by Amanda Scott
“Well, it seems to do so, at any rate. You seem more relaxed than I remember.”
“Does it show so readily?” He nodded. “Well, I can tell you, Toby, I intend to enjoy the freedom of being married,” she said frankly.
“Freedom?”
“You know what I mean,” she said quickly. “Married ladies are not nearly so hedged about by rules and propriety. I shall no longer require a chaperone everywhere I go, and I shall be able to choose entertainments for myself without having to submit them to Mama or Aunt Uffington for approval.”
“Aren’t you forgetting one small detail?”
She chuckled. “If you mean Ravenwood, sir, he is scarcely small. But I assure you, he quite agrees that ours shall be a modern arrangement. He does not mean to keep watch over me, nor do I intend to make any difficulties over his amusements.”
Lord Toby cocked an eyebrow, and she read the same skepticism in his expression as she had heard in Faringdon’s tone earlier. “I daresay the two of you will know what you are about,” was all Lord Toby said, however.
“Of course we do.” She glanced up at that moment and caught Ravenwood’s eye upon her from some distance across the room. He lifted his wineglass in a gentle salute, but even with the distance between them, she could not miss the glint of lazy amusement in his look. She turned to Lord Toby, smiling sweetly. “Do you know, Toby dear, my throat is fairly parched. Do you suppose we might find the punchbowl together?”
He agreed with alacrity, and sipping punch, she quickly found herself being introduced to other friends of her husband’s. Of the group of Inseparables, only Ravenwood and Lynsted had married so far, the others remaining quite happily unattached. Two of the gentlemen—one the slightly tipsy Roger Carrisbrooke, the other the morose-looking Philip Wensley-Drew—mentioned that they had attended the wedding, but Cicely did not remember them. No one seemed to think anything about that, however, so she was spared any embarrassment and merely enjoyed being the center of an admiring group of young gentlemen.
A few moments later Lady Ribbesford herself, a plump matron in billowing chiffon, stepped up to the group. “For shame, gentlemen,” she tittered behind a gloved and beringed hand. “You must not monopolize my special guest. Though, to be sure, my dearest,” she added, putting the hand lightly upon Cicely’s shoulder, “you are in splendid looks tonight.”
“Thank you, my lady. ’Tis a charming party.”
“Well, that’s what we like,” pronounced her ladyship. “I was telling Ribbesford only this morning that we like nothing better than to provide good, wholesome entertainment for our dearest friends.”
“Since when does that Townsend fellow number amongst your friends, Carolyn?” demanded Faringdon with one of his impudent grins.
“Rascal!” If Lady Ribbesford had had the foresight to carry a fan, Cicely was quite certain she would have rapped his knuckles with it. “Mr. Townsend, as you know perfectly well, is a most experienced fellow, and it gives me such a feeling of safety, don’t you know, when he is here to protect my guests and their valuables.”
“Persuaded you the place would be run over with felons and other such improper characters without his attendance, no doubt,” laughed the irrepressible Faringdon. The others laughed with him, but their laughter didn’t faze Lady Ribbesford. She turned enthusiastically to Cicely.
“Wouldn’t you like to meet him, my dear? He’s such a fascinating man. Moreover,” she added, glancing to one side of the room, “he is conversing with your husband just now, so it would be the most natural thing in the world for me to present him to you.”
Fascinated, indeed, Cicely allowed herself to be led away from the group. “I don’t blame you for being cautious, my lady,” she said as they walked together. “I have been given to understand that there have been numerous robberies throughout the city.”
“Oh, indeed, it has us all in a twitter, my dear. The patrols seem to have no effect, you know. Indeed, one sometimes fears the officers themselves … but I should say nothing. Ribbesford says my tongue has a hinge in the middle, and there has been no proof against anyone, and one knows the Bow Street people, at least, are above reproach. But here we are. Ravenwood, I’ve brought your lovely wife to meet Mr. Townsend.”
Cicely found herself face to face with a portly, smart little man, as neat as paint, if a little peculiar in his costume. He wore a very tight suit of light green knee breeches and a yellow coat, short gaiters, and a white hat with a very broad brim. He doffed this last article as the introductions were made, then plopped it back upon his head and surveyed her gravely from beneath its brim.
