by Tuft, Karen
She crossed the room and yanked on the bell pull, and Foster arrived soon after.
“Tea, please, Foster,” Lady Walmsley said.
“Certainly, my lady, and perhaps some sherry as well?”
Lady Walmsley sighed. “Sherry would be nice, thank you.”
The tea and sherry arrived much more swiftly than one would expect, all things considered; Foster had anticipated Lady Walmsley’s needs. Undoubtedly, he’d seen her return from visiting her friend before and knew what to expect—as any excellent butler would—but Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to Foster’s attentions to Lady Walmsley than merely discharging his duty as her butler.
If it were true, it made Elizabeth glad that there was someone who took care of Lady Walmsley, for she was truly a woman who took care of others. Elizabeth included.
***
Kit drained his pint of ale and immediately asked for another.
“A bit early in the afternoon for that, wouldn’t you say?” a familiar voice said behind him, followed by some hearty pats on the shoulder as Ellen refilled his glass.
“Iverson,” Kit replied without diverting his eyes from Ellen’s task.
“Saw your friend Lady Walmsley this afternoon when I stopped at my mother’s. None for me, Ellen, thanks,” he said, “although an apple tart wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Right you are, guv,” she said and swished off.
“You were there, eh?” Kit took a swallow.
“I hired a nurse who lives with her and sees to her needs, but a son still wants to be sure all is going smoothly.”
“Of course,” Kit answered absentmindedly.
“She mentioned that the two of you hurried off to Surrey recently. A coincidence, considering the last time you and I sat in this very pub, we were discussing the demise of a certain duke and a certain duel that involved him and that his ducal seat just happens to be in Surrey.”
“A coincidence if there ever was one,” Kit said, sipping more ale.
“Mm, yes.”
“Fresh out of the oven,” Ellen said, setting a plate with a steaming hot tart in front of Iverson.
“Many thanks, Ellen; it smells delicious. Perhaps you could bring one to my friend here as well.”
“I’m not particularly hungry,” Kit said as Ellen went off to get another tart.
“That may be the case, but I think you’d do well to put something of substance in your belly to go along with all that ale.”
Kit only grunted.
“I was also given the impression that Lady Walmsley—and you since you played the gallant escort—returned with a particular, shall we say, prize in your possession.”
Kit drank more ale.
Ellen returned with another tart and placed it in front of Kit.
“My friend thanks you, Ellen.”
“Yes, thank you,” Kit said and pointed to his glass, indicating he wished it to be topped off again, which she did.
“If there’s anything you gents need, let me know,” she said before moving away to assist another patron.
Now that Ellen was gone, Kit knew Iverson was going to return his attention to Kit, or, more precisely, to Lady Walmsley’s guest and Kit’s part in escorting her here.
“I can see that I’m going to have to drag it out of you,” Iverson said. “You managed to go to Surrey, confront the recently widowed Duchess of Marwood, and extricate her daughter from her clutches, and return with said daughter to London. Would that be a fair summation of events?”
“What’s your point, exactly?”
Iverson grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes. And how is the fair Lady Elizabeth these days?”
How was Lady Elizabeth? That was the question of the day, now, wasn’t it? It was the question Kit had been pondering since arriving at The Brick and Knee this afternoon.
“She is grieving the loss of her father, naturally,” Kit said, not wishing to share the myriad thoughts churning about in his head.
“If you say so,” Iverson said. He cut off a bite of tart, chewed, and swallowed, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Although, I expect it’s less about grief and more about relief.”
“Losing a parent is difficult regardless of the situation,” Kit muttered, “as you well know.”
“True enough. My apologies.”
“The lady appears to have suffered much in the last year,” Kit added.
“I am saddened to hear it, although it cannot be entirely unexpected, all things considered. And how were her spirits today, after having been in Town and away from Marwood Manor for a few days?”
“Not greatly improved—” He abruptly stopped speaking. Blast it all! He’d blurted out those words, clearly informing Iverson he’d seen her this afternoon, before he’d realized what he was saying. He pushed his glass of ale aside. Obviously, he’d had too much to drink, and it had loosened his tongue.
Iverson only nodded and didn’t gloat, which was a relief. Kit already felt horrible after leaving Elizabeth this afternoon and couldn’t explain why, and the fear that he might have divulged anything about her to Iverson—or anyone, for that matter—that she would wish to keep private set his insides roiling.
“Lady Walmsley suspected that you might call there today,” Iverson said in a steady voice.
Kit wrinkled his brow and tried to concentrate. What was Iverson trying to say? But the ale and the image of a sad young lady in men’s clothes covered in brooches that gleamed and sparkled and the slash of foils and pink cheeks and soft hands and Alex and Phillip and his parents and . . .
“Come on,” he vaguely heard Iverson say. “Let me see you home.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“You’re not fine; far from it. In fact, I believe you’re in deep trouble, my friend.”
Kit had no idea what he meant; he could hardly keep his thoughts straight.
