Her tone was playful, but Henry could feel the palpable hum of her hopeful excitement. He hated to disappoint her. “I will admit no such thing. I like her, yes. In fact, if you must know the truth, I find I like her too much to make her my mistress, much as I long to. But love her? No.” He shook his head. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t signify.”
“Then I feel sorry for you.”
“Don’t waste your pity on me. This is how it must be.”
Eleanor shook her head solemnly. The hopeful spark in her eyes had all but disappeared. “You have no idea what you’re missing, Henry. No idea at all.”
He sincerely hoped she was mistaken.
***
Lucy was overjoyed to see a familiar figure standing on the front steps of Rosemoor House as she rode up a quarter hour later. “Mr. Wilton,” she called out with delight, rushing toward him in eager pleasure. “How wonderful to see you. You received my letter, then?”
“Miss Abbington,” he said, removing his hat and running a hand through his mop of pale curls. His round brown eyes were full of warmth. His father was the vicar of Hollowsbridge and a kind, generous, man—a scholar at heart. His only son, just turned two and twenty, was also a scholar, though the younger Wilton preferred the sciences over the philosophy and literature the vicar favored. Just seeing his face made Lucy long for home.
“How good to see you,” he said. “Yes, I received your letter. I was just speaking with Mrs. Stafford when I learned you were not at home. How are you finding London?”
“Very exciting. Certainly not as quiet as home, to be sure.” She looked up at the darkened sky as the first, fat raindrops fell softly on her skin. “Come, join me for a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, Miss Abbington. That would be delightful.” With hat in hand, Mr. Wilton followed Lucy inside to the parlor and took a seat opposite her. Lucy called for Penwick and arranged for tea to be brought at once. Her heart was racing. She could barely wait to hear what news Mr. Wilton brought.
Only once she’d poured the aromatic brew—peppermint and chamomile, her favorite—for Mr. Wilton and took several dainty sips from her own steaming cup did she dare inquire. “So, Mr. Wilton.” She swallowed hard and set down her cup, hands trembling. She studied his face carefully. His smugly satisfied smile infused her with a sudden rush of hope. “Have you spoken with anyone at the college about my request? Dare I hope you can help me in any way?”
“That’s just what I came to tell you, Miss Abbington. I’ve spoken at length with my mentor, Professor Williams, and he’s quite intrigued by you. A very forward-thinking man, he is. You see, most of the faculty is threatened by the amateur, but I spoke quite candidly with him about your exceptional abilities and he’s willing to meet with you.”
Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. Had she heard correctly? She leaned forward in her seat and laid a hand on his sleeve. “No, it cannot be true.”
“It is true indeed, Miss Abbington. He teaches a laboratory on Wednesday afternoons at one, and he has agreed to meet with you immediately following at two-thirty. He will go over the day’s lesson with you and allow you to use the equipment. With his assistance, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” she said breathlessly. “However did you manage this?”
“As I said, he was intrigued. I think perhaps he is sure I am exaggerating your skills and wishes to prove me wrong. But with the dearth of educated practitioners in Hollowsbridge, Professor Williams agrees you should further your training.”
Lucy was speechless. It was too good to be true.
“Yes, a very forward thinker he is,” Mr. Wilton said as he picked up his teacup and sipped with a satisfied smile.
Lucy barely heard anything else he said, her mind was racing so quickly. Would she truly be able to go? What would she tell the Rosemoors? No doubt they would find the arrangement unacceptable. She would speak with Aunt Agatha. Surely Auntie would understand the circumstances and help her to convince them. This was the most exciting day in her life. Forget the ton, forget Lord Mandeville and his—
“Miss Abbington?” Penwick was standing in the doorway holding a white card in his hand. “Lord Thomas Sinclair is inquiring as to whether or not you are at home. He is in the drawing room at present with Lady Rosemoor and the misses.”
She resolutely shook her head. “Thank you, Penwick. Please tell Lord Thomas I am not at home.”
“He will tell Lord Thomas no such thing, Lucy.” Aunt Agatha stood in the doorway, her hands planted on her generous hips, her mouth curled into a disapproving scowl.
