Oh, it was all so excessively confusing! How could she possibly desire something she had so often disdained? She had always believed she wanted nothing of intimacy with a man. Now she wished their embrace had gone on a few moments longer. Or that they might repeat it—often! Surely she would never know what the phenomenon meant unless she had further opportunity to study it.
She held the tarot cards and shut her eyes. "What will come of today's events?" she whispered. Then she plucked three cards from the deck before her.
The Seven of Cups, the Tower, the Knave of Swords. Love, danger, and mischief all about her. All quite evident, but altogether beyond her control. Her marriage and all it entailed (and did not) had allowed her a reprieve from those forces, but it seemed her time was up. Life—and love, perhaps—were hammering at her door and she was frightened. Hippolyta frowned. This much she already knew. Why could not the cards be more clear? She turned up yet another card. Transformation. Of her life? Of her heart, perhaps?
A light tap came on the door just then. "Enter," Hippolyta called as she gathered the cards together and wrapped them into the square of silk once more.
"I hope you are at your leisure, Lady Polly." Lady Bristlethwaite peeped into the room, her face wreathed with smiles. "It is only I. Ah, I see you have been consulting your cards."
"Yes, but they seem singularly uncommunicative today— or, at least, they tell me nothing I do not already know. Come sit, let us pull up some chairs here and be snug," she said, getting up from the bed and crossing to the fireplace. "Such weather! I vow, I do not think it will ever be summer."
"I have not felt the chill today," Lady Bristlethwaite told her with a mysterious smile.
"So, Sir Godfrey has spoken then?"
Lady Bristlethwaite looked down and blushed. "It seems almost too good to be true," she sighed. "I saw it in my cards, but I could scarcely believe—dared not even hope. Imagine! Sir Godfrey loving me—for he has, you know, these several weeks. Oh, he is such a dear, gallant creature."
Hippolyta smiled. "Indeed, he is. However, I must know something… Have you no qualms about renouncing your freedom?"
Lady Bristlethwaite grimaced. "My freedom? You mistake, I assure you! Wifehood or widowhood, each has merely brought me a new servitude. My late lord was… a harsh man," she went on quietly. "He made no secret of having married me merely to care for his daughters. But that was not my complaint—I was plain of face and scarce of fortune, so I looked for little more—but, such daughters! Why, surely you must see for yourself! They do not love me, nor I them, for all I have tried. All they care about is fortunes and titles—and taking precedence over each other."
"Then surely they will marry soon and you will be done with them," Hippolyta ventured. "As you say, that does seem to be their ambition."
"Of that you may be sure, but my responsibility to humankind is of a higher order than I owe Sophia and Maria. While they do not think of love, several very personable gentlemen have terrified me by becoming foolishly smitten with them. My stepdaughters' pretty faces belie their stony hearts."
"Thus far," she continued, "their swains have had not two guineas to rub together and were therefore no temptation. However, I have vowed I shall not take the girls to London this Season or any other. I take pity on Britain's youth! Why, it is almost like having charge of two ferocious tiger cats—one would not for anything take them to stroll the park no matter how they seemed to like the little children! It could not be thought of!"
"So you bring them here to rusticate?" Hippolyta asked archly.
"You must forgive me, Lady Polly, for I did not know a thing about your young Edward until I arrived. I vow my heart quite turned to ice when I saw them begin to circle the poor lad. I hope nothing will come of their conniving. It would not do for them to sharpen their claws on his young heart. I have, however, deflected their interest from your Mr. St. Ives."
"He is not my Mr. St. Ives," Hippolyta reminded her. Her heart fluttered uncontrollably at the notion, but it simply was not true. "However, he is a bachelor of easy means, good lineage, and excellent prospects. I am interested in how you accomplished this feat. They seem most… er, dedicated to their ambitions."
