A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) (17 page)

“It’s very difficult to notice other young men when he’s about, so I fear I’m not certain,” Miss Charing said apologetically.

“Allow me to try to be explain. Do any young men seem to … lose their ability to speak around you?”

She considered this. “Mr. Simon Covington, perhaps. Goes silent as the tomb when I’m near. But Miss Amy Pitney says it’s because I don’t allow anyone else to get a word in. She thinks she’s so clever. A pity for her that ‘clever’ is her best quality. She thinks she can fascinate the vicar with talk of botany.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I ask, because if a man doesn’t immediately commence with flattery, another way to know if you’ve captivated him if he seems to be a bit overwhelmed by your presence. At a loss for words. Intoxicated by your beauty. That sort of thing.”

Miss Charing slowly mouthed the words Intoxicated by your beauty to herself, as if they were a delicious new delicacy.

She mulled this. “The vicar once seemed to all but run from me at an Assembly earlier this year. I was talking and talking—I told him about the preserves my mother and I were putting up, you see— and suddenly he moved away very quickly, for he said he had pressing business. Could that perhaps be construed as overwhelmed?”

“After a fashion,” Eve allowed cautiously.

“Most of the time, I rather lose my ability to speak around him,” she said glumly.

Something for which he might just be grateful, Eve suspected.

“And then when I do recover it, I cannot seem to stop speaking.”

She thought of the flare in his eyes as she stood in the O’Flaherty’s house. Yes, in her way, Miss Charing had described the vicar in a nutshell: He had the potent ability to make even her speechless. And she could imagine his frozen panic in the face of a babbler. He hadn’t the patience for babbling; he was a man of economy.

“Do you think my beauty is intoxicating?” Miss Charing asked artlessly.

“The right man is bound to think so,” Evie said diplomatically.

“Well, that sounds true,” Josephine sounded heartened. “I’m certainly pretty enough. Compared to some girls. Who have rich fathers. Who needn’t be at all charming in order to attract a suitor.” She said this darkly. Then she confessed despairingly. “It’s just … I’ve no hope of leaving Pennyroyal Green, you see, Lady Balmain; I will never have a London season. I’ve no fortune. I cannot travel far, and my mother fears for my prospects. I cannot get a rich man to look at me with any seriousness, but the vicar isn’t rich, now, is he? And I should like to marry for love.”

Marry for love. A luxury for a girl like Miss Charing, whose very life depended on marrying, period. Evie half wanted to shake some sense into her. Her sister Cora had married for love, and she had six babies and a husband who seemed to be teetering on the brink of leaving her if he hadn’t left already. Her mother had married for love, and Evie had lived the consequences of her mother’s decision her entire whole life. Love, in fact, was for Evie a bit like London was for Miss Charing: a land she couldn’t afford to visit.

And yet.

“Ye ought to try it. Just for the variety,” Henny had said.

As if it wasn’t as perilous as walking a St. Giles alley at night.

“I should like to captivate the vicar,” Josephine concluded. “ Do you suppose you can help?”

Evie smiled brightly, all the while thinking, Imagine the folly of trying to make that man do something he doesn’t want to do.

“I will tell you a secret, Miss Charing.”

Miss Charing leaned forward breathlessly.

“Be yourself. And if you focus on finding something to appreciate in every man, and make certain they know it, they will all find you fascinating. They’ll compete for your attention. You might find yourself spoiled for choice. You might find yourself seeing them in a different light, and might fall in love with a quality you didn’t notice before.”

Miss Charing sat back hard in her chair, quite struck dumb by the profundity of this. Her eyes were wide as she silently took this in.

“Do you think so? Really? Even the vicar?”

Evie stifled a sigh.

“I just gave you one of my closely guarded secrets,” Evie said, which didn’t answer Miss Charing’s question.

“Thank you, Lady Wareham,” she all but gushed. “Do you know, Mama said the women of the town were worried about their husbands and the single men of Pennyroyal Green when such a notorious countess took Damask Manor. But I told them you’d married an earl, for heaven’s sake, and you were a widow now—what use would you have for their husbands? Or a vicar, for that matter?”

“Oh, I’ve quite given up on men entirely in favor of giving advice about them,” Evie assured her. “I’ve no use at all for them. And thank you for coming to my defense.”

