“As a friend of your brother, and of your family, and as a gentleman, I could not allow you to be the victim of a Trilby or of the possible gossip that might result from his pursuing you out here, even if your own behavior invited it.”
That last bit sliced at her already frayed composure. Due to him, she still had to settle things with Trilby. As for Penthurst’s manner—she possessed a grievous dislike of the duke for several excellent reasons. One was that he really did fight duels with lesser men, and get away with it. The other was this proud way in which he spoke to her from on high, but also with too much familiarity.
The latter had to do with their very long history. He had been Southwaite’s friend for years, and in the family’s circle ever since she could remember. He had never liked or approved of her, however. Even when she was only a child, if she got into a scrap that her brother and his other friends thought amusing, Penthurst would often have a more critical view of it, and, like now, offer an occasional correction.
The way she saw it, maturity had a few benefits, and one was not having to suffer the Duke of Penthurst more than absolutely necessary anymore. She had no intention of indulging his arrogance now, on a day when a very big problem had entered her life.
“How good of you, sir, to remind me of my failings so I can improve. I am honored that you troubled yourself on my behalf. Now, lest there be gossip about us, perhaps we should return to the salon.” With that she marched to the doors.
He reached them first, and opened one. “Why are you even here? I thought you were to attend a dinner party tonight.”
“I am sure you are mistaken.” She breezed past him and reentered the chamber.
He fell into step at her side. “Your brother mentioned it in passing just this afternoon when I saw him. A small informal dinner at Ambury’s, he said, with you and a few others. Did you forget the date, or has the lure of the games gotten the better of you and you could not resist it even for one night?”
She considered agreeing with the second reason. That would probably invite another scold, much as everyone else scolded her for her gambling. However, she could hardly explain she had begged off the party to meet with a blackmailer.
Faulty memory it would have to be.
“Oh, dear, I believe you may be right. Perhaps I did forget.” She blinked hard and pretended to be dismayed. “For some reason I thought that dinner was tomorrow night. How horrible of me. I will have to write to Cassandra in the morning and beg her forgiveness.”
He pulled out his pocket watch. “You can still make it. You will be late, but excusably so.”
“I do not think—”
“Wait here. I will collect my aunt and call for the coach, and take you there on our way home.”
“That is not necessary—”
But he was gone, striding across the chamber.
She almost stomped her foot. Now she would show up at the dinner, after begging off, which would only provoke questions from her brother and everyone else there. Penthurst should mind his own business.
She spied Trilby. She caught his eye. He pulled at his collar, grimaced, then smiled. He acted as if they shared a conspiracy that had just had a close call.
At least he did not look insulted anymore. Hopefully that meant he would wait on doing anything rash, like approaching her brother. She pantomimed the action of writing, then pointed from herself to him, to indicate she would send a note soon. When she returned home, she would put her mind to just what that note should say.
With Mr. Trilby appeased for the time being, she aimed for the door, to find Penthurst and his aunt.
• • •
Ambury’s house lay no more than five blocks from Mrs. Burton’s. They were, Penthurst decided, the longest five blocks he had ever ridden in his life.
To say his aunt was displeased by Lydia’s company would be generous. If given the opportunity, she would have refused to allow it. He therefore presented Lydia as a fait accompli. Now his aunt sat beside Lydia, face pinched and eyes flashing cruel lights while she took stock of her young companion with critical sidelong glances.
“It is a dinner party, you said when you collected me. Is that so, Lydia? Are we taking you to a dinner party? It is quite late for that.”
Lydia remained motionless and expressionless, her dark eyes opaque with indifference. Her face displayed no reaction to the continued examination. She might have lost the ability to hear, she sat so impassively.
“Will this dinner party not think it odd if you arrive late, wearing that silk? It is far too elaborate, and not suitable for much other than a ball.”
“I am sure they will think it odd,” Lydia roused herself to say. “It might be better if I return home instead. Perhaps, Penthurst, you would direct the coachman to go to the other side of Berkeley Square so I can do that, rather than bringing me to Ambury’s side.”
“I fear Lady Ambury would never forgive me, or you, if I helped you jilt her,” he said.
“Lady Ambury?” Self-satisfied comprehension settled on his aunt’s expression. “Ah. Of course.”
That brought the sphinx to life. Lydia turned her head and caught the disapproving glance aimed her way. “Of course what, Lady Rosalyn?”
His aunt sniffed and raised her chin. “Nothing, nothing.”
“I entreat you to tell me. You are fair to bursting with the desire to do so, it appears.”
No glance this time, but a direct, astonished stare. Her deep-set eyes went deeper yet beneath a furrowed brow.
He knew that look. “Aunt Rosalyn—”
“Please do not interfere. The girl demanded that I burst forth, so I shall.” She turned her whole body in order to meet Lydia’s challenge head on. “Your friendship with Ambury’s wife does you no credit. Your brother forbade it once, and his friend’s amorous adventures should not have dissuaded him from that sound judgment. Since they did, and you are now friends with her again, of course you are going to dress in thin silk and visit a gaming hall alone. Her influence on you would have distressed your mother to no end, and I would be remiss in my duty to her memory if I did not say so.” The flourishing gesture with which she ended her speech managed to encompass not only Lydia’s dress, but her entire character.