And he had no idea how he ended up waking up in his own bed the following morning, his head pounding like an anvil taking a beating from an angry blacksmith, his mouth sour, his stomach ready to cast up its contents.
Chapter 11
“I was thinking a small supper party might be just the thing,” Lady Walmsley mused aloud the following Sunday as she shifted to get more comfortable in the carriage while she and Elizabeth traveled to church. Lady Walmsley straightened the skirts of her lavender silk gown and tugged the cuffs of her gloves before folding her hands in her lap. “There, that’s better. An intimate group of, say, ten or twelve would be nice, don’t you think? Cantwell must be invited, and I imagine he can recommend a few of his acquaintances so we have the correct numbers and a few of my friends, too, just to round things out.”
“Can we please get through church services first before discussing something like a supper party?” Elizabeth asked. She smoothed her own skirt now, feeling self-conscious and needing some way to busy herself. “I really should be wearing black, you know. I don’t know how you keep managing to talk me out of it.”
“Because you know very well that you’ve mourned long enough,” Lady Walmsley replied in as sharp a tone as Elizabeth had ever heard her use, which caused her to look up from her lap. Lady Walmsley’s mouth was set in a firm line. “Besides, wearing black will only draw more attention to you, as you yourself well know. Imagine, a beautiful creature like yourself showing up, looking for all the world like an old crow after being absent from Society for an entire year. People are going to talk anyway, but they will talk more if you draw attention to yourself, which the black would do.” She leaned forward and patted Elizabeth’s hand gently. “You deserve better than that, my dear,” she said in a softer tone, “and that deep-rose gown you’re wearing is entirely appropriate for church and not the least bit frivolous looking. Trust me on this.”
Elizabeth was not at all convinced, especially as this was her f
irst public outing since arriving back in London. Word of her father’s death had undoubtedly spread over the past several days, and Society would expect his daughter to behave in accordance to Society’s rules.
How had she managed to let Lady Walmsley talk her into wearing this dress?
“Certainly you feel angry at your father,” Kit had said to her the last time she’d seen him. “He left you and your mother to fend for yourselves.”
Was she angry with her father? And if she was, was it enough of a reason to defy social tradition? She’d worn black and gray and brown for the entire past year; brighter colors had seemed inappropriate. But Papa had abandoned them, and she and Mama had mourned, each in her own way. Was it enough?
Or was she merely trying to justify her decision to wear the rose gown this morning?
It’s about daring and boldness.
They eventually arrived at St. George’s, Hanover Square, where the vicar, the Reverend Robert Hodgson, stood outside the entrance, greeting parishioners. Elizabeth took a deep breath and arranged her expression to look serene, though she didn’t feel that way at all, before exiting the carriage. And then, shamefully, she kept her head down a bit so her face was hidden by the brim of her bonnet and pretended to be searching for something in her reticule. So much for daring and boldness.
“Lady Walmsley, what a glorious morning it is, wouldn’t you say? Ah, I see you have brought a young lady with you,” Mr. Hodgson said congenially, bowing over Lady Walmsley’s hand.
“It is a lovely day, Mr. Hodgson,” she replied. Elizabeth braced for the encounter to come. “But, of course, you already know my young companion.”
“Do I?” he asked, and Elizabeth could sense his eyes on her.
She had no choice but to greet him. She raised her head and offered her hand to the vicar.
“Why, Lady Elizabeth Spaulding, as I live and breathe!” He took her hand and held it warmly between both of his for a long, sustaining moment. “How glad I am to see you again after such a long absence!” He turned serious. “And please allow me to offer my condolences to you and your mother.” His eyes never left her face, but as he said nothing more to her, Elizabeth found herself able to breathe again.
“Thank you, Mr. Hodgson,” she said.
He squeezed her hand once more before letting go, and then she and Lady Walmsley continued on through the large doors of St. George’s so he could resume greeting other worshipers as they arrived.
“That all went rather smoothly, don’t you think?” Lady Walmsley said as they made their way up the aisle and seated themselves in one of the pews. “If we sit here, we won’t be too near the front or too near the back, both of which might draw the distracted eye.”
“Mm,” Lady Elizabeth murmured. She and Alex were to have been married here at St. George’s—at least, that had always been the plan. But Alex had always managed to find a way to avoid setting an actual wedding date.
She had expected to feel nostalgic or sad upon entering the church; she and her parents had always worshiped here when in London for the Season, and she loved the building, with its stained-glass windows she used to study out of boredom as a child and with its familiar pews and elegant simplicity. So it caught her completely by surprise to discover that rather than being sad, she was angry, as Kit had suggested—angry with her father and angry with Alex.
She blamed the unwanted emotion on Kit, however. He was the one who had pointed all of this out to her.
“Ah, here you two are,” a familiar voice whispered behind them.
Speak of the devil, Elizabeth thought, ironically fitting since they were in church.
“Lord Cantwell! Why, you must come sit with us—isn’t that right, Elizabeth? I have missed you, you naughty boy; although, I understand you paid our dear Elizabeth a visit while I was out a few days ago.”
