by Regina Darcy
“Yes,” she said coolly. “I am aware of that.” And then she began to laugh, the Earl joining her in mirth.
Frederica wiped away the tears of laughter.
“My lord,” she said, “you take grave chances. You must have approached just as he left. What if he had turned back?”
“He never does,” the Earl reminded her. “Now then, have you anything for me?”
“Not yet,” she said. “But my footman is making a copy of the key to my brother’s study and I shall be able to enter it whenever he is away.”
“Excellently done,” he told her. “I pray you to proceed with all due haste, and with all requisite caution. I would not have the Marquess learn that you are searching for the proof of my innocence when he is determined to see me proven guilty.”
She was pleased by his praise. Rowland never praised her, and any laud that came the way of M’sieur de Bois was not something that she could openly share with others.
“I am cautious,” she assured him.
“Are you attending the Autumn Ball at the Dennington’s?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised by his query. The ball was to be hosted by a friend of hers, Honora Westing, now married to the Marquess of Dennington. Her courtship was a story found in fairytales.
After a most preposterous turn of events which had seen Honora flee from her affianced bridegroom, the Duke of Ivanhoe, some short time later she had ended up becoming the wife of the Marquess of Dennington. She was deliriously happy and by all accounts extremely delighted in her marriage.
“Will you be attending?”
He waved a hand. “I have been invited; I thought to be away at the time but circumstances require that I remain in London. Therefore yes, I shall be there. I hope that you shall have good news for me.”
The Earl bowed and left. She was not sure how he managed to appear and vanish with so little attention to his movements, for it was but seconds later that she heard Lord Oakland’s voice nearing.
“You have not been troubled by cutthroats?” he asked as he pulled himself into the carriage and sat down. The carriage moved in response to the added weight.
“No,” she told him, as she did every evening when he asked. She returned the pistol to him and he handed it to the driver, who then returned to his position and the carriage continued on its way.
Cutthroats. Robbers. Villains. Knaves. It was quite possible that the Earl of Gilberton was all of these things. That scar had come from somewhere, or rather, someone. Yet it only enhanced his appeal in her eyes. Was his appeal the result of the tedium of her own life, as captive as she was to the dictates of her brother and the conventions of society? A man like Gilberton went where he pleased and did what he wanted. No doubt he had fought duels; he had been in the heat of battle and he had served his King and his commanding officer as a spy. Such exploits were very far removed from the settled patterns of the beau monde where a new waistcoat occasioned more comment than dispatches from the reorganisation of Europe following the downfall of Napoleon.
Did she envy his freedom? He was presently a man with a noose waiting to be placed around his neck if he failed to prove his innocence. If she failed to find the evidence that he needed of his innocence his future would be non-existing.
Did she covet such a fate?
She did not.
Yet . . . yet there was something in the very danger of his life that summoned that reckless spirit within her, the girl who had practised swordplay with her brother in happier times whilst pretending that she was one of the knights of Camelot.
Even knowing that chivalry was, as M. de Bois had once written, merely a masquerade for the fetters by which a courtly knight exercised control over his ladylove under the guise of affection, she longed for the ardent life of action.
He was dangerous, certainly.
She knew that.
He could have assailed her virtue, had he chosen to do so, that night when she first showed up at his London home, and she would have been powerless to retaliate.
Why, then, did she not feel powerless in his presence? In fact, when she was in the company of the Earl, she felt as if she could accomplish great, daring deeds.
It was silly, of course. Spying in her brother’s study did not make her a woman versed in espionage.
“You are very quiet tonight,” Lord Oakland observed.
“Am I?”
“Yes. Are you ill? Perhaps you need a dose of castor oil.”
“I hardly think so,” she retorted.
“I myself am testimony to its merits,” he said.
Was she to be subjected to yet another of Lord Oakland’s ruminations upon his bodily functions? He was tedious on the subject.
“I am delighted to hear it. However, I am not in need of a purgative, my lord.”
“Hyde Park is lovely at this time of year.”
“Yes. Very lovely.” Particularly when a handsome man with an alluring scar approached one’s carriage, unheard, and engaged in a delightfully furtive conversation which could be shared with no one. At those moments, brief but tantalising, Hyde Park was indeed lovely.
“Will you be attending the Autumn Ball?” Lord Oakland asked abruptly.
She turned to him in surprise. How odd to be asked the same question by two men within minutes of each other.
“Yes,” she replied.
“I thought so. I shall accompany you and your brother. I wish to have our wedding date set by the night of the ball. We shall invite some of the same guests to celebrate with us and we must be careful only to invite those of suitable standing.”
“You must speak to my brother on that account. It is he who will pay for the reception following the ceremony and I am not at all certain that he will wish to have a crush of people to feed.”
Lord Oakland’s face fell. He intended for the reception to be a great affair toasting his achievement in marrying a young woman with an attractive dowry, but it was not for him to provide the funds. He was, after all, taking over the upkeep of the Marquess’ sister; it was the least that Marquess of Cumbershire could do to send her off in style without penny-pinching.
