“You may tell me so again three weeks from Wednesday night when you are to make your first appearance.”
Phoebe stared out at the passing carriages without really seeing them. Xanthe more than lived up to her part of the covenant. Phoebe had every opportunity to meet any number of eligible gentlemen and leaders of society at that, with sufficient wealth to consider Thomas’ expenses trifling. But would she be able to fulfill her part? Would any of them be seized by the desire to make her his wife? And if by chance any one was, would she desire to become his wife?
This is no time for missishness, she reminded herself. Xanthe had granted her this one and only Season. If she wasted it her future loomed bleak. So she couldn’t waste it. If she were so fortunate as to receive an offer she could not afford to reject it. And why should I not receive one? she rallied herself. Anything seemed possible when Lady Xanthe hummed her magical tunes.
By the time the barouche at last turned onto Half Moon Street they had received two more invitations, both for balls. And before each invitation Xanthe had hummed one of her mysterious haunting melodies. Not influencing people of course, Phoebe reminded herself, smiling at Xanthe’s rationalization. Merely putting suggestions out where they might be intercepted and acted upon.
As they drew up before the house the door opened at once and Arthur, the senior footman, hurried down to hand them from the carriage. Phoebe paused to glance at the neighboring house just to the left. “Is that where Mrs. Mannering lives?”
Xanthe turned back from the door. “There? Oh no, dear. The other side.”
“The other—” Phoebe broke off. “The other side. Directly next door to us?”
“That’s right, my love. She is chaperoning her niece. I believe you know the girl, Miss Lucilla Saunderton? She and her brother arrived in town only the day before we did.”
Phoebe stared at the neighboring front door, aghast. First the man destroyed her security. Then he turned up on her doorstep, then ruined her morning ride. Now it seemed, as she took her first faltering steps into the polite world, she was to once more trip over Sir Miles Saunderton.
* * * * *
“It won’t be easy for her,” Xanthe informed Titus, who sprawled in the center of her bed industriously bathing the long white fur on his stomach. She set her bonnet on the top of a dresser, hummed a snatch of a tune then examined the rather fetching lace cap trimmed with blue ribands that appeared in her hands. “Poor child, she’s so determined that her head shall rule her heart.”
The tip of Titus’ tail twitched.
Xanthe frowned. “But that’s just the point. When one is strong willed and independent like that, it makes it very difficult to trust one’s emotions. She’s more than half inclined not to trust even me, you know,” she added as she set the lacy confection on her mass of fair hair.
Titus paused in his ablutions, fixed her with a meaningful eye and uttered a series of staccato sounds.
Xanthe, who could see him in the mirror as she tied the ribands in a jaunty bow beneath one ear, fixed him with a reproving frown. “High-handed? Me? I know better than to thrust people into what is best for them. She’ll discover it on her own. We have the entire Season.”
Titus rolled his considerable bulk onto his side and swished his tail.
Xanthe eyed him with fond exasperation. “That’s easy enough for you to think, isn’t it? I just hope you realize how much work we have to do. If people are to ‘discover’ things, they quite often need a little help. It always amazes me how blind to the obvious they can be.” She returned her attention to her own reflection. “A Court presentation means hoops, I suppose,” she muttered in disgust.
A deep contented purr sounded from behind her.
She shot a forbidding look at the self-satisfied cat. “You needn’t be so smug just because you don’t have to rig yourself out in ridiculous getup. There’s plenty for you to do as well. And you’re shedding on my bed,” she added as a parting shot as she headed for the door.
Chapter Four
Sir Miles Saunderton cast a rapid assessing glance over his reflection and nodded in satisfaction. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. More from habit than necessity he adjusted a fold in his neckcloth then turned from the cheval glass.
His valet who stood a few paces away before the fire that heated the room against the chill of the evening eyed him with the air of one bent upon doing his duty despite a high probability of failure. Miles fought back a touch of sudden amusement and with an effort kept it from showing. “Is something the matter, Vines?” he inquired.
