Lady Olivia To The Rescue

by Julia Parks

  Sheridan picked up his hat and gloves from the table in the hall and went out. He ambled along the pavement, not caring which direction he took as his mind worked on various problems—mostly those related to Lady Olivia Cunningham.

  It was her charity work that interested him, of course. Whereas he contributed to a number of charities around his estate at home, she worked here, in London. He had written off this particular portion of the country years earlier. There had seemed no hope for helping London’s poor and misfortunate. It was a job too overwhelming to succeed. To his way of thinking, no amount of money would have helped, but Lady Olivia was making it work, evidently. On the one hand, he admired her for it. On the other, there was a callous part of him that wanted to deride her efforts as foolish and impotent. It was this part that ruled his life when he was in London, and he found it difficult to check.

  To be thought a fool was the worst sort of insult—an insult his young wife had hurled at his head every time he had tried to fix the problems that plagued their marriage. Now that had been an impossible task!

  No, he prided himself on always being rational.

  He avoided not only doing foolish things but also foolish people. To think he might be playing a fool now was completely unacceptable. He would have to be cautious. If Lady Olivia’s ventures were foolish, then he wanted no part of them. If not, then he would support her completely—if anonymously.

  You’re a coward. You want to help, but only if it suits your rigid code of behaviour. What does it matter if she fails? At least she is trying.

  Sheridan glanced around, getting his bearings. He had wandered away from his usual neighbourhood, and now he was in a street off Grosvenor Square. The houses were large and set back from the street enough to have narrow flowerbeds along the pavement.

  He read the number of the house in front of him. Number eight. Something, some inner devil, had brought him to her house. He almost turned to flee.

  A carriage pulling up behind him prevented his departure. The door opened, and Amy Hepplewhite descended.

  “Is that you, Lord Sheridan? Have you come to call? I do hope so.” She took his arm and said, “I have just left Maria Sefton, and she is under the weather. Most distressing, I can tell you. I need a handsome gentleman to take my mind off her. Do come into the drawing room and wait for me while I take off this bonnet and coat.”

  The room was definitely feminine. The carpets were a riot of pink and cream-colored roses. The paper on the walls was a striped pink and cream.

  The furnishings were in various shades of rose and green and were delicately carved. Still, it was a comfortable room. A basket by the sofa held a stack of mending. On the table at the other end of the sofa was a small stand with an unfinished needlework project. A sheet of music lay on the bench by a well-used pianoforte. Sheridan crossed the room and picked out the melody—a ballad about love lost.

  “Good afternoon, your lordship. Miss Hepplewhite thought you might be hungry so I have brought the tea tray in for you. If you prefer a glass of ale, I have some very good stock in the library.”

  ‘Tea will be fine. Thank you, uh…”

  “Witchell, my lord.” The butler poured the cup of tea and then straightened. “Will there be anything else, your lordship?”

  “No, that will be all.” The butler retreated but turned when Sheridan asked, “Is Lady Olivia at home?”

  “No, my lord. She has gone out for the day.”

  “I see.”

  He sat down to his tea, helping himself to a small cake and placing it on a dainty porcelain plate. He had finished one portion and was considering a second when a breathless Amy sailed into the room. Sheridan half rose, but she shooed him back into his seat.

  “What has Witchell managed for us this afternoon? Ah, some macaroons. I could eat my weight in them every day.”

  “A small portion, to be sure,” said Sheridan, placing two on her plate.

  She grinned at him and said, “I never knew what a complete hand you were, Lord Sheridan.”

  “Sheri, remember?”

  “Yes, yes. It is Sheri, when we are private.”

  “And in public, you must call me Sheridan. All my best friends do so.”

  “Then so shall I. Let’s see. That makes three of us here in London, does it not?”

  He frowned at the impertinence, but she was still favouring him with a warm smile, and he nodded. “Yes, a total of three—unless my mother should venture to town. An unlikely event, I can tell you.”

  “The dowager prefers the country?”

  “Yes, as far from any other people as she can get. My mother has turned into a bit of a hermit.”

  “She was never very social, as I recall,” said Amy, stirring her tea thoughtfully.

  “You knew my mother when she was younger?”

  “Yes, we met on occasion. You are very like her.”

  “Hardly,” said Sheridan. “She is fair and was blonde, before her hair turned grey.”

  “No, not your looks. I meant your personality. The dowager marchioness didn’t seem to enjoy being in London very much either.”

  Sheridan frowned. This conversation was becoming much too personal. It was time he put paid to Amy Hepplewhite’s impertinence.

  Lifting his quizzing glass, he stared at her a moment and then said, “Sometimes, there is very little to enjoy here in London.”

  She laughed, a tinkling sound that was quite as infectious as her smile. She put a hand on his sleeve and leaned closer. “Oh, that is very good! I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone use a quizzing glass to such advantage. Were I a mushroom, I would be quaking in my boots!”

  Drew smiled and shook his head. “You are an extraordinary woman, Miss Hepplewhite.”

  “Amy,” she said.

