Her Ladyship's Man

by Joan Overfield

  "I—I am fine, Sir Christopher," Melanie managed to say, her shaking voice and pale cheeks giving lie to her assurances. "I am just a trifle overheated."

  "Yes, it is as hot as the very devil in here," he agreed vaguely, thinking that her face was rather white for one claiming to be suffering from the heat. Still, a gentleman never questioned a lady's word. Then, as if just remembering the cup in his hand, he thrust it at her. "Here, you must drink some of this," he urged, spilling some of the contents onto her skirts. "I am sure it will help."

  Melanie stared down at the milky beverage, trying to control the wave of nausea that washed over her. Calling upon her inner strength, she raised the cup to her lips and forced down a small swallow. God above, she thought, struggling to control her emotions, whatever was she going to do? Someone was accusing her father of treason!

  "It went quite well, don't you think?" Lady Charlotte asked some three hours later as the carriage wended its way home. "With any luck we shall have you safely leg-shackled within a fortnight, m'girl."

  "Yes, Grandmother," Melanie replied dully, her eyes closing as she laid her throbbing head on the back of the carriage. The preceding hours were all a blur to her, and she had no idea what she had said, or to whom she had said it. She knew she had danced, and smiled, but her actions were those of a sleepwalker caught up in the most horrific of nightmares from which there was no escape.

  "The Earl of Clarebourne seemed particularly taken with you," Lady Charlotte prattled on, not seeming to notice her granddaughter's odd silence. "Although I did think it was rather fast of you to stand up with him for two waltzes, Melanie. You must have better care of your reputation."

  A vague recollection of a plump, red-faced man in a yellow waistcoat flashed briefly in Melanie's mind. She remembered him bowing in front of her and asking for permission to lead her out, but that was all. "Yes, Grandmother," she repeated, turning sightless eyes toward the window.

  "Are you feeling quite the thing, my dear?" her father asked worriedly, leaning forward to study her in the faint light of the flickering torch. "You've scarce said a word all evening."

  Melanie blinked back sudden tears at his concern. Dearest Papa, she thought, love welling up inside her. Did he have any idea of the evil rumors being spread about him? "I am fine, sir," she said, her voice husky with emotion. "I am just feeling overwhelmed by everything, that is all."

  "Nonsense." He gave her a hearty smile. "Why, I have seen you charm a roomful of diplomats without turning so much as a hair! Are you sure there is something you're not telling your papa?"

  "Indeed not, sir!" she denied hastily, stunned by his acuity. "It is just as I told you—London society is much different than what we are used to, and I am having a difficult time finding my feet."

  "Well, if you are certain." The earl was clearly not convinced. "But I shouldn't worry, my dear. I heard the young men talking, and all are bowled over by your beauty."

  "Thank you, Papa," Melanie replied, swallowing painfully. She was torn with the desire to cast herself into his arms and sob out what she had heard. But she could not in front of the others. She trusted Mr. Barrymore's discretion, but she was too familiar with her grandmother's quick temper and equally quick tongue to think she could remain silent in the face of the rumors that were being circulated.

  "Well there, you see?" He gave her chilled hand a loving pat. "It will all work out, never you fear."

  "If you say so, Papa," Melanie said, a single tear escaping from the corner of her eye and trickling down the curve of her cheek. "If you say so."

  Drew had waited up, as befitted a proper butler, and he held the door open for the Terringtons as they entered. "Good evening, my lord," he said, relieving the earl of his black silk evening cape. "I trust all is well?"

  "Quite well, Davies, quite well," Lord Terrington replied jovially, handing his cane and gloves to the hovering footman. "Were there any messages from Whitehall for me while we were away?"

  "No, my lord," Drew answered, wondering what sort of message the earl had been expecting.

  "Ah, well, I thought not," the older man replied as if in answer to Drew's unspoken question. "Still, one never knows. Well, Mr. Barrymore, what was your impression of Almacks? You have been almost as quiet on the subject as my daughter."

  "Most interesting, my lord," Mr. Barrymore responded, running a hand through his thick blond hair. "It was a great honor to see so many of our illustrious citizens assembled together. I must own to being somewhat awestruck by it all."