“You would be wise, m’lady,” he said quite seriously, “to hand over them beads yer awearin’ t’ my safekeeping.”
Cicely stared at him. “Surely that isn’t necessary here, Mr. Townsend!” she exclaimed, putting a hand to her pearls.
“There be nips and files where we least expect them, my lady,” he answered importantly, gripping the lapels of his jacket and rocking back and forth on his toes. “’Tis best to be safe. Even the Regent hands over his rhino and gewgaws whenever he attends a thing like this. I never allow him to keep above five guineas in his pocket. The rest—sometimes as much as fifty or sixty pounds, mind you—and his watch I keeps in my own pocket, where few people would think to look for them.”
“Do you, sir?” Cicely replied, amused. “He must trust you a good deal.”
“I say, Townsend,” interrupted a young sprig of fashion from the group gathering around them, “I wish to ascertain a fact but, ’pon my honor, I do not wish to distress your feelings.” He had spoken with considerable hauteur and now paused to take a pinch of snuff. Townsend nodded tolerantly for him to continue. “Well, then, man,” the lordling went on, “in the early part of your life, were you not a coal heaver?”
“Yes, my lord,” answered Townsend, making a bow with the most profound respect. “It is very true. But let me tell your lordship,” he went on dulcetly, “that if you had been reared as a coal heaver, you would have remained a coal heaver up to the present hour.”
In the general laughter that followed Ravenwood drew Cicely to one side. “If you are becoming weary of this, my dear, I am quite prepared to take you home. It has been a long day.”
“Oh, no, please, sir! I am having a wonderful evening. Pray, do not say we must leave.”
“As you wish, of course,” he replied politely. “We shall remain as long as you like.”
“Good. Tell me, my lord, is it true he was a coal heaver?”
“I believe so. It is said he used to attend all the trials at the Old Bailey and kept a detailed list of who was acquitted and who was found guilty. Became a sort of oracle, I daresay, with all that information. Gave him a certain notoriety, at any rate, and he was eventually appointed a police officer because of it. It wasn’t long after that before his name alone became a terror to the criminal element. Now it is not at all uncommon for great personages to nod at him and say ‘how do’ in passing. I think he’s a bit of an imposter myself, but there’s no denying he’s made something of himself.” He smiled. “He certainly prefers not to be reminded of his roots in the coal cellars.”
Cicely chuckled, glancing back to where Mr. Townsend was holding court. He seemed to be relating an anecdote now to the group of avid listeners, but the musicians were striking up again and the handsome Mr. Reginald Blakeney, another of Ravenwood’s friends, whom she had met but a few moments past, stepped up to beg the honor. With a casual farewell to her husband, Cicely accepted willingly, and Ravenwood watched her go, a speculative gleam in his dark, hooded eyes.
9
THEY RETURNED TO CHARLES Street at last in the small hours, and Cicely went straight to her bed, exhausted, falling asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, without another thought for her husband. If he came to her room at all that night, she was unaware of his visit.
The next thing she knew, Betty had pulled back the curtains and stood by her bed, ready to serve her cho
colate. Cicely sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes, willing the painful throb in her head to perdition.
“What time is it, Betty?”
“Half after ten, m’lady. Miss Hardy said you would be wishful to be wakened now.”
Miss Hardy, Cicely thought with amusement. Meg had come into her own. “Ring for her, if you please, Betty.”
“At once, m’lady.” The girl bobbed a curtsy, straightened her mobcap, and tugged the bell cord. “Will that be all, m’lady?”
“Yes, unless Miss Hardy has errands for you. But if she has, she will ring. You may go now.”
Meg Hardy bustled in a few moments later, took one look at her mistress, and threw up her hands. “If you haven’t got one of your headaches, Miss Cicely, you may call me a Dutchman.”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t do anything so uncivil,” Cicely began mildly, but she might as well have spared her breath.
“Wearing yourself to the bone and only in Town the day. It won’t do, my lady. Indeed, and it won’t. Getting home at four in the morning, too, after all the hustle and bustle you’ve been through down at Malmesbury these past weeks!”
