nell and Alice flew out the door and down to the footpath; and Bonnie feared that the three servants between them might well suffocate Cornelia with the enthusiasm of their welcome. But at length, simultaneously laughing and weeping, they shepherded her up the steps and into the vestibule.

  “Are you too tired to relate your adventures yet tonight?” David asked.

  “To the contrary; you could not prevent me. And then I must hear everything that has happened at Sedgewood since my departure.”

  David inclined his head and beckoned them toward the library, but they all began to chatter in unison before they reached the doorway. “You do recollect Josh ... ” “…and Lady Amanda has three grandchildren . . .” “… and the stable was struck by lightning, but luckily . . .”

  She had no place in their reunion, Bonnie thought. Nor could she afford to sit up half the night and risk sleeping till noon again. Cornelia's arrival had snatched her from the jaws of disaster, but she could not continue to trust to Fate. No, she must rise early in the morning and go to Orchard Street and advise Francis that she did not intend to wed him. The happy voices in the library rose, and she crept across the foyer and up the staircase.

  12

  The long-case clock chimed twice as Bonnie reached the vestibule, and a glance at the face confirmed her surmise that it was only half past seven. Far too early to call on Francis, but she had wakened at first light and been unable to fall back to sleep. She shifted her gaze to the front door, reflecting that a leisurely walk to Orchard Street would be most refreshing, but the indelicate rumble of her stomach reminded her that she had eaten almost nothing during the preceding six-and- thirty hours. She sighed, laid her bonnet and gloves on the pier table, and strode through the dining room to the breakfast parlor. She had expected to find it empty, but Cornelia was seated at the table, reading the newspaper as she ate.

  Not Cornelia, Bonnie chided herself, pausing at the entry. In her conversations with the earl, she had employed his name for his sister, but it would be excessively rude to address her in such familiar fashion.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Carlisle,” she said.

  “Mrs. Carlisle?” She looked up and emitted a disdainful snort. “Nonsense! If I cannot be your mother, I can surely be your friend. You are to call me by my Christian name; I shall answer to nothing else. Now serve yourself and sit down, and let us chat.”

  Bonnie nodded and proceeded to the sideboard, but as had

  happened the morning before, the sight of the food quite destroyed her appetite. However, she fancied she must try to eat something, and she took a spoonful of scrambled eggs, one rasher of bacon, and a scone. Cornelia eyed this meager meal with considerable interest, and Bonnie anticipated some sort of reproof. But—though she could not conceive why— she thought she detected the twitch of a smile at the comers of Cornelia’s mouth.

  “I did not suppose you would be up so early,” Bonnie said, spreading her napkin in her lap. “I assumed you would sit up half the night with David and the servants.”

  “So I did.” Cornelia nodded. “But I’ve risen before dawn every morning for nearly twenty-five years, and one does not break such a habit in the space of a few weeks. The wealth I alluded to last evening did not come as a gift from heaven. Tom and I worked our fingers to the bone for every groat.”

  She was folding the paper as she spoke, and Bonnie observed that, indeed, her hands were red and rough and her fingernails broken to the merest stubs. Not at all like Lady Hellier’s smooth hands and long, perfectly manicured nails. Nor was that the only difference between the sisters, Bonnie saw, surreptitiously studying Cornelia through her lashes. She had registered last night, when Cornelia embraced her, that they were almost precisely the same height, but she now estimated that Cornelia outweighed her and Lady Heilier alike by some two stone. Which was not to say that she was plump; she could better be described as . . . Bonnie groped for the proper adjective and eventually selected strong; Cornelia had the sturdy body of a farmer’
s wife. And the skin: her face and neck had been burned brown by decades of exposure to the sun, and there was a rash of freckles across her nose.

  “In point of fact,” Cornelia said, “I was up till almost four. The servants retired at half past one, but after they left,

  I continued to talk with David. It was a most instructive conversation.” Her lips twitched again. "I collect that you and he have had your . . . ah . . . differences.”

  “Differences?” Bonnie echoed. Was that how the earl had described their numerous bitter arguments? She risked a tiny bite of egg, but the actual taste of food unsettled her stomach even further. She choked the bite down and began chopping the rest of the egg into little pieces.

  “Differences stemming from your inexcusable conduct.” Cornelia once more inclined her head. “As I understand the situation, you have taken the most shameless advantage of David to launch a search for a husband. Upon the occasion of your first public appearance, you flirted outrageously with any number of eligible young men. and shortly thereafter, you prevailed on Judith to give you a debut. However, you have subsequently fallen in with her scheme to wed you to Francis.”

  “You . . . you believe that?” Bonnie stammered.