A Certain Magic (6 page)

“I would like that,” she said, peeping up at him once more. “You are kind, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said, patting her hand in an avuncular manner and feeling the full amusement of his unaccustomed role. “Shall we return to my box? I believe the play is resuming.”

A sweet and thoroughly delightful little infant, he thought a couple of minutes later as he turned his eyes toward the stage, his lips pursed. He could have shared his merriment, but his attention was soon caught by the action on stage. He did not feel Alice’s eyes on him.

***

Alice felt justly punished for upsetting Phoebe and her brother by insisting on keeping her theater engagement rather than sitting with Mary and Richard. She had not had a pleasant evening.

She dismissed her maid later that night and climbed gratefully into bed. For the rest of her time in London—perhaps she would be able to get away in another week or so—she would content herself with the tedium of a sickroom that had no business being a sickroom any longer, Richard in particular should have been outdoors and using up some of his pent-up energy.

She had had some agreeable conversation with Lady Margam, who remembered Web, though he had not been such a particular friend of Lord Margam’s as Piers had been. But on the whole the evening had been thoroughly disagreeable. There had been all the expenditure of energy on turning aside Sir Clayton’s compliments and keeping the conversation light and inane. And there had been all the annoyance of seeing Piers dancing attendance on a shallow little girl, and knowing that there was every likelihood that he would end up marrying her or someone just like her.

Harriet had been just like her. Alice and Web had been horrified when he had returned to Westhaven Park after one of his absences, bringing with him a bride. Harriet had been very pretty and very sweet and very, very empty-headed. It had been painful to try to keep a conversation going with her.

Piers had treated her with amused indulgence. But it had been obvious to both of them that he did not find any companionship with his wife.

There had never been the smallest evidence that he mistreated Harriet, and no sign whatsoever that she was unhappy with him. Indeed, there was no indication that Piers himself was unhappy. Except that they knew him. Web had always known him, and she had known him for several years before he married. They had both known him well enough to detect signs of restlessness that would have been imperceptible to anyone else, Harriet included.

He had been distraught, suicidal even, on her death. But had love been the cause? Or had it been something else?

“He does not have a cruel bone in his body, Allie, despite some of the outrageous things he says,” Web had told her the night of the funeral, when Piers had finally staggered home, refusing their offer of hospitality for the night. “He did not love her, but that now is the trouble. He will blame himself for her death, you will see, because he did not love her and should not therefore have put her life at risk. We will have to keep a careful eye on him, love, mark my words.”

And he had been quite right, of course.

Had Piers not learned from that experience that foolish young girls were not the right kind of bride for him?

Apparently not. Alice wished fiercely that Web were still alive. Not that he had been able to stop Piers that first time, of course. But then they had not known of the marriage until Piers had brought Harriet home.

It had been a worrying evening. And it had been capped by Sir Clayton’s proposing to her in the carriage and even trying to kiss her. She had been forced to engage in a most undignified wrestling match, and had escaped the kiss only with the aid of some sharp words. It was a blessing indeed that she had not been forced to slap him. That would have been too mortifying for words.

She had refused his offer. But she feared that her natural reluctance to hurt another had made her refusal less than convincing. Certainly Sir Clayton had assured himself that he would do himself the honor of asking her again when she had had time to consider the advantages of such a match and would be taken less by surprise. “For I realize, Mrs. Penhallow,” he had said, “that you could have had no forewarning of the extent of my feelings.”

Sometimes, Alice thought, sitting up in bed and punching her pillows, she longed for the dullness and peace of her life in Bath.

Chapter 4

BRUCE was in a bad temper when Alice arrived at Portman Square soon after breakfast the following morning. Not that he was ever exactly sunny-natured, she thought with an inward sigh. But this morning he was more than ordinarily irritable. He had learned that his efforts to have his son reinstated at Oxford had been in vain. Jarvis would have to wait until the following year to resume his studies.

In addition to that annoyance, Phoebe was indisposed, and Bruce blamed Alice. “For she has a great deal on her mind,” he said, “What with the children sick, Jarvis in disgrace, and Amanda making her come-out. The least you could do, Alice, is have some family feeling and take some of the load from her shoulders.”

