My Lord Winter

by Carola Dunn

  “Not at all, not at all, my dear,” he assured her. “Just as well we didn’t wait to see Kean. I’ve heard his acting is overpowering. I never did care for the theatre above half.”

  After supper, he took Jane and Miss Gracechurch back to St. James’s Place, promised to call in the morning to see how she did, and took his leave.

  As Jane closed the door of her sitting-room behind her. Gracie dropped into a chair and demanded, “Well, now, what was that all about?”

  “The earl—Lord Wintringham—in the next box. Oh, it was perfectly dreadful!” Jane clasped her hands, pacing up and down in her agitation. “How I wish I had told him who I am the first time we met in Town! He might have understood why I pretended at the Abbey. Now, after misleading him all this time, I do not dare to confess.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As Edmund descended from his curricle at the Whitehall Stairs, he wondered what had possessed him to agree to take Jane Brooke on the steamboat. It was hardly the most elegant of excursions.

  He handed the reins to his groom and stood gazing at the Thames. A stiff breeze made the water’s surface dance and sparkle in the morning sunshine. The river was dotted with barges and wherries, and the steamboat chugged upstream towards him from the Tower, a plume of smoke streaming backwards from its funnel. Definitely not an elegant way to travel!

  Edmund wished he could have taken Jane to Drury Lane the other night. She would have enjoyed the well-staged drama, unlike the silly chit in the next box who had, he gathered, been frightened into fits by the Weird Sisters.

  Turning to look back towards Whitehall, he dreaded witnessing her arrival in a hackney. He hated to see her in such shabby circumstances. But there she was, walking towards him with a youthful spring in her step and the cheerful smile that invariably raised his spirits. If she wearied of always wearing the same blue pelisse, she did not let it dampen her spirits. And why should she, indeed? Silks and satins could add nothing to the beauty of her face, her figure, or above all her character.

  He went to meet her.

  “I hope we are not late, sir? I would not miss this for the world.”

  “Your timing is perfect. The boat will be here in five minutes or so, at a guess. Miss Gracechurch is not with you?”

  “Not today. She sent Ella, her maid, to look after me.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsy, her round face vaguely familiar; doubtless he had glimpsed her at the Abbey. As they strolled towards the steps, Miss Gracechurch’s absence disturbed him. She had always accompanied Jane before, though of course she could not be expected to dance attendance on her young friend. It was kind of her to have spared so much time herself, and kinder to send her maid.

  No, damn it, it was odd of her to spare her maid to chaperon a young woman who was no more to her than a friend.

  Before he could follow through this thought, they reached the top of the stone steps down to the water. A number of people were waiting there. He noted with curled lip that they were all solid bourgeois citizens, most with wives and children, probably taking a day off from shops and counting houses to avoid the Sunday crowds.

  The boat was close now, its paddle-wheels slowing. The shattering screech of a steam whistle momentarily drowned the regular thud of pistons. An eddy in the breeze brought the acrid smell of coal smoke to Edmund’s nostrils.

  “Is it not splendid?” Jane exclaimed in delight. “How pleased Mr. Ramsbottom would be with such evidence of British enterprise. I daresay he could explain how it works, too.” She looked up hopefully at Edmund.

  He shook his head with a rueful grin. “Not I. If you wish, I shall ask the engineer,” he offered. Through her eyes he saw the steamboat as a bold invention, battling current and ebbing tide, gay with green and yellow paint and gleaming brass railings.

  Edmund was not surprised when the group of people parted to allow his party to board first. Without considering the matter, he knew that his dress and his bearing bespoke what they would probably call Quality. He was aware that several of the men were regarding Jane with open admiration, while their wives eyed her unfashionable clothes askance. He ignored them; their opinion of her was unimportant, unlike that of the Ton.

  The boat drifted to a halt and a burly fellow, his bare forearms tattooed with snake-entwined anchors, set out a gangplank.

  Edmund went first down the time-worn stair, glancing back often to see if Jane needed his assistance. She held her skirts up with one hand, displaying a neat pair of ankles. Despite this distraction he noticed that the last stone step above the gangplank was damp from the high tide. He avoided it, stepping across onto the boards, and half turned to warn Jane.

