“Lucinda.”
“Well, whatever. My point is that I doubt she will be much bothered by even a scandal, if it comes to that. My concern just now is Ellen.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Eleanor wrung out. “Gussie, we have heard nothing!”
“Now, Nora—she is a sensible girl—she’ll come about.”
“But if Brockhaven can be believed, she would have had to jump fifteen feet in the dark and then just disappear. I cannot credit it.”
“Ten to one, she had it planned and is but waiting for news that Sir Basil intends to divorce her,” Augusta soothed.
“Divorce!” Lavinia was scandalized at the thought. “But she could not want that. She’d be ruined and no one would ever receive her.”
“There are worse things than being divorced, Vinnie— things like living with someone you cannot even like,” Augusta reminded her grimly.
Newell, the Marling butler, coughed apologetically from the hallway. “I believe Lord Brockhaven’s carriage is in the drive, madam. Shall I give out that you are not at home?”
“Oh, dear, and here we are standing like a flock of hens in the hall. No—yes—well, he is bound to see us, but I . . . Oh, dear me, I do so hate seeing that dreadful man.”
“Show him in, Newell,” Lady Sandbridge ordered briskly. “We shall be pleased to take tea in the drawing room with his lordship.” She eyed her flustered sister-in- law with amusement. “And do collect yourself, my dear, for he will not do anything dreadful while I am here to support you.”
The ladies barely had time to be seated and to arrange their skirts before Basil Brockhaven was ushered in. He surveyed the women with a scowl until he recognized Augusta.
“Lady Sandbridge, is it not?” he beamed. “I’d recognize you anywhere, even after all this time.” After a portly bow, he got down to business with Eleanor Marling, demanding almost uncivilly, “Where’s Marling? I would have a word with him in private, if you please.”
“I think he has gone to Somerset, sir. He was not particularly precise in his direction,” she told him doubtfully.
“What she means to say, Brockhaven,” Augusta cut in, “is that Thomas bolted rather than face me.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “Not a little thing like you.” Turning back to Eleanor, he announced, “I shall wait, Mrs. Marling, for I do not believe he is not at home.”
“But it is true,” Lavinia chimed in, “for we came to see him and he was already gone.”
“Eh? And who the devil are you?”
“You cannot say you do not remember Lavinia Rowell? For shame, Sir Basil,” she tittered. “You stood up with me many times during my Season.”
Brockhaven gave her a closer look through his quizzing glass and then shook his head. “Well, I daresay you must’ve changed, ma’am.”
“It was in ’95,” she reminded him patiently, “and I was wed to Lawrence Leffingwell before my Season was out”
“Now, him I remember—quite plump in the pocket, I believe.”
“That’s the one,” she encouraged, “and I was a blonde then, with blue eyes that you once complimented.”
“Well, I daresay the gray hair has me confused now.”
Newell interrupted to set a tray of glasses and a decanter of ratafia in front of the ladies. He bowed respectfully in the baron’s direction and inquired, “Some Madeira for you, sir?”
“Yes, yes.” Sir Basil impatiently waved him away and focused again on Eleanor Marling. “And now, madam, what is this nonsense about Marling being away from home? Damn it, er, dash it, I have business with the man.”
“We know,” Augusta told him matter-of-factly, “and that is precisely why we are come to town. We wish to salvage the situation if at all possible.”
“Yes,” Lavinia agreed eagerly, “we have come to help you, Sir Basil. We cannot imagine what possessed that foolish creature to act in such a rash manner. I can only suppose that she did not recognize her good fortune.”
“No doubt,” Augusta agreed dryly.
“Then you will tell me what I am to do,” Sir Basil responded in an aggrieved tone, “for I cannot forever give out that she is ill. You cannot imagine the gibes I’ve suffered in the clubs already.”
“Brazen it out,” Augusta encouraged, “and we shall support you. Tell me, do you drive out or go to the opera?”
“What’s that to the purpose?”