  "A good answer, Mr. Barrymore," the earl laughed in approval. " 'Tis obvious you shall go far in your chosen career with so diplomatic a turn of phrase."

  Drew kept one ear on the conversation as he turned to assist the ladies with their wraps. Lady Charlotte had already shed her heavy ermine-lined cloak and was walking toward the stairs, while Lady Melanie stood quietly, not seeming to notice the footman who stood waiting to help her out of her velvet cape. For a moment Drew thought that perhaps she was waiting for him to help her, then he saw her face.

  "Is there anything amiss, my lady?" Drew stepped forward impulsively, his one thought to comfort her. She looked so lost and alone, and for a brief moment he had seen a look of blank terror mirrored in the purple depths of her eyes.

  Melanie stirred at Davies's words, blinking her eyes at the urgency of his tone. "Not at all, Davies," she told him, mentally marshaling her forces. Her lips quivered as she attempted a weak smile. "Is Miss Evingale still awake, or is she long abed?"

  "I believe she has retired, my lady," Drew answered, aware that she was avoiding his question. His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a brief moment he resented the necessity of his deception. Had he been able to appear before her as an equal, as a gentleman, he would have insisted she answer him.

  "Well, then perhaps I shall as well," Melanie answered with forced brightness, turning to kiss her father's cheek. "Good night, Papa, sleep well."

  "You, too, my dear," he answered affectionately, giving her hand a fond pat. "And mind that you sleep until noon, as befits a proper lady, hmm? Perhaps that will put the roses back in your cheeks."

  "If you say so, sir." She smiled up at him once more, then turned to Mr. Barrymore, holding her hand out to him and realizing much to her chagrin that she had ignored him ever since she had overheard that conversation. She couldn't even remember if she had given him the dance she had promised him.

  "Good night, Mr. Barrymore," she said, offering him a cautious smile. "I hope I shall see you in the morning."

  "Thank you, my lady." He bowed graciously over her hand, his blue eyes sharp as they studied her. "And thank you also for our dance. I enjoyed it excessively."

  "You're welcome, sir." She was relieved that she hadn't been so distracted that she had broken her word. "And I am glad that you enjoyed your evening."

  His smile widened a fraction. "You may rest assured, my lady, I found the experience to be most edifying. Most edifying indeed."

  It was four o'clock. Melanie lay quietly in her bed listening to the ancient clock in the hallway tolling out the hour. She had been awake for the past two hours, thoughts racing through her head. Her one impulse was to protect her father at all cost, but she knew it would be better if she told him everything, including the unpleasant scene with Mrs. Mason, she thought, finally understanding what lay behind the other woman's animosity.

  It also explained why her father had been relegated to so trifling a position when logic dictated a man with his experience should have been placed elsewhere. If the Foreign Secretary felt her father was disloyal, then she knew the evidence against him had to be damning. Despite what others might think of Lord Castlereagh, Melanie knew him to be scrupulously honest, and she knew he would never condemn a man without sufficient cause.

  She turned on her back, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that burned with weariness. She would give much to learn what evidence had been gathered against her father, and even more to learn who had gathered it. Her pa
pa had no enemies of whom she was aware, and yet it was obvious that someone had deliberately set out to ruin him. She couldn't imagine anyone going to such lengths to implicate an innocent man unless—she frowned suddenly— unless they were the guilty party!

  That was it, she thought, sitting up in the bed, her bedcovers tumbling to her waist. Some villain was betraying England and using her father to cover his crimes! Just like that awful Count whatever-his-name in one of the books Miss Evingale had read to her. He pretended to be the heroine's loving guardian, when all along he was scheming to deprive her of her fortune and her life. Count Cruello, that was the wretch's name, and he—she pulled herself up short as she realized the direction of her thoughts.

  Lord, she had to be half crazed to give those silly books a moment's credence. The danger facing her father was all too real, and she could never hope to save him if she gave way to silly fancies. If she wanted to defeat her enemy, then she would have to be just as clever and just as ruthless as he was. Melanie was no fool; she knew what she was planning was both dangerous and daring, but she had no other choice. To save her father she would have to catch the real spy herself.