  Too late. Her foot slid and she stumbled forward into his arms. He staggered backwards, clutching her to him. Somehow he managed to stay on the gangplank, but he would have landed flat on his back on the deck with her on top of him had not the big sailor caught and steadied him.

  He let go of Jane. Breathlessly straightening her bonnet, she beamed with perfect impartiality upon him and upon the sailor.

  “Thank you both so much for saving me. I’d have hated to land in the river. It does not appear to be particularly clean.”

  “That it ain’t, miss,” the man agreed with a rumbling laugh, “though ’tis a sight cleaner nor downstream. Watch out, miss!” he called to Ella, who was halfway down.

  “Here’s for your trouble,” said Edmund stiffly, giving him a shilling.

  He saluted with two fingers to his shallow-crowned hat. “Ta, guv, I’ll drink the lady’s health,” and he winked at Jane.

  Vexed, Edmund led the way to a bench he hoped might be sheltered from the smoke, if not from the breeze. Ella joined them, and Jane invited the maid to sit beside her. He fumed as they giggled together over her misstep. Jane seemed to have no notion of keeping a proper distance from menials—he recalled with a shock that she might yet become a governess, little better than a servant.

  As if suddenly aware of his silence, she turned towards him. “Oh dear, you are angry. I am very sorry, sir, that I did not take more care on the steps. We could have come to grief, and how mortifying it would be to make a cake of oneself before all these people!”

  “If I frown. Miss Brooke, it is not for that reason. I blame myself for not being quicker to warn you of the damp step.”

  “Then why are you on your high ropes—I mean, displeased?” She cocked her head enquiringly, looking ridiculously like a dog hoping for a kind word.

  “I feel it is unwise to encourage such fellows.” He gestured at the sailor, now making his way towards the engine-room as the paddles started turning again.

  “Encourage? All I did was thank him and smile at him.” Jane laughed. “I’d not call that encouraging him to do anything other than rescue clumsy passengers! But if he misunderstood, I rely upon you to protect me, my lord.”

  Disarmed, he smiled wryly and directed her attention to the arches of Westminster Bridge, looming ahead.

  He enjoyed the rest of the voyage, despite the constant thump of the engine and the occasional whiffs of smoke as the boat followed the river’s meanders. They disembarked at Richmond Bridge and strolled up the hill through the village, past the remains of the Tudor palace. As always, Jane was interested and appreciative. The view of the winding, islanded river and the woods and fields beyond delighted her.

  They stopped at a pastry-cook’s for a light luncheon, and then walked on to Richmond Park. Edmund told himself he should have guessed Jane would not be satisfied with a decorous promenade along the gravel paths. Instead, she set off across the rough, buttercup-bestrewn grass to get a closer look at the herd of fallow deer. He watched, amused, as she and Ella cooed over the skittish fawns.

  They wandered on through burgeoning woods carpeted with bluebells. Ella’s presence restrained Edmund from voicing a comparison of the flowers with Jane’s eyes. Just as well, perhaps; everything to be said on the subject probably had been set down already by one poet or another, and he had no wish to
appear trite.

  The steamboat returned them to Whitehall Stairs beneath a stormy sunset that turned the river to a sheet of flame. Edmund’s curricle was waiting, the matched blacks tossing their heads impatiently, but he knew better by now than to offer to take Jane home.

  “I don’t believe I have enjoyed a day so since I came to London,” she assured him, her cheeks rosy from the fresh air and exercise. “We shall meet on Thursday at the Panorama, as we arranged?”

  “I shall be there without fail.” He bowed over her hand, then turned to his groom and took the reins as she and Ella walked away, chattering. If she turned south towards the slums of Westminster, he didn’t want to see, though her comment about the nearness of the British Museum had suggested that she lived in Bloomsbury.

  She must be ashamed of her lodging, wherever it was, or she would tell him where she lived. He couldn’t bear to think of her in a mean tenement, surrounded by dingy buildings and narrow, squalid streets—she who loved the countryside. With luck she would find a position in the country.