“Mrs. Sneath will be happy to hear it!” Miss Charing said delightedly. “And you’re welcome. I hope to see you at the Assembly after all. Perhaps you can tell me whether I’m following your advice correctly.”

Chapter 13

EVE HAD ONLY just seen Josephine out and was ready to take up her embroidery again when the footman reappeared.

“You’ve another visitor, my lady. A Miss Amy Pitney.”

“Well.” Eve wasn’t entirely surprised. “Do send her in.”

Beaming, Henny leaped up, whisked away Miss Charing’s teacup and replaced it with a clean one, then made herself scarce.

Miss Amy Pitney appeared rather more briskly than Miss Charing had, her slippers clacking confidently along the marble. She likely lived in a house as fine if not finer.

“Good day, Lady Balmain. I hope you don’t mind my calling upon you.”

She said it as though there was never any doubt she’d be gratefully received.

“I’m delighted to see you, Miss Pitney. Would you like some tea? It’s fresh.”

“I would, thank you.”

Eve poured for the two of them.

She did rather have her nose in the air, Eve thought, amused. But she suspected the demeanor was compensation for the fact that she knew she wasn’t pretty, and she’d decided hauteur would give her presence. But she wasn’t unattractive. Her face was long, her chin square, her eyes dark and clever and darting beneath those severe, abundant brows. Her green walking dress exquisitely suited her coloring and was painstakingly fashionable, from the number of flounces at the hem to the color of the trim.

She looked about curiously. Her eyes settled on the portrait over the mantel.

“I haven’t the faintest idea who that is,” Evie admitted. “I was considering giving him a name.”

Miss Pitney smiled at that. But she was tense, and the corners of her mouth couldn’t seem to reach very high.

“I was very impressed with your work with the O’Flaherty children, Lady Balmain,” she began coolly. She sounded as though she were interviewing a governess.

Evie slowly hiked a brow.

And said nothing. Deciding Miss Pitney could benefit from a little humbling. And she’d recently learned the effectiveness of a little strategic silence from a man who used it like a weapon.

Miss Pitney had the grace to flush.

“You see, I’ve a reason for calling today. You did say to Mrs. Sneath that you had some experience getting what you want, and that you’d be delighted to share what you know about men.”

“I certainly did say that.”

She inhaled. Clearly she was tormented by what she was about to say next. She exhaled.

“I’m not pretty,” she said matter-of-factly, on a rush. She raised her chain arrogantly. “Not like some people who shall remain nameless. I have long since come to terms with the fact that I must rely on my wit and intelligence—unlike other featherheads, who shall remain nameless—and my fortune for suitors. I think perhaps I might appreciate them more as a result. Unlike others, who shall remain nameless, who have been careless with the affections of others.”

Her voice escalated toward the end of the sentence. She clapped her mouth shut and flushed, surprised by her own outburst.

So Miss Pitney was a girl of hidden passions.

She wondered if Simon Covington, the young man rendered speechless by Miss Josephine Charing, was the subject of them. Or whether she was about to be subjected to more conversation about the vicar’s appeal.

“I’ve a suitor who seems very sincere in his affections. But he’s handsome, you see. Very handsome. And I should like to—”

“Miss Pitney, may I make a suggestion?”

She hiked that obstinate chin, peeved at the interruption. “If you must.”

“Some of the most famous courtesans have been, shall we say, not traditionally attractive. Charm is an essence, not a façade.”

Miss Pitney went motionless. Then mouthed, “Charm is an essence, not façade,” to herself, fascinated.

“Believe in your own appeal, and it will radiate. Men will be as moths to flames.”

This might have been a bit of an exaggeration.

But Miss Pitney took this in for a good while. And her face radiated hope, and she was lovely in that moment, the way that hope can make one lovely.

“Even the … vicar?”

She’d evidently decided to aim high with her new knowledge.

She rushed on. “He is a clever man, and I feel certain he can see beneath surfaces. I always like to have a topic ready to discuss, you see, when it comes to men. He comes to our house for dinner at least once a month—my father is the doctor here in town, Lady Wareham—and we’ve chatted about botany. A lovely chat, for there’s just a small parcel of land behind the vicarage, part of the living, he’s working, and … well, then he gave the sermon about loving thy neighbor, the other morning, and his voice is so very confiding. And I felt as though …” She stopped and gave a rueful smile. “Then again, I’m certain every woman in the church thought he was speaking directly to them.”