The aging servitor who had been in Miles’ employ since first he’d needed the services of a gentleman’s gentleman fixed him with a reproachful frown. “You know Miss Lucy has requested that you wear your emerald pin in your cravat, Master Miles. And that heavy fob that was your late father’s.”
“She has requested a great many things of me over the years,” Miles said with a note of apology, “and very few of them have been suitable. Some of them,” he added with an air of reminiscence, “were hardly polite.”
“Now Master Miles, you know how Miss Lucy gets when she’s out of temper.”
Which seemed to be most of the time of late, Miles reflected but kept that thought to himself.
“She doesn’t mean a word of it,” Vines continued. “But there’s nothing to take exception at over this request nor would it do any harm to humor her.”
That stopped Miles. “What,” he demanded, “do you know about tonight that I do not?”
Vines adopted an air of injured innocence that wouldn’t have fooled even someone less well acquainted with him than Miles. “I’m sure I don’t know what you can mean, sir.”
“Cut line, Vines. Has my sister unearthed another dashing female to throw at my head?”
A pained expression replaced the innocence. “I do wish you would not express yourself in so vulgar a manner, sir. What your late father—”
“My late father would be wholly in sympathy and so you know it. Am I to have some eligible female thrust upon me tonight?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir.” Vines sought refuge in brushing his master’s coat, an entirely unnecessary operation for he had done so already. As he reached the front a heavy golden chain appeared in his hand as if by magic and he tried to hook one end through a button hole of Miles’ waistcoat. One glance at his master’s reproving face though and he abandoned the attempt.
“Just so,” said Miles as his man backed away.
Vines emitted a sound perilously close to a sniff. “It would do you no harm to add a touch of dash to your appearance, sir.”
Miles regarded his man in exasperation. “I have every intention of marrying, Vines. I am even—though my aunt and sister do not credit it—looking about me for a suitable wife. So far I have discovered not one single female whose conversation I could bear for more than half an hour at a time.” And with that he strode out of the room.
He had no need to hurry of course. When he entered the salon he found that neither his aunt nor Lucilla had yet come downstairs. He crossed to the occasional table where the decanters stood, poured out a large glass of Madeira and went to stand before the fire while he drank it. He had told Vines the truth—more or less. At one-and-thirty it was high time he set up his nursery and he knew it. But finding a female who could inspire him to become a tenant for life was proving difficult.
He had met any number of eligible ladies, each possessed of intelligent conversation, grace and a measure of beauty. Yet with not one of them had he experienced that sense of having found a kindred spirit. And that, he deemed, was the most necessary element in choosing a life’s partner.
He had helped his sister Amelia find the right gentleman. She had longed for political importance and the middle-aged diplomat, destined for a peerage in the very near future, had suited her to perfection. His younger brother Harry—God rest his soul—had been army-mad since a youth and never so much as looked at a lady until Miles
had pointed out the plain adoring Isabel who lived on the adjoining estate. The girl had thrilled at the chance to follow the drum with her beloved husband. Juliana, next in his line of siblings, had dreamed of social—and sartorial—prominence. He had introduced her to a member of Brummell’s set who had elevated her to the elite as one of society’s leading hostesses. His sister Susanna, always independent, had found the naval captain he presented to her exactly to her liking, not minding his extended absences but always delighting in his returns. All happy marriages, all based on mutual interests and temperaments.
And then there was Lucilla. His youngest sister talked of love with that starry-eyed enchantment of one who hadn’t the faintest understanding of what she spoke about. At seventeen the girl didn’t yet know the difference between a lasting emotion and a far more fleeting, if intense, infatuation. Somehow he had to find her a suitable husband—one who could make her happy, one who could handle her—before she ruined herself with her outrageous behavior.
The door opened behind him and he dragged his gaze from the flames to see his sister standing on the threshold, eyeing him with disapprobation. “You are late,” he pointed out but with a smile as this was the norm.
