The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1)

by Kathleen Ayers

  The problem was in explaining the invitation to her aunt.

  Elysium. He had wanted her to come to him at a notorious gambling hell, half-naked.

  Margaret spun on her heel and walked the length of the rug again. She had always wanted to venture into such a place. Elysium was a notorious pleasure palace and gambling establishment where all manner of wicked things occurred. At least according to gossip. What would it be like to visit Elysium in the company of Lord Welles?

  A slow burn of excitement coursed down her breasts to settle below.

  She could never do such a thing. Ever. What if someone saw her?

  Don’t you want to know passion?

  What if she walked into Elysium only to have Welles laugh uproariously at her appearance?

  After tucking the invitation away, Margaret left her room and soon found herself in front of her aunt’s out-of-tune piano. Since playing the Broadwood, the ancient piano seemed even more decrepit than before.

  Margaret ran her fingers over the keys, wincing at the sound. Clara, her mother, had been a pianist as well. She’d been playing for the amusement of her friends at a party when Walter Lainscott had seen her. The pair had fallen madly in love and eloped, despite the obvious differences in their stations. Her father had then brought Clara to Yorkshire where he bought her a gorgeous piano, specially crafted for her in Austria. But the piano hadn’t kept his wife from withering away. She missed London and was plagued with repeated bouts of illness in her lungs. Her poor health had made her susceptible to the sickness which swept through the mines and eventually took her life.

  Margaret’s mother had always been fragile which strengthened Margaret’s determination to not be.

  The piano had been sold at auction, along with everything else that reminded Aunt Agnes of her younger, more beautiful sister. If it had been possible, she was certain Aunt Agnes would have sold Margaret off as well.

  Her fingers flew over the keys, warming up the muscles in her hands before she launched into a complicated piece by Beethoven. Soon, the music filled her, allowing her mind to wander. She closed her eyes, envisioning herself sitting before the Broadwood with Welles at her side, his fingertips running over the backs of her hands. Warmth sank into her skin at the image of playing for him and only him.

  “Miss.”

  Margaret’s fingers slowed, disappointed to have been interrupted.

  “Yes, Henderson?” She turned to see her aunt’s butler watching her, disapproval deepening the grooves bracketing his mouth. Henderson found waiting on Margaret to be beneath him, as if the fact her father had been a tin miner before becoming wealthy was a severe violation of some butler code. Margaret had witnessed his injured pride when she’d heard him voicing his objections to her aunt. Since that time, she’d taken a more timid approach with Henderson because it made her life easier. Margaret had been tired of tepid tea and food which had grown cold. Henderson still detested her but at least now, the fire in her room was lit first thing in the morning.

  But Margaret didn’t feel shy or reserved today. Holding the butler’s gaze, Margaret enjoyed the way he cleared his throat and shuffled at her directness, before looking down at his hands.

  “Your aunt requests a word with you, miss.”

  “Of course.”

  Dutifully, Margaret rose and followed Henderson to the front parlor, a room Aunt Agnes typically reserved for answering correspondence or dictating people’s lives over a chatty cup of tea. What a burden her aunt carried, to be so superior that it was left to her to play judge and jury over everyone in the ton.

  She kept her eyes lowered lest her aunt see the dislike for her gleaming in them.

  Aunt Agnes was perched at the very edge of a cream-colored settee in one of her best day dresses, her head topped by a luxurious velvet turban sporting an enormous ostrich feather in the center. A rather extravagant outfit for writing letters.

  “Sit, Margaret.”

  Her aunt’s beady eyes, small and black like bits of coal, followed Margaret as she came around to the chair and sat. She clasped her hands, careful to keep her expression neutral. Early on, Margaret had learned if she wanted as little interaction with her aunt as possible, and to avoid having her privileges at the piano taken away, she’d best project a docile manner. The more reticent, the better. Aunt Agnes found little pleasure in berating the pathetic creature she considered Margaret to be.

  How she longed to tell Aunt Agnes of Welles’s suggestion to play for him at Elysium.

  “I was invited, unexpectedly, to take tea with the Duchess of Averell.” Her aunt’s icy regard never moved from Margaret’s face. “I was thrilled, of course.”

