Someone Perfect (Westcott Book 10)

by Mary Balogh

  No. No, somehow it did not ring quite true. She had no idea why not. It was not as though she felt kindly disposed toward the man. She would gladly believe the worst of him if only the worst were credible. Somehow it was not.

  “Your brother seems to be trying to make amends, Maria,” she said. “He has brought you home and invited Bertrand and me to come too so that you will have familiar people with you for a while. He has arranged this house party to give you and your relatives a chance to get to know one another, to turn a page in your family history, perhaps, so that they may be a part of your life in the future.”

  “Do you believe, then, that I owe him an apology too?” Maria asked.

  “Oh, I will not tell you what you ought to do,” Estelle said.

  Maria sighed. “Melanie would not hold back,” she said. “She would instruct me to remember that a lady always thinks first before she speaks, especially when she has a potential audience of more than one person. I condemned him very publicly. Melanie would say it is no excuse that I was severely provoked.”

  Estelle smiled at her.

  “But perhaps it is a good thing everyone now knows him for the thief he is,” Maria said. “I can never forgive him. Not only was he not sorry he had taken Mama’s precious treasures, as she always called her lost jewels. He also banished her as soon as he was able. He did it while she was still almost prostrate with grief over the loss of Papa. Even while I was. For a time after Papa died, I wanted to die too.”

  She ran her hands over her face before clasping them in her lap.

  “You have never spoken much about your papa, Maria,” Estelle said. “I would like to know more sometime. One’s father is very precious. One’s mother too. I always regret that I was too young when my mother died to have any memory of her. But I love my father dearly. Losing him would seem unbearable.”

  “I am so sorry for having behaved badly in the drawing room,” Maria said, looking up after a while. “For making you listen to all my bad temper now. For being so self-absorbed. I am going to have to face everyone soon. At luncheon. I am going to have to think of something to say, since it will be impossible to behave as though nothing has happened, despite what Uncle Leonard said. Thank you for being my friend. For listening and not lecturing me. How did you enjoy your morning? What did you think of the summerhouse?”

  “I love it,” Estelle said. “I can quite understand why Lord Brandon spends so much time there. It is … peaceful.”

  “He used to take me there when I was a child,” Maria said. “But never just to sit downstairs. He used to take me upstairs, where all his things were— pictures and books and his private hoard of sweetmeats and biscuits the cook used to slip to him. He used to cuddle me next to him on an old armchair if it was a chilly day, a blanket from the bed around me like a cocoon, and tell me stories. His own stories, not anything from any of his books. They were always thrilling adventures, and he always used to leave them off abruptly at an exciting point and make me wait until next time before he continued. All my wheedling and pleading would not shift him. Those were such good days.” Her face had lit up at the memories.

  And now he wrote a continuing story of the adventures of a young man turned out upon the world without a penny or a friend or an ounce of life experience. An accidental hero who vanquished all the demons that threatened destruction.

  But had the author also been turned loose upon the world without a penny? Or had he had a considerable fortune, amassed from the sale of a treasure trove of precious jewels belonging to his stepmother?

  Maria was frowning with her eyes closed. “How can I possibly go down for luncheon?” she said. “Or join in the tour of the state apartments this afternoon? Or leave my room until after everyone has left Everleigh?”

  “When something that needs to be done is impossible to do,” Estelle said, “I have always found that the only possible course of action is to do it anyway.”

  Maria looked at her and pulled a face.

  “Boldly and without delay,” Estelle added.

  “I called Lady Maple evil and wicked,” Maria said. “I called Brandon a thief in front of all his family and mine. In front of you and Viscount Watley.”

  “You did indeed,” Estelle said, and smiled.

  “All of which was true,” Maria added. “I think I am going to be sick.”

  “If that is so,” Estelle said, “you had better hurry over to your dressing room, Maria. If it is not literally true, you had better go there anyway. It is almost time for luncheon and your hair needs combing.”