Lucy looked to Mr. Wilton who stood at once, one hand fumbling in his coat. “Miss Abbington, our business is concluded and I will leave you to your caller.” He produced a slip of paper and laid it on the table. “I have written out everything you need to know. I shall see you Wednesday, then?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Wilton. Thank you ever so much!” Impulsively, she rushed over and kissed his weather-roughened cheek.
Mr. Wilton bowed awkwardly, his face reddening. “Yes, of course.”
“Come, Mr. Wilton,” Aunt Agatha said. “I will see you out.” She followed him, tut-tutting all the while. Moments later she returned to peer back through the doorway. “Now go, Lucy,” she said, waving her hands toward the drawing room. “Smooth your hair and your gown and go see to your caller at once.”
With a sigh, Lucy obeyed, forcing her mouth to form a smile as she stepped into the drawing room.
“Ah, there she is,” Jane called out.
Sinclair stood and reached for Lucy’s hand. As he planted a kiss upon her knuckles, she averted her gaze to the window, framed in yellow silk. She frowned at the dreary gray sheet of steady rainfall that tapped lightly upon the glass.
“It’s delightful to see you again today, Miss Abbington. How fortunate that you were able to enjoy a stroll with Lord Mandeville this afternoon before the weather turned so dismal.”
Lucy’s stomach lurched at the mention of Lord Mandeville’s name, and she heard Susanna’s sharp intake of breath. No less than four pairs of curious eyes turned toward her.
“Yes, ahem, well, it was such a surprise to run into Lady Worthington in the park, and so generous of her to ask me to join her family.” Lucy looked worriedly to Susanna and was relieved to see that the explanation appeared to placate her.
“Lady Rosemoor tells me you have yet to enjoy the opera since your arrival in Town. I hoped I could convince you—and Mrs. Stafford, of course—to join me tomorrow evening in my box. It should be an extraordinary program, Tramezzani singing Così Fan Tutte. I would be honored to escort you.”
How on earth could she get out of it? But then an unpleasant idea flitted across her mind. Maybe she shouldn’t get out of it. A part of her wanted to punish Lord Mandeville for his blunt words. Another part longed to see once more that flicker of jealousy she’d witnessed earlier. She knew it wasn’t right to play such games, yet she did need to play her role here in London. She had to at least pretend to allow herself to be courted. And who better than Lord Thomas Sinclair? He was safe. After all, if he were an inveterate rake as Lord Mandeville had suggested, then she had no worries of offending his heart or involving her own. And it would surely set Susanna’s mind at rest, especially after Sinclair’s little slip. Yes, this was the perfect solution.
She’d bite her lip and graciously accept his invitation. Looking up at Sinclair, she feigned what she hoped appeared a shy smile.
“Thank you, Lord Thomas,” she murmured. “That would be delightful.”
Lady Rosemoor set her mouth in a tight line and looked to Jane with obvious disapproval, but Susanna and Aunt Agatha looked pleased.
“How kind of you, Lord Thomas,” Aunt Agatha said. “Oh, I so love the opera.”
“Splendid.” He rose and bowed to Lucy. “It is settled, then. I shall see you tomorrow evening, Miss Abbington, and I look forward to deepening our acquaintance.”
Lucy could only wonder how she would possibly endure
his company. It would surely be a long night.
He turned and nodded toward the women. “Ladies, I bid you all a good afternoon.” He strode out with an arrogant grin on his all-too-handsome face.
***
Lucy walked quietly down the hall and knocked on Aunt Agatha’s bedchamber door. “Auntie?”
The door opened. “Yes, dear?”
“Might I have a word with you?”
“Of course, come in. You must be thrilled about the opera tomorrow. I confess, I have so longed...” Her aunt trailed off and peered anxiously into Lucy’s face. “What’s wrong, dear? You are chewing on your lip. Don’t you want to go to the opera with Lord Thomas? He seems an amiable sort, and besides, you must take advantage of all the opportunities you have with eligible young men. You’ve barely made any acquaintances besides Lord Mandeville, after all.”
Lucy’s stomach flipped nervously and her palms dampened.
“Of course I’m looking forward to the opera with Lord Thomas.” She smiled cheerfully while inwardly she groaned. “We’re sure to have a delightful time.”