She wrinkled her nose. “Was it worth it? Do you like my new gown?”
In truth he hadn’t really noticed it. But recalled to a sense of brotherly duty he duly admired the half robe of white gauze, open down the front to reveal a white muslin underdress threaded through with green ribands. “Very pretty.”
“Pretty!” she cried. “Miles, you are a beast! It’s perfectly beautiful and just the thing for dinner with our neighbors, do you not think?”
Actually he hadn’t given the matter any thought whatsoever. He knew his own rig to be suitable but the intricacies of female apparel—and their apparent enjoyment in discussing it in minute detail—escaped him. He fell back on a tested and assured response. “I stand corrected. You look delightful.”
Lucy beamed on him and ran forward, grasping his hands. “Thank you. You can be the dearest of brothers when you set your mind to it.”
The implication that he could also be the vilest did not need to be spoken between them. That discussion had taken place during the journey to town and involved the names of more than one half-pay lieutenant and a variety of clandestine meetings that would have resulted in a shocking scandal had he not removed her swiftly first from their home in Surrey and then from Bath. Lucy was already proving more of a handful than his other three sisters combined.
Why in blazes did the girl have to pine after opportunists and fortune hunters? A young gentleman every bit as dashing and romantic as Lucy could wish lived right at her doorstep yet the eyes of long familiarity throughout childhood blinded her to the charms other young ladies noted in an instant. If she didn’t wake up soon, Lord Ashby might well drop the handkerchief elsewhere.
“You aren’t wearing Papa’s fob!” she cried. “Oh Miles, you can be so very vexatious. When I particularly asked Vines to make sure you looked your best.”
“He tried. What makes you think I shall like this female you’ve found?”
Lucy’s eyes widened and she looked away at once. “Why whatever can you mean? What female?”
His deep chuckle escaped him. “I’m too old a dog to be fooled by such tricks, my dear. Who is she?”
Her breath escaped her in a rush. “Oh Miles, I have not so much as laid eyes upon her yet but Aunt Jane thinks she may be the very thing! She is quite old—several years over twenty she assured me—and she says that this lady regards one in the most straightforward manner and all the while there is laughter lurking in her eyes. Just like you.”
“I don’t suppose you would believe me if I told you I would prefer to find a wife on my own?”
“Yes but you aren’t even trying.” She tilted her head to one side. “You’ve never shown the least interest in any of the ladies Juliana and Amelia and even Susanna have found for you and several of them have been diamonds of the first water. You only speak to the most docile of females who are quite beyond their last prayers and utterly boring into the bargain.”
“And what, my dear Lucy, would you know about docility?” he asked, nettled by her assessment.
“Pray do not be vexatious, dear Miles,” she said in a voice that perfectly mimicked her eldest sister Amelia in an exasperated mood.
“Minx.” He caught himself before he tousled her hair. That she had delighted in his doing just that when she was seven had nothing whatsoever to do with her preferences now that she was elevated from the schoolroom. Now it would be unforgivable.
A heartfelt sigh escaped Lucy. “Oh I do wish Juliana were not mired in the country with her sweet new baby or that Amelia could have come to town sooner or Susanna were not in the family way. They would have known just how to—” She broke off.
Before Miles could demand just what it was his other three sisters would have known how to do, Mrs. Mannering hurried into the room draped in ells of lavender gauze, her hair festooned with matching ostrich plumes. She set them all to plumping cushions already plumped, checking decanters already filled and generally subjecting them to a fit of nerves at her first dinner party of the year. Miles pressed her firmly but kindly into a seat and presented her with a glass of negus. Just as she seemed about to relax the knocker sounded on the door and she sprang once more to her feet.
“They are here!” she exclaimed quite unnecessarily. She cast a rapid glance over Lucilla then turned her attention to Miles. “Dear boy,” she said, “you will be an attentive host, will you not?”
“When have I ever failed you?” With the ease of practice he fended off her misplaced attempts to straighten his immaculate neckcloth.