  Estelle let herself into her own room after Maria had rung for her maid. What an unbelievably eventful morning it had been. And there was no knowing what lay ahead. This gathering of family to welcome Maria home had seemed very successful until an hour or so ago. But now?

  Perhaps, she thought, this upset was very necessary if there was to be any lasting reconciliation. Yet all the trouble, she suspected, had been caused by a dead woman, a woman who had been too beautiful, too conceited, and too immature and morally bankrupt for her own good. She could be wrong, but she did not believe she was.

  Yet Maria had had a deep attachment to her mother and still did.

  But really it was not her concern how it would all play out, was it? She was not a member of the family.

  She might have been.

  A couple of hours ago the Earl of Brandon had asked her to marry him.

  And kissed her.

  Eleven

  Justin made his way down to the dining room for luncheon, wondering as he went if he would be presiding over an empty table. It had been a disaster of a morning, and that was a bit of an understatement. It would not be at all surprising if even now every last one of his guests was busy packing bags and summoning carriages, intent upon putting as much distance between themselves and him as they could before the day was out.

  Everyone turned up for luncheon. Without exception.

  It was a somewhat subdued gathering, it was true, with bursts of conversation that were halting and self-conscious at best, overhearty at worst. The soup, a simple beef broth, was lavishly praised as though there had never been a soup to match it for taste and substance.

  Then Maria spoke up, and silence fell upon the table just as if someone had hit a gong with a mallet.

  “I owe everyone an apology,” she said.

  There was a halfhearted murmur of dissent, but it lasted only a moment.

  “I have observed, before today,” she said, “that people often remember events differently. If you were to ask ten people to give an account of something they had all witnessed, you would surely get ten different stories, some of them varying only in small details, others quite different from one another. Yet all ten people would believe quite sincerely that the event happened just as they remembered it. My mother had vivid and very fond memories of her first meeting with my father, and he always smiled at her when she told the story in his hearing. He never once contradicted her. Lady Maple remembers that evening differently. I was startled in the drawing room earlier when I heard her tell the story as she recalls it, and I reacted without consideration. It was very ill-mannered of me. No, it was worse than that. It was offensive. I did not intend my words to be heard by anyone except Lady Maple herself, but they were in fact overheard by most if not all of you. I insulted her and I embarrassed everyone else, myself included. Inadequate as an apology is, I do apologize. Especially to you, ma’am.”

  She looked directly at Lady Maple, who was seated to Justin’s left at the head of the table. There were two spots of color high on Maria’s cheekbones. Otherwise her face was as pale as parchment.

  “Handsomely said, Lady Maria,” Sidney Sharpe observed.

  “It was my fault, child,” Lady Maple said, picking up her lorgnette from beside her plate before changing her mind and putting it back. “I ought not to have said what I did without first making sure you were nowhere near being within earshot. And that no one else was, for that matter. And
I believe that sometimes I speak more loudly than I intend.”

  “It is not a normal day with any family,” Leonard Dickson said in his booming voice as he beamed genially about the table, “if there is not at least one crisis to set everyone on their heads. You and Aunt Bertha must kiss and make up after we have eaten, Maria. This is excellent soup, by the way, Brandon. Your cook is to be commended.”

  That had taken great courage on Maria’s part, Justin thought, looking at her appreciatively. Not just a private apology to her great-aunt, but a public one to everyone. She was certainly not the timid little thing he had taken her for when he arrived at Prospect Hall, and he was glad of it.

  “That is not all,” Maria said, and the footmen who had been about to remove the soup bowls glided back to stand beside the warming dishes with the butler. “I also heard my mother being accused of causing the … the unfortunate rift between my father and my half brother. I spoke out in anger and said things I ought never to have said. I am deeply ashamed and beg everyone’s pardon. I beg Brandon’s pardon for the public nature of my accusations.”

  Not for the accusations themselves, Justin noticed, but for making them publicly.