Thus demonstrating that she was indeed clever.

“An optimistic interpretation of the sermon, perhaps, on the part of the women of Pennyroyal Green,” Eve suggested diplomatically. “It’s lovely to hear a man speak kindly, when husbands tend to take their wives for granted.”

“When one is overlooked with great consistency, one becomes observant, Lady Wareham, and I suppose I am. Perhaps you didn’t make that mistake about the sermon as you’ve known so … many men … and he might not seem exceptional to you.”

She paused, perhaps hoping to be treated to a discussion of the many men.

Eve hadn’t made that mistake about the vicar because she’d been sleeping. But Miss Pitney again had a point. “Since my husband the earl died, I find I don’t think very much about men one way or the other,” she decided to say. With a wistful smile.

She could have sworn Amy Pitney stifled a sigh of relief. Eve was certain Miss Pitney would ensure every woman in Pennyroyal Green heard about it by telling, for instance, Mrs. Sneath.

“Your suitor, Miss Pitney … do you care for him?”

Amy fidgeted in thought, her nails tapping, chink chink chink, against the side of her teacup. “I do,” she said softly, almost wonderingly, with a little laugh. “At least I think I do. He’s very charming and persuasive … he has such lovely manners. I hardly dare hope he genuinely finds me appealing. It’s nothing he says or does in particular, mind you, that makes me uncertain, just something I fear. I ought to be grateful for the attentions, but … shouldn’t one wish to marry for love?”

Eve knew more than a little something about being desired for something other than her engaging personality.

“How do you know when a man is sincere, Lady Wareham? I’d hoped you’d be able to meet him and tell me what you think of him. I’ve been disappointed before, you see …”

How did one know if a man was sincere? This was an excellent question. Eve mulled it in silence, allowed images to drift into her mind. One answer was, “when they win you in a card game and marry you, to the shock of everyone.” Myriad men had sincerely wanted to get her into bed; myriad men had sincerely wanted her simply because other men did. But the truest answer, she realized was: when he plays no games at all. When he doesn’t know how to flirt, and merely says what he’s thinking, and doesn’t judge. When flattery makes him squirm, and epithets make him laugh, and you want to tell him things, and he’s too busy building fences and comforting people and the like to treat romance as a toy.

Then you know a man is altogether sincere.

“Sincere men are very rare, indeed,” she said softly. “If I’m fortunate enough to be invited to the Assembly, I will of a certainty tell you what I think of him, Miss Pitney. But please do believe in your own appeal.”

“Thank you, Lady Wareham.”

This girl, thought Eve, might very well become a genuine friend.

Eve walked Miss Pitney to the door, then walked with her as far as the arbor to wave her off.

She watched her go.

And then paused and inhaled deeply and sighed contentedly, not at all dissatisfied with the morning as it had progressed so far. She tipped her head back. Enormous clouds tented her overhead, and the sun pushed its way through them, turning them a luxurious nacre color. A long spade leaned against a bench, left by the gardener, who was no doubt filling in vole holes or whatever it was gardeners did. Perhaps I’ll become one of those women who become passionate about roses, she mulled. Since I clearly will never become passionate about embroidery.

She thrust her arms up in a stretch and was about to turn for the house when a rustling sound froze her. She turned cautiously.

All at once, one of her shrubberies began shaking violently.

She scrambled, stumbling, backward with a stifled shriek. And then froze in helpless horror, hand to her throat, as it swayed to and fro, very much as though it was attempting to tear up its roots and charge at her.

She lunged for the spade and swung it up over her shoulder, poised to beat the devil out of it.

The shrubbery gave one final heave and out popped the vicar.

He brushed himself off nonchalantly.

The spade slipped out her hands and clattered to the ground. “The devil …”

She glared at him. Her entire body vibrated with her thudding heart.

“No, not the devil,” he said mildly. “Are you disappointed?” He grinned at her. “I am. You didn’t shriek at me in Irish. Or say ‘bloody.’ ”