by Joan Smith
“Uncle plans to display some of the things he brought back from India,” he mentioned, while she read it. “Carts are arriving at the door daily, ladened with goods. Enough swords to outfit the Dragoons, along with all manner of artworks. But the pièce de résistance is the jewelry. It will go into the bank vault soon, so this is your chance to see it.”
Samantha returned the invitation to the envelope. “You need not add any further enticement, Monty. A chance to meet Lord Howard is quite sufficient to lure me to the Hall. Mama and I shall be there.”
His dark eyes glinted and he said, “I thought perhaps you would prefer to remain home, learning how to read the leaves. That was your intention, was it not?”
“Only as a last resort if Mrs. Armstrong proves a serious competitor.”
Monteith glanced at the clock on the mantel. It read two minutes to nine. He rose and wandered idly to the window. “There’s a carriage passing by,” he said, and pulled the curtain aside a little to distinguish the carriage.
Samantha glanced out, too. “It’s the vicar’s gig,” she said. “He drove over to his other parish this afternoon. He’s interviewing a new assistant.”
When Monteith remained at the window, Samantha became curious. “Are you thinking of setting up a gig, Monty? Or were you hoping for a glimpse of Mrs. Russet’s new bonnet? She didn’t accompany him.”
“No, I believe I see another set of lights coming this way.”
“Heavy traffic indeed! You will be thinking you’re back in London, with such a plethora of carriages.”
“It looks like Howard’s curricle,” Monty said casually.
Samantha cast a teasing smile at him. “As you are so frightened of offending the nabob, perhaps you had best leave. He might be annoyed to find you here when he comes courting me.” She was gratified that Lord Howard should time his visit with Monty’s. Excitement lent a rosy tinge to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes.
Monteith turned around. “Best order the tea, Sam. It looks as if you must begin learning to read the leaves.”
Samantha’s anger was at being thwarted in front of Monteith. Not only thwarted, but after having boasted in front of him. “Is he going to Armstrong’s?” she asked, and ran to the window, just as Lord Howard descended.
Monty studied her quick flash of anger. His eyes narrowed visibly. “That gets your hackles up, I see! One dislikes to say I told you so, but I did intimate something of the sort, if you will recall.”
“So you did. As worn-out clichés are the style this evening, I shall say ‘It takes one to know one.’ “
“One what?”
“One libertine,” she snipped.
“But I am not calling on Mrs. Armstrong. I am much more decorously employed visiting friends.”
“Decorous, my foot! You knew perfectly well Lord Howard was going there. That’s the only reason you came.”
“I came to deliver Mama’s letter and the invitation.”
“It’s the first time you’ve honored us with this personal delivery service. A footman was always good enough before. You came to spy on Lord Howard and me. Why else have you been monitoring that window so assiduously? That’s despicable behavior, Monteith!”
He studied her, a frown pleating his brow. “You really mean it! You’re really angry that Howard isn’t visiting you.”
“I couldn’t care less about that,” she said, and flung herself impetuously on the sofa. “What angers me is your duplicity.”
“At the risk of bethumping you with yet another cliché, ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much!’ My ill behavior never raised a flush before. A lady must care about a gentleman before she honors him with her wrath. Howard is the gentleman you want, not I. Shall I cross the street and interrupt the tète-à-tète for you?”
“Don’t do it on my account. I expect you only want an excuse to call on Mrs. Armstrong yourself, if the truth were known.”
“Truth is a phantom—unknowable, but I don’t need an excuse to call on a lovely neighbor.”
“I expect you’re implying Mama and I are not lovely then, as you found it necessary to dream up two excuses to call on us.”
Monteith threw up his hands in dismay. “You mistake excuses with reasons. There’s never any point arguing with an angry lady. When logic goes against her, she begins discovering an insult in every innocent comment. You are overwrought to see your rich suitor dangling after the widow.”
“No, Monteith, I am overwrought to see you spying on me.”
“I feel like a Greek messenger.” He sighed, and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “I only delivered the bad news, and here am I receiving your fire. Hold it for Howard,” he suggested, and held the bottle up with a questioning look.