"It was quite simple, really. I merely reminded them—in a chiding sort of way—that they ought not think themselves so high and mighty as to disdain a mere Mister. That his great-uncle must surely expire sometime in the next thirty years, and eventually one of them might be in a fair way to having a title in her middle years. That piece of advice curled their lips, I can tell you. No, my plan is to foist them on some cantankerous septuagenarian like their father. Oh, forgive me!" she gasped suddenly, blushing crimson. "I had quite forgot about your…"
"Pray, do not fret yourself," Hippolyta reassured her quickly. "I was exceedingly… fortunate in my marriage, I collect."
"And so shall I be, if only we can find our way around this dreadful Curse of the Mimms! What is the likelihood, do you think?"
Hippolyta gazed into the glowing embers on the hearth for a moment. "I cannot tell yet, I am afraid. I must do some careful research. But, if I can find nothing, tell me… should you be entirely cast down?"
"Only if it meant I could not have him. But," she went on, her eyes twinkling, "I have a plan for the contingency, you see."
Hippolyta raised her brows inquisitively as Lady Bristlethwaite laughed in an almost girlish way. "Yes, indeed, Lady Polly. Marriage need not be the only answer. I love Sir Godfrey. If there is no other way, I intend to offer him a carte blanche!"
Joining the gathering in the Chinese Salon that evening before dinner, Julian St. Ives noted that there were several guests who seemed reluctant to encounter the eyes of certain others. Indeed, a casual observer might well have taken the group for strangers rather than friends of long standing and some intimacy. The exceptions to this general rule were Lady Bristlethwaite and Sir Godfrey Mimms who, quite oblivious to the scrutiny of others, made the very picture of April and May, whispering, tittering, and surreptitiously holding hands.
Edward, he noted, circled about young Diana in much the same way as a child might stalk a bumble bee with a jar and net. He seemed wary but absorbed, entirely oblivious to the Honorables who trailed inexorably after him, exchanging fascinating on dits in hopes of capturing his interest. For her part, Diana disdained notice of anyone and took pains to display a steady fascination with her glass of ratafia.
And Lady Polly! There she stood, all by herself on the far side of the room, pondering Sir Godfrey and his lady with a puzzled little frown. She did not, he was forced to own, look at all wistful, but, at least, she seemed interested. Interested! he chuckled inwardly. That exactly summed up her response to his kiss that afternoon. Neither passionate nor altogether passive—merely experimental, almost as if it were an entirely new endeavor. Could such a thing be possible? Surely not!
It troubled St. Ives that she had not yet cast a glance in his direction that evening. He would not apologize for his action, for he was not in the least sorry. Nor did she seem to be, for, after all, she had neither slapped him nor even given him a set down. Then he grimaced. If such were his hopes, then he was truly catching at straws, was he not? In any case, he was damned if he was going to stand about staring stupidly into space.
"Lady Polly?" he said as he came up beside her.
"Ah, St. Ives," she ventured nervously. "Yes. Well."
Although he was unsure what response was called for, he went on valiantly. "Er, yes. Ahem. Indeed."
He paused for a moment, feeling exceedingly foolish. His address certainly seemed to have deserted him. "I beg your pardon, Lady Polly, but did either of us say anything sensible just now?"
She glanced quickly over at him before lowering her eyes once more. "I think not."
"That is often the case, I believe, after… er, encounters such as ours this afternoon." He went on in a lower voice. "What of Diana? She seemed quite shocked at us. Have you spoken yet with her?"
"No," she
whispered wretchedly. "This day has been altogether too disordered! Oh, St. Ives! I should have seen it sooner, but I believe she imagined that you… that she… that a tendre . . ."
"How flattering!" he laughed. Then he recognized the frown of concern clouding her features. He took her hand and patted it. "Try not to worry yourself overmuch, my lady. Just look there at young Edward. Quite smitten with her. How quickly affection comes and goes among these children. I imagine she will quite soon return his regard—if only he is still of the same inclination. Tell me, at what age did you first imagine yourself in love, Lady Polly?"
"Heavens!" she sighed nostalgically. "It seems at least a century ago I fell so madly in love with Lord Lovell. A true nonpareil. Graceful, gallant, intelligent. No one has ever matched him."
St. Ives felt the quick burn of jealousy flare through him. "Lovell! Never heard of him."
