by Sara Portman
What in heaven’s name had happened here? Lucy had been present when Bex had been introduced to Lady Constance. How had they become such great friends? Lady Constance, she observed, was clearly pleased and not so very surprised that Bex had called. He must have called before—on multiple occasions, perhaps.
But…
No.
A thought leapt into Lucy’s mind, and she immediately attempted to dismiss it. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.
But the thought refused to be dismissed. Hadn’t he admitted to her that his father wanted him to marry a wealthy widow to rescue their family from financial distress? She fumed. How dare he? He had taken complete leave of his senses, not to mention any last shred of decency, if he had any thought of marrying a woman so advanced in age compared with himself. He might be cynical and jaded, but he was honest—or so she had believed. There was no honesty in this. He could not possibly be fostering genuine affection for a woman perhaps thirty years his elder.
Lady Constance urged Bex to sit and bent to pour him a cup of tea. Lucy caught Bex’s gaze over their host’s bent head and widened her eyes meaningfully.
His shoulders lifted and he gave a slight shake of his head as though he could not discern her meaning.
Silently, she mouthed, “Why are you here?”
He gave another shrug, this time accompanied by a look of innocent confusion.
Liar, she thought; but Lady Constance lifted her attention from the teapot, so Lucy could not continue the surreptitious conversation.
“I apologize, but I’m afraid this pot is barely tepid and not fit to serve. I will have more hot water brought for you.” Lady Constance looked back down at the teapot disapprovingly, as though the impertinent pot had willfully become too cold.
She rose to cross to the bellpull, so manners dictated that Bex rise as well. He moved to stand near Lucy’s side. “What is it?” he hissed.
Lucy looked up and speared him with her most punishing gaze. She had very little practice with disapproving looks, but she sincerely hoped this one was sufficiently severe. “Are you actually trying to court a woman at least a score of years older than you are?” she asked, being careful to keep her voice low enough so that only Bex would hear.
Her accusation only seemed to amuse Bex, which incensed her further.
“It shouldn’t be but a moment,” Lady Constance said, returning to seat herself in one of the French rococo armchairs that flanked the sofa. The gilded, feminine chair seemed an appropriate throne from which the comtesse could preside over social calls.
Bex sat as well and Lucy glowered at him.
He smirked cheerfully at her.
Lucy could not entirely account for the extent of her disappointment. She had no particular visions of Bexley Brantwood as a gallant knight, but she had been thoroughly convinced of his distaste for his father’s proposed remedy to his financial ills.
“Do not let me interrupt your visit, ladies. Do continue on with whatever matter you were discussing before I arrived,” Bex urged.
“We were discussing a performance I am hosting,” Lady Constance informed him, the excitement returning to her eyes. “Madame Castellini is an Italian soprano of international renown.”
“I’ve not heard of Madame Castellini,” Bex said, “but I will admit my tastes are generally not so cultured as to include the Italian operas.”
Lady Constance smiled indulgently at this admission. “You are a heathen, and I shall consider it my personal obligation to undertake your education in the arts, Mr. Brantwood.”
“I believe Mr. Brantwood is being false,” Lucy said abruptly, drawing a sharp gaze from Bex. He lifted his brow. She could feel the dare in his expression. She should reveal him.
“Do explain,” Lacy Constance asked, leaning forward in her seat.
“Mr. Brantwood may not be familiar with the opera, specifically, but I can assure you he is very cultured. He was my personal guide at the British Museum just two days ago and proved exceedingly knowledgeable on the various installations there.” She returned Bex’s curious gaze with a sweetly innocent smile. “He was particularly knowledgeable regarding the snakes and lizards.”
Masculine coal-gray eyes widened but instead of seeming chastened, admiration for her teasing barb lifted the corners of his lips. She felt the beginnings of a flush, despite her present dissatisfaction with him.
Lady Constance inclined her head as though desiring a more thorough examination of Bex in light of this information. “How fascinating. Have you always had an interest in nature and antiquities, Mr. Brantwood?”
“I have an interest in spending time out of the house, Lady Constance. My father and I are often at odds.”
“I believe that is expected between parents and children, is it not?”
“If that is the case, my father and I are particularly competent,” Bex responded.
“My condolences, sir. How tiring. I have no children of my own, and so must pester young people belonging to other parents,” she said, encompassing both Lucy and Bex in her apologetic expression.
“I don’t feel pestered in the least,” Bex assured her. “I find your company immensely entertaining, Lady Constance.”
“You are a consummate flatterer, Mr. Brantwood,” the comtesse said, appearing, despite her words, to have been thoroughly flattered.
Lucy found the entire situation abhorrent. She wanted no part in Bexley Brantwood’s mercenary schemes and she was inexplicably hurt to have been so deceived in his character.
She should not be hurt. He had explicitly warned her that he was a cad, yet she had believed better of him.
She had been so certain that all of London would think her unsophisticated because she had spent her life in the country. To learn they were correct in such a judgment because she had been so easily fooled in the true nature of Bex’s character smarted in the manner of lemon in a cut.
She had actually believed, for all his claims to the contrary, that he possessed a modicum of honor and integrity. How positively rustic of her.
