Beauty in Black

by Nicole Byrd

  He sat down again and leaned forward to catch her eye. “You know I do, Louisa. Now, don’t take on. Why on earth would anyone want to hurt you?”

  “I do have an inheritance coming when I turn one and twenty,” she explained, pleased by the increased attention he was at last paying to her suggestions. Some of the lingering unhappiness inside her eased. Perhaps Lucas did still feel something for her. Perhaps despite his hurtful words, despite his new feminine companions, he did not despise her totally.

  She explained the marquess’s concerns in more detail, and Lucas listened. And, although he still discounted any notion of a conspiracy, he stayed for tea, and Louisa felt a glow of happiness she had not known for months.

  Marianne returned at the appointed time and found Lord Gillingham waiting for her. He motioned to his groom to take the packages she carried and put them into the barouche. She smiled, glad to be relieved of her burdens, and he suggested, “I am told there is a place called Gunter’s not far from here which has very nice confections. Could I interest you in a light repast?”

  She hesitated. What would Louisa say about her aunt having a tête-à-tête with the marquess? Errands were one thing, but—

  “Unless you do not care to be seen with me until I am outfitted with my new finery?” he suggested, his tone mild.

  Stung that she might appear so superficial, Marianne said quickly, “Of course not! I only thought—that is, I would be happy to sup with you, my lord.”

  He gave instructions to his coachman, and then offered Marianne his arm. They strolled down to the pastry shop and were ushered in and seated at a small table.

  “Now, there is someone whose outfit no doubt would earn your approval,” the marquess suggested. “In a few days, I shall doubtless outshine the poor fellow, putting him totally into the shade.”

  As the serving woman brought them steaming cups of tea, Marianne drew off her gloves and managed to glance unobtrusively over her shoulder. The man who had caught Lord Gillingham’s eye was a stripling adorned in a morning coat of bright green, with a striped waistcoat of broad cerulean stripes and shirt collars so high he could not turn his head. His cravat was tied into a fearsomely complicated knot that barely allowed him room to swallow his tea.

  Marianne bit back a decidedly unladylike snort of laughter. “Certainly not! I sent you to a reputable tailor, my lord, not a circus costumer. I would never wish to turn you into such a jackanapes!”

  He raised his brows. “I am relieved to hear it.”

  “If you think me interfering, then I apologize,” she told him, her tone dignified. “I only wished—”

  “For your ward not to be embarrassed by my unkempt appearance,” he finished for her. “Quite understandable.”

  “No, no, I never said such a thing,” she protested. “Only that—that—”

  “Yes?” He fixed her with what she was certain was a deliberately bland gaze.

  “Most people new to London can use a little town polish,” she tried to explain. “You said yourself—”

  “Ah, I’m afraid I know little of polish, though I can describe a quite good poultice for a swollen fetlock, made with oatmeal and Epsom salts.”

  “My fetlocks—my ankles—are quite satisfactory,” she retorted.

  “Oh, I agree.”

  This was a most improper subject. She glared at him, but he grinned into his teacup.

  “You may have your revenge, my lord,” she told him, refusing to be baited further. “My only aim was to make your stay in London more pleasant. Was the tailor’s fitting really that troublesome? Or do you prefer to go about looking less than you are?”

  He raised his gaze, and she was able to look into his deep dark eyes. “You do tend to get to the heart of the matter.”

  “I don’t wish you to think that I judge men—people—merely by their outer appearance. I would hope I am not so shallow. I know perfectly well that the real measure of a man is on the inside, and although I do not know you well, I am coming to believe that in the most important aspects, you would not disappoint.” Her words had come out in a rush, and now Marianne paused, not sure she should have said so much. When had it become so easy to talk to the once formidable marquess? The serving woman brought them an array of dishes, and they both paused. Marianne stole a glance at his face.

  He did not seem offended; he gazed at her with an expression so guarded, and yet at the same time so vulnerable, that her breath came a little faster. Had no one ever told this man that he was worthy of respect and admiration?