"You have never read Madame d'Arblay's works?" she asked incredulously.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why, Lord Lovell is a character in Evelina. Surely you have read it, St. Ives."
"No, my lady," he replied, a good deal chagrined at his reaction, "but I can see I must if I am to pattern myself after this paragon. He sounds entirely beyond my touch. But surely there must have been other, more tangible suitors. I imagine your poor parents must have been quite worn to shreds by the scores of swains serenading at your balcony."
"What silliness," Hippolyta murmured wistfully. "I am afraid I had not been out for more than a month before Trevalyen made his arrangements with my father. I was married before the Season was done. So, you see, neither I nor my poor parents were plagued with midnight serenades."
Before St. Ives could pursue this very interesting revelation, the sound of a disturbance filtered in from the hallway.
"Ooooh!" came a distressed wail. "I shall be sent to Newgate and hanged, not that any shall care or shed a tear of sorrow!"
"Drat that Jane!" Diana muttered dangerously. "Whatever can she mean by causing such a to-do?"
Hippolyta turned toward the entry just as the aforementioned servant tumbled in. Would there never again be an ordinary evening? she wondered.
"Oh, Miss Diana," Jane cried, running toward her young mistress. "There was never anything like it for beastliness."
"Jane!" Diana hissed, glaring at the outsized watering pot. "Go upstairs directly—"
"What is it, Jane?" Hippolyta cut Diana off. "I am sure you do not disturb us lightly."
Jane dabbed at her eye with the corner of her apron before turning a wary glance at Hippolyta. "It is Bertie, my lady," she confessed in a blubbering wail. "He is gone missing these two hours and more, and I nor none of us can't find trace of him anywhere up nor down. Heaven help us all, I am certain sure some foul spirit has fetched him up the chimbley for his naughtiness, or if they have not, they soon enough will."
With this dark prediction, Jane dissolved once again into the incoherence of noisy tears. Hippolyta sighed and shook her head.
"I think you will find, Jane, that he is merely hiding somewhere. As you say, he is inclined toward naughtiness. This is a very large house. He will come out when he is hungry."
"Oh, but if I cannot find him before it is time to leave," she protested, "I shall go quite distracted and shall have to be shut up, I am sure."
"Well," Diana sniffed, "we have a month yet, Jane. I hardly think we shall be privileged with his absence for that long. Besides, if you should need to be shut up, trust me, you will be obliged!"
"Hush, Diana," Hippolyta told her softly. "I am quite certain that Bertie will turn up before we retire, Jane. No doubt he is merely having his little jest."
"But, you have no notion!" Jane continued lugubriously. "Besides losing poor little Bertie, I am fair deviled by foul sprites pinching at me and putting salt in my tea, for all I have decked myself with garlic and such!"
Hippolyta sighed. "There is nothing here that would do you such harm, Jane. It must be all in your imagination. As for Bertie, I shall give the matter my full attention. You may go."
Jane curtseyed with obvious reluctance and made her lumbering way out of the room, muttering dire (and exceedingly audible) predictions of doom as she did so. At the doorway she collided violently with Nigglesby, the ancient butler. Recoiling from the impact, he tottered in the direction of an étagère full of priceless bibelots, his shoes skidding noisily across the polished floors.
A few interesting moments passed before the old gentleman righted himself and made his slow advance across the room to Hippolyta's side. He stood for a moment, out of breath from the exertion, but at last presented her with a calling card on a quaking silver salver.
"'Tis a Lord Lothian, my lady," Nigglesby wheezed. "A great, bullish brute he be, too, snortin' an' stompin' all about't' front hall."
The chair in her teacup! The visitor had arrived even before Hippolyta had expected. She took the card from the tray and knit her brows as she examined it. The name did not seem familiar, but that, in itself, was not surprising. All manner of occult scholars found their way to her doorstep with less ceremony. However, something did not feel quite right about all this, but what?
A sudden hush fell over the room and its occupants turned as one. An enormous, brooding figure filled the doorway. The candle lights flickered as the gentleman slung a heavy black cape back over his shoulders and made his silent way toward them like a brooding storm cloud, its lightning yet to strike.
