Next came the Tarnovers, with Lady Tarnover’s stepbrother, the politician. Lady Tarnover had deduced, somewhere midjourney, that she had not suddenly developed motion sickness but was indeed increasing. Her husband’s solicitude set her teeth on edge, but if he was not within earshot she alternately complained or wept, which did little for Lord Tarnover’s peace of mind.
The early arrivals reinforced Lord Coe’s convictions that the state of wedlock was more a life sentence than a comfort and joy. Marriage was looking no more appealing than ever. Corey might be confused, and he might be disturbed, distressed, and altogether discombobulated, but he could always walk away from the situation, find a new bird of paradise and resume his carefree London life—as soon as this wretched gathering was done. Corey could not even find peace and contentment in his books, for the petty bureaucrat had taken the library over for his private study. Government business, don’t you know.
Then Erica appeared, sans companion, nor would she deign to identify the unspecified houseguest.
Lord Coe kissed his sister warmly and made her comfortable in the sitting room, but warned her that he would put up with no matchmaking on her part. “Don’t think to trot out some fubsy-faced female like you did in Bath. This party is for your benefit, not mine.”
“My benefit? I don’t understand. I thought you were inviting your old friends the Tarnovers and the Cheynes, who have been out of town so much lately.” She patted smooth a coil of pale blond hair, very much like Corey’s without the sun streaks, then her eyes narrowed. “Just who else have you invited, brother?”
Corey adjusted his collar and straightened his neckcloth. “Just a, ah, few others. Lady Tarnover’s stepbrother was staying with them; he’s something or other in the government. I couldn’t very well not invite the man, could I? And did you know Peter Frye is thinking of selling out? He is nearly recovered from that last wound, so I thought he might like some fresh country air and exercise. Fellow officer and all that. He always admired you, you know.”
There was a very pregnant pause. “And one or two others,” he muttered. “Frye’s staying at his cousin’s, and Dickie Pendleton’s been hanging around the clubs. Poor fellow had no place to go.”
“That’s because no place is good enough for that stuffed shirt. However did you get him to come here?” His sheepish look was answer enough. “Oh, Corey, you didn’t dangle me as bait, did you? That man has been looking for a female worthy of carrying on his elevated bloodline since before I was out!”
“Well, yours is every bit as elevated as his. You have a handsome fortune and, if a mere brother may say so, you grow more comely each year. I’m pleased to see you out of mourning, my dear, and I like that new way you have of doing your hair.”
“What fustian, Corey, as if you notice how I fix my hair! You needn’t hand me Spanish coin either, brother, because that horse won’t run.”
Then, as Corey lounged against the mantle under the portrait of Melody’s Aunt Judith, his meek and mild sister proceeded to blister his ears. “You listen to me, Cordell Inscoe. I am not seventeen any more, and you do not have the ordering of my life. You nearly destroyed that life years ago with your good intentions and your self-styled superiority. I was too young to fight you then. I can only forgive you now because I know you acted out of love and what you thought was for the best. But it wasn’t, Corey, and I shall never let you come the heavy with me again. For all I love you, you can be autocratic and overbearing, you know.”
“It has been mentioned. Also pompous, conceited, and a few other choice epithets you would doubtless consider good for my soul.” He grinned ruefully.
Erica nodded. “I am sure that was a woman speaking, and someday I would like to meet such an astute and intrepid female, but for now, you seem to have invited every eligible parti you could get your hands on. I refuse to have anything to do with them, Corey. I have plans of my own—no, I shan’t discuss them now, until I see the child—so what are you going to do with all of your bachelors?”
“You need not worry about the numbers being uneven, the place is swarming with females, some of them even astute and intrepid.”
“I am intrigued, brother, but now might I see Margaret?”
“I sent one of the footmen over to fetch her as soon as you arrived. But just remember what I said about any prospective mantraps, Erica. That guest you invited sleeps in your room.”
Erica smiled, the same slow smile Corey had that started at one side of the mouth and worked its way around. “I’ll remember, brother dear.”
