by Sandra Heath
* * *
Imogen didn’t speak as she and Guy danced; indeed she hadn’t spoken to him for some minutes now. She kept her beautiful eyes downcast, and there were telltale spots of angry color on her pale cheeks.
“How long is this to continue?” he asked suddenly.
“As long as you persist in your attitude toward Nadia.”
“I simply don’t like her.”
“She’s my friend.”
“I’m fully aware of that, but I still don’t like her. Nor am I best pleased that you’ve invited her and the Lievens to Poyntons in February for our betrothal. The Lievens may be all that society desires at the moment, but they aren’t exactly to my taste.”
“Are you to choose my friends for me when we’re married? Is that the sort of husband you intend to be?” Her eyes filled with tears.
His fingers tightened around hers. “Don’t wrong me, you know that there isn’t any truth in that,” he said gently.
“But you wrong Nadia. Please, Guy, like her for my sake.” She looked imploringly at him, determined to make him do as she wished.
“Imogen, I love you dearly, but I think you are very misguided in your choice of confidante. Nadia Benckendorff is an adventuress, and her breeding and background shouldn’t blind you to that fact. She has come to London solely to find a husband.”
“Isn’t that what every woman wishes to do?” she countered. “Isn’t that why I was launched upon society?”
“It isn’t quite the same thing, and you know it.”
She stopped dancing then. “You cannot love me if you say such things about my dearest friend.”
“Imogen, you aren’t being fair,” he said, drawing her hand through his arm and leading her from the floor before attention was drawn to the friction between them.
She halted by a column, drawing away from him once more. Her cheeks were still a little pink and she wasn’t yet prepared to be mollified. She was too angry with him to be reasonable, and she was determined to make him give in, even though she knew full well that on this occasion, as on many others, she was the one who was in the wrong. Her voice was haughty. “You may speak of fairness, Guy de Lacey, but are you being fair yourself? If you despise Nadia and the Lievens so very much, you shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to come here tonight.”
“I accepted because you begged me to,” he reminded her.
She drew herself up furiously then. “So, it’s all my fault, is it?”
He sighed inwardly, for she was quite impossible when she was in this mood. He had no desire to quarrel, but she was making any other course very difficult indeed. He tried again, putting his hand gently to her cheek and smiling. “No, my darling, nothing’s your fault—in fact I really cannot imagine why we’re arguing.”
She looked sharply away. She didn’t want to accept the olive branch. The argument was outwardly about Nadia, but she was also angry with him on another count—his attitude toward his niece, Stella de Lacey. The girl was impossible, and Imogen was determined to be rid of her for all time, but all she’d so far achieved was the promise that the brat would be sent to the seminary for a few weeks, with a view to her returning home in time for the betrothal! That didn’t suit Imogen at all, although she’d managed to hide the fact adequately enough behind a screen of concern about the child’s welfare. Guy loved his niece and took his responsibilities as her guardian seriously. He’d been loath to agree to send her to the seminary; indeed he’d only been persuaded to a temporary measure after yet another bitter argument and floods of reproachful tears from his future wife. As Imogen deliberately reminded herself about all this, she was making herself angry all over again, but then, quite unexpectedly, a sudden thought struck her. When Stella was sent to the seminary after Christmas, Miss Hart would be requested to send Guy frequent reports on her conduct, a favorable report being necessary if the girl was to return home. It would be a simple enough matter to persuade Miss Hart to send only favorable reports, for the headmistress would be willing enough to please her favored ex-pupil. If Stella was apparently not mending her ways in the slightest, Guy would be placed in a difficult, if not impossible, position. Stella had been told that she was being sent to the school because her behavior was impossible and unacceptable; he could hardly capitulate in the face of out-and-out defiance! Imogen’s fan tapped thoughtfully, and then she smiled at him, She would have her way yet. “Forgive me,” she said softly, slipping her hand into his and moving closer. “I’ve been disagreeable tonight, I’m always disagreeable when I have a headache.” She lowered her eyes in a way calculated to look conscience-stricken.
“A headache? You should have told me earlier,” he said in concern. “Would you like me to take you home?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, for that was the last thing she wished. “Perhaps we could sit for a while in the orangery?”
“Of course.” He drew her hand through his arm again and they walked through the press toward the steps. The Lievens had left their post there now and were nowhere to be seen, but Nadia stood at the top of the steps. She came down toward them, her glance flickering momentarily to Guy before she smiled at Imogen. “Oh dear, you surely aren’t leaving already?”
“No, we’re going to the orangery,” replied Imogen, deliberately halting even though she knew Guy would have preferred to walk on and cut the time spent with Nadia to an absolute minimum.
Nadia smiled again. “What a fortunate coincidence, I was just about to retreat there myself. It’s so very noisy in here, isn’t it? One cannot hear oneself think.”
Guy strove to hide his exasperation, for he could tell by Imogen’s manner that she had decided to renew the battle. There were times, he reflected, when he simply couldn’t understand why he loved her so much.