“Oh, Meg, have mercy!” Cicely moaned. “Don’t scold me. It makes my head pound unbearably. A cold cloth, if you love me, and no more harsh words.”
Meg muttered under her breath but scurried to fetch the compress. She was laying it tenderly upon her mistress’s brow when the door to the adjoining room opened and Ravenwood stood upon the threshold, his eyes narrowing a bit at the sight of Meg in the role of ministering angel.
“What’s amiss?” he demanded, striding into the room. “Is she ill, Meg? What’s wrong?”
Cicely had leaned back gratefully against the headboard and closed her eyes to let Meg put the cold cloth on her head, but at the sound of his voice, she straightened, snatching it away, her eyes widening at the obvious concern in his.
“’Tis only a headache, Ravenwood,” she said. “Nothing serious, I assure you. Here, Meg, move this tray before I spill chocolate all over myself.”
“Stayed up too late,” Meg muttered, obeying. “Near burnt to the socket, what with preparations for the wedding and all, then to go off dancing after a long journey like that—”
“Hush, Meg,” Cicely ordered. “You’ll have his lordship thinking I must be wrapped in cotton wool if you go on like that. I’m perfectly all right, Ravenwood.”
“Perhaps so,” he returned on a doubtful note, “but you’ll stay in bed today, my dear. It will do you no good to make yourself ill.”
She raised her brows at that. “I shall do no such thing. I mean to call upon Sally Lynsted this afternoon.”
“I am persuaded that to do so would be unwise,” he said gently, moving to sit beside her on the bed. “Leave us, Meg.” Meg turned away, obedient to his command, but her mistress’s next words arrested her midstep.
“You shall not go, Meg. You stay right here and fetch out my clothes. Really, my lord,” she said when she noted a tightening in the muscles of his jaw, “I have neither the need nor the inclination to remain in bed. I am not such a mollycoddle as to be undone by one late evening.” He still looked unconvinced, and she rested a hand upon his knee. “Please, my … please, Gilbert. ’Tis merely a small headache. If I stay here quietly with the cold cloth upon it for half an hour, I shall be right as a trivet, I promise you.” She smiled at him. “The role of heavy-handed husband does not sit well upon you, sir. Will you not trust my judgment in this?”
He returned her smile and lifted her hand to his lips. “You know your limits better than I, I suppose, and of course Meg will be with you when you go to Lynsteds’, so I will defer this time.”
“Meg! Why should I take Meg, sir?” Her headache was momentarily forgotten. “I need no chaperone.”
“I have deferred to you, Princess, and now you must return the favor. It does not suit me to have my wife traveling through this city alone.”
“But I will not be alone! I shall have Tom Coachman and a footman with me. Surely ’tis enough, my lord.”
“It is not the same as having another woman with you,” he said, his tone still gentle. When she continued to look mulish, however, the tone altered somewhat. “I must insist, my dear.”
Hearing the implacable note, she swallowed a retort that sprang to her lips, despite the fact that she would have dearly loved to come to cuffs with him. She would not do so with Meg as an audience, however. “Very well, sir. Today I shall do as you request.”
“Thank you.” He kissed her hand again, watching her as he did so. “I shall leave you to rest now, but I trust you will not go out until you are feeling more the thing.”
“I won’t.” Silently she watched him go, striding back across the room, so large and yet with a catlike grace, thigh muscles rippling under tight, buff stockinette breeches, top boots gleaming. She had a sudden wish that he would not go, that instead he would come back and talk with her until her headache went away. But what, she wondered, would they find to talk about? He treated her kindly, but more like a new possession he had purchased to amuse himself than like a companion. It struck her suddenly that she would rather like him for a companion. Already she missed the easy camaraderie of her sisters. She had no one to confide her thoughts to, no one who was the least interested in her opinions or in her flights of fancy.
She thought back to the previous evening. Now, that had been most amusing and definitely a vast improvement over any of the entertainments she had suffered through during her come-out. The feeling of being on view to potential bidders was quite gone. She had been able to relax, to be herself, as she had never been before in a social situation. But it was still social, and she felt a strong need for something more intimate. It had been only a matter of days, but already she missed having the opportunity to talk things over with someone who cared.