*
When Melody brought Meggie to the Oaks, she wanted them both to make a good impression. She need not have bothered, for Lady Wooster had eyes for no one but the child—turquoise eyes, the same unusual, lovely color as Meggie’s.
“Oh,” was all Melody could find to say, in view of the knowing grin on Lord Coe’s handsome face.
*
The other houseguests drove up after lunch, and the fiasco was truly underway. Erica had, as promised, no interest in the assemblage, only wanting to keep the child near her, the child who was her duplicate in miniature. The rest of the company was too polite to comment, naturally, but Lord Pendleton’s nostrils were seen to flare. When he realized he was expected to dine with the outré females from Dower House, his nose practically twitched like a rabbit’s. He would not permit himself to be anything less than polite, of course, not even when Lady Ashton, with rouged cheeks and high-pitched, girlish voice, had a few too many refills of wine with her dinner and fell asleep over the sorbet.
Although he did not necessarily immediately comprehend what he saw, Major Peter Frye was a practiced observer. He considered how things stood with Lady Wooster, and he noticed how his friend Corey devoured the exquisite Miss Ashton with his eyes. Major Frye looked further afield for congenial conversation.
*
To Lord Coe’s rather jaundiced view a few days later, it therefore seemed that things could not have gone more awry. The married couples were either bickering or in their bedrooms making up. Instead of finding a husband, his sister had found an illegitimate daughter she refused to part with, and of her prospective suitors, Lord Pendleton now had a permanent tic in his nose, Major Frye had transferred his attention to Miss Chase, the governess, and the politico had fixed his interest on Harry, of all things! At least Frye’s cousin Rupert was taking on the role Corey had mentally preassigned the loose fish; it had only taken Felice’s usual boasting of her father the nabob for the cawker’s ears to perk up and his affections to be engaged.
Now the house was overrun with local gentry leaving their cards and paying calls, provincial beaux making calf eyes in the wrong directions, matrons pretending not to notice Lady Wooster and her butter stamp. This had to be the worst idea the viscount had ever had! Through it all, Corey had no one to laugh with, no one to help bemoan his matchmaking efforts, no one to share his concern over Erica and Meggie. In this whole crowd of people, Lord Coe was the loneliest he had ever been. His angel was gone, and he had no way of getting her back while this gypsy circus was in town.
*
Melody felt invisible. No one paid her any attention in the glittering crowd when the entire party from the Oaks was invited to Squire Watson’s to partake of local society. Then she felt naked, as if they all knew her secrets, about the blackmail and the misused funds and her irregular birth. They were too polite to take notice, as with Lady Wooster and Meggie, but they knew. That was why the men ignored her and the women were either distantly courteous or outright unfriendly.
Melody could not have known that the local swains took one look at Viscount Coe’s proprietary glare and decided to keep their distance, no matter that Miss Ashton was the most fetching thing the county had seen in ages. The older gentlemen felt it was safer to do the pretty with the married ladies and widows, the younger to get up harmless flirtations with that bit of fluff Miss Bartleby. Miss Felice was totally ineligible, of course—their mamas were frightfully provincial about
such matters—but at least a chap could ask the little beauty to take a stroll in Squire’s rose garden without fearing a heavy hand on his shoulder or that dagger stare in his back.
As for the women, there wasn’t a female in the place who didn’t see which way the wind was blowing. The single ladies hated Melody instantly for having won the race before the starting pistol was even fired. The matrons were taking a wait-and-see attitude. Not all was smooth in the courtship, obviously, but the whole shire was aware how the handsome viscount had been turning the countryside on its ear, firing constables, refilling the poor box at his own expense, and seeming pleased with these small diversions like supper at Watson’s, and him a fine London gent. If ever a buck was marking his territory, the good ladies decided, it was Cordell Coe. For some reason, the viscount’s suit wasn’t prospering, despite the time he’d put in making up to those strange children at the Dower House, petting the calf for sure. None of the dowagers could figure it, unless that Melody Ashton had more hair than wit. If she was their daughter, they’d shake some sense into the chit all right, for scurrying away like a frightened rabbit whenever the viscount approached, sitting in corners or talking quietly with his sister and that mousy Miss Chase. Lady Ashton never noticed, acting more the debutante than her daughter, fluttering around in her gauze and trailing ribbons. The other ladies, meanwhile, found the muddled wooing better than a Minerva Press romance and were content to sit back and watch.
