Anne Barbour (8 page)

March followed her glance. Why was that Rayburn fellow about, he wondered irritably. He had noticed him as one of Alison’s more vocal admirers the other night at the Assembly. This afternoon the man was making a perfect ass of himself, hovering over Alison as though she were an invalid, incapable of procuring her own cold chicken and salad.

“Yes,” he answered shortly. “I am enjoying myself immensely and will enjoy myself even more when these chattering children have all gone back to their nurseries and I can put my feet up in a quiet room with something large and cold in my hand.

“Oh, but there is plenty of lemonade,” replied Alison, her eyes wide and ingenuous.

“Ah, you relieve my mind. More lemonade is, of course, precisely what I require right now. Minx.”

Alison laughed engagingly, bringing March to a startled realization that he was indulging in banter with the enemy. But, was she really his enemy? he wondered, as he had been doing with increasing frequency over the last few days. He wished her company wasn’t so damned enjoyable. This was not surprising, of course. Any adventuress worth her salt would have to be charming, and just as surely, he reminded himself, an engaging laugh must be a stock in trade for her sort. She was probably laboring under the delusion that she could charm him into acceptance of her as a suitable companion for his aunt. He intended to prove her wrong.

Apparently his thoughts were easily read on his face, for after a quick glance at him, Alison rose to her feet and made as though to join Lady Edith. Perversely, he held out a hand to stay her.

“Tell me about this school of yours.”

Alison’s eyes widened. “Well,” she began warily, “I thought of setting it up just outside London. In Kensington, perhaps. On the other hand, I may join the number of select academies already in Bath—so that I may be near Lady Edith,” she concluded a little self-consciously.

March looked at her in some astonishment. If she was telling the truth, she had chosen an odd occupation for an adventuress.

“Do you plan to teach in the school yourself?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, at least at first. If we are a success, the administrative duties will keep me quite busy, I suppose.”

Alison’s eyes had taken on a sparkle of enthusiasm as she spoke, but at the earl’s next words, they became shuttered.

“And for this, you are proposing to leave my aunt at the end of the year, after your protestations of devotion to her?”

“Of course not,” she replied in a weary tone. “I told you—I have informed Lady Edith that, while I appreciate the gift she plans to bestow upon me then, I shall set it aside for the time being. I shall remain here in Bath with her as long as she needs me.”

“Ah, well then,” March retorted, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice, “she is, after all, in her seventies. Perhaps you won’t have long to wait.”

At this, Alison stood abruptly. “Her ladyship is in excellent health, which I hope will continue for some years to come. Now, if you will excuse me ...” She walked swiftly away in the direction of the other adults.

March cursed his unruly tongue. He had glimpsed the tears that had flashed in her eyes before she turned away, and he could only conclude they were genuine. He sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt. Was he wrong about Miss Alison Fox? Everything in his experience led him to mistrust her, but her sincerity, and the unconscious affection she had shown his aunt during the time he had observed her was beginning to overwhelm him. Could he have been so mistaken in his assessment?

She had turned down a substantial bribe, and displayed no inclination to negotiate further. Perhaps, he thought, it would behoove him to remain in Bath for another week.

He should, of course, be getting back to Frances. But Frances, he was perfectly aware, would wait on his return. She and her doting parents had made it plain that in the earl of Marchford—or at least in his title and his wealth—they beheld the realization of their dreams for the Honorable Frances Milford.

Abruptly, he pushed this uncomfortable notion from his mind, dimly aware that the careful business-like approach to marriage on which he had prided himself now brought him only a profound sense of depression. He also preferred not to dwell on the anticipation stirring within him at the prospect of spending another week in the company of Alison Fox.

Dinner that night was a lively affair, for Sally Pargeter had returned with Meg from the picnic and had been invited to spend the night. The two young ladies were still very full of the events of the afternoon, and most of the conversation was taken up with the exploits of the various young males in attendance at the picnic. After dinner, they retired early, Meg explaining that they had much to talk over, as though the house were not still ringing from their airy prattle.

“I had no idea,” commented March as he and Alison and Lady Edith took their ease in the drawing room, “that the doings of a group of the greenest young halflings I’ve seen in quite some time could provide so much food for conversation.”

“I assure you,” replied Lady Edith, “their doings are only of interest to very young ladies.”

Alison made no comment, merely wondering to herself over Meg’s demeanor this evening. The girl bad been almost febrile in her excitement, her eyes fairly blazing. Several times she had started to say something, then caught herself with a meaningful glance at Sally, whose returning look was one of sheer terror, if Alison was not very much mistaken. What was the imp up to now? Alison supposed she need not be overly concerned. Meg was well bred, and if her volatility sometimes led her into actions bordering on impropriety, they were no more than might be expected from a high-spirited young damsel who had been pampered and doted upon since birth. There was no denying she was a rare handful, but she was also well aware of the fine line between what was acceptable in a well-bred young miss and what was most definitely not. At least, she had been up till now. Aware that Lady Edith was speaking to her, Alison pushed her concern to the back of her mind.

