A Lady in Disguise (20 page)

“Awfully dull, isn’t it?” the first and boldest of these said. “I mean, to someone like you these provincial affairs must seem awfully dull. Ah well, makes a change, don’t it?” His laugh seemed particularly inane.

“Someone like me?” Lillian echoed. Had Finch finally recalled where they’d perhaps met before?

The callowest of these three youths guffawed and then covered his mouth. His slightly more sophisticated friend said, “It isn’t often we meet such ... interesting women in this corner of the world.” Quite openly, he winked at her, giving a leer such as not even a hardened roué would have ventured.

“Come on, Miss Cole,” said the third youth. “Everard’s out of the room.
He
won’t mind, not with all the gels that chase after him.”

‘That’s right, Neville,” laughed the first youth. “After all. I mean to say, turnabout’s fair play, ain’t it?”

A thick undercurrent of emotion seemed to be at work. It lived in their too-bright eyes and the nervous motions of their hands. Their faces were flushed with the eagerness of unused lust. Lillian wanted to retreat to safety, feeling soiled. “Where is Mr. Everard?” she asked.

The gauche one said, “He’s out seeing to that poacher. He’ll never know you even talked to us, let alone anything else.”

“Poacher,” the one called Neville said. “What poacher?”

“I don’t know. The servants were talking about him.”

The first one said, “It’s not the done thing, old man, to listen to the servants. Where did they say he was?”

‘The hall.”

“Hm, let’s go see. Maybe there’ll be some sport.”

“Yes,” Lillian said. “Please go away.”

They went, but somehow she wound up accompanying them. There seemed to be a general exodus in the direction of the main hall of the castle, as many guests pressed forward to see the criminal. Lillian, hanging back, could not see over a rotund gentleman in a tightly stretched coat.

He muttered, “Hanging’s too good. Ought to be snared, like a rabbit. Spoiling our sport to line his filthy belly.”

By stretching, Lillian could just see the felon. His fair hair stood up on end, as though after rough handling. He was younger than Lillian had expected, and rangy with his youth. But his lips were hard set and his eyes were guarded as he looked at Thorpe. The master of Mottisbury Castle stood before the poacher, the gentle smile Lillian had come to love upon his face. She could not hear what he said for the noise of the guests.

Thorpe seemed to realize this interview was no longer being conducted in privacy. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and jerked the thumb of his other hand toward the door at the end of the hall. Sullenly, the poacher followed Thorpe, trailed by the big figure of the gamekeeper.

Yet, despite her interest in the scene and her natural tendency to let her gaze linger on Thorpe, Lillian found her attention drawn to a nonparticipant. The glorious figure and splendidly arranged hair of Nora Ellis did not consort well with the desperate unhappiness of her expression. Mrs. Grenshaw stood beside her, the narrow mouth working near Nora’s ear. Suddenly, as though impatient with this monologue, Nora turned savagely on her aunt.

“Leave me alone, can’t you?” The young girl dashed away toward the open door to the outside, holding her skirt up in her hands. Mrs. Grenshaw’s countenance took on me shade of an ugly species of triumph.

Certain that the answer to one of the mysteries of the castle lay within her grasp, Lillian tried at once to follow Nora. Her progress was halted, however, by an ear trumpet connected to a tiny, elderly woman, coming only to Lillian’s shoulder, dressed in a purple gown with a trim of black satin daisies. “Are you the one?” the woman asked.

Lillian could not find it in her heart to push brusquely past her. “I don’t understand. Am I who?”

“Speak up.” After Lillian repeated herself, the woman said, “The one young Thorpe’s so nutty upon.”

Lillian shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

‘That’s good, dear. I’ve known Thorpe from the time he was just a tiny baby. I remember his mother very well. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“You’ve taken the wrong notion, ma’am. I’m just...” She spoke without thinking, trying only to dismiss the woman’s wrongful belief. Yet no sooner had she spoken than she felt a dreadful pain which was not physical. She would have preferred the young men’s assumption about her relationship to Thorpe rather than this sweet lady’s congratulations. “In truth, I’m not even the governess,” she said miserably.

“Speak up. When is the wedding?”

“Excuse me,” Lillian whispered, forgetting to be polite. Finding her way out, she felt as if she ought to hide her face. How many others were murmuring about her, making unwarranted conjectures about her position in the castle? She dared not meet any eyes as she hurried from the room.

