Then suddenly half of her seemed shorter than the other half. She gave a little squeak and tottered a bit on her feet.
“Mrs. Archer!” Justin said, coming around the desk and offering his hand to help her regain her balance. One of her shoes, a high-heeled satin affair with brocade ribbons, lay on its side just outside the hem of her skirt. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, I am quite all right!” she said with an embarrassed little laugh. “I just forgot that I did not lace my shoe properly when I put it back on earlier.”
“You had your shoes off?” Justin asked, not sure he had heard her properly.
She shot him a haughty glance. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone go about in bare feet on a hot day?”
He hardly dared to contradict her. Instead, he knelt down beside her and said, “Let me help you with your shoe, then.”
She looked a bit reluctant, but then nodded and slid her foot from beneath her skirt.
He picked up the shoe, noticing with a start that she also did not believe in wearing stockings on a hot day. Terribly scandalous—and terribly attractive. He tried to ignore this, and slid the shoe onto her bare foot, holding the arch of it on his palm for one instant. It was slim and white in his hand, the bones as delicate as those of a small bird. Her toes wiggled, and she giggled a bit as his fingers slid over her sole.
He reached to tie the ribbons, and gasped. “You are injured!” he exclaimed.
Then he looked closer and saw that the gash on her ankle was an old one, not one she had just gotten. Thick, pale pink scar tissue arced across her creamy skin.
She had been badly cut at one time, but not today.
She tugged at her foot, trying to remove it from his grasp. He was almost thrown off his balance by this, and grasped her skirt to steady himself. “ ’Tis an old injury,” she said. “Not one to worry about.”
“But what ...”
He was interrupted when the office door opened and Mrs. Archer’s maid came inside.
“Madam, I just wanted to see if—” She broke into a long scream when she saw him kneeling there, grasping Mrs. Archer’s skirt. “What are you doing! Unhand her right now, you brute!”
The fragile-looking older woman grabbed a ledger book off the desk and commenced beating him about the head and shoulders with it. Her mask fell askew, but still she wielded the book.
It hurt like the very devil! Justin feared he would soon be knocked unconscious by the blows, and then what a scandal would ensue.
“Cease, woman!” he yelled, trying to grab at the book. “It is not what you think.”
“Not what I think! I know your sort. You leave my lamb alone!”
“Mary, no!” Mrs. Archer reached down and hauled Justin to his feet. “I merely lost my balance, and Lord Lyndon was kind enough to help me. There was nothing improper at all.”
“Oh?” Mary slowly lowered the book. “Truly, madam?”
“Truly, He has been the ... the perfect gentleman.”
“Well, in that case ...” Mary placed the book back on the desk, straightened her cap on her graying brown curls, and her mask over her face and said, “Would you care for some tea, my lord?”
Chapter Five
“Did you conclude your business satisfactorily, then, dear?” Amelia glanced up from her embroidery and smiled as Justin came into the small, sunny sitting room.
“Quite satisfactorily.” If one considered getting beaten about the head by an irate housemaid satisfactory. Justin almost laughed aloud at the memory of that chaotic scene. Then he almost groaned as the memory of another scene replaced it—that of holding Mrs. Archer’s bare, elegant foot in his hand.
By Jove, but he had been too long without a woman if a naked foot could affect him so.
He sat down across from his mother and reached for a glass of lemonade, wishing it were something a good deal stronger. He needed it after the day he had had.
“There is cake, too,” Amelia said.
“No, thank you, Mother. I stopped and had luncheon at the club. It’s been years since I went there, but I found I am still on the membership books.” He looked about the room again, thinking that it was too oddly quiet.
Then he realized why. Harry was nowhere in evidence.
Justin sighed and took another long sip of lemonade. His brother was probably off somewhere getting into trouble again. Justin had not thought it likely in the middle of the day, but a young man intent on mischief could find it at any time.
“I suppose Harry is out?” he said.
“Oh, no, indeed,” Amelia answered. “He is still upstairs asleep.”