“I trust that your brother has provided a suitable wardrobe for you to bring with you when you are Lady Frederica?”
“My brother does not confide his plans to me.”
“But surely he will have made appointments for you with the dressmakers,” Lord Oakland cried out. “It will take time for the frocks to be made.”
“You must discuss that with Rowland,” she said carelessly, looking out the window of the carriage as Hyde Park passed by. Somewhere out there, the Earl of Gilberton was at work to unearth the proof of his innocence. She was his ally in this endeavour. Would that she could be there with him and not in this carriage.
“I cannot discuss lady’s apparel with the Marquess! It would not be appropriate!”
“Nor is it appropriate for me to discuss matters of finance with my brother. He is the keeper of the monies, not me, and it is not for me to instruct him in their disbursement. Would you expect me to direct you in the same manner?”
“That is entirely different,” Lord Oakland replied pompously. “A bride comes to her bridegroom ready to take her place as his wife. It is for her family to see that she is a credit to their care.”
“And then it is for her husband to see that she continues to maintain the fashionable image which she presented, as a bride, while she is a wife,” Frederica said artfully.
Lord Oakland showed alarm. “There are expenses incumbent upon a husband which a brother does not encounter,” he said. “Children . . . at the risk of being indelicate, I hope for heirs.”
“Heirs who must be clothed as they grow. Then there are school fees and riding lessons . . . it is very expensive.”
“Very,” Lord Oakland said, troubled by this perspective. Then he brightened. “Your brother has promised me a suitable dowry from you when we are married. There will be enough for the heirs.”
“The mot
her of the heirs cannot appear in last season’s gowns,” she said, although to be sure, she cared little for fashion. “If the mother of the heirs is seen to be frumpy and ill-clothed, how will the heirs find wives who will bring them a suitable dowry?”
Lord Oakland was quite relieved when their ride ended and he was able to bring Lady Beecham to her door and take his leave. Had the Marquess been home, he would have accepted an invitation to supper but such was not forthcoming in Cumbershire’s absence; a young unmarried woman could not host a gentleman, not even her betrothed, without proper chaperonage. Lord Oakland found himself eager to return home where he could ease his anxieties with a tisane and a dose of castor oil for himself. This talk of expenses was ruinous to a man’s intestinal health.
By the time the Marquess returned the following day, Frederica was in possession of a duplicate key to his study.
A second exploration of his study had yielded nothing and the ledgers were no more readily understood than they had been before. Why someone with the annotation of Giles should have paid what seemed like an exorbitant sum for what was listed as a vase was a conundrum. What possible interest could it be to her brother, who had paid no attention at all to gew-gaws, Dresden shepherdesses, or the elaborate statues which adorned many a drawing-room.
Lord Oakland did not accept the Marquess’ invitation to dine the following evening after he had brought Lady Beecham home from the ride through Hyde Park. His digestion was still dyspeptic after his fiancée’s regrettable frankness on the subject of expenses and he could only hope that more castor oil would remedy the condition.
Pleased to be rid of his presence, Frederica was almost giddy as she accompanied her brother into the dining room. Although it was only the two of them who sat down to dine, her brother always insisted on a full contingent of servants.
“Were your travels pleasant, Rowland?” she inquired.
The Marquess frowned. He had told Frederica numerous times before that, in the presence of servants, she was not to refer to him in familiar terms, such as by his Christian name. ‘My lord’ or Cumbershire would do in such public circumstances. Only in private was she to call him Rowland.
“Pleasant enough. I don’t enjoy travelling.”
“I, on the other hand, should like it very much, I think,” she said wistfully, “if ever the opportunity arose for it.”
“Coaches are deucedly uncomfortable, the food at inns is unpalatable, the availability of fresh horses never certain. Do not even inquire as to the quality of the linens,” the Marquess replied. “I suppose you shall travel on your honeymoon, after you are wed.”
“Lord Oakland says that autumn is a poor time for a honeymoon. He intends for us to return to the country after the wedding and remain there through yuletide and winter.”
“Then you shall honeymoon in the spring,” the Marquess answered with irritation and dipped his spoon into his soup.
“He is hoping for signs of an heir by the spring, making travel unlikely.”
The Marquess frowned at his sister. The servants were in earshot. She ought to know better than to speak of something as indelicate as her future maternal confinement.
This was what became of young women outlasting their debut seasons, he thought. The sooner she was married and her inconvenient independence of mind tamped down, the better.
“Will you be travelling again soon?” she inquired.
“I shall be leaving early next week.”
“Before the Autumn Ball?”
“I shall be back in time for the ball.”
“Lord Oakland is concerned that I shall not be suitably outfitted,” Frederica said.
The Marquess muttered an oath. “I trust that you have something to wear which will not disgrace you.”
“It is not I who is inclined to consider the matter. It is Lord Oakland.”
“Would he have me spend your dowry before he has it in his possession?”
“You must ask him,” she said. “It is not for me to discuss matters of finance with my future husband,” Frederica replied in a honey-sweet voice.