“Well, if you are seen with her family, that should spike the tattlemongers’ tongues. By the time we are through, you will be congratulated for your patience in coping with a wife suffering from consumption.”
“What consumption?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Really, I had no notion you were a slow-top, my lord,” Augusta told him in exasperation. “We must endeavor to save your reputation somehow. You said it was already becoming an on-dit that there is something wrong between you and my niece. Consumption is the answer. It is a disease that discourages visitors and certainly prevents the sufferer from attending public functions. You will be lauded for taking her under such circumstances.”
“Dash it! People die from consumption.”
“Well, it gives you time to wait for her to reappear. You can give out that you have sent her to the country, where the air is more salubrious. Then, when it is no longer of interest to anyone, you may divorce her and seek a more amenable wife,” she explained practically.
“I do not seek a divorce,” he told her stiffly. “I want my wife, and I believe that this family is sheltering her in her unlawful flight from my home.”
“Nonsense,” Augusta dismissed the notion. “I cannot imagine anything less comfortable than a wife who does not want to live with you. Of course, you will have to make up your own mind on that head. In the meantime, your mother-in-law, Lavinia, and myself will exert ourselves to appear publicly with you until the gossip dies down.”
“Now see here—”
“No. You see here. We are as wishful as you about avoiding scandal. You will do it, or you will be the laughingstock of the ton when the real story is heard.”
They haggled over her suggestion for several minutes while Lavinia and Eleanor looked on in shock. But when Basil Brockhaven took his leave, he was surprised to find that he had engaged himself to take all three ladies to the opera that evening. He was uncertain about Lady Sandbridge; she was either the most interfering busybody or a dear, and he could not tell which. But she was right about one thing: he could not continue to go about without Ellen unless the chit’s family supported him, and he certainly had no desire to sit at home alone.
“Well, I never!” Lavinia sank back in her chair after he had left. “I repeat, I have never heard of such a tale, Gussie. Consumption! How could the wretched girl have done such a thing to that poor man when he is worried half out of his mind over her?”
“Is he, Vinnie? I rather think he is far more concerned about his own reputation. If he were truly worried, he would have called in the Bow Street runners by now. And you did not hear him say anything about her being alone and defenseless in a city like this, did you?”
“You do not think he has harmed her?” Eleanor asked in alarm.
“Brockhaven? Of course not! I was merely telling Vinnie that if I were a loving husband, I should be more concerned for my wife and less for what people would-think. I believe he is merely piqued that she escaped his clutches before he had his way with her.”
“Augusta, must you be so plainspoken?” Lavinia complained.
“Pooh. We are none of us green girls,” Augusta snapped back.
Thus it was that Lord Brockhaven returned to the Marling residence with considerable trepidation some six hours later. The thought of spending an evening in the company of three middle-aged females was beginning to give him indigestion. And that thin thing looked dashed boring to him. It was no wonder Leffingwell had popped off.
“Hallo, Newell.” He handed his hat to the butler with blunt affability and asked, “Are the ladies down yet?” Wit
hout waiting for an answer, he preened himself in an entrance mirror. He was certain of one thing: he was fine as fivepence. His yellow satin waistcoat gleamed beneath his navy brocade swallowtail coat, and his yellow satin pantaloons clung to his plump thighs without so much as a wrinkle. And his valet had managed to find him a pair of navy-and-yellow pin-striped stockings that set the ensemble off perfectly. His pattens clicked against the marble- inlaid entry as he followed Newell into the drawing room.
Augusta Sandbridge looked up coolly as he was ushered in and had to fight the urge to snicker. Mrs. Marling took in his clothing and blinked to hide the fact that he looked the veriest quiz. Lavinia Leffingwell, on the other hand, beamed in admiration as he bowed stiffly over Eleanor’s hand.
“Ohhh, Sir Basil,” she gushed, “you will cast all of us in the shade tonight. Don’t you think so, dear Nora?”
“Uh, yes, I think so,” Eleanor managed finally.
“Quite, I am sure.” Augusta nodded.