At once, she felt an incredible urgency to be out of his company. She rose to her feet. “I do thank you for the tea, Lady Constance, and for the opportunity to rehearse with Madame Castellini, but I believe it is time for me to take my leave. The duchess is more in need of my assistance than she will sometimes concede. I hate to be gone for too long.”
Bex rose when she did. He watched her closely. She thought he might say something—rather sensed he was about to, but in the end he remained silent. Surely, he would not object to her departure when she was giving him the thing for which he had come—time alone with his prey.
Lady Constance pouted at her. “If you must, ma petite, but mind you are awaiting my carriage tomorrow afternoon. I shall collect you promptly at half past one.”
“Certainly,” Lucy agreed with a nod. She turned and left the room, taking great effort to do so sedately, even though she really wanted to lift her skirts and hurry away as quickly as her legs would take her.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucy was ready, as promised, for her dress appointment at the exclusive shop of Madame Desmarais, despite voicing objections to both Emma and Lady Constance over the unnecessary expenditure on her behalf. Madame Castellini arrived separately at the modiste’s shop approximately one half hour past the appointed time. When one was a renowned opera singer, one could do such things. As the appointment was not the first fitting for the opera singer, Madame Desmarais suggested she try her gown first, directing the elegant woman to a small room off the main shop while Lucy sat with Lady Constance awaiting the reveal of the garment.
“Madame Desmarais has assured me this gown will be unrivaled,” Lady Constance said, delight shining through her features.
Lucy responded with a halfhearted smile. She was happy Lady Constance took such joy in the process, and certainly
would have smiled wholeheartedly, if not for her concerns. She wanted to warn Lady Constance of her suspicions regarding Bex’s intentions, but how could she? Surely, the sophisticated comtesse would take offense at the notion that she could be so easily manipulated. Perhaps, Lucy thought, she should remember that as well. Lady Constance had seen a lot of society. Had she not cautioned Lucy about trusting others and mistaking true friends? Lucy very much wanted to convince herself of this reasoning, but she kept remembering how elated the woman was at Bex’s arrival and how she responded to his flirtations.
Certainly Lady Constance had family who would make certain she was protected from fortune hunters, hadn’t she?
With no way of asking the question outright, Lucy began more indirectly. “If I recall,” she said, turning to the comtesse, “your nephew is Lord Marbury. Is he in London, then, for the session of parliament?”
“He is,” Lady Constance said, but for once, she was decidedly concise.
“You must forgive my lack of fluency regarding the peerage, but where are the Marbury holdings?” Lucy asked, trying to continue the discussion.
“When my father was earl, there were holdings all through Britain,” Lady Constance said, puffing with pride at the statement, “but the primary estate in is Derbyshire.”
“I see,” Lucy said. “Will you retire to the country with your nephew’s family once the season has ended?”
Lady Constance laughed heartily at Lucy’s question, bringing a hand to her chest. “What a surprise that would be,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief, “if I appeared on my nephew’s doorstep demanding to take up residence like some long-forgotten dowager countess.”
“But surely your family…”
“It’s sweet of you to think so, ma petite, but my nephew has not seen me in three decades and is unlikely to recall that he has ever met me at all. I am little more to him than an entry in the family Bible, I am sure.”
“So you have not seen him since you returned to England?” Lucy asked, despite the fact that the question had already been answered.
“He is a very busy man,” Lady Constance said. “For one so young, he has high political ambitions. He could be prime minister one day.” Her chest swelled again with this claim.
Lucy admired her for it, this obvious pride in a nephew who’d not even found the time to visit his aging, childless aunt. “Have you invited him the concert?” she asked.
“Of course, but I do not expect that he shall be able to attend.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said quietly.
“Whatever for, ma petite?”
“It’s obvious you care for him a great deal, even if you do not see him regularly. I am sorry that he has not found the opportunity to call on you.”
“Ah, that was always the way. Boys never pay attention to these things and growing into men rarely changes them. His sister, now, she was always very attentive. An excellent letter writer. I received a thank-you letter for every gift I ever sent to Annabelle and a thoughtful reply to every letter. She and I corresponded quite frequently for years.”
Well, at least there was a niece to pay attention for fortune hunters. “She must be very glad that you have returned to England, then,” Lucy said, brightening with this better news.
Lady Constance smiled, but it was wistful and her eyes held sadness.
Lucy hesitated. She considered what she might say next. Because Lady Constance so valued plain speaking, she chose to be direct. “Is something amiss with your niece, Lady Constance?”
The lady sighed. “I do hope not.”
Lucy would have asked another question, but Madame Castellini emerged from behind the dressing screen at that moment. “Do you like the gown?” the singer asked in heavily accented English.
“Ah, Madame Desmarais,” Lady Constance exclaimed. “La robe est très belle. Magnifique.” She turned to Lucy. “Isn’t the signora stunning in this gown?”
“Absolutely stunning,” Lucy agreed, admiring the rich gown of deep burgundy with a wide, lace-trimmed collar. Even more stunning than the color of the signora’s dress was the hem. It consisted of a wide band of the same fabric, with evenly spaced slashes through which had been pulled billowed puffs of contrasting gauze net in pale coral. It reminded Lucy of the slashed sleeves she had seen in drawings of medieval gowns. “What an uncommon hem,” she exclaimed. “It’s very pretty.”