  “But—” she added, determined to explain once and for all, her interference into his personal habits, “you cannot expect everyone to take the time to get to know you well enough to see past first impressions. And there is no need to put people off—you have the funds, you have the social standing, you have health and good sense. A well-fitted coat is like a well-chosen horse, my lord. It serves its purpose. It makes your life easier.”

  “There is good reason to expend effort selecting good steeds. My horse carries me where I wish to go,” he argued.

  “So does a respectable costume,” she threw back.

  He smiled. “Touché. I am bested again.”

  Marianne laughed. “And I am finished making speeches, my lord, so you may do just as you will about your clothing. If you wish to turn up at our dinner party in a sultan’s robes, I shall say nothing more.”

  “A pity,” he murmured. “I find I rather enjoy your lectures.”

  This was such a backward commendation that she ignored it completely. “The pastry is quite good, my lord,” she pointed out.

  John hardly noticed what he ate. The pleasure of the meal came with the company, he found. And whether she was admonishing him with her usual blend of candor and tact or telling him of new exhibits in town that he might enjoy visiting, he simply enjoyed her presence, the unaccustomed privilege of being able to concentrate solely on her words and her face and her pleasing form. The time passed too quickly. When they walked back to the absurd barouche he had rented and were driven back to her home, he felt his private joy fade, yet he knew he was duty-bound to go inside and call upon Miss Crookshank.

  The younger lady flew down the steps when she heard them in the front hall. “There you are, Aunt, I have had—oh, Lord Gillingham! How delightful to see you.”

  She sank into a curtsy, and John made his bow.

  “Won’t you come into the sitting room, my lord. It is so kind of you to call.”

  She seemed to assume that he had just arrived. He felt Mrs. Hughes’s glance on his face, and with no conscious decision—much less collusion—for duplicity, neither of them mentioned that they had shared a shopping expedition.

  Instead, when Miss Crookshank playfully reproached him for being so late to call, he explained that he had been to visit his tailor.

  Wincing a little at the way her face lit up, John went on. “I wanted a new evening coat for the dinner party your aunt is planning.”

  The girl flashed her sunny smile. “Oh, you are coming, then. That is lovely. Which night have you chosen, dearest Aunt?”

  “Next Friday,” Mrs. Hughes said, her voice quiet. “I must send out the other invitations right away. If you will forgive me, I shall write some notes just now.”

  She chose a seat at a table at the edge of the room, and John was forced to direct his attention toward the younger woman.

  Perhaps encouraged by the news of his shopping trip, Miss Crookshank launched into a description of her planned wardrobe and its newest additions. It was not that much different from the conversation that he had with her aunt, yet John felt a strong sense of tedium steal over him.

  Somehow, it had been much more stimulating to trade words with Mrs. Hughes; somehow, with her he never felt bored. She never looked at him with a slight look of bewilderment, as Louisa sometimes did; she always understood his jokes . . .

  Was it because beneath her gentle manner he caught the hint of deeper emotions, more complex motivations, t
houghts she did not trust him enough, perhaps, to express? He sensed that Marianne Hughes was a woman whose pleasing aspect hid more than it revealed, and he longed to know her better, somehow sure that he would not be disappointed.

  Hadn’t she said much the same about him? Her positive comments had pleased him deeply, he realized, thrilled him, and if he had not already plunged into his too precipitous courtship of her niece, he would very well consider—

  John realized that he was gazing blankly at Miss Crookshank, who had paused in her chatter. She seemed to be awaiting his response. But he had no idea what she had said.

  “Really?” he ventured.

  “Don’t you think another visit to Vauxhall would make a delightful evening?” she said, her tone hopeful.

  “Of course,” he agreed, trying to make up for his most uncivil inattention. “After your aunt’s dinner party, perhaps?”

  Louisa beamed.