“Asleep? In the middle of the afternoon?”
His mother gave a little, secretive smile as she plied her needle through the snowy linen. “I gave him a small dose of my old medicine. You remember, from back when the doctor said I had ‘weak blood.’ I have not taken the stuff since your father died, and I rarely give it to Harry. It is so difficult to give up once started, and it has made all the difference since I made myself give it up. But I felt he should stay home today. You will surely want to speak with him later.”
Justin gave a doubtful snort. “My ‘speaking to him’ hardly seems to make any difference, Mother. The words simply go in one ear and out the other.”
Amelia laughed. “Rather like someone else I once knew! I had also thought, though, that he might be more amenable to our summer plans if he had a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh? And what are our plans?” Justin reached for the crystal pitcher to pour out another glass of lemonade. “Are we off to Waring Castle, the ancestral pile?”
“We can go there if you like, of course. However, my friend Lady Bellweather called on me this morning, and she has given me a much better idea.”
Lady Bellweather? She with the eligible daughter? Justin looked at his mother warily. “What sort of idea?”
“My dear, you sound as if I am about to suggest being boiled in oil! It is nothing onerous. Lady Bellweather is taking her children to Wycombe-on-Sea for the summer, and I thought how nice it would be to see that town again.” Amelia smiled softly. “Your father and I went there once, when we were first married. Before any of you children came along. I thought it was truly lovely, a most amiable place. But your father preferred Waring or the hunting box in Scotland.”
Justin saw the faraway glint in his mother’s eyes and thought she must hold that long-ago trip to Wycombe-on-Sea in even greater esteem than she said. “So you never went back there?”
“Never. But we can go there now, if we so choose! I know it will not be the same as it was thirty years ago. Lady Bellweather goes there every year, though, and she says it is still delightful. There are assembly rooms and concerts, as well as the sea bathing. It is not as grand as Brighton, but I do think the fresh air would be so good for you and Harry.”
“And for you, Mother?”
She laughed. “Perhaps! At least in Wycombe I shall know that my days of holidays spent standing about in bogs waiting for the grouse to fly, or whatever it was we were doing, are behind me now. What do you think, dear?”
Justin thought he would prefer the quiet of Waring to doing the pretty at some sea resort. But he had never seen his mother looking happier or more excited, and he didn’t have the heart to take that away from her. “I think that Wycombe sounds a splendid idea.”
Amelia leaped to her feet, her sewing falling unheeded to the floor, and rushed over to kiss his cheek. “Oh, my dear, you will not be sorry! We shall have such a grand summer. And just wait until you meet Miss Bellweather. She is truly lovely. Oh, I must go and start my packing! I hope I have the right clothes for the seaside.”
With one last kiss, she hurried off, intent on her holiday.
Justin sat back in his chair, sipping at his lemonade, listening as his mother called for her maid. So the price he had to pay for his mother’s happiness was meeting this Bellweather girl, was it?
Well, it was a price he was willing to pay. No doubt this girl w
as just the sort he should be thinking of marrying: well-born, well-bred, and well-versed in all the social graces of being a countess.
But somehow he could not erase the memory of a slim white foot, and brown eyes looking up at him.
Four days after Justin’s visit to the Golden Feather, Caroline sat on her bedroom floor surrounded by open trunks and piles of books and belongings. The gaming house was sold, and she was at last truly going to put it all behind her.
She looked at her clothes, carefully stacked into piles. One contained her own dresses, modest muslins and silks meant to be packed and taken to Wycombe-on-Sea. The other was what she considered her “costumes,” the brightly colored, daringly cut gowns she wore at the Golden Feather. They were to be given away, as she could never wear them at the seaside assembly rooms.
As she folded a stack of shawls, her gaze fell on a flash of emerald green. She reached out and pulled the gown from the bottom of the pile. The gown she had worn the night Lord Lyndon first came to the Golden Feather.
She spread the soft satin across her lap and examined the small watermarks along the hem. Perhaps she would keep just this one gown, as a memento.