“But what of Miss Amy? Surely she would enjoy an evening’s entertainment,” Sir Basil suggested.
“Amy is still in the schoolroom,” Augusta announced firmly. “And it would be most improper for her to appear in public before she is presented.”
“But we are family. Surely—”
“No, I think not.”
“But I cannot see the harm,” Lavinia ventured, and then quailed beneath the scathing look she received from her sister-in-law. “But if she is not presented, I suppose you are right,” she finished lamely.
Once they actually reached the opera, the evening passed fairly agreeably for all four of them. To Basil Brockhaven, it was something of a credit to have grande dame Augusta Sandbridge in his company. And if she were a trifle distant in public, he decided it was because she was dreadfully high in the instep. Mrs. Marling said very little to him, but then she was kept busy explaining her daughter’s sudden decline. To his chagrin, Lavinia felt it incumbent to entertain him at every lull in the program.
“La! Is that not Maria Cosgrove over there?” she chirped. “I have not see her in an age, but she looks a complete dowd now. I cannot fathom how she could let herself run to fat like that. Dear Sir Basil, do you suppose we could go over during the intermission?”
“I do not know the lady well enough to visit her box,” Brockhaven told her happily, “but I shall be pleased to provide a footman to escort you over there.”
“I think I should like that excessively,” Lavinia tittered as she contemplated a reunion with an old friend who no longer had any claim to beauty.
“I believe I shall go with you,” Eleanor added, “for there is dear Lady Dillworth with her.”
“Egad, ma’am!” Brockhaven turned to Augusta after they left. “I wonder how you can tolerate such a prattlebox! Leffingwell must have been glad for the peace when they laid him in the ground.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Augusta answered coolly. “He was much older than Vinnie and he fairly doted on her—left her with an enormous fortune. She may rattle on, sir, but underneath her prattle, she is a very sharp female. I daresay she has improved on the inheritance in the years since he has been gone.”
“You don’t say! Then why did she not take a second husband to help her manage?”
“Why should she? She had the money, the houses, the land, and her children.”
“She has children?”
“Two—Clarence is at Eton and Horace is at boarding school.”
“Well, they will get the bulk of Leffingwell’s estate, of course.”
“No,” Augusta mused slowly, “I should not think so. I believe she had their money arranged in trust. Of course, Clearence has the title, and I know she expects to purchase Horace a commission in his majesty’s dragoons now that this unpleasantness with Boney’s over once and for all.”
“Dear me! And to think that I have not heard of Lady Leffingwell since her Season.”
“Of course you have not. She is a veritable pattern card of propriety, my lord, and not given to squandering her fortune.” Augusta was warming to an idea just forming in her mind as she added, “She’s a perfect paragon, if you must know.”
“Egad! I had no idea! But she looks too thin,” Sir Basil decided as he looked at her across the loges. “She is most likely a chronic complainer—you know, one of those females with every conceivable megrim. I cannot say I envy you, dear lady, if you have lived with her these several years.”
“Vinnie? Good heavens, no! she is never ill—never.”
“Really?” He looked again with new interest.
Later, Augusta sat back in Sir Basil’s opera box and watched as he conversed pleasantly with Lavinia. And for once in her life, Vinnie ceased her incessant chatter and listened. In fact, it was not until the third act that she actually focused her attention of the diva singing the lead and pinched at Sir Basil’s coat for attention.
“What an incredibly beautiful woman!” she breathed. “And what a voice!”
“Sophia Mantini.” Brockhaven nodded authoritatively. “She is the Marquess of Trent’s latest flirt.”
“La, what a pair they must make—if even half of what I have heard of him is true!”
“Shhhh!” Augusta hissed as she reached to tap Vinnie on the shoulder. “And twice what you have heard of him is fact.”
“Very true,” Brockhaven confided in spite of the quelling looks he and Lavinia were receiving from the adjoining boxes. “He is a cold and wild man, I can tell you—a devil when crossed, as he bears no slight. Excellent with pistol and sword, he was used to duel quite often, but now there’s none to try him.”