Melody thought she was keeping busy, seeing Lady Tarnover had a pillow behind her back, moving the Madeira out of Mama’s range, reassuring Miss Chase that she was not making a romance out of whole cloth, that Major Frye truly appeared smitten. No, he would not mind that Miss Chase was dowerless.
“For you come with a fine mind and gentleness of spirit he cannot help but appreciate. And my understanding is that the major has an easy competence of his own. He has even undertaken some of the expenses of refurbishing the workhouse, I understand.”
“Yes, he wants to do more for the returning injured veterans. What an admirable, high-minded gentleman he is,” Miss Chase said with a sigh. “If I could only prove worthy—”
Melody cut the self-doubt off in midstream. “Isn’t it fortunate how things have worked out? I was so despondent that I could not offer you a position in London as my companion, and now see, you are near to making a wonderful match right here in Copley-Whitmore.”
“I know I have you to thank, Miss Ashton. Even if…if nothing comes from Major Frye’s attentions—a female in my circumstances, you know—at least I am out from under Miss Meadow’s thumb. Lady Wooster wishes me to continue on with her and dear Margaret, and I would be more than pleased with the position.”
Just then the gentlemen were rejoining the ladies, and Melody could see Major Frye headed in their direction. She diplomatically got up from the loveseat next to Miss Chase and said she thought Lady Wooster was beckoning.
That lady did indeed pat the sofa next to her, while Squire’s wife saw her two spotty daughters fixed at the pianoforte, one to play and one to sing, for the delight of the guests not participating in the card games at the other end of the room.
“My dear, you are to be congratulated,” Lady Erica said, nodding, in the other couple’s direction. “I think your Miss Chase is just what Peter needs, now that he has seen the world and war.” Melody would have denied any credit for the match, but Erica continued. She spoke softly, not to intrude on the duet presently unraveling Greensleeves. “Now what about your own prospects? Forgive me for being outspoken, but Meggie adores you, so I feel like one of the family, and I sincerely hope for your happiness.”
Erica also cared deeply about her brother’s happiness, and she believed the two were intertwined, if only Corey would stop acting like such a nodcock. Why, right now he should have been sitting beside this intriguing miss, instead of trying to play a hand of whist and watch her every move out of the corner of his eye at the same time. Erica hoped the cocklehead lost.
Melody hid her embarrassment in polite applause for the sisters and smiled when Felice arranged herself prettily at the instrument’s bench. Rupert Frye jumped up to turn her pages, and Felice proceeded to trill an Irish ballad.
“She is quite talented, don’t you think?” Melody suggested.
“Quite,” Lady Wooster answered dryly, noting the doll-like blonde’s arch look up at Rupert and her simpering smile for the rest of the company. “That one will see to her own interests, but what about you, my dear?” she persisted. “Do none of the gentlemen here please you?”
One pleased her all too well, in his dark blue superfine stretched across those broad shoulders Melody could see from here. Those were fruitless yearnings, however, so she answered Lady Wooster as honestly as she could: “I do not seek to marry, my lady. I find my independence comfortable and would not wish to become chattel to some domineering, high-handed male.”
So the clunch had already made mice feet of it, his fond sister concluded, having no trouble recognizing Corey in Miss Ashton’s description. She would cheerfully have strangled him for that shuttered look on the poor girl’s face, but he was her brother and only a male, so what was one to expect?
“But a woman can only find security in marriage, and true fulfillment,” Erica tried for her brother’s sake.
Melody was astounded. Here was this woman, a widow who had flatly rejected the suitors her brother had brought for her perusal, who had a child born out of wedlock that she was determined to have by her side, who flaunted all of society’s strictures, and she was advocating the married state!
“Forgive me, my lady, but I understood your own marriage was not entirely happy.”