The cool air brushed over her burning cheeks. Outside, she could almost feel Thorpe’s arms about her again, yet she could not take comfort in the memory. He had not said that he loved her and wished to wed her. Yet he’d kissed her several times with every evidence of pleasure. Alone, Lillian confessed that the pleasure had not been all his. Even now, she thrilled at the thought of his touches and blushed to think how she desired things she could find no names for. Was she in danger of becoming his mistress? She knew shame at the realization that it would take very little persuasion for her to throw off her morality. Perhaps the conjectures of his guests were not so farfetched as she’d thought.

Busy with her misery, Lillian all but tripped over Nora. The other girl sat on the stone steps at the edge of the loggia that wrapped this side of the house. Her hands were over her face, and dry sobs shook her shoulders, cracking the powder covering them. Lillian came to sit beside her, though the rough stones abraded the surface of her gown. Nora jerked away, with a look of loathing. “What do you want?”

“Only to know if I can help.”

“Help? No one can help me.” The lovely blonde stared out at nothingness.

“Perhaps there is something I can do. Why not tell me what has made you so unhappy? I think it has to do with your aunt. What does she want you to do now?”

“Nothing. I’m very grateful to my aunt and uncle for all their kindnesses to me.” She spoke as if it were something memorized off a page.

“I’ve never seen either of them be kind to you,” Lillian said. A light had sprung up in the house behind them, showing Lillian the blotches that emotion had raised on Nora’s white skin. “If you want to be alone... .”

“No, wait! Can you ... would you be so good as to find out... what is happening to him?”

“Him? Mr. Everard?”

“No,” Nora said, frantically impatient. “With Gil... the poacher.”

“You know him?”

“Of course! That is, of course not. I’m concerned. Those people didn’t seem to want him to go free. I hate to see anything cornered and trapped!”

“Who is he? Are you ... are you in love with him?”

“Don’t be stupid!” Nora snapped. “I love Thorpe and am going to marry him. Just as soon as he asks me to.” Again, she sounded like a child repeating a lesson by rote.

‘That’s not true,” Lillian said, fighting the jealousy that leapt up at hearing these words from another woman. It was surprisingly difficult to keep her mind clear when her fingers itched to pull Nora’s hair. “That’s what the Grenshaws have told you to say. They’re not here. They can’t hear you. You may as well tell me the truth.”

Nora peered around as though expecting to see her aunt and uncle hanging from the trees. Then she looked at Lillian, her eyes big with wonder. “They’re not here.” She took a deep breath. “If you only knew what it was like to have them always staring at you. I can’t even be allowed my own room....
She’s
always in there with me.”

“They let you go off alone with Thorpe—Mr. Everard.”

“They know I can’t tell him. That would spoil everything. But now Gilbert is here.... Oh, I don’t know what to do!”

“What do the Grenshaws want?”

“You guessed it this afternoon. They want me to marry Thorpe.”

Lillian almost chuckled. “That much is obvious. I even know why. Mr. Grenshaw said that while Emily was alive, they could have whatever they wanted, which I took to mean money.”

“He still gives it to them, a little bit at a time. It isn’t enough now. Uncle wants a very great deal of money for this enterprise he’s always on about. He hoped to get it quickly and not wait for my wedding. It didn’t work, so that’s why I’m dressed up like this. I
hate
this perfume. I shall never be able to look a rose in the face again.”

“It is a trifle strong. Do they honestly believe that costuming you like this will make Thorpe fall in love with you?”

Mimicking Mrs. Grenshaw, Nora said bitterly, “ ‘He fell in love with my darling Emily at first blush. He will with you. Men are such simple creatures, you know.’ “ She dropped her head once more into her hands and groaned.

“I understand their motives, but why are you falling in with their scheme? I take it you are in love with that boy.”

“Oh, yes.” Her voice held the joy of an angel’s. “He’s in the army. All I want to do is be his wife and follow the drum. It’s impossible. I told him so, but he came to steal me away.”

Finding only sympathy in the expression of her listener, Nora went on. “My father is dead. The Grenshaws send my mother money. Without it, we couldn’t go on. My sisters are all much younger than I. They can do nothing to keep themselves as yet. Gilbert ... he’s only a lieutenant and a second son. He hasn’t enough to support a wife
and
her family. I have to marry Thorpe. I must!”