Aunt Agatha nodded vigorously in agreement, and led Lucy to the bed.
Lucy sat facing her aunt and took her hands in her own. “But no, I wished to speak with you about Mr. Wilton’s visit today.”
“Oh, that. Yes, it was nice to see a face from home, wasn’t it?”
“It was indeed. But I wanted to ask...that is...” Lucy took a deep breath before continuing hurriedly. “You see, Mr. Wilton has made arrangements for me to visit the Veterinary College weekly for a bit of tutelage, and, oh Auntie, you must help me. I must be allowed to go.” She could no longer curb her enthusiasm.
Aunt Agatha pulled her hands from Lucy’s grasp. “Whatever do you mean, tutelage? You cannot mean you are to attend classes at the college yourself?” Her eyes widened as she raised a hand to her mouth.
“No, nothing like that. But one of Mr. Wilton’s professors has agreed to meet with me on Wednesday afternoons to help me with some training. I promise I shall continue to fulfill all the duties befitting a proper young lady, if you’ll just allow me this...this...incomparable opportunity.”
Aunt Agatha shook her head, her curls dancing madly about her head. “Absolutely not, Lucy. Why, it’s unheard of. You are here to enjoy the social Season, not to waste time poring over moldering tomes, or worse yet, masquerading as a student.”
“I know, and I will continue to enjoy the Season. This is only one afternoon a week, and no one save the Rosemoors will know of it.” She hated the petulant tone of her own voice.
“I’m sorry, but I know your papa would never allow it,” she said, shaking her head resolutely. “No, there is no way.”
Lucy felt the blood rise in her face. There had to be a way. She rubbed her fingertips across the nubby texture of the counterpane as she cast about to formulate a plan.
“It’s too bad about the opera, then.” She looked to the ground and solemnly studied her scuffed slippers.
“What do you mean?” Her aunt narrowed her eyes with obvious suspicion.
“And it’s too bad I shall no longer have interest in any of the gentlemen who were so kind to come and call this afternoon. Who had we? Lord Thomas, Sir Alan, Lord Trollington, Mr. Bolingbroke...” Lucy trailed off, noting that her aunt was beginning to puff up, her mouth set in a pursed scowl.
Time to play her trump card.
“Not to mention Lord Mandeville. He appeared quite attentive this afternoon in the park.”
“Lucy Abbington, what are you suggesting? Are you saying that if I don’t allow this, this...nonsense,” she sputtered, “that you will refuse to consider any of the gentlemen courting you?
“I’m only saying I will be so very disappointed that I might sink into despair. No, I couldn’t possibly allow myself to be courted—I shall be far too maudlin.” Lucy clasped her hands in her lap and raised her eyes to the ceiling.
“I cannot believe this, from my own niece. Why, I’ve raised you as my own, and this is the thanks I get? Such impertinence!” Aunt Agatha’s face was a mottled red.
Lucy knew she needed to change her tactics at once. “Come, Auntie,” she said enthusiastically, “say I can go. If you do, I promise I’ll give serious consideration to each and every one of the gentlemen who choose to court me. I shall be a model young lady. Say yes, please!”
“What choice have I, with you blackmailing your own aunt? You should be ashamed of yourself, Lucy, resorting to such despicable tactics.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave Lucy a sidelong glare, but Lucy detected a slight softening of her features.
The dear woman had never been able to refuse her anything she truly desired, had she? And she had asked for very little in her twenty years, content as she was with her life. Surely her aunt realized how very important this was to her. Lucy leaned toward her aunt and planted a fond kiss on the woman’s cheek. “I am somewhat ashamed, but you see, it was the only way you’d agree. This is important to me, Auntie, can’t you see that?”
Aunt Agatha sighed and set her mouth in a tight line. She paused before reaching over to clasp Lucy’s hand. “Yes, I see, dear. I see. Nevertheless, I’m not pleased about it. Why, I’ll have a word with Mr. Wilton, I will, for setting such a bug in your ear.”
“Don’t be cross with poor Mr. Wilton. He was just doing as I asked. I wrote to him as soon as we arrived in Town. It’s really not so bad, is it? Only an afternoon each week. And I promise you, Auntie, I shall honestly try to...well, I shall be most agreeable with the gentlemen. I will make an effort.” Lucy squeezed her aunt’s hand.