“Oh, that was my second marriage,” Erica answered airily, applauding the end of Felice’s performance. “Wooster was a pig.”
“Your second? Then you were married before? And Meggie is not…”
She never got to finish the flood of questions or get any answers, because as Felice stepped down, that nasty, spiteful little witch tittered that it must now be Miss Ashton’s turn to entertain the company. Miss Bartleby knew well that Melody had no voice and could barely read the music, but her nose was so firmly out of joint that Felice determined to depress Melody’s pretensions once and for all. Little Melody thought she could choose the ripest plum, did she, cozying up to his elegant sister in that insinuating way she had, leaving the gleanings to Miss Bartleby? Even the lackluster governess had attracted a wealthier, handsomer parti than ne’er-do-well Rupert!
At first, with all eyes on her, Melody just blushed and demurred. Then, when Felice called, “Oh come, Melody, don’t be missish,” Melody apologized to the company and sweetly advised them that she was looking to their well-being, for she had no musical aptitude whatsoever.
Felice issued the coup de grâce: “I thought all young ladies of breeding had musical talent.”
It was Lady Ashton, after a few too many cordials, who mumbled loudly enough for everyone to hear, “That couldn’t be true, Felice dear, or you’d—”
She was interrupted by Lord Coe. Throwing down his cards, Corey strode over to Lady Ashton and took the glass out of her hands. “What Lady Ashton meant to say was that Miss Melody’s talents lie elsewhere.”
The entire company was still; this was better than a Punch and Judy show. Melody was somewhere between horror-struck and hysterical. Lady Wooster patted her hand nervously.
“I am certain Miss Ashton is too modest to blow her own horn, unlike others, but she is a crack shot. As a matter of fact, to repay your generous hospitality and for your entertainment, I should like to invite everyone present to the Oaks in three days’ time for a picnic and a rifle tournament.”
The women were delighted at the idea of a picnic, and the men were curious. It was Lord Pendleton, not surprisingly, who pointed out that it was not at all the thing for young ladies to be competing with weapons. Archery, perhaps, but never rifles.
Lord Coe grinned and his eyes sparkled. “Who said an
ything about the ladies competing, Pendleton? I will back Miss Ashton against any of you gentlemen!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
How could he have singled her out that way in front of everybody? Melody would have done better to have thumped her way through some scales or sung Ducky’s favorite nursery song, if she could have recalled it at that awful moment. She remembered the tune fine, now that she was home in her own bed. She also remembered every eye at Squire Watson’s gathering being fastened on her, some in pity, some gloating at her discomfort. If she had just thought to recite a poem or something, her embarrassment would have been over by now, instead of having to be gone through again in three days’ time, in front of the same group of neighbors and London sophisticates.
Melody’s cheeks burned at the very thought of putting on a demonstration of marksmanship, having gentlemen wager on her prowess. She may as well tie her garters in public! If Miss Meadow got wind of such unladylike behavior, she’d choke on a macaroon and go off in a purple apoplexy. Even Miss Chase, when applied to before bed, considered the situation unfortunate but unavoidable without making the viscount look no-account. A shooting match was not what one could like, the school teacher declared, but if Miss Ashton was going to do it, Major Frye wanted inside information to know what odds to back, and even Miss Chase had an extra shilling or two.
So much for responsible advice. Miss Chase was correct, however, about the viscount. He had stood up for her after Felice’s troublemaking pronouncement, at least temporarily directing attention away from Miss Ashton’s shortcomings. Therefore, she owed him the rifle match, even if it labeled her a hoyden.
Then Melody sat up amid her rumpled bedclothes and laughed. How could she lose her good name when she never had one? She had just been whining to herself how the world and Copley-Whitmore considered her no better than she should be, with all of Mama’s “minor indiscretions.” Let them. Melody Ashton was going to stop feeling sorry for herself and start having a good time. The London guests would be gone all too soon, and there would be little enough joy after that. If one in particular of the town crowd chose to place his wagers on her skill, meantime, Melody vowed to do her damnedest to see he won.
Minor Indiscretions Page 16