  She never talked about her search for employment. In fact, neither she nor Miss Gracechurch, nor even Mr. Selwyn, had ever mentioned her need to earn a living. He had only heard of it from Alfred, now he came to think of it, and that was pure speculation. Perhaps she was actually residing with relatives, which would almost be worse since she would then have no hope of leaving the city.

  Yet she had never spoken of relatives, either. For all he knew, Miss Gracechurch was her only connection in the world, and she was not related.

  A dreadful suspicion struck him. His shock communicated to his cattle and the curricle raced up Haymarket. Fortunately the theatre crowds were not yet about, but Edmund heard his groom draw a swift breath of alarm as they careened around the corner into Piccadilly.

  He succeeded in calming his horses, but not his thoughts. Suppose that Jane and Miss Gracechurch actually were related? The only blood relationship that could not be freely acknowledged was that between an unmarried mother and her illegitimate child.

  It would explain so much: why so refined and personable a lady as Miss Gracechurch was unmarried; why she was so solicitous of Jane’s welfare. Their features were not alike, but their hair was the same shade and they were both above middle height, with slender figures. He was shaken by a sudden longing to gather Jane’s slenderness into his arms. That ridiculous episode boarding the boat had been all too brief—not that his mind had been on the pleasure of embracing her at the time!

  If it were true that she was Miss Gracechurch’s natural daughter, he would swear she knew nothing of it. She was far too open and unaffected not to show it somehow. He must not let his surmise alter in any way his conduct towards either.

  After all, he was only guessing, with no more foundation than Alfred had for saying she was to be a governess. He vowed to put the conjecture out of his mind.

  Reaching Wintringham House, he went upstairs to change.

  “Have a good time, did you, my lord?” Alfred asked.

  “Very pleasant. Richmond is a pretty place, and the weather could not have been better.”

  The valet grinned. “Just like the company, eh?”

  “Pretty, very pleasant, could not have been better--yes, that would not be inaccurate.”

  As he washed off the grime from the steamboat’s funnel, Edmund thought of Jane’s friendliness with the maid, Ella. He had disapproved of such familiarity with a servant, yet his own banter with his valet was no different. Of course, he had known Alfred all his life whereas, to Jane, Ella was no more than a friend’s abigail. Unless Jane was Miss Gracechurch’s daughter....

  * * * *

  The visit to the Spring Gardens Panorama, currently showing a 360-degree view of the Battle of Waterloo, was followed by an expedition to Bullock’s Museum in the Egyptian Hall. Jane continued as cheerful and amiable as ever, so Edmund assumed he had succeeded in hiding his doubts about her birth.

  His doubts about the next outing she proposed must have been obvious, however.

  “I know the circus is childish,” she said, with the gurgle of laughter he loved to hear, “but it sounded such fun when Mr. Reid described it. If Astley’s Amphitheatre is beneath your dignity, my lord, Mr. Selwyn has promised to treat Miss Gracechurch and me.”

  If a sober lawyer was willing to stoop to such absurd nonsense, the Earl of Wintringham was not going to prove himself a pompous prig by refusing.

  He was prepared to enjoy the occasion simply because Jane was there, and to be entertained by her reactions to the show. In the event, he found much to admire in the horsemanship of the equestrians, despite their spangled tights. The jugglers, acrobats, contortionists, tumblers, and tightrope dancers were all the best of their kind, capable of amazing feats. And when Edmund heard Mr. Selwyn’s guffaws at the antics of clowns and pantaloons, he stopped trying to maintain a well-bred reticence and laughed as loud as anyone.

  That Jane forgot to let go his arm—after clutching it during the spectacularly dangerous trick of an equestrienne clad in little but a silver frill—in no way hindered his appreciation.

  On his return home, after drinking a nightcap with Mr. Selwyn, he was met by Mason with the news that Lady Wintringham had arrived in Town.

  “Her ladyship retired a short while ago, my lord,” the butler reported, his dispassionate gaze fixed upon some invisible spot beyond his master’s right ear. “Her ladyship expressed a desire to meet with your lordship tomorrow to discuss a matter of importance. Eleven was the hour suggested, my lord.”