“Which is exactly what I will do today,” Alice said briskly. “I shall do what I can to entertain Richard and Mary this morning, and this afternoon, if the weather continues fine, I shall take them for a short drive.” 

“And give them both a chill?” he said. “I would have thought you had learned your lesson with Webster, Alice.”

Alice bit her lip and decided not to retaliate. She retired to the nursery to a long and tedious day. The afternoon brought a little interest when Richard agreed to the drive—indeed, he would have liked nothing better than to take a horse and gallop in Hyde Park, but Alice laughingly suggested that he wait a few days for that pleasure.

“I can guarantee,” she said, “that your legs will feel like jelly when you step out of doors, Richard. Being confined to a bed and a nursery for more than a week does that to a person, you know.”

Mary refused to move from her bed, claiming that she had discovered more spots just that morning and was sickening for a second dose of the measles.

Alice joined Phoebe in the drawing room for tea. When she saw her sister-in-law, she felt guilty for all the uncharitable thoughts she had been entertaining all day. Phoebe was flushed and heavy-eyed, and her voice had a deeper tone than usual.

“I am hagged,” was all she said when Alice asked after her health.

“You look feverish, Phoebe.” Alice said. “Are you sure you should not be in bed?”

“I cannot take to my bed,” Phoebe said, dabbing a handkerchief at her temples. “There is the Partiton ball this evening. Amanda cannot miss that of all things. It is to be the grandest occasion of the Season so far.”

“But with so many entertainments every day,” Alice said, seating herself behind the teapot since Phoebe made no move to do so, and proceeding to pour, “surely it will be no disaster to miss one. Amanda will understand, I am sure.”

“It is out of the question,” Phoebe said, laying her head back against a cushion and closing her eyes.

“Do you have a headache?” Alice asked.

“It will go away once I have drunk some tea,” her sister-in-law replied. 

“And a sore throat, Phoebe?”

Her sister-in-law did not reply.

Alice frowned and poured a cup of tea for herself. “Have you ever had the measles?” she asked.

Phoebe opened weary eyes. “I must have,” she said. “All children have the measles, do they not? And Amanda and Jarvis had them as children.”

“I remember,” Alice said. “You wrote to tell me. Were you and Bruce not forced to leave your aunt’s in Kent sooner than you planned in order to return home to the children?” 

“Ah, yes,” Phoebe said vaguely.

“They were probably not infectious by the time you got home,” Alice said. She set the teapot down. “I hope I am wrong, Phoebe, but I do believe you have taken the infection.”

“Nonsense!” her sister-in-law said crossly. “Ladies of forty do not have the measles, Alice.”

But measles or not, she was forced to agree to lie down immediately after tea, in the hope that she would feel well enough to attend the Partiton ball. By dinnertime, however, it was clear that she was not even well enough to come downstairs.

Bruce was in the blackest of moods, especially when Amanda, who had returned from a friend’s house only an hour before, suggested that he accompany her to the ball instead of her mother. 

“Out of the question,” he said. “I am expected at Brooks’. If your mother is too ill, your aunt will have to take you instead.”

“Aunt Alice?” Amanda turned wide, anxious eyes on her. “Will you? Oh, please.” 

Alice felt a wave of amusement as she was being driven home a half hour later in Bruce’s carriage in order that she might be ready in time to accompany Amanda to the ball. So much for her decision of the night before not to attend any other social event during her stay in London. She was about to appear at a grander ball than any she had every attended with Web during their infrequent visits to town. Even when she was to be merely a chaperon, it was a heady prospect. She doubted that she had any gown quite grand enough.

***

This business of choosing another bride was much like a game, Mr. Westhaven thought as he stood in the Partiton ballroom, quizzing glass in hand, surveying the crowd around him. A most diverting game, though one requiring considerable skill. For if one did not take care, one was likely to find oneself leg-shackled before one had quite steeled one’s mind to relinquish one’s freedom. 

