Someone to Trust

by Mary Balogh

  “No such thing will happen, I assure you,” Elizabeth said, smiling again as she turned from the fire and sat in the chair beside it.

  Her eyes met those of Cousin Matilda, who was hovering as usual slightly behind her mother’s chair on the other side of the hearth. Matilda was looking steadily back at her, and an unexpected understanding passed between them. One was so often inclined to dismiss Matilda as a sort of caricature of the aging spinster who had devoted her life to her mother’s care. But family lore had it that as a young girl she had refused a number of eligible suitors her father had chosen for her because she had a romantic attachment to a younger son of a gentleman of no particular account and no fortune. Elizabeth did not know the truth of the story, but something in Matilda’s expression inclined her to believe it.

  Matilda poured a cup of tea, added two teaspoons of sugar, and brought it to Elizabeth.

  “Matilda,” her mother said. “That tea will be cold by now.”

  “Lizzie does not take sugar in her tea, Matilda,” Elizabeth’s mother said.

  Elizabeth took the cup and saucer and smiled. “It is perfect,” she said, “and just what I need after being chilled to the bone outside. Thank you, Matilda.”

  “Mama insists that you will wish to go to Riddings, Lizzie,” Alexander said. “But if you would prefer, you may go to Brambledean and we will join you for the summer.”

  “We would love to have you,” Wren added.

  “I am not going anywhere,” Elizabeth said after sipping the tea and schooling her face not to show her disgust at the oversteeped, lukewarm, horribly sweet beverage. “I am staying right here. And tomorrow I am resuming my normal way of life. Why should I not? The gossips may make much of me for a day or two, but they will soon grow tired of old news.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” Anna said, clasping her hands to her bosom, “that is exactly what I would expect you to do. May I call on you in the morning and we will go shopping together?”

  “I suppose,” Avery said, sounding faintly pained, “I am about to be presented with a bill for another bonnet, am I, my love?”

  “You will not be presented with anything, Avery,” Cousin Louise said tartly. “Your secretary will.”

  “Quite so,” he said agreeably.

  “May I come too?” Jessica asked. “If you are going to have to pay for one bonnet, Avery, it might as well be two.”

  “I am proud of you, Lizzie,” Uncle Richard said with a wink.

  I thought you would trust me.

  There had been a world of pain in his voice. As though she had rejected him because she did not trust his motives or his ability to know his own mind or to be steadfast in his devotion to her if she married him.

  Was there truth in what he had said? He could not possibly want to marry her. He could not possibly be happy with her. Not in the long term. He needed someone . . .

  But what did she know of his needs?

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did not trust him.

  Or perhaps she just wanted his happiness more than she wanted her own.

  Fourteen

  By the time Lord Ede arrived at the house on Curzon Street, he was wearing dry clothes—he had got soaked to the skin during his lone ride through Hyde Park, the rain having come on before he expected it and more heavily than he had anticipated. His valet had rubbed his silver hair with a towel until it was almost dry. By now it was entirely so.

  He made his way upstairs and entered Lady Hodges’s boudoir unannounced. He was the only male who was allowed to do so, though each time the lady herself complained about his presumption while her small army of maids and wigmakers and mantua makers and manicurists and cosmetics artists scurried about or bent to their task of making her presentable for the evening, which was to bring a group of chosen guests to the house to provide music and poetry and conversation and flattery.

  “Ede,” she said after delivering the expected scold in her sweet little-girl voice, “what have you discovered? Nothing is to come of that ridiculous threat of a duel this morning, it is to be hoped? And what of Lady Dunmore and her daughter? They have not spurned him? Though it is hardly likely when he is such a brilliant match for the daughter and she was allowed to waltz with him after that most ridiculous of ridiculous scenes. How could anyone, even a dolt like Sir Geoffrey Codaire, believe that my son was flirting with that aging widow?”

  “He was in close embrace with the aging widow in the park not an hour ago,” he told her.