“Isn’t it?” Lady Constance asked.
“With so much decoration at the bottom of my dress, I should be afraid to walk out of doors,” Lucy said.
Lady Constance shook her head in vehement objection to Lucy’s observation. “No self-respecting French woman is wearing a plain hem these days. The more adorned the better, I say. If you want to appear at the pinnacle of fashion, you must emulate the French. They have a heightened sense of these things. Everyone knows this, ma chere.”
Madame Castellini nodded sagely. “This is true.”
Lucy was not included as everyone, it seemed, for she had not, in fact, known this. She always had limited funds with which to produce and adorn her own dresses, which were not great in number. She could recall with vivid clarity the many times her mother had told her, “Anything below the bust is a waste of good ribbon, dear. Draw the eyes upward.” So it would seem her mother was also out of fashion.
Madame Desmarais held a bolt of pale peach fabric next to the singer in her burgundy gown. “This will be very complementary for Miss Betancourt’s dress, no?”
As much as Lucy admired the rich burgundy gown made for Madame Castellini, she had known the dressmaker would not propose such a rich color for her dress. Jewel tones were for women such as the signora, whose rich coloring was complemented by the boldness of the gown. Lucy’s delicate complexion was more suited to subtle colors and she had lived her life in a palette of soft hues—blush and mint and sky. She mentally added apricot to the list.
“There are beautiful ways of decorating your hem. Allow me to show you some sketches, Miss Betancourt.” With that, the dressmaker lay the bolt of fabric on a table and pulled a large bound book from underneath. She spread it open in Lucy’s lap, displaying the promised illustrations of various decorated hems.
In the end, the ladies decided upon an embroidered hem for Lucy’s concert gown. The dressmaker quickly sketched a design of autumn-colored vines that would contrast the pale peach of Lucy’s dress while at the same time complementing the richer burgundy gown of the evening’s true star.
“You shall have to return for another fitting, Miss Betancourt,” said Madame Desmarais. “I shall not need to see the signora again, but we are just beginning your gown. I shall need to see you in one week.” She turned to Lady Constance. “Will that be acceptable, Madame Comtesse?”
“Oui,” the comtesse responded. “Nous avons dix jours.”
The dressmaker smiled at her satisfied customer. “C’est parfait.”
* * * *
After the fitting, Lady Constance returned Lucy to Worley House in her carriage and Lucy used the opportunity to press further regarding the comtesse’s family in the hopes she would find some reassurance that this woman who lived surrounded by people had someone who was loyal enough to truly look after her interests.
“Lady Constance,” Lucy said, “I hope you will not find me impertinent, but I sense that your niece may be a troubling subject for you. I hope you will accept my sincere apologies for my questions earlier.”
Lady Constance laughed. “Oh, Lucy, ma petite, never apologize for being sincere. Impertinent questions are the only ones worth asking. All the rest are just polite noise.” She patted Lucy’s hand. “I appreciate your concern on my behalf.” She released a burdened sigh. “I suppose I am troubled by my niece.”
“I should be happy to listen if you would like to share your trouble,” Lucy said.
Lady Constance smiled, but there was no h
appiness behind it. “As I told you before, my niece and I were quite close in letters, though we met only a few times. From the time that she was twelve or thirteen, we have written frequently to each other. When she married three years ago, however, her letters became different. And less frequent. I sensed that her husband did not approve of our correspondence.”
“And now,” Lucy asked, “do you sense the same disapproval in her letters?”
Lady Constance turned her face to watch the sights of London through her carriage window. “I have not received a letter from Annabelle in more than a year.”
“Oh, Lady Constance, I am so sorry to hear it. Have you written her, then? And she knows you are in England?”
The comtesse lifted her chin and pursed her lips. “I have written a letter to my niece every week for eleven years. This husband may prevent Annabelle from responding, but he will not keep me from writing.”
No indeed. Lucy could not imagine it. Every week for a year and no reply. “Do you think she receives your letters?” Lucy asked. “If he does not approve of you, would he intercept them? Destroy them?”
“I have no way of knowing the answer to that question.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why doesn’t he approve of you?” Lucy asked.
Lady Constance lifted her shoulders imperiously. “I imagine if he is the sort of man who would not allow his wife to correspond with her own family, then I likely possess a great many traits of which he would not approve. I am surely too outspoken, too French, too independent. I agree with the man in one respect: If he prefers a meek and malleable wife, I should be a corrupting influence, indeed.” Her color deepened as she spoke, her voice rising with her indignation. “Annabelle was a very spirited girl. I shudder to guess what measures such a dominating husband might take to quell that spirit.”
Lucy could very well guess that if Annabelle shared a bloodline with Lady Constance, she could indeed be a very spirited and determined woman. How frightening, to ponder what the circumstances might be. “One always imagines the worst when there is uncertainty,” Lucy said, offering what reassurance she could. “I’m sure things are not so bleak as you fear.”