He turned as the door into the salon opened and found himself facing a handsome woman of middle years, just above average height with pale hair and violet eyes, gowned in a becoming blue silk of exquisite cut and design. The material rustled softly as she glided forward, hands extended to greet Aunt Jane.
“How glad I am you could come.” Aunt Jane kissed her cheek. “Dear Lady Xanthe. And Miss Caldicot.”
Miss Caldicot. With a surge of unholy delight Miles saw the petite figure who stood rigidly a little behind Lady Xanthe. Nothing could exceed the haughty indifference of her features but antipathy welled out from her as tangible as if it had solid form. Good God, had she known where she came before she accepted? He doubted it very much. He could sympathize with the position in which she found herself but he intended to enjoy it none the less.
“Miss Caldicot!” Lucy rushed forward, hands extended. “Oh my dearest Miss Caldicot! Whatever are you doing here? Aunt Jane, is she the one you told me about? Oh how droll! I never guessed it could possibly be my own dear Miss Caldicot.”
“You are acquainted?” faltered Mrs. Mannering, looking from one to the other.
“Dear Aunt Jane, Miss Caldicot is—was—quite my favorite of my instructresses. But whatever has brought you up to London? You said not a word about it.”
“Like you, I am to enjoy the Season.” The soft musical voice conveyed complete confidence, the air of one in absolute control.
It didn’t fool Miles. He could admire her manner—in fact the more he saw of her, the more he found to admire—but could sense her underlying uneasiness. He approved her ability to disguise it.
“You must allow me to present my nephew—” Mrs. Mannering broke off in uncertainty. “That is unless you have also met?”
“I have not had the pleasure.” Lady Xanthe held out her hand. “How do you do, Sir Miles?”
Miles made a leg and found himself the subject of a rather amused scrutiny. His own humor welled and it was with difficulty that he turned a relatively sober countenance upon her companion. “Miss Caldicot I am acquainted with, though we have never been properly introduced. A pleasure as always, Miss Caldicot.”
Her eyes, an intriguing shade of misty gray, flashed in what could only be sheer animosity. “You can have no idea how
I have looked forward to it,” she said with a dryness only he could appreciate.
His smile broadened. “Counting the moments, to be sure,” he said softly so only she would hear.
“Until we leave,” she murmured in the same tone. Her polite smile belied the acidity of her words.
Lucy, despite engaging in polite conversation with Lady Xanthe, had cast frequent furtive glances in their direction while they spoke. Now with all the air of one who could no longer contain her curiosity she joined them, taking Miss Caldicot’s arm and drawing her toward the sofa. “Pray tell me how this has come about,” she begged.
So his littlest sister entertained hopes that he and her former instructress might develop a tendre for one another. Miss Caldicot would shortly set her straight on that account, he felt certain. He watched them, noting Lucy’s respect and obvious affection for her former preceptress and noting Miss Caldicot’s air of good breeding in the face of this adversity.
He also noted the profuse amounts of her coppery brown hair, drawn up to the back of her head from where it cascaded to her shoulders in a riot of curls. He much preferred it to the rather austere chignon he’d seen her wear before. This style enhanced the delicacy of her features, the large wide-set eyes, the retrousse nose—and the very determined chin. He had noted her elegant carriage before. Now she wore a gown suited to it. He knew himself to be no expert on ladies’ fashions but he found her half robe of sea-foam green gauze, open over an underdress of white silk, to be attractive in the extreme.
Abruptly and not quite sure why, he said, “I trust the remainder of your ride this morning was less eventful, Miss Caldicot.”
“Ride?” Lucy looked from one to the other of them. “Miles, you never said anything about encountering her. And what was so eventful about it?”
Miss Caldicot’s eyes kindled. “Your brother staged the most dashing of rescues but I fear I was wholly unappreciative. You see he believed my mount to be bolting with me when in fact I merely indulged in a gallop.”
Candlelight Wish Page 6