  Marianne tried not to notice the easy relationship between the two. Gritting her teeth just a little, she bent over her writing, pulling her thoughts back to the dinner party and possible guests. She had jotted down the names of a couple of friends, and she would invite Lady Sealey, although Marianne knew that her more socially prominent friend was so popular that she had few available evenings unless one planned well in advance. However, if she was not careful the dinner table would be unbalanced; they were going to be short of men. She added a male friend who, if he were not already engaged for the evening, could be counted upon for unexacting company.

  The main thing was to allow Lord Gillingham—and Louisa, of course—to enjoy the evening. Now, who could she invite that the marquess would be comfortable with, since he knew so few people in London?

  Of course! Inspired, she added the names of Lord and Lady Gabriel Sinclair. A family member should make the party easier for Lord Gillingham, she told herself, pleased with this brainstorm. Even though she was not well acquainted with Lady Gabriel and had never met her husband, they would likely be happy to come, for the marquess’ sake.

  After the turmoil of the past few days, it would be an uneventful, pleasant evening, Marianne told herself. She picked up her pen.

  Nine

  A family is as hard to predict as a bowl of fruit: some apples have blemishes, some are bruised, and some are tarter than others.

  —MARGERY, COUNTESS OF SEALEY

  During the next week, Marianne made sure to keep Louisa under her watchful eye. They shopped, called upon female friends, and spent an evening at the opera in a friend’s private box, but Marianne kept a careful lookout upon their surroundings and took her footman along whenever they went out. No further alarms were raised, and as the days went by Marianne felt her tension slip away as she again considered how unlikely that anyone would really wish to harm an innocent girl.

  Caroline’s reply to her letter had not been very helpful. The great-uncle’s name was Alton Crookshank, he was the youngest son of his generation and not much older than Louisa’s father, which dispelled Marianne’s image of him as old and frail and harmless.

  Caroline had no idea if he ever came to London or not. No one had been in touch with the man for some time, although Caroline did not remember the details of the family dispute. “He was a wild young man, I believe,” she had written. “He was supposed to be quite dissolute, going through a good deal of his father’s money, and then he crowned it all by running away with a tavern girl. I think they parted later, and he married a Scottish merchant’s widow with some money of her own, so he ended up with a modest estate near Edinburgh.”

  All in all, not a very sterling character, Marianne thought. Still, it did not mean that he was a murderer.

  During one of the marquess’s calls, Marianne managed to share this news with Lord Gillingham. He took note of the name and the location. “I will make some inquiries,” he told her, then, to Louisa’s disappointment, firmly declined to drive them back to Hyde Park to join the masses of the Ton in that fashionable meeting place.

  “Not just yet,” he told his young fiancée, who sighed and nodded.

  Louisa’s agreement seemed a bit forced. Marianne knew the younger woman was beginning to chafe at the abridged social activity, and especially the lack of male companionship. The marquess had called upon them twice, but only stayed a brief time, and when Louisa tried to cajole him into accompanying them on their jaunts, he pleaded other commitments.

  Marianne did her best to amuse her niece, although the evening at the opera was not as successful as Marianne had hoped. The soprano was in good voice, but the music had barely begun when Marianne saw Louisa stiffen and glance to the side, then bite her lip. Worried, Marianne looked, too. She soon found the familiar face that had produced the reaction in her ward. Sir Lucas sat in another box farther along.

  Marianne looked back at Louisa, but the girl did not comment, although she blinked hard. The opera proceeded through several passages before Sir Lucas caught sight of them. When he did, he bowed, but he did not come along to their box to chat. He was with a different girl tonight, a young lady of petite stature and ruddy cheeks, along with a matron who was probably the girl’s mother, and two other couples.

  Marianne braced herself for a scene, but Louisa seemed to have learned something from the mishap at the park. She nodded politely when her old suitor made his bow and then kept her gaze pointedly turned away, her attention ostentatiously fixed on the performers, and after the curtain came down she chatted spiritedly with her aunt on the merits of the drama.

