by Jane Ashford
A short laugh escaped Robert. “Nothing like a duke for retribution?”
“Only well deserved.”
“Yes.” He wasn’t much concerned about Durand’s just deserts, Robert thought. He simply wanted him gone.
“You missed my classical reference,” Randolph said.
Robert eyed him. “No, I rejected it. I don’t care for my choices if our father is Zeus.”
“Ah.” Randolph smiled. “That does get rather awkward, doesn’t it? You might be Apollo and Sebastian, Ares, I suppose. But then—”
“Do you want Hermes?” Robert asked. The game was silly, but it lightened his mood. “Are you going to dub Alan Hephaestus for his inventive skills? That still leaves Nathaniel and James. I can’t see either of them as Dionysus.”
Randolph snorted at the idea. “It’s so often a case of too many brothers, isn’t it?” he complained.
Robert laughed.
Randolph stepped closer and put a hand on his arm. “Seriously, Robert. I don’t know what vexed you, and you needn’t say. But if I can help, send for me.”
“And you’ll plunge in, no questions asked?”
“Of course.”
He had just the right number of brothers, Robert thought, or just the right sort, perhaps. “I might take you up on that.”
Randolph looked surprised, then touched. “I hope you will.”
* * *
Flora went down to dinner that evening happier than she’d been in… Well, if she was honest, happier than she could remember being in years. She didn’t give a snap of her fingers for the fact that she’d worn her blue evening dress three times during this visit or that she had no jewels or, particularly, that Lady Victoria didn’t spare her a glance. Indeed, she reveled in being ignored by the daughter of the house.
It was strange to go from being the bane of someone’s existence to a nonentity in a day, but it was delightful to know that when Robert came in, he could walk right over and speak to her without pouts and glares. She hugged the memory of their recent talk to her like a warm coat on a winter day. She was down rather early, but soon he would appear.
Other guests trickled in. The room began to fill. Flora watched Edward Trevellyn bend his head to listen to his fiancée make some remark and thought, All’s well that ends well.
Movement in the corner of her eye made Flora turn. Her smile died when she saw the dark, stocky figure of Anthony Durand approaching. He stopped beside her, a bit too close for comfort. Though he was only a few inches taller, he managed to loom. And to give the impression that he was cutting her off from the other guests.
“Miss Jennings,” he said. “I’ve been learning the most fascinating things about you.”
“Indeed.” Flora tried to say it as Harriet might have, a great lady accosted by someone she barely knew. But this man, and the associations he brought, roused her anxiety.
“One thing about Lydia…” he continued. “She picks up information like a hen snatching grain. So you needn’t dissemble.” Clearly, he viewed irony as his forte.
Flora offered raised eyebrows and silence. She checked the immediate vicinity, searching for someone who might be invited to join them. But Durand had chosen his moment well. She found only richly clad backs.
“Your charitable works are extensive, I understand.” He made it sound ridiculous.
This cut too close to the past. Where was the call to dinner? Flora wondered. “Are you interested in helping the unfortunate?” she managed. “Perhaps you would like to make a contribution?”
Durand snorted. “I have better uses for my money.”
“Better than aiding your fellow man?”
He sneered. The expression did not flatter his harsh features. “People who are willing to work, who are not shiftless and greedy, have no need for my assistance.”
Anger dissipated some of Flora’s uneasiness. “Greedy? Do you know what wages are paid in the shops and mills? Or the price of bread?”
He shrugged. “Workers who know the value of frugality—and avoid drinking themselves insensible at every opportunity—can get on very well.”
“On the contrary, they can barely feed themselves. And what about their children? I suppose they are to be grateful for backbreaking jobs in the factories as well?”
“The poor have far too many children,” her companion declared. “They have no self-control. And then neither they nor society have any use for the packs of brats they produce.”
Flora was too angry to speak.
Durand smiled. It was an unsettling expression. “You’re quite lovely when you’re furious, by the way.”
She couldn’t throttle him. It would be a scandal, and she didn’t know precisely how to go about it. A gap in her extensive education, Flora thought darkly.
“And so their urchins infest the streets of London, begging, picking the pockets of honest folk, and moving on to worse, some of them. Like the bit of scum who killed my friend Royalton. I suppose you heard about that?”
A cold thread of fear snaked through Flora’s indignation.
“And you would have me subsidize them? I think not.”
“Good evening.” Sir Liam Malloy stepped up beside her.
Durand gave him an ironic bow. “Here is your gallant defender once again. We will talk another time, Miss Jennings. Such a pleasure.” He strolled off. Lydia Fotheringay had been lying in wait for him, Flora noticed. She gripped his arm and peered up into his saturnine face.
“What did that fellow want?” asked Sir Liam.
“Nothing.”
“He’s not the sort of…friend you should cultivate.”
“I am certainly not doing so!”
“It’s just that…a gentleman does not speak to a lady without encouragement.”
Flora turned on him. “Encouragement? Do you think that sort of…creature waits for encouragement? He and his friends take whatever they please without a thought. And no one does anything about it!”