  “We all speak out in anger sometimes, Maria, and regret it almost before the words are out,” Uncle Rowan Sharpe said in his usual kindly way. “Not all of us, though, have the strength of character to say we are sorry.”

  “Thank you, Maria,” Justin said. “I hope the air has now been cleared and we can move on to enjoy the rest of our luncheon. Good though the soup was, there is, I believe, more substantial food to come.” He signaled Phelps with a raising of his eyebrows as several people laughed.

  “How can any of us be hungry,” Cousin Ernest said as a footman removed his bowl, “when we ate those excellent Chelsea buns no longer ago than a couple of hours?”

  “Speak for yourself, young man,” Uncle Harold Ormsbury said.

  “You are always hungry anyway, Ernie,” young Rosie said. “You ought to be the size of a house. There is no justice in this world that you are not.”

  “I only have to look at food,” Mrs. Chandler said, “and my stays grow tighter.”

  “Mama!” fifteen-year-old Megan said on a gasp. “You said stays aloud. In company.”

  “What was that you said, Miss Chandler?” Watley asked, cupping one hand about his ear. “I had fallen into a dream for a moment. I do beg your pardon. Did I miss something?” He grinned at young Megan, who blushed and giggled.

  “Suffice it to say,” Mrs. Chandler said, “that I have to watch what I eat.”

  It seemed, Justin thought as he proceeded to make conversation with Aunt Betty on his right and Lady Maple on his left, that his house party had been saved. Though everyone doubtless now believed, probably rightly, that his father had been trapped into marrying the ambitious Miss Lilian Dickson more than twenty years ago. And that he, Justin, had stolen her jewels several years after that and been banished as a result.

  Lady Crowther and her sister, Lady Felicity Ormsbury, had grown up at Everleigh Park as daughters of a former earl. They did not wish to traipse through the state apartments but chose rather to spend the afternoon with their husbands in the library. Lady Maple announced that she would rest in her room and join the party for tea later. Everyone else gathered in the entrance hall half an hour after luncheon for the promised tour. The rain had more or less stopped outside, but the clouds had still not moved off. An indoor option was the perfect choice for the afternoon.

  Estelle was looking forward to it. It would perhaps take her mind off other matters, even if the tour guide was unfortunately the Earl of Brandon. She wanted to put the memory of his marriage proposal and kiss out of her head, and she wanted to forget what Maria had said about his stealing her mother’s jewelry. She wanted just to enjoy herself.

  The earl had joined them in the hall, and they were about to move off. Mr. Ernest Sharpe, who had informed Estelle just before luncheon, one hand over his heart, that he had been devastated at being cut out of escorting her to the lake this morning by his own cousin, made sure of her this afternoon by offering his arm as soon as the earl appeared. Bertrand, she could see, was between Maria on one side and Angela Ormsbury on the other. He could be relied upon to see Maria through any residual embarrassment she felt after this morning. He had her arm drawn through his now and was smiling, his head bent toward hers as he said something.

  The state apartments were rarely used but were opened to visitors on public days or by private appointment, the earl explained. They extended the full length of the north wing and were all connected to one another— with the result, Estelle soon saw, that anyone sleeping in the state bedchamber could have little expectation of privacy. But then, the grand bed looked more like a throne than a sleeping place. It stood on a platform that required three steps to reach it. Intricately carved spiral posts supported an ornate canopy decorated with gilded cherubs and gold and scarlet velvet curtains.

  “No doubt when a king sleeps here,” Mr. Martin Haig, Doris’s husband, said, “he hangs his crown on the bedpost and exchanges it for a scarlet nightcap.”

  “With a gold tassel,” Mr. Chandler added.

  “And his courtiers gather around him in the morning for the levee,” Mr. Bevin Ormsbury said.

  “But not too early,” Ernest Sharpe said, looking down at Estelle and winking. “Never before noon. One can only hope that none of them have arthritic knees when it comes to climbing those steps.”