Kit quickly glanced at Elizabeth in inquiry, and she subtly shook her head. Of course she hadn’t told Lady Walmsley she’d fenced with him! The very idea!
“I did, indeed,” he said to Lady Walmsley with his usual, engaging smile. Lady Walmsley moved down the pew, and Elizabeth followed suit, which allowed Kit to settle in next to her—a bit too closely, for his leg brushed against her leg as he did so, and he put his arm over the back of the pew behind her so he could face both her and Lady Walmsley while they conversed. Elizabeth clutched her reticule tightly in her hands and searched for the control she needed to get her disorderly emotions in check. “We had a lovely chat, did we not, Lady Elizabeth?”
“We did,” she managed to reply. Control, she thought frantically. It is inside me somewhere; it has always been inside me.
“We briefly discussed the differences between men’s and women’s fashion, which was extremely illuminating, by the way; we considered playing piquet sometime in the future . . .” He looked to Elizabeth with raised eyebrows for guidance from there.
“Yes, piquet,” Elizabeth said. “Although Lord Cantwell admitted that he much prefers the manly sport of fencing to piquet,” she added, grateful something had popped into her head that she could add to this awkward conversation, especially since she felt about to burst into flame from this unaccustomed anger she was feeling.
“I’m not very skilled at piquet myself,” Lady Walmsley said. “But I do enjoy a good, rousing game of whist on occasion.”
“Lady Elizabeth mentioned that she’d seen the actress Ruby Chadwick fence onstage at Drury Lane a while back. I wonder what your opinion of that might be, Lady Walmsley? A female, in public, and in breeches, no less”—he whispered that bit, presumably because they were sitting in a church—“fencing with a man. Are you scandalized at the thought?”
“I can give you a complete list of what scandalizes me and what does not after church if you will join Elizabeth and me for luncheon,” Lady Walmsley replied, and Kit muffled a laugh and shot another glance at Elizabeth. “What say you, Elizabeth?” she added.
“Lord Cantwell’s company is always welcome,” she said, though she didn’t mean it. Especially not right now.
Thankfully, the service began, and Elizabeth did her best to concentrate on it and not on the man seated next to her, whose body was pressed too closely to hers for worship to be topmost in her mind. She could smell his soap and the subtle notes of his cologne. She studied him out of the corner of her eye, telling herself that she was still paying attention to the worship service going on around her.
His hair was thick, and the chandeliers overhead shot gold through the light-brown strands, and though styled, it seemed to have an unruly nature, not unlike the man himself. He had a straight nose and square jawline that gave him a strong, pleasing profile. His dark eyelashes and brows set off his dark-brown eyes and were rather striking when compared to the lighter shade of his hair.
But it was his presence, the physicality of his male nature, that always struck her and did again, and once more she envisioned the jungle cat—tawny and strong, with an energy that pulsed through him even though he appeared relaxed. He nearly glowed with it.
The only other male she’d had such close association with, besides her father, had been Alex. She’d met a few of Alex’s friends, including Kit, but Papa and Mama had guarded her closely during the years leading up to her come-out and afterward. No young gentlemen had been allowed to spend any significant time with her. Papa had been adamant about it. They had always intended her for Alex and no one else—until Alex had died and Anthony had miraculously come back from the dead.
Kit shifted in his seat, which only pressed him closer to her, if that was possible. She sat perfectly still, no longer hearing a single word the vicar was speaking. Alex was gone, and he’d been gone for two years. Control. Poise. That is how the daughter of the Duke of Marwood must behave. She’d sat, just as she was sitting now, through Alex’s funeral service and hadn’t said a word and hadn’t shed a tear. That poor girl, she’d heard peopl
e whisper. She couldn’t bring him to heel, and now he’s dead. She’d felt frozen. Turned to stone.
The organ began to play a hymn, jolting her from her memories. On one side of her, Lady Walmsley began to sing, the vibrato of her aging voice wide and tremulous. On Elizabeth’s other side, Kit boomed out with a rich baritone. Elizabeth did not sing, but she certainly could have. She knew the hymn, and she knew how to sing; she’d had years of lessons, in addition to those on the harp.
It was all becoming too much. Words and music and the smell of soap, Alex and her parents, Lady Walmsley and Kit swirled through her mind with increasing intensity. Fencing and foils. Her rose-colored gown and her father’s disapproving eye. A shrug and sheepish grin from Alex. The daughter of the Duke of Marwood. That poor girl. Duels. Banishment.
She began to tremble, and then her entire body started to shake.
She stood abruptly. “Please excuse me,” she whispered to Kit as she pushed past him in her frantic attempt to reach the aisle. She sensed the eyes of the congregation on her and the whispery gasp that followed. Calling upon all of the training two decades of life had given her, she looked straight ahead, all of her concentration on the doors that, once through, would yield air she could gulp into her starving lungs, and she made her feet keep moving. Each step seemed more and more difficult, but finally, an eternity later, she pushed open the door and burst through, out into light and air. And yet, still she couldn’t breathe.