“Shhhhh!”
“Damme, Brockhaven, be quiet!”
The complaints from around him did not deter him as he continued to expound on the marquess. “He’s a Deveraux, ma’am, and they are a wild and arrogant bunch—he’s the worst, of course.”
“Well, I am glad I have never met the gentleman,” Vinnie murmured in shocked accents.
“Pooh.” Augusta shook her head in disgust. “I have met him, and he makes me sorry that I am not fifteen or twenty years younger. Wild he is, but give me a rake any day.”
“Madam!” Brockhaven drew back in shock.
“Gussie!”
“I stand by what I said:” Augusta folded her hands in her lap and turned back to listen to the rest of the Mantini’s performance.
Much later, after Brockhaven had returned the ladies to the Marling house and Lady Leffingwell had retired, Eleanor Marling faced her sister-in-law over a glass of wine. She lifted her glass and swirled it aimlessly.
“I do not know what you are about, Gussie, but I suppose you must know what you hope to achieve. Myself—I cannot stand Sir Basil.”
“Repulsive as a toad,” Augusta agreed.
“Then, what?”
“Leave it to me, my dear, and do not try to stick your oar in the water. I may just have found a way to solve both our problems.”
“But I cannot quite like having him around here,” Eleanor confessed, “because of Amy. Did you not note that he attempted to draw her. into our little outing?”
“I noticed, and I supported you in your determination to keep her out of his way. Do but give me a week or two, Nora, to try my mad scheme, and then I’ve a mind to broaden Amy’s education with a trip abroad. I have always favored Paris myself.”
9
LORD TRENT’S RECOVERY from pneumonia was not without its problems. He continued to run a fever for several days after the crisis had passed, and he was a less-than-pleasant patient. Ellen continued to lose much sleep nursing him as she forced herself to rise several times each night to see that he remained covered. She feared a backset that would keep them’ from ever reaching Yorkshire, and she despaired of ever being found by Dobbs.
Maggie Bratcher assisted whenever she could, bringing food, gruel, and clean clothes to them. And being a short, ample woman, Maggie brought things that did not fit Ellen at all. Still, they were clean and Ellen was
grateful to escape the Mantini’s dresses.
“Egad, but you look a fright in that thing,” Trent commented when she ventured into his room with a bowl of gruel on his tray. “If you gained ten stone, you could not fill it out.”
“I am well aware of its lack of fit or style, my lord, but at least it is clean.”
“Style? ’Twould have more if it were made out of a flour sack, my dear.” He reached for the bowl and inspected its contents. “And what is this?”
She sat on the side of his bed and spread a napkin over his chest. “I would not mention the dress or the gruel around Mrs. Bratcher if I were you, Alex. You know we are quite dependent on her kindness.”
“Gruel?” He sniffed with distaste. “I think I preferred the barley broth, for I at least had a notion of what was in it.”
“Would you like a spoon, or would you prefer to drink it?”
He took a tentative taste and sat the bowl on the table by the bed. “I would have something with more substance, if you really want my opinion on the subject— something like roast beef, potatoes, carrots, peas, bread, and a bottle of wine—and I would finish it off with a peach or apricot tart.”
“Dr. Cookson says it must be sustaining broths only, Alex.”
“And he is a foot or more shorter than I. I warrant he could not sustain himself on this,” he grumbled. “Oh, never mind!” He reached for the bowl and downed it in a several quick gulps. “Now, my dear, what else is there? I do not care for a second serving of this.”
“I’ll see if I can find something,” she relented.
“Good girl! I know they have been feeding you something other than this pap. I am to the point where I would be grateful even for your crumbs.”
She rummaged around the kitchen and pantry and returned with a dish of brownish gel and a clean spoon. “Here,” she ordered, “open your mouth.”
“Dash it! I can feed myself.”
“I know, but ’tis merely a precaution to keep you from throwing it back at me. Now, open up and enjoy the luxury of having someone take care of your every need. It is not a circumstance that is likely to last long.”
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