  “Amy. That look is guaranteed to depress the intentions of the most encroaching toady. But as you say, as you are not one…”

  “Well, among friends, one can say what one pleases. I am all for the rules our society has set out for us, but I am not going to follow them in my own home. Well, Olivia’s home.”

  Sheridan looked about him as if expecting Olivia to materialize. “Are you expecting Lady Olivia soon?”

  “Goodness, no. She and that gorilla of hers have gone out to…to check on certain business concerns.”

  He could tell she was hedging her bets, but he didn’t wish to be too openly interested, so he changed his tact and asked, “Gorilla?”

  “Her servant. A former prizefighter. He is a decent man and a loyal servant, but he does nothing for her.”

  “In what way?”

  “You know. The way she appears—to others.”

  “Something that does not matter very much to me,” he replied.

  “Of course it does,” said the older woman, her frustration showing on her face. “You care very much about it. For instance, why do you carry that quizzing glass? And the cane you take everywhere? What purpose does it serve? You are certainly not lame, Sheri.”

  “No, I am not,” he replied, his words clipped.

  This conversation was getting out of hand.

  She heaved a sigh and sat back, relaxing against the back of the sofa as no proper lady would do. Amy Hepplewhite felt very comfortable with him indeed, and this went far to erase his irritation. He waited for her next salvo. It didn’t take long.

  Leaning forward again, she said, “You carry the quizzing glass—a little out-dated, perhaps, but you do it so well—and the cane because you are trying to present a certain image of yourself. For you to suddenly appear without them would be like a knight of old appearing without his armour on. It simply isn’t done. The world, as we know it, would collapse if the Marquess of Sheridan came to a ball, sans cane, and actually danced!”

  She heaved a
sigh and relaxed against the green velvet cushions once again. Sheridan smiled. Then he chuckled. And finally, he laughed—a sound that filled the room. Rising, he swept her a deep bow.

  “If I had my hat on, I would doff it to you, my dear Miss Hepplewhite—Amy. For someone who has only recently come within my sphere of influence, you have read my character remarkably well. Bravo!”

  He sat down, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. At that moment, the door opened and the butler announced Mr. Jenson.

  The doctor hesitated before entering. Then he said, “Good morning, Lord Sheridan, Miss Hepplewhite.” Crossing the room, he bowed before them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jenson,” said Sheridan.

  “Are you here to see Pansy again?” asked Amy.

  “What? No, that is, yes. I…I thought I would just check on my patient.”

  “She is probably in Olivia’s room. Have Witchell take you to her.”

  The man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and shuffled out the door. When it closed, Sheridan said, “Why do you torture that poor fellow so?”

  “It is nothing more than he deserves,” she replied. Then she clamped her lips tightly together to indicate that that was all she had to say on the subject.

  He rose to leave, but before he could speak, the butler entered again.

  “Mr. Pendleton.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Pendleton. Do come in and join us,” said his hostess.

  Sheridan had no choice but to sit down again. With a nod, he said, “Pendleton.”

  “Good morning, Miss Hepplewhite, Lord Sheridan.”

  “Would you care for some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you. I have just come from the solicitors. Is Lady Olivia here?”

  “No, she and her henchman have gone out. I don’t expect her home for hours. Where she gets the energy, I cannot imagine. Was it something urgent?”

  “Not at all. I merely wanted to tell her…” He hesitated, glancing at Drew. Then he shrugged and said, “I suppose it doesn’t matter as you were there the other day anyway. I have just signed the papers to deed over that bit of land for Lady Olivia’s school.”

  “Has she the funds to build it?” asked Sheridan.

  “I don’t know. I plan to give her something toward the building, and I know she always gives, too, but I have no idea where the rest of the money will come from. I only know that what Lady Olivia sets out to do, she does,” said the old man.

  Just then, the doctor returned to the room. Sheridan rose. “Come and take my seat, Mr. Jenson. I really should be going.” He bowed over Amy’s hand and turned to grin up at her. She rolled her eyes heavenward but said nothing.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “Lord Sheridan,” they said in reply. Sheridan was whistling this time as he walked along.

  It was odd that the boredom that so often overtook him when in London had vanished. In its place was a sense of purpose, a sense of pleasure and expectation.

  Sheridan continued his ambles, this time heading toward his tailor, Weston’s, on Conduit Street. There he ordered a new waistcoat in a daring bishop’s blue and a new riding coat, too. For a member of the ton, Sheridan spent remarkably little time on his wardrobe. His clothes were of excellent quality but his colour palette was invariably conservative. The blue brocade waistcoat would seem a little out of place in his cupboard.

  From Weston’s, he continued on to Piccadilly. Here, he went into Hatchard’s and stopped at the front desk. His daughter, Rebekah, had asked for the latest novels, and he wanted to surprise her with a package sent to her school. On a display stand near the door was a book about steam engines. On a whim, Sheridan had the clerk wrap this up, too, for Arthur at Eton. It was just the sort of thing his bookish son would devour.

  As Sheridan left the store, he stepped back to allow two giggling young ladies to enter with their maid. Tipping his hat, he was arrested by the sight of his friend Richard strolling along the pavement. The beautiful Lady Olivia was on his arm, laughing at something the rake had said.