  Chapter Six

  Despite an almost sleepless night, Melanie rose early the next morning, determined to confront her father. She knew he usually left for Whitehall after breakfast, and she rushed downstairs to join him. Both he and Mr. Barrymore were already seated, and they glanced up at her arrival.

  "Why, Melanie, whatever are you doing up at this hour?" the earl asked, his eyebrows climbing in surprise. "After last night I was certain you would sleep till noon."

  "I—I was wondering if I might have a word with you, Papa," she stammered, clasping her hands together to hide their nervous trembling.

  "Of course, my dear, of course." Lord Terrington smiled at her quizzically. "But won't you eat something first? I'm certain you must be famished. Davies"—he turned to the ever-present butler—"have the footman fetch my daughter a—"

  "No!" Melanie interrupted, her eyes flicking first to Mr. Barrymore, who was regarding her with polite inquiry, to Davies, who stood expressionless at her father's side. "That is, I'm not very hungry," she added somewhat lamely, "and I really would like to speak with you . . . alone."

  "Ah, it must be serious, then," the earl laughed, exchanging a knowing smile with his assistant. "I thought your last modiste's bill was rather modest, now I can see I may have been a trifle premature. Very well, Melanie." He set his napkin down and rose to his feet. "I suppose I shall let you talk your poor father into buying you another gown or two."

  Melanie remained silent as they walked to his study, wishing that a new wardrobe were the only thing she had to discuss with him. Poor Papa, he was going to be so shocked when she told him her news, so hurt.

  "Now, there's no need to look so pensive, my dear," Lord Terrington said as he settled behind his mahogany desk. "I was only funning you. Naturally, you may have as many gowns as you wish."

  "Thank you, Papa, but that isn't why I asked to speak with you," she began, realizing this was proving much harder than she had anticipated. She sat in her chair, winding the cherry silk ribbon of her gown around her finger as she struggled for the words to tell him.

  "Papa, there is talk you are a traitor," she blurted out, unable to meet his gaze. "They are saying you have sold us out to the French."

  "I know."

  The softly spoken admission brought her head snapping up. "You—you know?" she whispered in disbelief.

  "For some time now," he confessed, his gentle gray eyes meeting hers. "But I had hoped that you would be spared from the rumors. I am sorry, child."

  "But how can they say such dreadful things about you?" she cried, leaning forward to study his grim face. "What proof have they to even suggest such a thing?"

  "Several of my dispatches disappeared during our last year in Washington," he explained with a heavy sigh, thrusting a hand through his thinning gray hair. "Nothing specific has ever been said, mind you, but I would be a fool not to know that the government suspects me. Tell me what you have heard."

  Melanie dutifully related the conversation she had overheard, as well as the details of her encounter with Mrs. Mason. As she suspected, her father was outraged.

  "Why, that disagreeable old crow, how dare she treat you so!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with anger. "If her husband weren't such a capable administrator, I vow I would have him posted in the worst hole I could find!" He stopped abruptly, his lips twisting in an ironic smile. "Provided, of course, that I haven't been sent there yet myself. I fear your papa is sailing in rather deep waters, Melanie, my love."

  Melanie's heart constricted at his words. Her hands sought his both to give comfort and take comfort. "Will you be arrested?" she asked, remembering the unknown woman's vicious remarks about his probable fate.

  "I don't know," the earl confessed softly, "as I have said, there have been no direct accusations, just certain looks, whispered comments that one can never quite catch, and, of course, there was my rather hasty recall from America. I know I am suspected, but there is little I can do about it."

  "You can fight!" Melanie cried, blinking back tears of anger. "Make them tell you what it is they think you've done, and then make them prove it! You're a good man, Papa, you don't deserve to be treated like this!"

  "Ah, my little warrior, if only it were that simple." Lord Terrington brushed a loving finger across Melanie's flushed cheek. "Don't you think I haven't thought the very same thing? But one cannot fight a ghost, Melanie. Until I know who my accuser is, it is safest to wait."