“No, my dear. What you must do is talk to him. You’ve spent hours in his company. Do you think he would refuse to help you? His nature would not allow it.”

“He seems kind.”

“He
is
kind. The kindest man in the world. He has shown such courtesy to me who is no more to him than a mere governess. What would he not do for you, his cousin?”

Nora’s brow furrowed with thought. “Oh, I daren’t,” she said at last. “If the Grenshaws found out... if he refuses to help me ... I can’t!”

‘Then I will,” Lillian said with decision. She stood up. “You go to your room and wash away that perfume. I know Thorpe will not prosecute your Gilbert. He’s far more likely to offer him a bed for the night. As soon as Thorpe’s alone, I shall talk to him about your predicament. I know he’ll make it right.”

Though Nora still looked doubtful, she seemed willing to place her future in Lillian’s hands. Perhaps she was merely used to allowing others to take action for her.

Entering the house, Lillian passed the butler, attired in his very best cravat, black coat, and breeches. “Pardon me, Mr. Becksnaff,” she said. “Do you know what happened to the poacher?”

“Mr. Everard gave him a meal and a bed. Miss Cole. The young person is at this moment taking supper in the kitchen.”

“Mr. Everard could never be cruel to anyone, could he, Mr. Becksnaff?”

“I have certainly never seen him behave with less than the proper courtesy, Miss Cole. Is there anything further?”

“Yes. Do you know where Mr. Everard is now?”

The butler, who had unbent somewhat during this conversation, suddenly straightened. A frozen look replaced the half smile with which he’d favored her. “I couldn’t say.”

“Thank you, Mr. Becksnaff.”

There were not as many people in the ballroom as there had been. Lady Genevieve, her lips tight, stood in discourse with several other dowagers, Mrs. Grenshaw noticeable among them, gesturing with great animation. As Lillian glanced about the floor, she saw Thorpe with one of the callow youths who’d spoken to her before. As though the power of her gaze drew his attention, Thorpe looked up to see her. No interest gleamed in his eyes. Pointedly, he turned his shoulder.

Lillian’s cheeks stung exactly as though she’d been slapped. She wanted to crawl away and hide. Perhaps she would have if Mr. Finch had not then come up to her. She looked at him dully, wondering what new insult was to be offered to her.

“Pardon me for not recognizing you before. We met several months ago—goodness, I believe it was last Season—at Lady Sanditon’s Venetian breakfast. What a sad romp that turned out to be.” He chortled then, seeing she still looked blank, said, “You
are
Jacob Canfield’s daughter, are you not?”

“No, sir,” she replied, but even as she denied it, the affirmation of her parenthood went ringing through her blood. She was indeed Jacob Canfield’s daughter, and he had never walked away from a fight in his life. She dipped a curtsy, cutting short Mr. Finch’s confused apologies, and started toward Mr. Thorpe Everard with determination in her eyes.

He was no longer standing beside Neville. She felt as though she’d been chasing him for hours, though aware it had been but moments. Yet with this new infusion of fortitude, she knew she had the strength to search him out no matter where he went to ground. Perhaps Neville recognized this for he did not try to detain her or insult her when he told her Mr. Everard had mentioned going to the library to look up something related to the game laws.

Pressing on, Lillian saw that many people were bidding Lady Genevieve good night. The jingle and rattle of carriages departing echoed through the hall. Apparently, the guests had decided the capture of the scofflaw was the last entertainment of the evening.

Reaching the library door, Lillian jerked it open without knocking. Entering, she found her courage to be of the transitory variety, vanishing utterly when most required.

He seemed so completely unhappy, leaning against the deep window frame as though exhausted. She could not see his face, for he covered it with his hand. Lillian closed the door and approached him silently, all wish for a confrontation past. When she laid her fingers on his shoulder, he jerked violently and spun around.

“You!”

“Who else?” Lillian smiled. Gone was all trace of the pleasant and eternally controlled Thorpe. She loved him for the empathy that was so much a part of his nature, but she adored him most when the grasp he kept on his darker emotions slipped, as now. She stood before him, waiting for him to take her once more into his arms. The door was closed, and the library sofa deep and wide.