A memento of a man she would never see again.
Caroline laughed and shook her head as she folded the gown. She was not generally prone to sentimentality; she could not afford to be. It must be the prospect of the sea air that was making her so maudlin today.
Beneath the pile of gowns was a silk-wrapped bundle. Caroline unwound it to find the miniature portrait of Lawrence. She held it carefully in the palm of her hand, studying the face painted there. It was almost like looking at the face of a stranger.
He had been gone for more than four years, and she had felt so many things for him in that time. Pity mostly, but anger, too. Anger for his weakness.
A weakness that, ironically, had given her the financial stability she craved, in his last gift of the Golden Feather.
Now all she could feel for him was gratitude and peace.
“Good-bye, Lawrence,” she whispered as she re-wrapped the portrait and packed it away.
Mary came in then, freshly laundered linens in her arms. “Have you decided what to take, madam?” she asked.
“I believe so. These trunks and those hatboxes can go. I do think, though, that I should visit a modiste before we leave. There are quite enough clothes for day, but a distinct scarcity of gowns suitable for the assembly rooms at Wycombe-on-Sea. I shall need a bathing costume, as well.”
Mary gave a satisfied smile as she packed away the linens. “It will be very good to leave London.”
“Indeed it will,” Caroline agreed heartily. If she had her way, they would never see the blighted town again.
“I saw there was a letter from Miss Phoebe in this morning’s post.”
“Yes. She was so excited to receive the money I sent for new gowns. She also cannot wait to see us next week. I do believe she is very tired of Mrs. Medlock’s.”
“You can scarcely blame her, madam. She was at the school a whole year after her friends her own age left.” Mary considered her longtime position as being sufficient excuse to always speak her mind.
“It could not be helped, Mary,” Caroline answered quietly.
“I suppose not.”
“Anyway, it has all worked out for the best! Now she is of just the right age to be married. I am sure we will meet a suitable young man in Wycombe. Someone calm and sober, not a wild young rake. Someone who can take proper care of her.”
“And maybe a husband for you, too?”
Caroline looked up at Mary, startled. “A husband for me? No, indeed! I don’t intend ever to marry again.”
“What, never?”
“Never. Once was quite enough.”
“But don’t you ever wish for children? A family of your own? You may be twenty-eight years old, but there is still time.”
Wish for children? Caroline looked back down at the trunk, staring unseeingly at the books stacked there. Once she had wanted children, very much. When she and Lawrence first married. She had grieved mightily at her miscarriage. Eventually, though, she had come to see their childless state as a blessing of sorts. Their lives together had been no place for an innocent babe.
And now ... now it was out of the question.
“No,” she said, too vehement even to her own ears. “I shall be an auntie to Phoebe’s children one day, and that will be enough.”
“But if you should meet someone you really liked ... ,” Mary persisted.
Someone with bright blue eyes and a wry, crooked smile? “I won’t meet anyone again,” she insisted. “Besides, we are not going to Wycombe to meet someone for me. We are going to find someone suitable for Phoebe.”
Chapter Six
“Caro! Oh, Caro, you are here at last! I’ve been waiting hours and hours.”
Caroline had just stepped down from the carriage outside Mrs. Medlock’s School when Phoebe came flying down the front steps and flung herself into Caroline’s open arms.
“Silly Phoebe!” Caroline laughed, holding her sister close. “I told you we would surely not arrive before teatime at the earliest.”
“Tea was half an hour ago. Though I’m sure Mrs. Medlock would have a fresh pot made, if you like.”
“Tea would be lovely. But first I want to look at you.” Caroline held her sister out at arm’s length for an inspection.
“Have I grown, then?” Phoebe preened a bit, turning her head from side to side so that her curls danced. “Am I taller than when you saw me last autumn?”
Phoebe was not taller, but she did seem somehow older than she had on that last visit. Then her hair had been down, a riot of golden curls to her waist. She had worn the school uniform and giggled and whispered with her friends as any immature girl would.