  “What?” She snatched her hand away from the young woman who was buffing her nails and turned her head sharply so that her wig slipped slightly askew and the wigmaker paused before gently repositioning it and continuing with her task of creating a perfect ringlet to curl over my lady’s neck.

  “You wish me to provide details?” he asked her.

  “He is a fool,” she said after staring at him for a few moments. “He must believe he owes her marriage after drawing attention to her on the ballroom floor last evening. Or after she drew attention to him. You may be sure that that is the way it was, and who can blame her for trying when she thought her only option was to ally herself with a dull and plodding farmer? But how dare she, Ede? How dare she?”

  “Calm yourself, my love,” his lordship said, flicking open his snuffbox with one thumb and examining the contents before helping himself to a pinch. “I daresay he will not be unwise enough to marry the woman.”

  “Marry her?” she half shrieked. “It will not be allowed to happen. Not when I am so close to having him back after all this weary time and a bride with him who is both beautiful and biddable. I will certainly not have him marrying an old and ugly widow merely because he feels obliged to play the gallant. What do we know of her, Ede?”

  “Only what the whole world knows,” he told her. “She was married to a drunk and left him after he had beaten her one too many times. He died in a tavern brawl a year or so later. She has lived a dull and blameless life since. Of course, Codaire did mention at White’s this morning that her first husband called her a slut. And something or someone drove him to drink. And she did break her marriage vows in most scandalous fashion by running home to her mother and refusing to go back to him. But everyone knows these things.”

  “And everyone has probably forgotten most or all of them,” she said. “That must all have happened years ago.”

  “It is always possible to refresh memories,” he said. “And the ton is very ready to hear some titillating stories about the widow who danced and laughed indiscreetly at her own betrothal ball with a much younger man and even attempted to draw him into a public embrace when the dance was over.”

  “And actually did embrace him this afternoon in a public place,” she said. “How dare she, Ede? Oh, how dare she? You will see to it?”

  He returned his snuffbox to his pocket and strolled to the dressing table upon which her jewelry for the evening had been laid out. He fingered a diamond necklace he had given her for some forgotten birthday.

  “Consider it done,” he said.

  “And what can I do to rescue my dearest Colin?” she asked. But she did not wait for his suggestion. “My heart is set upon Miss Dunmore for him. Where is Blanche?” She looked at one of her maids. “Fetch Lady Elwood.” The maid scurried from the room. “I shall have her send an invitation to tea tomorrow. No. I shall have her send an invitation to the two ladies to ride with me in my barouche in the park tomorrow—provided the weather is better than it is today, that is. And Blanche will invite Colin to accompany us. No. Lady Dunmore will invite him. Will the sun shine, do you think?”

  “For you?” he said, looking her over with lazy eyes. “For you even the sun can be persuaded to shine.”

  “Well, so it ought,” she said. “I will wear my new Chantilly lace veil. It is quite exquisite. Of course everyone will say it is not more exquisite than its wearer, but I am accustomed to
listening to flatterers. I do not believe half of what they say.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Colin spent the following morning at the House of Lords, trying to immerse himself in the nation’s business rather than dwell upon his own. It was not easy.

  He had seen the terse notice of the ending of the betrothal of Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, to Sir Geoffrey Codaire in the morning paper and found that he was feeling more sorry for himself than he was for her. Why had she accepted Codaire but refused him? I care for you too much to marry you, she had told him, and it seemed as much nonsense to him now as it had then. It was true, perhaps, that he had offered for her because he had not been able to shake the conviction that he must have compromised her and therefore owed her marriage. But the point was that he had wanted to do so too. The thought of actually being married to Elizabeth was a bit dizzying. Not to mention dazzling.

  It had hurt him that she had said no.

  He returned to his rooms in the early afternoon to find the usual pile of invitations and other mail and a note from Lady Dunmore that had been hand delivered. He frowned at it before breaking the seal. Yes, there was still that, his search for a bride, which he was now free to resume. If he could find the heart to do it, that was. But life must go on. He broke the seal.