There was Sally Lynsted, of course. She had liked her enormously, so perhaps they could become close friends. With that thought in mind, she began to look forward to her visit even more enthusiastically.
The Lynsteds had a handsome little house in South Audley Street, and Cicely could feel the stamp of their personalities the moment she set foot in the spacious entry hall cluttered with pictures and bric-a-brac. A footman showed Meg to the housekeeper’s room while the butler himself led Cicely to an Egyptian drawing room on the first floor, where she found her hostess curled up on a claw-footed sofa with a slim, leatherbound volume in her hand. With a squeal of delight, Sally flung the book aside and jumped to her feet.
“I am so glad you came!” she cried. “You’ve no notion how dull I’ve been.” She gestured toward the book. “I am reduced to Shakespeare for company, if you can believe it. Davy and I had the most dreadful row this morning.” Astonished, Cicely looked quickly toward the hovering butler, but Sally only laughed. “Never mind Abingdon. He heard the whole, and it wasn’t of vast importance anyway. But afterward Davy gave me that book to read.” Her eyes twinkled. “’Tis The Taming of the Shrew. He is persuaded it will improve my mind.”
Cicely laughed. “And will it do so?”
“Well, I’ve not read enough to know yet; however, I believe I shall commit some of Kate’s better remarks to memory. For future use, you know. I wonder what Davy would do should I threaten to ‘comb his noddle with a three-legged stool.’ I truly liked that phrase. So picturesque, don’t you know.”
With a chuckle, Cicely shook her head. “I’m sure I’ve no idea what he would do. I daresay Ravenwood would merely recommend some less strenuous activity. But I fear I don’t know Sir David well enough to hazard a guess.”
“Well, I know him,” Sally said, “and I can tell you it would be as well for me if I didn’t speak so to him in company.” She grinned. “Do let Abingdon take your cloak, then sit here with me. I was just thinking how deliciously wicked it would be to indulge myself in a cup of tea. Do say you will join me.”
Cicely agreed, and the butler soon left them to their privacy. “Must you truly read
that entire play?” Cicely asked, indicating the slim volume.
Sally grinned at her again. “No, I am doing so to show Davy what a properly submissive wife I am.”
“You don’t seem very submissive to me,” Cicely said frankly. “Is that the sort of wife he wants?”
“So he says, whenever I displease him,” Sally laughed. “But he fell in love with me just the way I am, so I daresay he doesn’t know his own mind.”
“Love!”
“Yes, is it not wicked of us? And it was love at first sight, too. My mother nearly suffered an apoplectic seizure. Luckily his family is a very good one, and he’s got a private fortune as well. Not as much as Papa might have wished for me, but respectable nonetheless. We were lucky.”
“But I thought everyone here in London was quite casual about marriage, that love was … was—”
“Found elsewhere?” Sally supplied delicately. Cicely nodded. “I daresay you’re quite right in nine cases out of ten, but we are the tenth case.”
“Nevertheless, Sally, Sir David … that is, last night … well—” She broke off, appalled at what she had been about to say, but Sally took it in stride.
“He flirted with you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Yes, of course. I saw it. But he means nothing by it, of course, any more than I daresay you do, if you would but consider the matter. You may flirt with him as much as you like, with my goodwill. ’Tis perfectly safe. Toby, too, is quite safe. But I’d have a care with Tony Faringdon, if I were you. Roger Carrisbrooke, too. They might read more into flirtation than you mean for them to read. Moreover, I daresay Gil wouldn’t like it above half. I know Davy didn’t.” She smiled reminiscently.
“Well, I don’t live in Ravenwood’s pocket,” Cicely said confidently, “but I’ll have a care if you think it necessary.”
“I do.” There was little chance for further confidences after that because first their tea was served, and almost immediately afterward a trio of gentlemen callers arrived, including the aforementioned Faringdon and Carrisbrooke, plus Mr. Philip Wensley-Drew, the tall, rather forlorn-looking gentleman whom Cicely had met only briefly the night before. They made their bows, agreed that a glass of Madeira would be most welcome, then Faringdon turned to Cicely, his dark eyes atwinkle.