She was smiling at Nadia. “You were going to the orangery too? Oh, I’m so glad, for you can come with us. Can’t she, Guy?” Her eyes flashed challengingly toward him.
His own anger stirred them. “If you and Miss Benckendorff wish to go to the orangery together, I’m sure you won’t mind if I leave you to your chatter,” he said smoothly.
Imogen’s lips parted in astonishment, for she hadn’t been expecting this response. Her fan snapped open then and her eyes flashed. “Very well, if that’s the way you wish it,” she said coldly, slipping her arm through Nadia’s.
He watched them walk away, but they’d hardly gone out of sight before a voice suddenly spoke behind him. “Well, Guy, my laddo, it looks as if you’ve put yourself beyond the pale again.”
He turned with a quick smile to see his old friend Sir Henry Fitzjohn standing there. “Harry! I thought they’d dispatched you to Bengal!”
“To all that heat and curry? Perish the thought. No, the East India Company, bless its heart, decided that I was indispensable here after all.” He took out a snuffbox and flicked it open with a slight movement of his wrist. “I never thought I could become so attached to Leadenhall Street, but I fear that of late it’s become a positive paradise as far as I’m concerned.” He was a tall, thin man with sparse brown hair which was receding prematurely. He looked older than his thirty-five years, the more so because he was shortsighted and had a habit of wrinkling up his eyes in order to see into the middle distance. He was dressed informally, and consequently looked very out of place.
Guy glanced curiously at his clothes. “Aren’t you a little ordinary for a Lieven diversion?”
“I’m not a guest, I’ve come to beg a favor of the countess.”
Guy gave a quick laugh. “Good God, what a picture that conjures!”
“Not that sort of favor!” Harry smiled. “Guy, would you mind if I made use of you?”
“That depends.”
“It isn’t anything very much. You are acquainted with the countess, I’m not, and I merely wish you to introduce me to her.”
Guy looked at him. “I presume you have good reason?”
“I do.” Harry sighed. “I only wish that I didn’t.”
> “What’s wrong, Harry? Something at the East India?”
“In a manner of speaking. Does the name Richard Conyngham mean anything to you?”
Guy hesitated. “As a matter of fact it does, although I don’t know him personally. Why do you ask?”
“He’s dead, Guy, and what’s more, he died impoverished and at the center of a dreadful scandal.”
Chapter 10
Guy stared at him. “Dear God above,” he murmured. “But he was a wealthy man, a nabob! Surely there’s some mistake.”
“No mistake. He lost everything, and from all accounts, he had no one to blame but himself.” Harry paused. “I find it hard to believe of him, though, for I knew him and always thought him the most honest and upright of men.”
Guy was silent. Leonie’s face seemed to hover before him. He took a deep breath. “What has all this to do with the countess?”
“Conyngham has a daughter.”
“Leonie.”
Harry looked quickly at him. “You know her?”
“Yes.”
“I’m told she’s very beautiful.”
Guy smiled a little. “Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Someone has to break the dreadful news to her not only that she’s penniless but also that her father’s name is soon to be at the center of an unwelcome scandal. In the absence of any other relatives, it was deemed prudent to approach the countess, because of her…er, interest in the seminary Miss Conyngham attends.”
Guy was incredulous. “Do you honestly believe that that Russian lodestar is the right person for such a delicate and sensitive task?”
“No, I don’t, but it’s been decided in high places and is out of my hands. I’m merely the messenger boy.” Harry glanced at him. “Will you effect the introduction, Guy?”
“Under the circumstances, I don’t seem to have much choice.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re being a little strange about this.”
Guy nodded a little. “Yes, I suppose I am. It’s just….”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that I was remembering the last time I spoke to Miss Conyngham, and I was wishing unsaid some of the things I said. Well, come on, let’s find La Lieven and have done with it.”
* * *
Dorothea was in the orangery with Nadia and Imogen. The glass-domed chamber was warmed by numerous stoves in order to protect the almost tropical foliage which grew so profusely all around, and the air was stiflingly hot. There was a heavy smell of damp earth and citrus leaves, and high above, the glass roof was running with condensation. The only sound, apart from the conversation of the three women seated upon the sofa by a trellis, came from a beautiful macaw in a high gilt cage.
Dorothea was in the middle of describing the delights of a Russian winter to an entranced Imogen, “What a pity you British do not often have much snow, Lady Imogen,” she said, “for it means that you are denied the diversion of les montagnes russes.”
“Russian mountains? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, they are excellent amusement. The snow is piled up into a hill about seventy feet high, and steps are carved up one side while the other is made very smooth. Then each gentleman takes a lady down at great speed on a cushioned toboggan. It’s most entertaining. Some mountains are made even higher, so that larger toboggans can be used and more people go down together.”
Imogen, who disliked anything which took place at a pace, looked a little faint at the thought of these particular diversions. “How…delightful,” she murmured.
Nadia gave a sigh. “Oh, how I wish there was snow like that here. Especially now.”