  Aunt Agnes’s voice had a horrible, gurgling quality to it, as if a piece of wet toast was caught in her throat. It was one of many things she didn’t care for in regard to her aunt.

  “The Duchess of Averell, though not a fixture in the ton, is still quite influential. Imagine my delight at being summoned.”

  Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at her aunt’s discomfort. Aunt Agnes typically did the summoning. She stayed still. Silent. The slightest word or twitch and Margaret would be pounced on, torn to shreds within the confines of her aunt’s parlor.

  The coal-black eyes narrowed into slits as the ostrich feather atop her aunt’s turban quivered in accusation at Margaret. “Her Grace was so very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  This was a favorite tactic of her aunt’s. Throw out leading questions when unsure of how a particular situation had come about in hopes that the person being interrogated, in this case, Margaret, would stop and correct her or interject into the conversation, thus giving themselves away. Her aunt would then determine the punishment for her own lack of knowledge. Margaret had learned the hard way when she had first come to London. Her eyes remained on her lap. She had no intention of satisfying her aunt’s curiosity.

  “I was surprised, to say the least, that you’d made her acquaintance, as well as that of her daughters,” Aunt Agnes continued. “Only the eldest has made her debut. Quite recently and somewhat quietly. I did wonder if there was something wrong with the girl. Is she lame? Scarred in some way? Has she already been ruined?” Her aunt watched Margaret’s face for any sign Margaret would collapse under her regard and tell her everything.

  Margaret focused her attention on a stray thread where she’d mended the pocket in her skirt.

  “I don’t recall the girl’s name.” Aunt Agnes rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as if trying to remember. Another ploy. Her aunt likely had all three of the duchess’s daughters and Miss Nelson already catalogued in her mind along with their character deficits.

  Margaret said nothing.

  “She thinks quite highly of you.”

  “How kind of the duchess.” Margaret finally spoke lest their meeting go on for hours.

  “Apparently, Her Grace grew enamored of your playing when you accompanied Lady Patson’s daughter at a party given some time ago. At least, according to her.”

  Lady Patson was a close acquaintance of her aunt’s, another overly critical matron of the ton who doled out expectations and ruined those who didn’t meet them. Margaret had been forced to accompany Lady Patson’s daughter, Gertrude, as she sang during a small event in hopes the girl could impress Lord Thackery. Margaret had reluctantly agreed. She’d heard Gertrude ‘warming up her voice,’ and she’d sounded little better than a squawking crow. Gertrude sang, to the horror of Lady Patson’s guests and Lord Thackery, for nearly an hour. Aunt Agnes had chastised Margaret during the entire ride home as ‘deliberately playing too well’ in order to eclipse poor Gertrude.

  “I am pleased she enjoyed hearing me play,” Margaret said.

  Aunt Agnes leaned forward, turban wobbling as if about to snap her aunt’s thin neck. “I don’t recall the duchess’s presence at Lady Patson’s. I can’t imagine how she escaped my notice at such a small affair. Her eldest daughter—”

  “Lady Andromeda.” M
argaret finally lifted her chin. She was growing weary of this game. Lady Masterson’s garden party was on the horizon and Margaret not only needed to explain how she came to be invited, but she also had to find something appropriate to wear. Difficult when her aunt allowed her only the barest minimum of pin money. And there was the matter of attending the garden party, preferably without her aunt.

  She looked at the tendrils of the ostrich feather which seemed to be drifting toward her. Poor ostrich, to give up a feather only to have it land on her aunt’s head.

  “Not only has the duchess requested your presence on Tuesdays and Thursdays to play piano and accompany her younger daughter, but she is insisting you attend a garden party with her and Lady Andromeda.”

  “I see,” Margaret said quietly, as if awaiting further instruction. She became certain Welles was behind his stepmother’s request. Hope stirred in her heart. Did it mean he’d agreed to help her with Carstairs after all?

