“And I am not a light-skirt.”
They both sighed. The earl gave the horses the office to start then cursed. “Dash it I am no monk, either.” And he reached over, pulled Maylene closer, and kissed her.
The earth moved. No, the curricle moved. The highbred cattle had been given their orders and were stepping out smartly—right into the path of a high-perch phaeton. With her eyes closed, savoring the forbidden feelings, Maylene did not see the other vehicle. Neither did the earl until the other driver started shouting and the horses tried to veer off the track. The grounds were still muddy, however, so the earl’s curricle slewed onto the wet grass, and kept going, sideways, into a tree. Maylene screamed, the horses screamed, and Socrates swore. Then the curricle splintered.
Hyatt tried to break Miss Treadwell’s fall by grabbing for her, but only succeeded in landing atop her in the mud. Then everyone was shouting and running in their direction across the park, just what neither Socrates nor Maylene wished. They were not hurt, nor were the horses, merely mired and mortified. Pushing Hyatt’s not inconsiderable weight off her with her mud-covered gloves, Maylene scrambled to her feet and surveyed the ruin of another pair of shoes. At least it wasn’t her neck that was broken. “I can only imagine what would have happened, my lord, if you were a rake.”
Then the rest of their party was there, exclaiming, commiserating, finding handkerchiefs, and making room in the other vehicles. Lord Shimpton was relegated to riding at the back of Mondale’s rig, standing at the groom’s position, since Canfield couldn’t and Grover wouldn’t. The viscount muttered, “Don’t s’pose I’d ought to be asking the earl’s advice about m’carriage after all.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Tremont declared that there would be no session that evening, due to the drama of the day. The ladies needed time to recover, she said. Dear Maylene needed a long soak in a hot tub, lest she be stiff, besides black and blue. And Lady Tremont needed to recover her equilibrium, after the shock of knowing that her only child could have died in the accident. She sympathized with the duke more than ever at his temporary loss of Belinda, but would be no help to him in her emotional state. So she took up the new gothic novel from the lending library and disappeared into her bedroom.
Aunt Regina decided her own nerves were so frazzled that, since the brandy Maylene ordered had arrived that afternoon, she needed a restorative—or two.
As a result, Maylene had too much time alone, time to feel every bruise, time to think. She tried thinking of finding the lost heiress, but only found herself wondering if Lord Hyatt kissed Belinda so fervently. Then she took out her notes on the missing teacup to Lady Pritchard’s prized set. One of the servants undoubtedly broke it, but Maylene did not wish to cost some poor maid her job. How much, she wondered, would Mr. Wedgewood charge to repeat the pattern? And would Lord Hyatt repeat his?
Teacups be damned, why in the world did the man keep kissing her? Was he mad? That or he must think she was a high flyer like Aurora Ashford, and he was about to offer her carte blanche. Well, she wasn’t, and she would never accept such an arrangement, even if she did accept his kiss. And that was another conundrum: why she let a nearly betrothed, clearly bullying man kiss her, twice. Maylene could have stopped him this afternoon, she knew, well before things—things like the reins—got out of hand. But she hadn’t stopped him, had shared in the earth-shaking embrace, and that hurt more than any bruise.
Hyatt was not precisely a gazetted rake, just as he’d said. He’d never been accused of debauching an innocent, and his name was not linked to every Bird of Paradise in the demimonde, only a select, discreet few when he came to town for Parliament. And the choice had to be his, for the number of hopeful misses trying to trap the Ideal into marriage was second only to those trying to tempt him into trysts. Or so Maylene heard from Aunt Regina.
They were all fools. Oh, he was wealthy, and she could attest to his generosity. And he was very well built. Maylene could attest to that, too, having felt every hard plane of his firm build when he landed atop her. He was attractive, beyond doubt. But the Earl of Hyatt was so stubborn, stiff-rumped, and sure of himself, that lesser mortals were as dirt beneath his boots. No self-respecting woman should ever think of allying herself to such a tyrant, either in marriage or in a less sanctioned liaison.