  But once they were in their hackney and on the way home, she fell into a dismal silence that made Marianne feel genuine sympathy.

  “Louisa,” she said quietly, “it will get easier, you know, with time.”

  “What, understanding the Italian in the arias?” Louisa asked absently, gazing outside at the carriages passing by.

  “No, I mean forgetting your first love. It’s normal that some feelings might linger, but they will not last forever.”

  She paused, alarmed to see real tears glisten in Louisa’s eyes.

  “I am not mourning his loss!” the younger woman said, a little too loudly. “He had no confidence in me. Why should I want a man who does not value me or trust me?”

  “You should not,” Marianne agreed.

  “No, I will not be such a ninny.” Louisa ruined the effect of this pronouncement with a noisy sniff.

  “Of course not,” Marianne agreed, reaching to pat the girl’s hand. Perhaps Louisa was beginning the difficult journey to genuine maturity. “In time, it will only be a memory, replaced by more satisfying attachments.”

  “Yes, I have the marquess,” Louisa said, though her voice quivered a little. “He, at least, values me.”

  Marianne hesitated again. “As to that, you are not just using the marquess as a crutch to get over Sir Lucas? That would be fair to neither of you, Louisa.”

  “Of course not!” Louisa declared. But her tone was guarded.

  “You must think of the marquess’s happiness as well as your own,” Marianne continued. “Or else, your engagement would be selfish, indeed.”

  Louisa opened her blue eyes even wider. “But I am quite sure I can make the marquess happy, Aunt. I will work very hard to do so!”

  Marianne sighed, wishing she could make out what lay inside the young woman’s heart. Did Louisa already have, or was she forming, a true attachment to the marquess? If so, it would be infamy for Marianne to separate the two, if indeed she had the power. No, she could not consider such a thing. . . .

  The preparations for their dinner party continued.

  Lady Sealey, as Marianne had feared, was unable to come and had declined with pleasingly sincere regret. Marianne’s other friends had sent notes of acceptance, but she had not yet heard from Lady Gabriel. Perhaps the couple already had a prior engagement, Marianne told herself. She did not think that Psyche would deliberately snub her, but it stood to reason they must have a busy social schedule.

  So she did not mentio
n to Louisa, or to the marquess, that his relatives might be coming, unwilling to excite Louisa’s anticipation, or his, without cause.

  When she visited the countess on Wednesday, Louisa dutifully in tow, she was able to chat with Lady Sealey. Louisa found another young lady to talk to, and Marianne had a few moments of quiet conversation. Unfortunately, Psyche was not present at this week’s tea.

  The countess repeated her regrets. “Such a shame I have already promised the evening to Mrs. Cowling,” Lady Sealey said, sipping her tea. “But I am sure your dinner party will be a most enjoyable event.”

  “I hope so,” Marianne confessed. “My cook is trying out new recipes upon us every night, and my footman has polished all the silver twice, which, since my collection of plate is not extensive, didn’t really take long.” She laughed. “I suppose it has been a while since I have entertained at home—one can get complaisant when one is alone.”

  The countess fixed her with a thoughtful gaze. “Yes, you must not turn into a hermit, my dear Marianne. You’re much too young to sit in front of your own hearth every night. And if you socialize, you may yet find a gentleman whom you find appealing.”

  They had had this conversation before. Marianne was not inclined to discuss it again. To change the subject, she mentioned her invitation to Lady Gabriel and her husband. “I have not yet heard from her, but if they are able to come, I had hoped it would make Lord Gillingham’s evening more enjoyable.”

  The countess paused with her cup halfway to her lips. She set it down. “Ah, as to that . . . with brothers, one can never know.” She hesitated.

  Marianne had the feeling that the older woman, for once, was not sure what to say. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

  Lady Sealey pursed her lips. “I cannot break a confidence,” she began.

  “No indeed,” Marianne said quickly. “I should not expect it.” The fact that Lady Sealey was so discreet was an important reason that her many friends felt so safe in confiding in her.