Samantha knew she had been betrayed into bad manners and nodded her acceptance. Mrs. Bright finished her letter and joined them for a glass of wine.
“Did I hear you say Lord Howard is visiting Mrs. Armstrong this evening?” she asked Monteith.
“You did, madam, but if it annoys you, please remember I only brought the news. I didn’t make it.”
“If that’s the sort of man this foolish daughter of mine is encouraging, we had best learn it sooner than later.”
Monteith lifted a brow and studied Samantha. “Actually encouraging him, is she? I must be on my best behavior then, if Sam is going to become my rich aunt.”
Mrs. Bright clamped her lips and nodded her head. “You will look rather ridiculous, Sam—aunt to Monteith and sister-in-law to Irene.”
“Why, Mama, I have nothing against a connection to the Monteiths. You shouldn’t say such a thing in front of Monty.”
“You know that was not my meaning. She is only joking,” she assured Monteith.
“I am accustomed to jokes that aren’t funny,” he answered blandly. “I spend much time at Court and in the House of Lords. This sort of behavior is in no way novel to me.” His tight lips suggested it was the running after money that was more familiar to him.
“Exactly how old are you, Sam?” he asked.
“Twenty-six years and three months.”
“Hardly at that age where you should be snatching at straws,” Monteith suggested, with a quizzing look. “I always thought you and Teddie or Bert might make a match of it.”
“I assure you neither Teddie, Bert, nor myself ever thought anything of the sort,” Samantha told him. “And neither did you till your uncle returned. If you’re planning to sacrifice one of your brothers to save Lord Howard from me, Monteith, you’re wasting your time.”
“You’re making a cake of yourself, Samantha,” her mother said, and drew out her embroidery frame.
The conversation turned to more civil matters, and after ten minutes, Monteith rose to take his leave.
“The butler’s in the kitchen polishing the silver, Sam. Will you get Monty’s hat for him?” her mother said.
Samantha followed Monty out. “With the greatest pleasure,” she muttered under her breath.
“My coming brings you no pleasure, but it’s almost worth it to have the joy of showing me the door, eh, Sam?” He smiled and pulled the open the door, just as Lord Howard was coming from Mrs. Armstrong’s house.
She gave him a pert look. “You should have been a little more patient, Monty! If you could have endured our company five minutes longer, you would have been here for your uncle’s visit. Now, of course, you can hardly come back in without losing face.”
Lord Howard hopped into his curricle and shot past the house without even looking sideways.
Monteith grinned at his fuming hostess. “There must be another cliché to cover this situation,” he said. “Something about counting chickens before they’re hatched suggests itself.”
Samantha reined in her temper and smiled brightly. “It was a very short visit, was it not? Hardly long enough to encompass what you suspected.”
“It don’t take long to set up the terms,” he said, and clamped his curled beaver over his eye at a rakish ang
le. “And now I shall escape, before you pick up the umbrella and have at me.”
As Sam made no move for the umbrella, he hesitated a moment. “Cheer up, Sam, He’s not right for you, you know.”
Her frayed nerves snapped. “Don’t you dare pity me!” she exclaimed, and slammed the door.
Chapter 8
Lady Monteith had her first assignation with Mr. Sutton at Mrs. Bright’s the next morning. All the ladies had made extra attempts at being fine, as ladies will do when a new gentleman is on the scene. Irene wore an elegant feathered bonnet and rouge, and came with her son to forestall Lord Howard’s suspicion. The meeting was not held in private, for the lovers were past that age when passion played a large part in their relationship. They sat in the saloon with the Brights and Monteith, having a cup of tea and gossiping.
“Where is Lord Howard this morning, Irene?” Mr. Sutton asked.
“The burra sahib says he has business in town,” she answered. “That is what all his servants call him. Banking, I expect, is his errand. I hope he stays for lunch. He has a servant in the kitchen destroying the food with curry powder and some wretched hot spices. Monty tells me he called on Mrs. Armstrong last night.”