Maylene decided she would not think of him at all, in any way, shape, or well-built form. So she went in search of company. Aunt Regina was snoring in the parlor, and Campbell had retired for the night with the rest of her opened bottle. Some spirits lasted forever in this house; others did not.
Thinking of spirits, Maylene scratched on her mother’s door. As soon as her mama had set aside her novel and patted the place next to her on the bed, Maylene settled back upon the pillows and asked, “Mama, just who is Max?”
Lady Tremont fiddled with the lace on her frilly nightcap, not looking at her daughter. “Why do you ask, dear?”
Her mother was blushing, by heaven! Maylene’s suspicions were strengthened, if not confirmed. “I always assumed he was one of your infants, lost at birth. You love him so much and seem so close to his memory.”
“Oh, yes, dear. I will never forget my Max.”
“But, Mama, if Max died as an infant, he wouldn’t have a dog of his own, would he? I mean, Canfield might easily meet up with his lost leg some day, but how can Max have what never was?” For that matter, now that Maylene thought of it, how could a baby speak to those other souls? How could he speak to Lady Tremont?
“Oh, Alex was Max’s dog, all right. They went everywhere together. Why, Alexander died trying to pull Max out of that burning inn. That’s why they were buried together, you know. Actually, I think it was because no one was sure which bones or ashes belonged to whom, but no matter. They were close in life, close in death, so it only figures that they would be close in the beyond. And Alex has been a great help to our investigations, you know.”
Maylene didn’t know. A dog was guiding Mama’s way through the hereafter? A dead dog? Good grief. “Then Max is not an infant, not one of my brothers.”
“Why no, dear, he is your father.”
“My father?” Maylene felt as if a huge weight had fallen on her, knocking her breath away, for the second time that day. “But my father’s name was Maynard, and you said you never wished to speak to him again, in this life or the next.”
“Yes, dear, but Maximilian Treadwell was Maynard’s brother. His younger brother, I am sorry to say. He had no money of his own, and no prospects. My parents refused the match, although we had loved each other forever, it seemed. Then Tremont offered for me, out of spite, I always supposed, and jealousy of his brother. He was always a small-minded man, you know. My father accepted his suit.”
“But you and Max…?”
“Oh, we ran away, of course. What else were we to do? But my father and Maynard caught up with us before we reached the border. Not before we had spent the night together, though.”
Lady Tremont shook her head, setting the lace on her cap to fluttering. Not as violently as Maylene’s heart was fluttering, of course. “Then…then I am a bastard?”
“Oh, no, Maynard said it did not matter, that he was vowed to have me for his wife. Only a selfish man could have done such a thing, don’t you think? But my father agreed, for he’d already spent a portion of the marriage settlements. So the baron and I were married that week, and then you were born. You have my hair and eyes, dearest, but you have Max’s sweet, loving nature. You could not be the child of that ogre, Maynard. Max and I are quite agreed on that.”
“But what happened to Max? Did he ever marry?”
“Oh, yes, a pleasant girl he met on his travels. Max always liked to go exploring, don’t you know. They had no children, unfortunately, before the dreadful fire, or we would not be saddled with Cousin Grover now, of course.”
“And you didn’t mind?”
“What, that Grover would inherit your father’s dignities? Tremont had already bankrupt
ed the estate, so it made no difference to me.”
“No, that Max married someone else.”
“Oh, no, for his wife made him very comfortable. I loved Max far too much to wish him a lifetime of loneliness. And I had you, dear.” Lady Tremont reached over and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “It wasn’t the same, but it was enough, so it was only fair that Max have someone, too, besides Alex.”
“And then he came back to you, after he d—went aloft?”
“Yes, his love reaches out and touches me. Now I have both of you. Isn’t that perfect?”
Perfect, when one of her mother’s loves was dead and the other was an illegitimate daughter? But the arrangement seemed to make her mama happy, so Maylene did not voice her concerns. She kissed her mother good night and returned to her own room, thinking about a love that could last for decades, through separation and through marriages to others, through death itself.
Maylene believed in such an enduring love as much as she believed that Max wasn’t a flight of her mother’s fancy, born out of regret and loneliness. But, oh, how she wished such a love were possible, and hers.