“I know you will.” She patted Lucy’s cheek. “You’re a good girl, dear, always true to your word. Even if your priorities are not quite right.” She heaved herself to her feet and crossed to the door. “However, your papa is going to be furious with us both when he hears of this.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Must he? It’s really not necessary, is it?”
“I suppose not. Not right away, at least. Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose I should go speak with Lady Rosemoor at once to make the arrangements. Lord help me.” She threw her arms into the air before opening the door and stepping into the hall.
Lucy couldn’t suppress the giggle that began in her chest and bubbled up involuntarily. It had worked!
Chapter 11
“I don’t know how I managed to let you convince me to join you tonight, Eleanor. I hate the opera.” Henry settled himself into his seat with a grimace.
“How can you hate Mozart? Besides, it’s not as if I physically dragged you here against your will. You could have stayed at home for all I care had Frederick been back to accompany me.”
“Well, then,” he huffed, almost insulted. “Might I borrow your glasses for a moment?” He squinted, trying to make out the faces in a box across the way. Eleanor handed him her opera glasses, and he raised them to his eyes. “Is that Miss Abbington? With Thomas Sinclair?” The blood rose in his face. Whatever was she doing with that scoundrel? Yes, it was surely her. That was her aunt, Mrs. Stafford, with them.
“Henry, give me those.” Eleanor swiped the glasses from his grasp. “It’s not polite to stare, especially with the glasses.” She raised the lenses to her own eyes. “Yes, that is indeed your Miss Abbington. And that is Lord Thomas escorting her. I wonder how he was able to snag a box.”
Henry’s heart began to pound. “She’s not my Miss Abbington, and I thought you said it was impolite to stare,” he said with a scowl.
“Well, so it is. But I had to have a look now, didn’t I?” She put down the glasses and retrieved her fan, absently stirring the air in front of herself. “I thought you said you weren’t in love with her.” She didn’t even attempt to mask the amusement on her face.
“I’m not in love with her,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “But that doesn’t mean I’m happy to see her consorting with the likes of Thomas Sinclair. The Rosemoors are friends of mine, after all, and I therefore fe
el a sort of obligation to, well...” He wasn’t exactly sure what he meant to say. “Surely they know of Sinclair’s reputation. Why ever would they allow him to escort her?”
“I have no idea, but please stop scowling. Here, the music is beginning.” He reached for the glasses again, but Eleanor moved them from his reach. “And please keep your eyes on the stage.”
Henry fidgeted throughout the interminable first act. He tried to concentrate, to determine why opera was supposed to be enjoyable. He vigilantly tried to keep from looking across the way at Lucy and Sinclair, but his eyes involuntarily darted her way every time his peripheral vision perceived a movement, a gesture, from her direction.
He sat forward in his seat, attempting once more to focus on the drama unfolding on the stage. It was no use; he had no idea what it meant, anyway. He sat back and readjusted his cravat. He couldn’t resist one more glance in Lucy’s direction. Even in the darkened theater, he could see that Sinclair was leaning toward her, whispering something in her ear. Damn it. He reluctantly averted his eyes. His traveling gaze settled upon a lovely girl in virginal white, sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap. Lady Helena Waring, daughter of the Duke of Corning. Her face and form were considered perfect by the ton’s standards. Her father’s fortune was vast, his ducal power considerable.
This was Lady Helena’s first Season, and most considered her the year’s Incomparable. If he had to take a wife, it should be someone like Lady Helena. He could scarcely imagine anyone more appropriate. Corning was a powerful Tory but Henry could tell he was fickle, malleable. What he wouldn’t give to have the man’s ear. Marrying Corning’s daughter would all but assure he’d have the man in his pocket. Better yet, Corning held an immense portion of unentailed land that ran along the western boundary of Covington Hall. That land, merged with his own estate, would make Henry the largest single landholder in all of Essex. He wondered suddenly who Lady Helena’s suitors were. Was she already favoring a certain gentleman? He would ask Eleanor about her at intermission, if one ever presented itself. Surely his sister would know.
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