Today her hair was pinned in a fashionable knot atop her head, and she was obviously trying very hard to contain her natural exuberance and behave like a lady. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her as she bounced slightly on her feet. She was a bit taller than Caroline, and in Caroline’s sisterly opinion anyway, much prettier, with soft violet-blue eyes and pink-and-white skin.
She no longer looked like the baby sister who would follow Caroline all around their childhood home. She looked like a young lady.
A young lady with strange tastes in clothing.
Caroline gazed speechless at Phoebe’s ensemble. When she had sent money for new clothes, Caroline had pictured sprigged muslin day dresses and pastel ball gowns. Today Phoebe wore a gown of bright orange lightweight wool, trimmed à la militaire with copious gold braid and frog fastenings. A gold lace ruff framed her pretty face, and more lace peeked out at the cuffs.
“Oh, Phoebe,” Caroline said quietly, “you look . . . very dashing.”
“Do you like it?” Phoebe spun about happily. “I was quite in alt when you said I might have some new gowns. The dressmaker in the village has some lovely fashion plates from London, and she made up such gowns for me. Just wait until you see them! I am sure there can be nothing so fine in Town.”
“I am sure not.”
Phoebe looked closely at Caroline’s own pale gray carriage dress and matching plain bonnet. “Perhaps she could make up something for you, Caro.”
Heaven forbid. “Well, dear, I am sure we won’t have the time. We must leave tomorrow, you know, for Wycombe-on-Sea.”
“I cannot wait! I have told all the girls about what adventures we shall have. They are quite envious, I assure you. But you must come inside now and have some tea, for you must be vastly tired after your journey! Did Mary come with you?”
“She stayed at the inn with the luggage. You know how she is; she does not trust anyone.”
“I can scarcely wait to see her! I’m sure she won’t recognize me again.”
“I am sure she won’t.”
Mrs. Medlock appeared then in the doorway, a tall, stern-looking woman in rustling black silk.
“Miss Lane,” she s
aid, “I am sure your sister would like something to drink after her journey. It is very warm out here to be kept standing about.”
Phoebe smiled at her, dimples flashing prettily. “Of course, Mrs. Medlock.”
“Why don’t you go ask the maids to lay out the tea again, while I show Mrs. Aldritch where she might refresh herself.”
“Oh, yes! I will see if there are any lemon cakes left, since they are your special favorites, Caro.” Phoebe kissed Caroline’s cheek once more and dashed off to find the dessert, her orange skirts held up to reveal gold-colored stockings and slippers.
“If you would care to follow me, Mrs. Aldritch,” Mrs. Medlock said, turning back into the school in Phoebe’s wake.
As Caroline followed the headmistress up a winding staircase and along a dim corridor, Mrs. Medlock said, “Miss Lane is very excited about her seaside holiday, Mrs. Aldritch.”
“I am rather excited myself,” Caroline answered. “It feels I have waited a very long time for her to finish her studies and be ready to make her bow in the world.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Medlock opened a door and ushered her into a small sitting room, where a basin, towels, and soap were laid out. “You will probably be considering a match for her soon.”
“Very likely, if someone suitable appears.”
Mrs. Medlock nodded. “She is a very pretty girl, Mrs. Aldritch. I am certain she will have no lack of suitors. But I feel I must also tell you that Miss Lane is one my most, er, exuberant students. I realize this is hardly my place to say, but . . .” Her voice faded in hesitation.
Caroline removed her bonnet to look closer at Mrs. Medlock. What exactly was the woman trying to say? “Please, Mrs. Medlock, do go on.”
“It is only that I am so fond of your sister, Mrs. Aldritch. I would hate to see any . . . difficulties befall her. And I know that these seaside places are full of all sorts of people, including gentlemen whose behavior is less than respectable. Miss Lane has such an impulsive nature.”
“So you are urging me to keep a strict eye on her, is that it, Mrs. Medlock?”
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