*
Early the following morning an enormous bouquet of roses was delivered to Maylene, along with an even larger ham.
“A ham?” Aunt Regina asked. “What kind of beau sends bacon?”
Maylene was reading the note that was written in a dark, bold hand on crested stationery. “It’s from Hyatt, to beg our pardon for his ham-handed driving. He asks if he can call, to reassure himself of my well-being after the accident.”
“Very handsomely done,” her mother approved.
Aunt Regina didn’t. “He could have sent a side of beef, then. You know, because he wasn’t steering right. I don’t like ham. It sticks in m’choppers.”
“You have given me a delightful idea, my dears. Why don’t we have a dinner party this evening? You know we never get to entertain, and this will be perfect. The dear duke can use something to brighten his days, and we can show the earl that we have no hurt feelings.”
No hurt feelings? Every bone and muscle in Maylene’s body hurt, no thanks to him. “They’ll already have engagements for dinner, Mama. You know that the Quality never eat at their own tables.”
“We are Quality, and do not forget that. We can ask. Yes, and we’ll invite Lord Shimpton, too, and Lieutenant Canfield. And Lady Crowley and her niece, who is having her come-out soon. Perhaps she’ll do for Shimpton, since you are so determined not to have him. At any rate, he can use the practice of speaking to other young ladies. And dear Canfield needs to see he is accepted in Society. I suppose we shall have to invite Tremont to round out the numbers.”
“Oh, not Cousin Grover, Mama, please.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but he is head of the family, you know. Besides, I believe Lady Crowley’s niece will have a handsome dot. If Lord Shimpton does not appeal to her, she might just take a shine to Cousin Grover.”
“The only thing that shines about that ninny is his bald pate,” Aunt Regina said. “I offered to take him to my wig-maker any number of times. Still, he’ll come to dinner, if only for the ham. And turtle soup.” When Maylene gasped at the expense, she added, “Mock turtle soup, then. But we absolutely must have turtle soup if a duke is coming.”
Lady Tremont and her aunt started debating courses and covers, while Maylene started calculating costs. In view of their obvious delight to be entertaining again, even on such a modest scale, Maylene could not protest. Instead, she started writing out invitations for Campbell’s nephews and the other lads to deliver and wait for responses, so she knew how much food to order.
Everyone accepted, so Treadwell House turned into a beehive of activity. As in a beehive, the queen retired to her bedchamber to get ready for the evening; Lady Tremont had to catch up on her beauty sleep so those ugly blue shadows under her eyes—caused by worry over her daughter—disappeared. Aunt Regina had to polish her ivory teeth and her paste pearls and her own silver-plated epergne, a huge monstrosity with elephants and monkeys and palm trees sprouting in all directions. Filled with Hyatt’s roses, perhaps it wouldn’t look so terrible, Maylene decided, although its height would make conversation impossible. Considering the mismatched company, however, that was not necessarily a drawback.
While her mother and great-aunt were preparing themselves, having declared themselves not at home to callers, Maylene prepared the house. She consulted with Cook over the menu and Campbell over the wines. She went to Gunter’s to order ices, and to Covent Garden flower market to purchase ferns to sit on the bare spots of the dining room carpet. She worked with the maids to wipe the good china, and with the footmen to clean the chandelier. The little-used dining table needed rubbing with beeswax, and the windows needed scrubbing. By the time the candles—wax, not tallow—needed lighting, Treadwell House was glistening, and Maylene was groaning. She was exhausted, she ached, she only wanted her bed. Instead, she got her mother, her great-aunt, and Nora fussing over her.
“What do you mean, you’re not ready?” Lady Tremont shrieked. “You’ve had all day to prepare!”
At least her hair would not take ages, and she had only the one gown suitable for evening, a celestial blue lutestring with an ecru lace overskirt. It wasn’t entirely out of style, and one of the earl’s roses tucked in the neckline was a nice touch, they all decided, since she refused to wear any of Aunt Regina’s glass beads. Maylene did let her great-aunt apply the hares-foot to cover a slight bruise on her cheek from yesterday’s fall, and a bit of rouge to give her some color.