  “Her ladyship’s wish is my command,” said Edmund with a savage sarcasm that made the impassive butler blink. He went up to his chamber, where Alfred was warming his nightshirt before the fire. “My aunt is come,” he groaned.

  “Don’t I know it, my lord,” said Alfred gloomily, helping him out of his close-fitting coat.

  “She has summoned me to an interview tomorrow morning. I don’t suppose you have discovered what she wishes to speak to me about?” He ripped off his neckcloth and dropped it on the dressing table.

  “No, my lord, but it’s bound to be nasty.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.”

  “One thing’s for sure, with her ladyship peering over your shoulder, you won’t be popping off to places like Astley’s no more.”

  * * * *

  After his early morning gallop in Hyde Park, under threatening clouds, Edmund returned home to toy with his breakfast. It was ridiculous for a grown man to dread an interview with his aunt, but Lady Wintringham had the power to make him feel he was once again a small boy arriving at the Abbey for the first time.

  He went to the library to write letters. Intent on making sure his instructions to the bailiff of his Staffordshire estate were easily understood, for a time he forgot his apprehension. Then the long-case clock struck eleven and a knocking on the door preceded Mason’s appearance.

  “Her ladyship is in the drawing-room,” he announced, with a hint of apology in his manner.

  Completing his sentence, Edmund dried the ink with blotting paper, wiped the nib of his pen, and reluctantly made his way to the drawing-room.

  “Good morning, ma’am.”

  Lady Wintringham sat near the fire, clad as always in grey silk, her back straight and stiff as a poker. She raised her lorgnette and examined him from head to toe. “Good morning, Wintringham. You are dressed for riding.” Somehow she managed to look down her nose at him even when she was seated and he stood.

  And as always she put him in the wrong. “I beg your pardon for appearing in your drawing-room in this dress. I went riding earlier and I may ride out again, so I did not change. What is it that you wished to see me about?”

  “Lady Chatterton informs me that you have not called upon her daughter since coming to Town.”

  “I do not care for meaningless social engagements and I have no intention of offering for Miss Chatterton.”

  “As you will.” The countess sniffed. “The girl is not a
particularly desirable match, but I had thought that her connection with your friend, Lord Fitzgerald, might predispose you in her favour. However, that does not alter the fact that your duty is to marry and provide an heir to the title.”

  “I am perfectly content to let my brother and his sons succeed to the title.”

  “Out of the question. To permit a collateral branch of the family to inherit yet again is impossible. No, you must marry, and if you choose not to select your own bride, I shall see to the matter.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I believe I am capable of making my own choice,” he assured her, striving to display as little emotion as she did.

  “In order to do so, you must take part in those social engagements you shun.”

  “Surely not!”

  “How else do you propose to meet a variety of suitable females? I suppose I could invite a number of eligible young ladies to the Abbey.”

  “Heaven forbid.” Edmund realized he was outflanked. Still, he could concede on one point without losing the battle. At the least he would gain some breathing space. “If I must attend routs and soirées, then I must.”

  “Just so.” Her ladyship’s thin lips curled in a sour smile of triumph. “I am certain that you have been invited to the Daventrys’ ball this evening.”

  “I have already sent my regrets.”

  She brushed away his objection. “No hostess will take exception to the presence of so eligible a gentleman. Despite your unfortunate antecedents, you are a splendid parti.”

  “This evening I mean to work on my speech for the House of Lords, and to write some letters.”

  “Letters!” Again she raised her lorgnette and peered at him as if he belonged to some distasteful species of insect. “Noblemen do not write their own letters; they employ secretaries. I advise you to do so at once. You shall escort me to the Daventrys’ ball tonight. If your cousin Amelia were not expecting me at Danforth Place, I should stay in London to ensure that you make an effort to find a wife. As it is, I warn you, Wintringham, that if the Season ends without a betrothal, I shall choose a girl myself and I shall make such representations on your behalf that you are honour-bound to offer marriage.”