SEVEN
Although it did not matter particularly how fashionably she was attired for the Autumn Ball, Frederica had enjoyed behaving as if she had nothing to do with the matter, thereby forcing her brother and her fiancé to settle the issue between them.
Rowland did not want his sister to appear dowdy and reflect badly upon him; Lord Oakland wanted his future wife to be a credit to his standing in society. But neither wished to pay for the expense.
Frederica chose her least fashionable gown, a very simple garment from her season two years prior. She wore no jewellery with it, and told Carla to style her hair in her customary ringlets. Curiously, she found the unadorned effect to be complimentary as she studied herself in the mirror. The russet hue of the gown brought out hidden golden highlights in her brown hair; the style of the dress accentuated her height without making her seem as if she was towering.
“Oh, Miss,” Carla said happily, “it cannot be denied that you’re a beauty! I shouldn’t be at all surprised if some fine gentleman don’t whisk you off the dance floor and off to Gretna Green!”
Frederica laughed. The only gentleman with the audacity to do such a thing was the Earl of Gilberton and she had no indications that his sentiments toward her leaned in that direction.
She was troubled to have nothing to offer him in the way of information regarding her brother’s activities with regard to the death of Lord Dalton. She had, in desperation at her last foray into her brother’s study, happened upon a crumbled piece of paper upon the floor. She had seized it; if her brother noticed its absence, he would have to deduce some reason for it. As he had discarded it, she was hoping that thoughts of it would be abandoned.
The information on it was meaningless to her, the name Muller in one column and next to it, the word Egypt, followed by the name Giles that she had seen before in one of his ledgers. What possible business interests could her brother have in Egypt, she wondered. Still, it was all she had been able to procure and it currently was safely folded in her reticule which dangled from her wrist.
“I think it safe to say that I shall be returning home tonight and not travelling to Scotland,” she muttered to herself as she stared out the entrance door to the cold autumn landscaped that was on display in front of her.
Carla was a dear; she hated the notion of her mistress wedded to such a lump of a man as Lord Oakland, but she had never voiced her opinions. She was as circumspect as she could possibly be and yet mistress and maid had a bond which did not require spoken communication. Frederica was no more enamoured of the idea, or of Lord Oakland, than Carla. But her brother had issued his order and she was helpless to object. M’sieur de Bois had written on the subject of arranged marriages shortly after Frederica had been informed that her brother had selected her husband for her.
“More’s the pity,” Carla murmured as she draped her mistress’ cloak over her shoulders. “Mind you stay warm,” she cautioned. “It’s biting out there, for all that it’s not even November.”
“I shall be in the carriage and then in the ballroom, and it’s always stifling with all the dancers and the throng. If anything, I shall be too hot. You don’t need to stay awake for me,” Frederica told her. “I shall undress myself.”
But she knew that Carla would be there, waiting in her dressing room when she returned after the ball. She would be yawning with tiredness but intent upon tending to her mistress. The servants were so loyal; she wished that her brother paid them better than he did. They served him as loyally as they did her, but not with the same degree of warmth.
Rowland did not inspire warmth.
With a grimace, Frederica gathered her skirts and walked out the entrance and down the courtyard terrace. Rowland was waiting for her by the stairs. He scrutinised her critically as she descended the bottom step. “That dress is several years out of date,” he observed with a frown.
“Do you want me to cha
nge?” she replied sweetly.
“No, we’ll be late,” he responded sounding irritated. ”Lord Oakland will be riding with us,” he added then turned and walked briskly towards the waiting carriage.
It turned out that Lord Oakland was oblivious to fashion just like with everything else. He thought that Frederica looked suitable.
In fact, he thought she looked more than suitable. She appeared alluring and he allowed himself a longer perusal of her bare shoulders than was perhaps entirely gentlemanly.
She had lovely shoulders and he would have been blind not to have noticed the admirable bosom concealed by her satin bodice.
“Very lovely, my dear,” he said.
“It’s out of date. She has newer frocks,” Rowland interjected crossly. “I don’t know why she didn’t choose one of them.”
Lord Oakland’s forehead creased in displeasure. That was a different matter.
“Is it very out of date?”
“Several years.”
“Why have you chosen this dress, then?” her betrothed asked.
“I’ve worn my newer ones to events,” she answered. “It would seem very pinchpenny if I wore any of them twice.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Lord Oakland said as he offered his arm. “I shouldn’t think it matters, Cumbershire. She’s not on the market anymore, now that we are engaged, and I am content with her appearance. I think we should meet to determine the date for the wedding. I had hoped to do so earlier this week, but you were away.”
“Business,” Rowland answered as his valet put on his hat and handed him his gloves. “We shall meet this week to discuss the wedding.”
“What date? You know that Cousin Petronella is coming to visit soon,” Frederica told him.
“You need not attend our meeting,” Rowland said dismissively. “We can manage to settle the wedding details on our own.”
“Of course,” Frederica said in a deceptively soft voice. “Forgive me for mistakenly assuming that the bride ought to be present. Perhaps I can wear this dress for the wedding.”