  There was nothing clandestine about the two. They were out in the open, in daylight. But he couldn’t help wondering what had brought them together. Amy Hepplewhite had said that Olivia was out for the day with her servant as a companion. There was no servant in sight. Not that there had to be for propriety’s sake—not in the middle of Piccadilly.

  He had assumed she was out doing good works. He had assumed her errands were those of helping others. He had assumed entirely too much.

  Sheridan turned toward home. He would write letters to his children and give the letters and the books to his secretary to post. There were several matters his secretary had asked him to look into personally so he would spend the rest of the afternoon attending to business.

  Upon arriving home, he found a note from Richard. He tossed it aside then retrieved it. Opening the envelope, there was only a short message.

  Sheri,

  Instead of going together, meet me at Vauxhall tonight. I have a few things to do first and will be running late.

  Richard

  Sheridan crumbled the note. He toyed with the idea of simply forgetting their engagement. No, he would meet Richard there. What reason could he give for not going? That he had been in the doldrums over seeing his friend with Lady Olivia?

  That wasn’t true, of course. He had no reason to resent Richard and Lady Olivia going out together. He had been angered only at the thought that Miss Hepplewhite had dissembled to him, had led him to believe that her niece was out on business.

  And that, if he examined his motives closely, was not really true either. Sheridan, who prided himself on being truthful with others to the point of bluntness, was now lying to himself.

  But he didn’t care, couldn’t care, what Lady Olivia did or did not do. And he certainly didn’t care with whom!

  Sheridan bowed his head as it began to throb.

  Had the world gone mad, or was he the only one?

  “Hell and blast!” he muttered.

  Olivia arrived home with time to spare before dressing for dinner and her evening jaunts. She discovered her aunt prostrate on her bed, a cool cloth on her head.

  “I cannot go out tonight, my dear. I feel far too weak.”

  “I am sorry, Aunt. I hope you are not sickening with what befell Pansy. Should I call Mr. Jenson?”

  Her aunt sat bolt upright on her bed and said, “No! That is what started all this in the first place!” She fell back and the feather mattress let out a little whoosh.

  “Oh? You have the headache because of Mr. Jenson?” said Olivia, her tone teasing.

  “No, not because of him. Rather it was because of entertaining him and Mr. Pendleton. Do those two not realize I have other things to do than sit in the drawing room with the two of them looking daggers at each other?”

  “Looking daggers? Daggers of jealousy,” said Olivia with a giggle.

  Her aunt glared at her. “You are not the only one with gentlemen callers, my girl.”

  “Certainly not, Aunt. I meant nothing by it. I hope you recover quickly from your indisposition.”

  “I shall be fine, dear. I merely have the headache—a particularly wicked one, but only a headache.”

  “Very well, I shall leave you to Jinks’s ministrations.” Olivia opened the door, but she couldn’t resist one last quip. “Unless, of course, you need me to send for the doctor.”

  “Baggage!” said her aunt.

  “Rest well, dearest.” Olivia blew her aunt a kiss before shutting the door.

  Olivia went downstairs and wandered out to the garden. It was a lovely place to sit in solitude. Large shrubs lined the walkways, hiding her from anyone who might peer out the house windows. In the middle was an open patch of grass dotted with smal
l flowerbeds. Here, she discovered the three-legged dog, Hasty, playing with Hawkeye. The cat raced from one flowerbed to the next, turning his head to the left so that with his one eye he could see the dog coming.

  “You will have to do better than that,” she said to the dog. He paused in his play and ran up to her, wagging his stubby tail with pleasure. “Good boy, Hasty. Now, go back to entertaining our friend. Tire him out so he will not want to play with my toes under the covers tonight.”

  As if he understood her, the dog trotted back to the flowerbed where Hawkeye lay in wait. Springing into the air, the cat fled behind the next bed while the dog followed, repeating the same pattern again.

  Olivia sat down on a stone bench to watch. A moment later, a shadow fell across her, and she looked up to find Harold waiting patiently “Yes, Harold?”

  “Mr. Witchell said to give you this letter that Mr. Pendleton left for you.”

  “Thank you.” He handed her the letter and turned to go, but she stopped him. “Harold, we are going out tonight.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “To Vauxhall.”

  “Oh, m’lady, not that idea again. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Not with you there. And we did rescue that one unfortunate girl.”

  “But you shouldn’t be…”

  “Now, Harold, would you deny others the chance to live a decent life? No, I thought not. I understand that in the dark pathways, there are any number of…ladies, looking for a…job. I plan to find those poor, wretched girls and help them.”

  “Very well,” he said.

  “And you may rid yourself of that hang-dog look. I need your help, Harold.”

  “I still say it is too dangerous, my lady.”

  Olivia, however, only nibbled her lip for a minute and then said, “True, I did find that part of it rather uncomfortable. Very well, then we will each take along a pistol. I will keep one in my reticule, and you shall carry one in your pocket. You remember how to use it, do you not?”