Sir Liam rocked back as if she’d slapped him. She’d spoken loud enough to attract a few curious glances as well.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” said Countess Salbridge. She was on the other side of the room, but she had a penetrating voice for such occasions.
Wordlessly, Sir Liam offered his arm. Flora took it. “I didn’t mean—” he began.
“Please do not speak!” As they moved with the flow of guests toward the dining room, Flora spotted Robert at last. He was just coming in, nearly late for dinner. He’d missed her conversation with Durand.
She didn’t want or need to be rescued, Flora insisted silently, fighting the dark tide of emotion rising in her. She could take care of herself, certainly.
“Miss Jennings,” said Sir Liam.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “I was annoyed about something else.”
“Anthony Durand,” he concluded. “Understandable.”
Flora turned her head away. She couldn’t explain it to him, a virtual stranger.
“If I can be of any assistance, I should be very happy,” he said.
Was this it then? Must men see her as a wilting flower in perpetual need of help? She did not require his aid, or Robert’s, or anyone’s. She allowed Sir Liam to hold her chair and seat her only because that was the custom and objections would be rude.
Robert took his place in the dining room. He did not sit gazing at Flora, much as he would have enjoyed the sight. Any exchange between them in such a public place could only be anticlimactic. He’d wanted to savor the memory of her lovely open expression, the look in her eyes this morning. If he could have his way, he would find her in the library tonight, offer for her with his heart in his hand, and hear her say that she would be his wife. Followed by a thoroughly delightful interlude of celebration. It was such a compelling picture that he was lost in it for a bit. Until reality int
ruded.
Would she say it? He wanted a joyous, unreserved yes. But their situation was complicated. It always was with Flora. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. He required a plan. His mind was just laying out alternatives when a determined voice intruded.
“The table has turned,” said Frances Reynolds at his left side. “Miss Shaw may not care whether you speak or not, but I am quite bored.”
She said the last word loudly, provoking a startled glance from Charles Wrentham on her other side. Miss Reynolds appeared to be miffed or unhappy. Robert couldn’t tell which. For his part, he’d sat through half of dinner without making any attempt at conversation, which was utterly unlike him. “I beg your pardon,” he replied, offering his most charming smile.
“Well, you don’t need to beg mine. Because I insist that you talk to me.”
“I should be delighted.”
“As long as you don’t speak of shooting. I am heartily sick of the subject.”
Once again she spoke quite loudly, and attracted Wrentham’s attention. Robert concluded that she’d meant to do so. “That shouldn’t be difficult,” said Wrentham, briefly abandoning etiquette. “Lord Robert has hardly been shooting. Too busy walking that odd dog of yours, Gresham?”
Robert found the brush of male mockery in Wrentham’s tone amusing. Robert was a crack shot, and most here knew it. And clearly the remark was part of a quarrel with the young lady at his side and didn’t really involve him at all.
“Lord Robert saved Plato from starvation and…and destitution,” said Miss Reynolds.
Robert suppressed a smile. He hadn’t thought in terms of canine poverty.
“So the ladies are always saying,” answered Wrentham, as if kindness to dogs was an affectation calculated to show him up.
Miss Reynolds sniffed like an outraged dowager. “We will talk of something interesting. The play perhaps.” When Wrentham shrugged and turned back to the girl on his other side, Miss Reynolds looked both triumphant and forlorn.
* * *
It was amazing how one’s mood could go from elation to despondence in a few moments, Flora thought. Oddly, it was worse when Anthony Durand wasn’t standing before her. Her memory and imagination got to work, recalling the anguished stories of pain and terror she’d heard from street children. That such cruelty and indifference existed in the world!
She’d meant to escape to her room when the ladies left the dinner table, but Frances Reynolds cornered her and begged for a bit of conversation. She seemed so distressed that Flora hadn’t the heart to refuse. It turned out that she wished to discuss Mr. Wrentham, at great length.
“Of course I know that most gentlemen come here for the hunting,” said the younger girl, drooping at Flora’s side on one of the drawing room sofas. “So it is no wonder they talk of it. All the time.”
Flora nodded. She was trying to pay attention, but her own concerns kept intruding.
“It is just that when we were together, practicing our roles for the play, he seemed so different. And then it all came to an end.”
She waited for a reply. Flora nodded.
“And I understand that the play is finished,” Frances said. “But we might still talk of something besides the day’s take of birds. Dead birds. Don’t you think?”
Flora nodded again.
“Sometimes it seems that he doesn’t wish to…further our acquaintance. The way he spoke to me at dinner…as if we were strangers. When we had said such things to each other just a few days ago.” She sighed.
“Those were speeches written by someone else,” Flora pointed out. She didn’t add that the sentiments might be beyond anything Mr. Wrentham could voice, or indeed felt.
“I know, but they seemed so sincere.”
“Frances.”
“I’m not a fool,” the younger girl interrupted. “It wasn’t just the words. He looked as if he truly meant them. And I don’t believe he is that skilled an actor.”
This sounded a bit more sensible. “You could just ask him,” said Flora.
Frances turned to stare at her, aghast. “Oh, I couldn’t!”