  "But Papa—"

  There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Barrymore looked in, a hesitant smile hovering on his lips. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord," he said diffidently. "But we ought to be leaving if we hope to meet with Lord Raynard before the debating session begins."

  "Very well, Mr. Barrymore, thank you. I shall be with you in a moment," the earl said politely, his stern glance silencing the protest forming on Melanie's lips. "And be so good as to close the door behind you, won't you?"

  "Papa, you can't go now!" she exclaimed once they were alone again. "We must plot our strategy and decide what we are to do!"

  "I have already told you what I intend doing," her father said in his most authoritative manner. "Nothing. And I am ordering you to do the same."

  "But you cannot mean you mean to sit here meekly until they cart you off to Newgate!" she cried, leaping angrily to her feet. "What about the real villain; have you thought of him?"

  "What villain? Really, Melanie, I fear you have been listening to Miss Evingale again." The earl shook his head at her. "There is no villain, real or otherwise. It is all a dreadful misunderstanding, and one that will be cleared up if you stay out of it." He rose belatedly to his feet, bending his head to press a kiss to her cheek.

  "I know you mean well, dearest," he said, gazing down into her turbulent eyes with fatherly affection, "but I must insist that you forget all this foolish nonsense and let me do the worrying, hmm? It will all turn out well in the end, you'll see."

  After he had departed, Melanie went storming up to her rooms, venting her frustrations by slamming the door as hard as she could. How could any man as intelligent as her papa be so foolishly blind to the truth, she fumed, pacing the room in her agitation. Why did he refuse to admit the danger when it was dangling over his very head? And that mocking comment of his that she had been listening to Miss Evingale again . . . she could cheerfully have throttled him for that. Couldn't he see she was only trying to help?

  Well, he could close his eyes and play the blind-man if he chose, Melanie decided abruptly. But she had no intention of sitting quietly by while her father was arrested and hung for a crime he had not committed. The villain she had tried to warn him of was as real as any creature out of Miss Evingale's Minervian novels, and she would catch him any way she could. And with that thought she turned and walked out of her room, her expression determined as she knocked on
her companion's door.

  ". . . and Lady Devore's Masquerade, that one had the most wonderfully gruesome ghost; I couldn't sleep a wink for days!" Miss Evingale concluded, adding another book to the growing pile in Melanie's arms. "That should be more than enough to get you started; you must come back for more when you are finished with them."

  "I'm sure this will be more than adequate, thank you," Melanie replied, fumbling for the doorknob with her free hand. Her companion was regarding her with the zealous fervor of a missionary with a new convert, and she was eager to escape before another volume was pressed upon her.

  "Well, if you're sure that will be enough." Miss Evingale was eyeing her dubiously. "They make for very quick reading, you know, and you can't have more than a dozen or so. Perhaps one more . . ."

  "No, really, this is more than enough, I promise you." Melanie opened the door and began inching her way out. "I'll give these to Grandmother when I have—"

  "The Castle of Montenegro," Miss Evingale interrupted, pulling a leather-bound volume from beneath the tea table and waving it at Melanie in triumph. "It's one of my favorites, and I'm sure you will adore it. The villain is a curate who tries to entomb the heroine when she discovers his dreadful secret. You did say you wanted something with a dash of mystery, didn't you?"

  "Indeed, I did," Melanie agreed, accepting the book with a resigned sigh. "Thank you."

  "Do you know, I am rather surprised that you should want to borrow my novels," Miss Evingale said abruptly, her brows puckering in a confused frown. "I had formed the opinion that you weren't overly fond of them."

  "Well, it is true that I am not quite the devotee as you and Grandmother," Melanie agreed mendaciously, mentally crossing her fingers. "But I have decided that perhaps a bit of romance and mystery in one's life is not so terrible a thing after all. Good day, Edwina, I shall see you at luncheon."

  Once safely in her rooms, Melanie dismissed her maid and spread the books out on her bed. The titles were really quite appalling, she mused, picking up a book and flicking it open to read the contents. But perhaps if she was lucky, she might find something that would prove helpful. Ah, she paused, her lips lifting in a pleased smile as she read a passage. This looked promising.