“Why now in particular?” inquired Dorothea, “Because that wretched agent in St. Petersburg has seen fit to dispatch my sleigh to London along with everything else. I distinctly remember instructing him to sell—” She broke off hastily, a flush leaping to her cheeks. It wouldn’t do at all to reveal to Imogen how truly parlous were her financial affairs.
Imogen affected not to notice the slip. “A sleigh? Oh, Nadia, how very exciting. Do tell me what it’s like. I’m told that the imperial sleighs are particularly magnificent.”
Nadia gave a quick laugh. “Oh, but mine isn’t an imperial sleigh. They have gold and scarlet trappings and are lined with sable, and they have at least twelve horses to draw them. Mine is only a little troika lined with blue velvet, but it’s very pretty, don’t you think, Dorothea?”
Dorothea raised an eyebrow. “Pretty? It’s merely a sleigh, like any other sleigh. So, we are to have the embarrassment of having it delivered here in Harley Street, are we?” Her foot tapped irritably.
“It isn’t my fault, Dorothea, it’s the fault of that incompetent agent.”
“Hm.” Dorothea looked up then and saw the two men approaching. “Ah, Sir Guy, there you are. I was beginning to think you had deserted poor Lady Imogen.”
Imogen gave him another haughty glance and then looked stiffly away.
He smiled a little. “Desert her?” he said to Dorothea. “How could I possibly bring myself to do that when I have only just succeeded in persuading her to accept me?”
Dorothea smiled and then glanced questioningly at Harry.
Guy quickly introduced him. “May I present Sir Henry Fitzjohn? Harry, this is Countess Lieven, and her cousin, Miss Benckendorff. Imogen you know already, of course.”
Dorothea extended a gracious hand. “Sir Henry.”
“Madam.”
She glanced shrewdly at him. “I detect a conspiracy of some sort, sir. Why have you been so particularly introduced to me?”
He seized gladly upon the opening. “You are too perceptive, Countess. I see that nothing of importance slips past you.”
“Nothing at all, sir. Am I to believe then that you wish to speak to me on a matter of importance?”
“It is my earnest hope that you will be able to grant us a favor, my lady.”
“Us?”
“The East India Company.”
“Indeed? How very flattering. What is this favor?”
He glanced at Guy and then launched into his explanation. Dorothea’s smile faltered a little, her black eyes widening with astonishment, and Imogen stared in open amazement. Nadia, however, reacted in an entirely different way. Her breath caught on a gasp of ill-concealed delight, and a gloating smile curved her lovely lips. At one divine stroke, her hated rival was destroyed! From being a dazzling heiress, Leonie Conyngham was become a pauper.
Guy watched her with distaste. He knew of her pursuit of Rupert Allingham, having overheard that gentleman at White’s when he related to Edward Longhurst all that had happened that afternoon at the seminary. Guy found Rupert, Duke of Thornbury, thoroughly despicable, and Nadia he found to be the equal in every way to the man she was pursuing so determinedly.
Dorothea recovered a little from her initial surprise, and her eyes were a little guarded. “Sir Henry, you mentioned a scandal, but you did not elaborate. Before I agree to do anything for you, I must be in full possession of the facts, since it would hardly be in my interest to involve myself in anything…er, untoward.”
“Oh, I quite understand, madam,” he said quickly, “and of course I will explain in more detail. It seems that Mr. Conyngham decided to risk all on a gold-mining venture with a partner by the name of Bourne, Mr. Philip Bourne. Both gentlemen agreed to put their fortunes into the mine, which became very successful indeed, inordinately successful, in fact. Then Conyngham fell fatally ill with a fever, and at almost the same time it was discovered that far from putting his own money into the business, he had embezzled his share from the East India Company, having previously squandered all his own at the gaming tables. On his death, his partner, Mr. Bourne, promptly recompensed the company for the vast sum it had lost, but by the terms of the legal agreement he and Conyngham had had drawn up at the beginning of their partnership, the default of one partner meant that everything went to the other. Mr. Bourne, therefore, now has everything, and everything
in this case means a great deal. A great deal. However, as far as Richard Conyngham’s daughter is concerned, the whole venture might as well have failed, for she receives nothing at all. She’s completely destitute, there is no other family to take her in, and on top of that, she will have to endure the notoriety which the whole case is bound to achieve when news gets out.”
Dorothea nodded. ‘The young woman is indeed in a most unenviable position. Sir Henry.”
“She is, which is why we are so anxious that a lady of sensitivity and understanding should be the one to tell her of the terrible tragedy which has befallen her.”
Guy had to look away. Sensitivity and understanding? Dorothea Lieven? God help Leonie Conyngham.
Dorothea smiled at Harry. “You were quite right to come to me, Sir Henry, and I will of course do as you request. We leave for Streatham Park tomorrow for Christmas, but I shall make it my business to call at the seminary first.”
“You are very kind, madam.”
She nodded and extended her hand once more. He kissed it, bowed to them all, and then withdrew.
Imogen exhaled very slowly. “Well, who would have believed it? So Miss High-and-Mighty Conyngham isn’t so high and mighty after all.”
Dorothea shrugged. “They were hardly a family of breeding anyway.”