  “One must hope the present king never sleeps here,” Mr. Dickson added. “He has arthritic everything, does he not?”

  “Oh, do hush, Leonard,” his wife told him, laughing. “You will end up in a dungeon deep beneath the Tower of London.”

  “And I will carry forever the shame of having had a brother beheaded for treason,” Mrs. Chandler added.

  There was a great deal of such quipping and laughter. Oh, she did like silliness, Estelle thought, when it drew a group together and caused general amusement without any suggestion of malice.

  “If King George ever does decide to honor my humble abode with his presence,” the earl said, “I daresay I will have to have a sling lift installed to convey him to bed at night and out of it the following morning—afternoon.”

  He had a sense of humor too, Estelle admitted grudgingly. But of course he did. He had invented that accidental hero, had he not?

  “It is all really quite magnificent, Justin,” Mrs. Sharpe, his aunt, assured him. “I never tire of seeing these rooms.”

  They all looked avidly about them as they moved from room to room, oohing and aahing at the splendor of it all. There were three connected rooms in the center of the wing, a grand, square, high-ceilinged reception room in the middle, with half-square sitting rooms on either side. The latter were mirror images of each other in both decoration and furnishings. Young Rosie Sharpe and Nigel Dickson and Paulette Ormsbury ran several times across the central room to peer into each smaller room in turn to confirm that yes, they really were mirror images, down to the finest detail— even the arrangement of the furniture.

  All three rooms had coved gilded ceilings with painted scenes from mythology and crystal chandeliers, the ones in the sitting rooms exactly half the size of the one in the reception room in the middle. The floors were covered with Persian carpets rimmed with highly polished wood. All three rooms were furnished in the slightly faded elegance of the previous century.

  The Earl of Brandon was a good tour guide. He gave enough information to draw everyone’s attention to features of each apartment they might not otherwise have noticed and to set it all in historical context. He pointed out to them, for example, that two of the cherubs in the mythological scene on the ceiling of the large square reception room had the faces of the young sons of the earl who had built the house. And one of the cherubs in each of the twin rooms on either side had the face of a daughter of his. The guests all acquired stiff necks from gazing up at the likenesses. Yet the earl did not drone on
about every little detail as some guides did until their listeners were ready to scream with boredom.

  Even so, Estelle’s mind was feeling close to bursting by the time the group moved on to the state dining room, all chatting merrily. She slid her hand unobtrusively from Ernest’s arm and let him go ahead with everyone else while she wandered to the window of one of the smaller sitting rooms— though smaller was a relative term in a wing of the house that was designed to convey the impression of size and grandeur.

  A grand house’s kitchen gardens were usually behind it. That was not so here. The hill against which the house had been built sloped gradually upward. It was largely covered with trees, though near the house was mostly low bushes— azaleas, rhododendrons, others she could not immediately identify— and there were flowers planted among them to give the appearance of their being wild though they were not. It was a clever piece of gardening, contrasting pleasingly with the cultivated formality of the parterres and lawns and walking paths at the front— and the fields and meadows to the east of the summerhouse. She had still seen only a fraction of the whole park during the twenty-four hours she had been here. She had not even seen the lake yet, except off in the distance while she and Bertrand were descending the hill opposite.

  She might have been mistress of all this, she realized suddenly. Ah, but at what a cost.

  “This hill looks at its absolute best,” the Earl of Brandon said from behind her shoulder, making her almost jump with alarm, “when the bluebells are blooming among the trees. They form a carpet of blue just when the leaves on the trees are at their freshest spring green.”

  Estelle hunched her shoulders for a moment. She did not turn. He had a deep voice, a bit gravelly. A rather attractive voice, she conceded— if one had never seen the man or had any dealings with him or if one did not know that he had done something so villainous as a younger man that his father had banished him from his home … this home—and never reprieved him. Jewel theft, perhaps? She really did not know if she believed that story. But even if it was not that, it was something.