Mr. Sutton looked closely to see what this portended, and Irene spoke on. “We have still not absolutely determined whether she is a lady, but it is just as well your sisters didn’t call on her. Howard didn’t breathe a word of the visit to me, which tells me his estimate of her standing. He told Monty she has taken a vow of celibacy. What do you make of that?” This was asked in a purely rhetorical spirit.
Clifford never knew what to think of social doings till either Lady Monteith or his sisters told him, and waited to hear more. “How did the subject of her celibacy arise? You don’t discuss a milcher’s probable yield if you aren’t thinking of buying the cow. She is after an offer of marriage, no less. And here we were afraid he would only make her his mistress. She is a dangerous woman,” Lady Monteith declared.
“But if she is sworn to celibacy ...” Clifford said, frowning.
“Pooh! She’d forget that vow fast enough if she could get him to the altar. It was her way of telling him she was not open to any other sort of offer.’’
“He’ll never marry a widow,” Monteith said.
His mother looked somewhat relieved and said, “That is our only hope. At breakfast this morning he expressed himself with great strength on the evils of widows’ remarrying. It is the outside of enough to have that blackamoor ordering us all about in our own home.”
“What did he say?” Mr. Sutton asked.
“A deal of mumbo jumbo stuff about reincarnation. Such unchristian beliefs the Hindus hold! The excuse for incinerating the widows has to do with their coming back to life in another body, so giving up one life doesn’t matter. They go a rung higher toward nirvana if they disport themselves properly regarding suttee.”
With her anger providing him a clue, Clifford said, “Sounds a proper con game to me.”
“All a hum,” Lady Monteith agreed. “He doesn’t believe a word of it, or even pretend to, yet he will persist in thinking widows shouldn’t remarry. And it’s not only widows whose fate he would decide. He had words for bachelors as well. He asked Monty a dozen times why he wasn’t married yet. I was half of a mind to tell him Monty was engaged to Samantha, but on top of all Howard’s other absurdities, he has been making up to Sam on the side himself. Did you ever hear of such a thing?” she asked, and laughed.
“Robbing the cradle, what?” Clifford ventured.
All eyes turned to examine Samantha, till she felt like something on view at Bartholomew’s Fair. “I vacated the cradle more than two decades ago,” she said tartly. She said no more, as she was uncertain whether Lord Howard was courting her. His not calling the night before had raised a doubt.
Monteith smiled at her pique and leaned close for a private word. “You seem fretful this morning, child. Teething, perhaps?”
She tossed her head boldly. “I am cutting my wisdom teeth.”
“About time, too!”
Lady Monteith spoke on. “Monty has written up a batch of letters trying to reach Teddie and Bert and bring them home.”
Listening, Samantha thought she followed the lady’s line of thought. If Lord Howard was interested in her, she must be disposed of by some other means. Teddie or Bert would be made to offer for her. She stiffened at this cavalier ordering of her life. Lady Monteith railed against burra sahib’s efforts to run the world, but she was attempting the same thing herself.
The conversation turned to other matters. There were many amusing incidents about Lord Howard’s Indian servants and the havoc they were creating at the Hall to be related.
“To see them slipping through the dark hallways in their bed sheets is enough to frighten you out of your wits,” Lady Monteith said. “They look like ghosts. And bad as the ghosts are, Howard is worse by a long shot. I have had to confine Jennie to the kitchen, for he is after her like a fox after a hare, and she as innocent as a babe. I put Millie on upstairs service. She is a meager scrap of a thing, you know, and walleyed besides, so I trust she will be safe. If all else fails, I shall teach the footmen how to make up the beds and wield a feather duster.”
Monteith watched Samantha as these stories were being related. “One can certainly pity his future wife, whoever she may be,” he said blandly.
“He shan’t have a wife,” his mother snapped. “We have agreed to that, Monteith. Though, I must confess, his health is stouter than I hoped. The dyspepsia came to naught, despite my best efforts. He didn’t even call for lemon water this morning. He mentioned a recurring fever, however. I have some hopes that as summer wears on, the heat may get to him.”
Samantha said through thin lips, “Wouldn’t your best chance of killing him be to expose him to cold drafts, Lady Monteith? Surely a gentleman just returned from the tropics isn’t going to cave in to our paltry English summers.”