He could permit himself to look, even with the aid of his quizzing glass. He could permit himself to smile, to converse, to dance, to promenade with a sweet young thing on his arm. He could permit himself to charm the mamas. But he must always do all of those things in the plural. Always he must avoid singling out one particular beauty for more attention than all the rest.

He had led Lady Charlotte Maddingly into the opening set at the last ball, Miss Amanda Carpenter the one before that. He had taken Miss Brede driving in the park two days before and the Honorable Miss Willow two days before that. He had accompanied Miss Pomfret to the opera last week, the Honorable Miss Cassandra Borden to the theater the night before.

All of them were quite delightful. All of them were possible brides. All of them would have jumped at the chance to be the future Lady Berringer, he believed. Or if they did not, their mamas would certainly have jumped at it for them. But all must be done in perfect balance. 

He was enjoying himself. It was vastly amusing to find that at the age of six-and-thirty he had still but to raise an eyebrow or a finger or a quizzing glass to raise hopes and blushes. And to know that such thoughts were not vanity at all. For whereas Mr. Piers Westhaven of Westhaven Park had never found himself lacking feminine company when he had needed it, Mr. Piers Westhaven, heir to Lord Berringer of Bingamen Hall, did not find himself lacking female company whether he needed it or not.

He was going to have to be careful, though. Very careful. For the balance of his attentions to sweet young creatures was about to be tipped. He had escorted Miss Borden to the theater last evening, and he was to lead her into the opening set tonight, always provided that she and her mama arrived in time, of course. The gossips would not be slow to note that particular mark of favor shown to the girl.

Bosley had invited him in for brandy the night before after he had returned the ladies safely to the house. Mr. Westhaven had been unable to deny himself the pleasure of another hour of the man’s conversation.

He had not been disappointed. He had been entertained by a lengthy and fascinating account of the importance of bribes and a little blackmail to the businessman who wished to make more than a very modest fortune. Considering the probable wealth of his host, Mr. Westhaven had guessed that the man must have half the population of London within his power. A fascinating man, indeed.

How Bosley succeeded in interspersing with this topic the fact that he had wangled an invitation for his niece to the Partiton ball the next evening, Mr. Westhaven did not know. Though when he thought about it again, he guessed that there was some very real connection. No one except her mother was needed to take the girl to the ball, of course, but it would be a shame for such a pretty and such a very shy young lady to be without a partner at the start of the ball so that everyone might see how pretty she was and how daintily she danced.

“I don’t know how these things are arranged, sir,” Mr. Bosley said, “but my sister does not know anyone to introduce little Cassie to, you know.”

Mr. Westhaven pursed his lips and pulled at his earlobe. It was too soon yet to make the obvious reply. It was too amusing to witness how his host would proceed.

“You may be sure that the hostess will see to it that there are no wallflowers,” he said. “It would reflect on her skills.”

“Ah,” Mr. Bosley said. “You have set my mind at rest, sir. But Cass will hide in corners, the timid puss. What if the hostess does not notice her for half an evening?”

Mr. Westhaven raised his eyebrows. “Will your sister not ensure that that does not happen?” he asked.

Mr. Bosley sighed, “Right you are, sir,” he said. “I am just too fond an uncle, you see, and too anxious to see my girl properly married and my fortune settled on a worthy gentleman before my passing.”

“Your passing?” Mr. Westhaven asked, amazed. “Surely you are not ailing, sir? You look to be in the very best of health.”

Mr. Bosley had laughed heartily and changed the subject. And only then had Mr. Westhaven suggested, as if the idea had not been pressed upon him at all, that he would be honored to lead Miss Borden into the opening set at the Partiton ball.

At least, he thought now, continuing to gaze about him and nodding genially to a pair of smiling dowagers, he had felt as if he had not been pressed into it. He would have to watch Bosley. And himself. He must not single out Miss Borden for any more attentions within the week.

Unless he decided that all his attentions for the rest of his life must center on her, of course. She was a deliciously pretty little infant. Though, of course, she had suggested quite strongly to him the evening before that she did not wish to be pressed into a marriage with him.