  It was an invitation to take tea with the family and a few friends. Today. He looked at the clock on the mantel. In an hour and a half’s time. The family. A few friends. It sounded a bit ominous, as though he were being admitted to some exclusive inner circle. Did he wish to be? Miss Dunmore was a sweet young lady and very beautiful too, though that fact was not of paramount importance to his choice. There was no one he liked better. Except . . . No. There was no one he liked better.

  Ah, Elizabeth. He wondered if she had returned to Riddings Park today. It was depressing to know that she might prefer to incarcerate herself there than marry him.

  He arrived at the Dunmore home promptly at the appointed time to discover that the family and friends referred to in the invitation appeared to consist of Lady Dunmore and her daughter. They were alone in the drawing room when he was announced. Lady Dunmore rose graciously to her feet and Miss Dunmore stood a moment later to make him a curtsy.

  “Lord Hodges,” Lady Dunmore said, “it is such a beautiful day after yesterday’s wind and rain that it seemed a positive sin to waste the afternoon sitting indoors drinking tea. When Lydia and I received an invitation to drive in the park in an open barouche, we made the decision to accept and sent notes to our friends to wait until tomorrow.”

  “I cannot blame you,” Colin said, wondering if his own note had gone astray. “I will not keep you, ma’am. If I may, I will return tomorrow with your other guests.”

  “Oh, but the invitation to drive includes you,” she said. “It will be a great pleasure to drive in the park with you and Lady Hodges.”

  Colin felt a slight buzzing in his head. “With my mother?” he asked. But he held out no real hope that he had misheard. This was exactly the way his mother manipulated the people around her, and clearly she had decided that it was time he returned to the fold with a bride who would become an ornament to her world of youth and beauty.

  “She will be here in . . . five minutes,” Lady Dunmore said, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “Perhaps you will escort us back downstairs, Lord Hodges, so that we may don our bonnets and gloves and be ready to step outside the moment the barouche arrives.”

  He really had no choice, Colin thought. And he wondered if there had ever been a planned tea with family and friends or if Lady Dunmore had been given her orders—disguised as sweet suggestions—by his mother. What he ought to do, of course, was step out of the house and stride off down the street before she appeared. He ought to establish right now that he was not to be manipulated, that he would take possession of the world of his birthright in his own time and on his own terms.

  But this was not between just him and his mother, as she would very well know. There were two other ladies involved, most notably a sweet and innocent young girl.

  He offered Lady Dunmore his arm and smiled at her daughter as they left the room and descended the stairs he had mounted in all innocence just a few minutes before.

  His mother was dressed as usual in white, with a magnificent lace veil decorating the brim of her hat and covering her face. She was seated in a white and gold barouche drawn by the white horses that were also used for her closed carriage. She looked youthful and fragile and ethereally lovely. The four black-clad outriders were gathered a discreet distance behind the conveyance. It was really a quite extraordinary scene, and hideously embarrassing, Colin thought as he stepped outside with the ladies, who were gazing at the tableau with identical looks of awe.

  “Mother,” he said, nodding in her direction.

  “Dearest.” She moved over on the seat and patted it. “Lady Dunmore, do join me here, and the young people may share the other seat. Is it not a beautiful day?”

  Colin handed the ladies in first and then climbed in himself after only a moment’s hesitation, during which he entertained the thought once again of shutting the door and walking away. But he could not so humiliate Miss Dunmore, who was gazing at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

  And so he endured an hour’s ride in Hyde Park, being viewed by the whole of the fashionable world and much of the unfashionable one too while his mother wafted one white-gloved hand rather like a queen condescending to acknowledge her subjects. She talked too, praising Miss Dunmore’s beauty, telling her how much she would love Roxingley, urging Lady Dunmore to come and take tea with her one afternoon, congratulating Colin on his good looks and sense of style and on his kindness in dancing with the aging Lady Overfield at her betrothal ball.