Lady Monteith took no umbrage at either the suggestion or the tone. “I believe you’re right!” she exclaimed. “A capital idea, Samantha. How clever you are. Do you know, Monteith, it might not be a dead loss if he did marry Sam. He wouldn’t last more than a decade, and then she could marry Teddie.”
Lord Monteith had the grace to blush at this suggestion. As he listened to his mother, attuned to how her words must strike an outsider, he began to fidget uncomfortably. “Would you like to go out for a drive, Sam?” he asked.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“Do you want a reason, or an excuse?”
“Neither one is necessary,” his mother said. “You children run along.”
Monteith rose and took Sam’s arm. “Get your dollie, and we’ll go out and play,” he said.
They were about to leave when the door knocker sounded. A loud “Holloa” from the front hall announced the arrival of Lord Howard, and immediately he was shown in, bristling with smiles and energy. The older members of the party wore the guilty faces of miscreants. Whether it was their recent conversation or being caught at romantic connivings, Samantha was unsure. She was in no doubt as to Lady Monteith’s change of tone, however. The lady could hardly fawn on him enough.
“Dear Howard! Come and join Mrs. Bright and myself.” She smiled. She ignored Clifford, as if he were a cushion on the sofa. “I was just telling Mrs. Bright how lively things are at the Hall since you came. Planting those mangosteen things in the conservatory. And his cook is going to make us a curry for dinner,” she added, with every sign of enthusiasm.
“Good day, ladies. And Mr. Sutton, isn’t it? I’ll pass on your invitation this time, thankee. I just came to call on Miss Bright. Are you game for a run in my curricle, missie?”
Lady Monteith spoke up quickly. “Monteith was just about to take Miss Bright for a spin, Howard. You come and join us old folks.”
“I’ve no taste for sitting on my haunches sipping tea on such a fine day. I’ll join the youngsters instead,” he replied, and wit
h a bow all around, joined himself uninvited to the younger party.
“We’ll take my rig,” Lord Howard said, as Samantha put on her bonnet. Behind his back, she gave Monteith a challenging smile.
“Three will be crowded in the curricle. We’ll take my carriage,” Monteith countered.
Lord Howard took Sam’s elbow and winked at her. “Who in his right mind would object to being crowded by this bright-eyed young filly? But on such a fine day as this, my dear, wouldn’t you prefer the open rig?” he tempted.
“No, Lord Howard,” she answered, “in fair weather or foul, I would always prefer to honor my social commitments, and I agreed to drive with Monteith before you came.”
“I will have to look sharp next time and get here before him! Heh, hen, I like a lady with spirit. Lead on then, Monteith. We’ll take a run down the coast road, if you’ve no objection. There is a parcel of land there I want to see. I have just been talking to Gerard, a land agent, about buying up a few begahs.”
“I have to go north,” Monteith said. His tone was pleasant but firm. “I wish to speak to my bailiff.”
“Excellent. If you’re going that way, then I’ll take Miss Bright in my rig. Now before you object, lad, listen to your uncle. A business trip is no way to entertain a young lady. If cutting me out is what you have in your mind, you’ll have to do better than that. It’s no compliment to a lady to be asked to tag along and sit on her thumbs while you speak to your sircar.’’
“We don’t have sircars in England, Uncle,” Monteith said, his voice becoming thin. “I doubt a lady is long entertained by hearing a foreign language that is meaningless to her, either. As to a business outing being poor amusement, Miss Bright cannot have much interest in your buying a begah—whatever that may be.”
“It is a third of an acre, sir. And I trust Miss Bright might have some interest in the particular acres I have in mind, as they will be her future home if I ask her to marry me.”
It would be difficult to say who was more stunned, Monteith or Miss Bright. They both stared and gulped. Samantha recovered first. She was in high spirits to see Monteith topped, for once. It was as beneficial as a balm to have Lord Howard announce his intentions in no uncertain terms. She watched in fascination as Monteith’s shock turned to rising anger. The white column of his neck changed to rose, and his lips were clamped tight in a prelude to exploding. Before he could flare into words, she spoke.