He felt for his handkerchief, ready to comfort Lydia when she began weeping. He gave his aunt a hard look of disapproval. Her ability to reduce women to tears was infamous. This was hardly the time or place, and Lydia was not her ward.
Lydia did not weep. She did not even show anger, except for the way her eyes flashed. “You do not approve of Cassandra, I can see. Or of me, I deduce. You would have preferred if we both lived ordinary lives, rather than embrace a more worldly independence. You are correct that she influenced me, but all to the good. I rather wish she had not married Ambury and become domesticated so I would have her company as I go to the devil.”
His aunt’s mouth gaped.
“Selfish, willful girl,” she sputtered, patting her chest as if her heart palpitated. “Your mother was my dearest friend, and this is not worthy of her daughter. Go to the devil, indeed! Amelia confided her concerns, but clearly was too timid to admit the worst of them.”
“My aunt Amelia barely knows me. We have had little time together for almost two years. When my brother requires a gaoler for me now, it is Aunt Hortense.”
“Hortense! As if she is of much use! She is formidable in manner but empty of resolve and judgment. She is so certain she is shrewd, but she would not even notice if a merchant shortchanged her. I am sure you lead her on a fine dance on those occasions when she chaperones you. Did you ask for Hortense so you could run wild right under her nose?”
“Now you insult my aunt. Are you finished, or are there others on your list?”
He looked out the window. Another block to go. There might be fisticuffs by then. “Ladies, I believe it would be best to end this conversation before you both need salts.”
His aunt turned her fury on him. He met it with a steady g
aze. She swallowed whatever she intended to say.
Lydia did not. “I think it was very unkind of you to drag my mother into this at all, let alone use her as an excuse to upbraid me. You can have no duty to her that includes insulting me.”
His aunt fairly rose out of her seat. “Can I not, you bold, bold girl? She and I were of one mind where you were concerned and in everything else. It grieves me that I am actually relieved I was spared my duty by my nephew’s stubbornness. At least when you go to the devil, you will not drag down my family too!”
With an outraged huff of finality, his aunt faced forward and dismissed Lydia’s existence. Lydia angled her head quizzically.
He realized that she had never been told of that old pact between her mother and his aunt. He had never wondered whether she knew or not, but it made sense that she remained ignorant. She had been five years old when he disavowed it.
The coach finally stopped. More than glad for a bit of fresh air, he stepped out and offered his hand to Lydia. Inside his aunt remained an imperious statue of stone staring straight ahead.
Lydia looked across the square to her brother’s house. “It would be less embarrassing to just go home.”
“No one will mind, surely.”
Their arrival flustered the footman who opened the door. He looked over his shoulder toward the sounds in the dining room, confused. He excused himself and ran off.
“I told you I should have gone home,” Lydia said. “I am causing a scene coming this late.”
The footman returned with Lady Ambury. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, and too voluptuous for her own good, the former Cassandra Vernham greeted Lydia with delight. “I insisted on coming out, so you would know you are still welcomed.” She gave Lydia a kiss, then turned those blue eyes on him. “I see you had a prior rendezvous, Lydia. How good of the duke to share you with us, and deliver you before the first course finished.”
“Not a rendezvous,” Lydia said, her color rising. “I— That is, he—”
“No need to explain to me, darling. At least not until after dinner. Would you like to join us, Penthurst? You can balance the table.”
“Regrettably, another lady awaits.” He took his leave of them, and returned to that lady, steeling himself for the ride back to Grosvenor Square.
Halfway there, Lady Ambury’s last words penetrated the endless stream of indignation spewing from his aunt. You can balance the table. That meant Lydia had unbalanced it, which meant she was not expected after all. She had not forgotten the date. She had begged off, in order to go to Mrs. Burton’s.
To gamble? Or to have an assignation with Algernon Trilby? Not the latter, he hoped. If she wanted to go to the devil, she could find a better devil than that.
Chapter 3
“Why are we walking so fast?” Sarah hurried to keep up with Lydia’s purposeful strides.
“For the exercise. A bit of flush is healthy, Sarah. We are too indolent in our habits.”
They were also in danger of being late for her rendezvous with Mr. Trilby. After due consideration, she had concluded it would be unwise to make any reference to her novel in writing, and therefore had only requested he meet her this morning in the park for further discussion.
“If you needed to work up a flush, we could have walked around the square three times,” Sarah grumbled. “You said we were going to enjoy the early morning air, not conduct a foot race along the Serpentine.”
“Here I arrange for you to get out and enjoy a fair day, and all you do is complain. Next time I will leave you at home.”
“So I can be scolded by your aunt Hortense? No thank you, milady. She burned my ears for a good half hour when she learned you went to the bookstore alone two days ago.”
Reference to burning ears reminded her of the argument with Penthurst’s aunt in the carriage two nights ago. There would be a scold coming about that, she was sure. It would arrive after circulating through the family until someone was designated the agent to apply some corrective persuasion.