"My Lady Hippolyta?" he asked when he at last stood before her.
She shivered unaccountably and, unequal to words, inclined her head slightly in response.
"You will forgive me for showing myself in. I feared your butler had forgot me. I am Lothian."
He smiled very slowly, as if his countenance were unused to such exertion, revealing a row of exceedingly white teeth. Taking Hippolyta's hand in his, he raised it boldly to his lips. Then he kissed it lingeringly. When he glanced up at her, she could see that his eyes glowed with a strange heat.
"You will overlook the liberty, I am sure, my lady," he murmured softly. "I was a close friend of your late husband."
"What is more," she exclaimed suddenly, "you were in my teacup!"
Ten
Lord Lothian threw back his head and laughed with such alarming relish that Hippolyta was forced to steel herself to keep from visibly shuddering. She could not deny that the gentleman was dangerously handsome. An impressive mane of ebony hair flowed back from his high forehead. A pair of black brows arched above his smoldering black eyes. When he smiled, however, his teeth, of which there seemed to be a great many, looked altogether too distressingly sharp. Hippolyta adjusted her spectacles on her nose self-consciously and blinked back her aversion with an effort.
"In your teacup, Lady Hippolyta?" he exclaimed when he had recovered himself. "I daresay I was. You speak of tasseomancy, I collect?"
She nodded mutely, not at all liking the assessing gaze he swept over her.
"A quaint study. I have not given it much attention, but I am sure there must be those who find it somewhat amusing." Lothian still held her hand, and now he tucked it possessively under his arm as he looked about the room. "What a congenial gathering we have here, Lady Hippolyta. Perhaps you would be so kind as to make your other guests known to me."
Even though he merely held her hand, Hippolyta felt quite desperately trapped. In any other gentleman, the gesture might seem somewhat forward, but very little worse; Lothian's touch, however, translated the familiarity to something entirely different. It seemed as if a silken collar had been slipped about her and the freedom to direct her own actions usurped by a firm and alien will. Lord Lothian turned toward Julian St. Ives and waited expectantly.
"Lord Lothian," she heard herself say, "my friend, Julian St. Ives."
St. Ives bowed slightly. His glance, usually so companionable and laughing, seemed to glitter in a steely warning. Her heart began to pace faster, but still she felt compelled to move on.
; "Lady Bristlethwaite and Sir Godfrey Mimms."
Lothian nodded dismissively.
"Miss Bristlethwaite and her sister, Miss Maria Bristlethwaite."
The gentleman's gaze lingered on the pair an infinitesimal moment longer. The Honorables, who had assumed attitudes on his entry, now smiled coquettishly from behind their fans. Lothian moved on with the barest of acknowledgments.
"My stepson, Edward, Lord Trevalyen." They exchanged a bow.
Lothian looked closely at Edward. Then he smiled. "You do not take after your father, I see."
"And my niece," Hippolyta continued hurriedly, "Miss Neysmith."
Diana executed a graceful curtsey and boldly fluttered her eyelashes. Lothian stopped short and dropped Hippolyta's hand. He seemed to regard the girl speculatively for a moment before bowing deeply and kissing her hand with the same lingering attention as he had her aunt's. Edward's face grew a dull scarlet.
"Miss Neysmith," Lothian murmured. "How charming. How exceedingly charming."
Diana's face dimpled into a smile and her chin tilted noticeably upward. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lord."
"Indeed you are," he whispered under his breath. Then, turning to Hippolyta, he went on in a louder tone, "You must not let me keep you from your dinner, my lady. I am sure my man will have made arrangements with your staff for my accommodation. When I have shaken off the dust of the road, I shall rejoin you."
With that, he bowed and exited the salon. For the next several seconds, it seemed as if the silent company held their breaths. When the silvery tones of the dinner bell rang out a moment later, it was followed by their collective sighs.
Without asking permission, Edward took Diana's arm and pulled her firmly along toward the dining room. As the rest followed, St. Ives stopped at Hippolyta's side and waited until they were alone.
A Midsummer's Magic Page 9