She need not have bothered, for none of the gentlemen noticed her, not with Lady Crowley’s niece in the room. Miss Isabella Tolliver-Jones was a Diamond of the first water, a petite brunette with rounded shape and dimples. She smiled through lowered lashes, she giggled, and she lisped. Her gown was figured white satin, with three ribboned flounces, and she wore a crown of white rosebuds in her perfect ringlets. Maylene felt old, ugly, and out of fashion. Then she felt worse for being mean-spirited. Miss Tolliver-Jones was a charming young lady, and if she wanted to bat her big brown doe eyes at short-in-the-upper-storeys Shimpton, can’t-dance Canfield, or bellows-to-mend Baron Tremont, Maylene wished her well. Miss Tolliver-Jones, however, had eyes for no one but the Earl of Hyatt.
“He’s engaged, you ninny,” Maylene wanted to shout. “And he is too old, too bold for a dainty spun-sugar morsel like you.” But she didn’t, of course. And if her own blue eyes were turning green with envy at the sweet compliments he paid the girl, bringing an adorable blush to dewy cheeks that needed no enhancement or camouflage, well, no one was noticing her, so Maylene didn’t have to worry. She didn’t have to worry about the epergne hindering conversation, either, for Shimpton was totally tongue-tied in the beauty’s presence, Canfield grew morose when he couldn’t rise to his feet to kiss her hand or escort her in to dinner, and Cousin Grover was silently staring at her through his looking glass with the same avidity he’d bestowed on the raspberry tarts. Only Hyatt seemed undaunted, offering his arm and his charm with equal polish.
He didn’t care for Lady Belinda at all, Maylene thought, angry for the missing heiress’s sake.
And Maylene didn’t care for ham, either. And the mock turtle soup tasted bitter.
Chapter Fifteen
Socrates couldn’t decide which was less conducive to good digestion: the gruesome epergne or Miss Treadwell’s glower. What the deuce did the female want from him? Here he was doing his best to be polite to her odd companions, and all he received back was dagger glances. If looks could kill, he’d be as dead as one of the elephants on the centerpiece. But, devil take it, he’d almost killed the female, so he was conscience-bound to attend her peculiar gathering and be an accommodating guest. Hyatt would never sit down to dinner with such a parcel of peahens otherwise.
He still could not figure out how he’d lost control of himself and the reins, though it had to be Miss Treadwell’s fault. The blasted chit kept making him act like a school
boy. Well, that would end after tonight. In the morning he would set out to find Belinda himself, no matter what Mondale said. He’d start at the house party in Suffolk and not stop until he’d found the lady. Then he’d marry her. The earl had waited because she was so young, when he should have wed her for that very reason. Socrates knew he could have kept her safe from danger then, and safe from buffle-headed notions, if that was what had sent her haring off. They should have at least announced the engagement; no one would dare interfere with Hyatt’s chosen bride. Now Belinda was missing, and Socrates was sitting game for silly twits like Miss Tolliver-Jones.
The persistence of pudding-heads like the little beauty was the reason he eschewed Polite Society, the reason he did not do the Season, the reason he’d offered for Mondale’s chit in the first place. As his grandmother was constantly reminding him, now that he was nearing thirty, he needed to set up his nursery.
Mostly though, he needed to be free from the endless, everywhere pursuit.
Perhaps that was why Miss Treadwell constantly set him off balance. She was the one female of his acquaintance who did not wish to wed him or bed him. She loathed him, which was refreshing in an admittedly muddle-minded way. Lud, for all her sins, he’d never have forgiven himself if she’d come to harm in his curricle. And he’d hate like hell to try explaining his lapse to Max, or Max’s dog.
The thought brought a smile to his lips, which caused Miss Tolliver-Jones to simper. Miss Treadwell never simpered. She did, however, glare like a Greek goddess sending thunderbolts. Maybe one would hit the epergne. Dash it, would this dinner never end? He wished he’d sent a book, instead of a ham.
*
After dinner, the men shared a tolerable port, and Hyatt discussed with the duke his intentions of starting his own search.
“But I have had experienced men search every inch of a forty-mile circumference of the spot. No one saw her. No, if she were there, my men would have found her.”
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