Who would it be? Not her brother. He had to be highly provoked to address her on her behavior. Aunt Hortense? Her lessons had not stuck well in the past, so consensus might turn elsewhere. Emma? Her brother’s wife would not scold as such.
At least Emma recognized that she was not a child, unlike the others. However, Emma’s very forthright manner of speaking might be more discomforting than a scold. One can ignore scolds, while it could be difficult to dodge Emma’s direct gaze and questions.
No one would blame Penthurst’s aunt, of course. She was a bulwark of society, and the whole world deferred to her. No one would believe she had attacked someone’s character, her upbringing, her behavior, and her virtue, all in the space of six or seven sentences. Those who did believe it might well assume it had been deserved.
She strode on, feeling aggrieved. The situation with her family reminded her of this new one with Mr. Trilby. People assumed the worst of her, when she had never even had the opportunity to be bad! Somehow she had become the problem sister of Southwaite, simply because she avoided marriage and wanted a bit of—something different. Anything less predictable. A touch of adventure every now and then. A reason for excitement. Was she so wicked for desiring some experiences out of the ordinary ones decreed for a woman of her birth?
Her gaze scanned the park as she led Sarah deeper. A citizen’s militia drilled as they did almost every day. Some gentlemen rode their horses in the distance, taking advantage of the early hour and dearth of visitors to get in some hard riding.
Ahead, behind the militia, she spied Mr. Trilby pacing back and forth, hands grasped behind his back. It did not appear he would have the sense to walk her way, so they could meet as if by accident.
As she guided Sarah around the militia, one of the citizen soldiers noticed Sarah and gave her a winning smile. Sarah pretended not to see him, but she blushed.
Lydia walked on another fifty yards so they were a respectable distance away. “Why don’t we catch our breath here? We can watch the drills. Do you mind, Sarah?”
Sarah shrugged, but watched the drills closely. Especially the movements of a certain tall, sandy-haired young man with nice blue eyes. Every time he turned to face them, he flashed that smile again. Sarah got redder and redder.
Trilby took the hint, and walked in their direction. Before he got too close, Lydia waved, and eased away from Sarah. Standing beside Mr. Trilby, she continued watching the militia.
“Did you bring the money?” he asked.
“Do you think me a goose? How would I bring it here? In my reticule?” She held up the small, drawstring pouch.
“I thought a bank draft—”
“I cannot do that, even on my portion, without my brother learning of it. You have clearly never lived as a woman, Mr. Trilby, and know nothing of our limitations.”
“I should hope not.”
“You should indeed hope not. I did not ask to see you in order to hand over ten thousand, it should go without saying. I would have demanded that you bring the manuscript then, would I not? I asked to meet you so we could discuss this further.”
Trilby threw up his hands, walked away a few paces, then turned in exasperation and strode back. “There is nothing to discuss. The journal cost me—”
“Novel. It is not a journal.”
“The novel cost me ten thousand. I must see that much out of it. Within the week, Lady Lydia. I am strained by this purchase on your behalf, and cannot wait beyond that.”
Her mind raced, trying to calculate how much she could raise in a week. Not ten thousand, that was certain. Not if she pawned every jewel and sold every silk. “It is not possible in a week.”
“Make it possible. Tell your brother a story he will swallow. Borrow from friends. You live a privileged life and should be able to put your hands on that amount with ease if you only give it some thought.”
Mr. Trilby was displaying more confidence and spine than he had on Mrs. Burton’s terrace. She wished Penthurst had not i
nterfered there. She might have negotiated less money, or more time, if this man had not had two days to fortify his courage and practice his lines.
He raised his chin in the direction of the militia. “Such as them would not look kindly on your keeping watch on the fleet, no matter who your brother might be. They would take even less well to the descriptions of their kind on the coast. Oh, yes, I read that too, while I awaited word from you. Could be you might have to flee to France whether you were spying or not if those pages become common knowledge.”
She did not need this man to describe the mood abroad in the country, and the misinterpretations that might arise from it. At the dinner at Cassandra’s house, the men had talked a lot about the war, as everyone did. Her own brother, as best she could determine, was involved in an unofficial system of watchers on the eastern coast, in the hopes of keeping agents from infiltrating.
Even if she did survive the worst Trilby threatened, there would be enough whispering to taint everyone—her brother, her aunts, Emma. And that was before anyone read those other chapters, the ones that would be considered shockingly descriptive of the arts of Venus.
What had she been thinking?
That no one would ever see any of it, of course. Yet Mr. Trilby had. Only him?
“The manuscript was stolen. If not by you, how did you get it?”
“I cannot say.”
“I want to know how many have seen it. Unless you are the thief, it came to you from another. How many hands passed it before it arrived in your own?”
“Better you should be thinking about how to have it now passed to your hands, it seems to me.”
“If half of London has already paged through it, why would I pay to keep it private? Put yourself in my place and you will understand why I need to know.”
“Not many hands passed it. You do not need to worry about the discretion of those who had it before me, either. I promise you that.”
The Accidental Duchess Page 3