  “Lady Masterson’s garden party. I assured Her Grace,” Aunt Agnes shook her head, “you’d not been invited because I would also have received an invitation, but she insisted you had been and grew concerned your invitation had been lost.” Her aunt drew her sticklike figure up, boney shoulders pointing toward the ceiling. “Imagine my surprise when Henderson informed me an invitation for you had indeed been delivered only this morning.” Her aunt said nothing more for several long moments, waiting for Margaret to speak, her lips thin and tight.

  Margaret wasn’t certain what she could say. Clearly, her aunt smelled a rat. Margaret had to force her lips from forming a smile. She doubted Lord Welles had ever been compared to a rat.

  “How did you make the acquaintance of Lady Masterson? And please, don’t tell me she was also in attendance at Lady Patson’s. Lady Patson wouldn’t have such a scandalous woman in her home.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Perhaps I was included because the duchess wished me to be. I do not know Lady Andromeda but possibly she wishes us to become acquainted. Do you not wish me to be friends with the daughter of a duke? I would think it would be looked well upon.” She schooled her features into one of tentative confusion.

  Her aunt’s face flushed an alarming shade of purple as her eyes searched Margaret for any sign of insubordination.

  “I would not like to refuse a duchess, Aunt. But I will attend only if you give your permission.” Margaret lowered her gaze and remained still.

  A noise of displeasure escaped her aunt. The ostrich feather bobbed about her turban in agitation as if guessing Margaret had lied. But Margaret knew she’d won. Aunt Agnes, regardless of her suspicions, would never defy a duchess. Finally, she said, “I would not dream of disappointing the duchess by forbidding you to accompany her. But I am not pleased, Margaret. You are excused.”

  Margaret stood and bobbed before her aunt then calmly walked out of the parlor, forcing herself not to skip, though she dearly wanted to. She paused, making sure her aunt hadn’t followed, before continuing to Lord Dobson’s study.

  Margaret had never known the man her aunt had been married to, but from references Aunt Agnes made, Lord Dobson had been a sportsman. He had particularly enjoyed fishing. She knew she had her work cut out for her in wooing Carstairs. Her knowledge of outdoor sport was limited to admiring the trees when she took a walk or perhaps throwing bread crust to the birds. But hopefully, Lord Dobson would inadvertently help her cause.

  Coughing at the dusty smell as she opened the door, Margaret went to the first bookcase. Her eyes searched the titles, fingers running over the spines, determined to find a book on the basics of hunting.

  8

  “Oh, do stay still, Miss Lainscott. I only have this last stitch.” Romy looked up at her, voice muffled by a mouth full of pins.

  “Stop sticking her, Romy,” Theodosia said, looking up from the tiny miniature she painted with painstaking care. “She isn’t a pincushion. Poor Miss Lainscott will be full of holes by the time you’re finished turning her into…” She looked to Margaret for help. “A tree nymph?”

  Margaret knew she was a flower of some sort, though she couldn’t remember which one. The name escaped her, as names often did. And what she was dressed as hadn’t seemed as crucial as Lord Carstairs finding her attractive. She gave Theo a slight, almost invisible shrug.

  “Iris,” Romy said in frustration, pulling the pins from her mouth. “Goodness, she’s a flower. Can’t you tell?” She continued to fuss at the hem of the dress. “The gown is green like a flower stem.”

  Theo shrugged with an apologetic look in Margaret’s direction and went back to her painting.

  The garden party gown, as Margaret thought of it in her head, was exactly the shade of new leaves, the sort that sprouted from tree branches just as spring was beginning. The skirt was cut and sewn to represent the stem while the sleeves, made from a lovely diaphanous lavender, floated about Margaret’s arms in an imitation of petals. Now that she took notice, Margaret could see Romy’s vision.

  “I think she looks smashing.” Phaedra strolled in, apple in hand.

  “Thank you, Phaedra.” Margaret smiled in her direction.

  “You’re welcome. What are you going as, Romy?” Phaedra took a large crunch of the apple, munching away as she crossed the room.

  Theo looked up. “Are you a horse? You sound like my mare, Calliope. Pray keep your mouth closed as you chew.”

  “I’m the tree nymph,” Romy replied. “There.” She smiled up at Margaret. “Perfect.”