Life would be so much simpler if people just said what they meant, straight out, Flora thought. Then she remembered Durand. It would be lovely if people like him were constrained by the rules of politeness, while those like Frances and her wished-for beau were free to speak openly. But one couldn’t pick and choose. Unfortunately.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Frances added. “What if he gave me a setdown? Or told the others what I’d said so that they all laughed at me?” She looked anxious, and mournful, and very young. “I’m here alone. I have no mother or other chaperone to…give him a hint.”
“Alone?” That was unusual for a girl of seventeen, as Flora knew Frances to be. She hadn’t seen her with any older female, she realized. But she hadn’t thought about it, or asked why. Was she becoming horridly self-centered?
Frances shrugged. “My mother was a cousin of Earl Salbridge. So I’m part of the family, in a way. Not exactly alone, but…it feels as if I am. I only met them when I came here.”
“Your mother?” replied Flora gently.
“She died three years ago,” answered Frances in a flat voice. “She was ill a long time before that. As long as I can remember, really.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was rather…odd. Mama was always bedridden. She never came downstairs. Our housekeeper managed everything. But when she was gone, it left a…a great hole somehow.”
Flora was moved by the mixture of grief and mystification in the girl’s tone. “I’m sure it did.”
“I used to read to her for hours each day,” Frances added. “And sometimes—often—I wished that I needn’t…take quite so much time. But then when it stopped, I felt so empty.” She blinked and visibly gathered herself. “We got through a great many books together. I learned a lot. Mama was curious about so many subjects, even though she was ill.”
Flora nodded, offering her full attention and sympathy now.
“So last summer Papa…sort of woke up and noticed… That is, he declared that my future needed to be settled. Unless I am to live with my brother when he inherits, which I would rather not do.” Frances glanced anxiously at Flora. “We get along well enough. It’s just that we don’t have a great deal in common. And he will have a family of his own eventually. Of course.”
It was a story told in many places, and yet each instance was unique, Flora thought. She was fortunate, and unusual, in that her home would be hers when Mama died, along with a small income. Very small, but workable for a careful woman, she had always thought.
“Papa wrote to the Salbridges, and they kindly invited me,” Frances continued. “Lady Salbridge has promised to include me in London next season as well, though I’ll be staying with another cousin.” She ducked her head. “Not nearly so grand. I’m, uh, being handed about a bit, from one to another of our family connections.” She made a wry face. “Rather like a parcel no one wishes to keep too long.”
“I’m sure they’re glad to have you,” Flora said. She hoped it was true. Or, if not, that it was comforting to be told so.
“People have been very kind,” Frances acknowledged. “But I would like it to be…over.” She seemed to realize that she’d been leaning close to Flora. She sat back. “I thought Mr. Wrentham might share my interest in reading, you see, because he seemed to enjoy doing the play. And perhaps other things as well. If I am mistaken, then of course, I shall…” She trailed off and took a breath. “In any case, I wondered if you might play the part—so to speak—of my chaperone?”
“What?”
“You were so good at acting,” said Frances with a rueful smile.
“But I…” Flora didn’t know what to say.
“That was a joke. But couldn’t you sound out Mr. Wrentham? Try to discover his…sentiments?”
“It should be Lady Salbridge,” Flora said, mildly horrified at the idea.
“I’ve scarcely spoken to her,” Frances said. “But you and I are friends. I hope we are. And you are older.” She made a quick gesture. “I don’t mean that like Lady Victoria did. You’re just so self-assured and knowledgeable.”
Flora might have laughed at this description, but she could see that Frances was not only serious, but positively yearning for an ally. Yet she remained reluctant. “You exaggerate my…capacities.”
“Oh no.”
What could one do in the face of such confidence and hope and faith? “I will…try,” Flora said.
“Oh, thank you. That is such a relief.” Frances looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Flora tried not to sigh. “There he is,” the younger girl added.
Flora looked. Wrentham had come through the door with a group of gentlemen, including Durand. When she turned back, she found Frances gazing eagerly at her. “I’ll need some time to think what to say to him,” Flora said desperately.
“Oh. Yes, of course.” The younger girl rose. “I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to know that you’ll help me. It is so difficult to be all alone.”
As Frances left her, Flora noticed that Sir Liam was trying to catch her eye. She’d been quite rude to him. She smiled now, and he came to sit beside her.
“You gentlemen haven’t spent long over your port,” Flora said.
“Trevellyn practically snatched the glasses out of our hands,” the Irishman replied. “I’ve never seen a man more eager to abandon his wine. Couldn’t wait to get back to his inamorata.”
They looked over at the engaged couple, cozily ensconced on a small sofa.
“It warms one’s heart to see him,” Sir Liam continued. “If ever there was a man who’d attained his heart’s desire, there he is.”
“It certainly seems so,” said Flora. Lady Victoria looked equally happy.
“He makes one long to emulate him, assuming one could find a similar ideal.”
“That is the difficulty, isn’t it?”
“And yet it happens.”
Something in his tone made Flora examine him. What she found in his eyes startled and unsettled her.