  “It is shameful that Sir Geoffrey Codaire was jealous of you,” she said. “It was a shame for her since he cast her off and it is unlikely at her age that she will find anyone else. But I do understand that you were not flirting with her, dearest. Not that I needed to be told any such thing. The very idea is laughable in its absurdity.”

  Colin noticed the emphasis upon certain words, implying that Elizabeth had been flirting with him.

  “Lord Hodges was indeed not flirting, ma’am,” Lady Dunmore assured her. “It would have been preposterous. I saw the whole thing with my own eyes, and it was entirely the other way around. I heard last evening that Lady Overfield has a history of flirting once she believes she had secured a man, either through marriage or betrothal. It was just unfortunate for her that Sir Geoffrey was unwilling to put up with her tricks but confronted her with them. However, I do not wish to spread any gossip. I took no notice of it, you may be sure, once I understood that no untrue rumors were being spread about Lord Hodges, who behaved with perfect decorum.”

  Good God. Oh, good God.

  I heard last evening . . . He had been perfectly well aware that there was gossip over that wretched ball, and he had fully expected exaggeration and distortion of the truth. But was all the blame being put upon Elizabeth while both Codaire and he were being exonerated?

  And . . . Lady Overfield has a history of flirting. Who the devil was digging into her past and coming up with such a preposterous charge? Codaire?

  “It ought to be mentioned,” he said, “that it was Lady Overfield who broke off the engagement with Sir Geoffrey Codaire. And that at no time during my acquaintance with her has she flirted with me. Or with anyone else to my knowledge. I hold her in the deepest esteem.”

  “That is very much to your credit, Lord Hodges,” Lady Dunmore assured him. “For the lady’s brother is married to your sister, and loyalty to one’s family and their connections is always admirable.”

  He could argue, proclaim, justify, lose his temper, correct misconceptions and outright untruths, but what would be the point? Rumor and gossip, once they got started, were like a raging wildfire, and whoever had starte
d this one clearly understood that. He ought to have slapped a glove in Codaire’s face after all yesterday morning, Colin thought. He might have to seek him out again if this sort of thing persisted.

  He was scarcely aware of the sensation they were causing, especially after they had approached the circuit where the daily parade of carriages and riders and pedestrians congregated each afternoon of the Season. Here was Lord Hodges in an open conveyance, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Miss Dunmore while both their mothers sat opposite them, nodding graciously at all around them, conversing with the greatest amiability with each other, and smiling benevolently upon the dazzlingly beautiful tableau their offspring presented to the world.

  He only knew as he set about making himself agreeable to Miss Dunmore that he was seething with an impotent fury and feeling as helpless as he had at the age of eighteen when his mother had planned one of her grand house parties the very day after his father’s funeral. He could feel himself being sucked into his mother’s web—if that was not a hopelessly mixed metaphor.

  When the barouche finally returned to the Dunmore home, Colin descended from the carriage to help the two ladies alight, but he declined Lady Dunmore’s invitation to accompany them inside.

  “No, ma’am, thank you,” he said. “I will escort my mother home.”

  “As a good son ought,” she said, beaming approval upon him.

  “How kind of you, dearest,” his mother murmured.

  He sat beside her for the journey to Curzon Street and exchanged the smallest of small talk with her even when she tried to draw him out upon the subject of Miss Dunmore’s charms. He was not about to engage in any sort of conversation with her when there were all of five sets of ears—the coachman’s and those of the four outriders—within hearing distance.

  He handed his mother down from the carriage outside the door of his house and entered it for the first time in many years. He waited in the hall while she lifted back the veil from her face, removed her hat with slow care, and turned to take his arm while they climbed the stairs to the drawing room. Without the veil, her face revealed itself as a skillful work of cosmetic art. Together with the carefully curled blond wig, it somehow set her at one remove from reality, more like a life-size doll than a live woman.