  “It’s lovely, Romy. I’ve never felt so beautiful. Nor so floral.” Margaret looked at Theo. “Calliope? Another Greek name?”

  Theo looked up from her work, paintbrush hovering in the air. “Mother’s habit extends to all our animals at Cherry Hill. She once had a parrot named Zeus.”

  “Zeus was a marvelous bird.” Phaedra darted behind Theo, crunching the apple deliberately in her sister’s ear. “Father taught him how to swear properly. Mama was horrified.”

  “Oh, go away, horse.” Theo went back to her work. “Where is Olivia?”

  Phaedra sauntered over to a chair, flopped down, and threw one leg over the arm. “Olivia is with Mama. It is their ‘lady’s day’ together.”

  Margaret raised a brow.

  “My mother insists on spending time with each of us alone so we always feel special,” Romy said as she fussed with the hem.

  “How lovely,” Margaret said. In the short time she’d known the duchess, Margaret had received more love and kindness than she ever had at the hands of Aunt Agnes.

  “I’m sure Olivia will come home with all sorts of fripperies. She’s a flutist who loves fripperies.” A dramatic sigh followed a crunch and several loud chews. “I wish I could go to Lady Masterson’s party. It sounds positively splendid.”

  Theo took off the small spectacles she wore and observed Phaedra’s sprawl across the chair. “Your posture is exactly why you aren’t permitted to go, not to mention your chewing. Look at you.”

  Phaedra defiantly wiggled one slippered foot.

  Margaret shot Phaedra an affectionate look. Never having had any siblings of her own, she was envious of the easy way the sisters talked and tormented each other. They had all embraced Margaret with smiles, asking to be addressed by their Christian names even after such short acquaintance. Including the mysterious Theo who had decided to leave her studio and join them in the large parlor today. It was as if the duchess and the girls were her family. She’d been so busy enjoying their company, she’d almost forgotten all about Welles and the thoughts he’d put in her head.

  Almost.

  Last week, Margaret had appeared promptly to accompany Olivia and Phaedra on a new piece the three were going to learn and surprise the duchess with. But an hour or so into practice, Romy had interrupted, measuring tape in hand, insisting Margaret come with her immediately. Her friend had the perfect costume in mind for Margaret to wear to Lady Masterson’s. Romy had already put some of the pieces together, but the gown had to be properly fitted.<
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  Since Margaret hadn’t had a clue what she would wear to such an event and was pleased Romy had gone to so much trouble on her behalf, she’d followed her friend out, much to the dismay of Phaedra and Olivia.

  Romy had whisked Margaret to the parlor where a dressmaker’s dummy sat swathed in the green silk Margaret now wore. After whipping about the measuring tape, taking notes, and sticking pins everywhere, the gown had begun to take shape. Today was the final fitting before Lady Masterson’s party. Romy was definitely talented, as the gown was beautiful. Margaret doubted she could have conceived of anything half as lovely.

  “What made you decide on an iris, Romy?” Margaret had been meaning to ask her why she’d chosen that particular flower. “Why not a peony? Or an orchid?”

  Romy tilted her head, her eyes the same startling blue as her brother’s. The sight brought Welles to mind again and Margaret stubbornly pushed him aside.

  “I suppose,” Romy said, “because Mother and I were walking through the garden when she told me you would be accompanying us. We stopped right before a patch of miniature irises. Fate, I suppose. I was looking at all those tiny, delicate flowers and thought how you reminded me of one.”

  “I hardly consider myself delicate. I did grow up in Yorkshire.”

  “Yes, but the iris is also hardy, Margaret. And blooms wherever it is planted. You must promise to come here the day of the party and we’ll get ready together in case your gown needs a last-minute adjustment. I’m sure your aunt won’t mind.”

  Margaret agreed. Her aunt had barely spoken ten words to her since the discussion over how Margaret had come to be acquainted with the Duchess of Averell. She was sure by now Aunt Agnes had confirmed with Lady Patson that the duchess hadn’t been in attendance at the party, but she would not be inclined to contradict the duchess. Her aunt would sit on her suspicions until she could spring them on Margaret at an appropriate time.