“Of course, my lady,” she replied mechanically. “A drive to Whitestone Abbey tomorrow sounds lovely. And I’m sure Lady Melksham and Mrs. Busey will enjoy it, too.” The estate, owned by the Dowager Countess Melksham’s son, boasted an impressive ruin, which the ladies visited periodically. “But you do not wish to tire yourself. You are invited for cards at the Dunsaneys’ tomorrow evening.”

“Pooh,” said Lady Edith briskly. “A ride in the country is not going to tire me out.”

It was late when the earl bade a sedate good night to the ladies in Royal Crescent. At Lady Edith’s behest, Alison accompanied him to the door.

“Are you, too, looking forward to a drive to Whitestone Abbey, Miss Alison?” he inquired innocently.

Disconcerted, Alison stared for a moment into his sleepy-lion eyes before replying.

“Of—of course. It promises to be a pleasant outing.”

“Just what I was thinking,” came the placid rejoinder, his amusement plain at Alison’s obvious discomfiture upon realizing that he would make up one of the party. Settling his hat on his head, he lifted her fingers to his lips for a casual salute. At the last moment, he turned her hand over in his and pressed a kiss on her palm. She jerked her hand away from him as though she had been burned.

“Good night, my lord,” she whispered harshly, and whirled on her heel. The last thing she heard as she fled up the stairs was the door closing on his soft laughter.

Now what was he up to? she wondered as she made preparations for bed. Did he think to charm her into relinquishing her place in his aunt’s home? She sniffed. Charm was certainly not the man’s forte. He could lay no claim to being a lady’s man, for he was arrogant to a fault and not particularly handsome. His clothing was of excellent quality and he wore it with great style, but he could hardly be called a top of the trees. His features were nothing out of the ordinary—if one discounted the way his eyes looked in candlelight. And, if truth be told, she assured herself, his jaw made him look pugnacious rather than handsome. In short, she concluded with some satisfaction, she was in no danger of succumbing to Lord Marchford’s feeble attempts at seduction. But as she curled her body into sleep that night, her fingers closed tightly over the place where he had dropped a kiss, and she drew her hand to her breast with an unconscious sigh.

She found herself continuing the earl’s catalog of flaws the next afternoon during the journey to Whitestone Abbey. She was sharing the coach with Lady Edith and her particular cronies, Gertrude, Lady Melksham, and Elizabeth Busey, known as Bessie to her friends. All three ladies were of the same generation and spent many happy hours gossiping about events that belonged to the distant past; there was great delight to be had in shredding the reputations of persons who had long since passed on to their rewards.

Alison smiled at the scurrilous tales, told with such relish, and returned her gaze to the straight figure who rode on horseback just beyond the window. He sat a horse well, but then so did most men of his class. Whether any of them could have managed the mettlesome bay he guided with such ease was debatable, but he could not really be called dashing, could he? No, certainly not. Practiced, perhaps, but nothing more.

Once the party arrived at the abbey, Alison was kept blessedly occupied, with little time to mull over the earl’s appearance and character. The ladies, of course, were unable to walk up to the abbey ruins, but the coachman manipulated the vehicle close enough so that the beauty of the ancient monastery could be admired. A small luncheon was spread for their delectation, after which Lady Edith and Mrs. Busey dozed. Lady Melksham, however, was made of sterner stuff, and declared her intention of sketching the main arch, which, happily was just a few feet from the roadway. She accepted with many thanks Alison’s arrangement of cushions and scarves, declaring herself perfectly comfortable—but would dear Alison mind fetching the small pillow she always used when she sketched? She was quite sure her maid had packed it in a box that had been placed near her sketching supplies. When fifteen minutes’ worth of rummaging produced the desired article, Lady Melksham again offered her profuse thanks and remarked that if dear Alison would just procure the shawl she had a mere few moments ago tucked behind the squabs of the coach, she would be quite settled. March found himself forced to admire Alison’s undiminished good humor as she found the shawl—eventually—and the lady’s spectacles, and poured her a glass of wine to sustain her through her labors, and adjusted her stool a number of times before she was at last able to take pencil in hand. By this time, the other two ladies had awakened from their slumber, and with a languid gesture Lady Melksham stated that she was quite tired of sketching and perfectly willing to return home as the ladies requested.

March parted from the ladies in Royal Crescent immediately on their return home and made his way back to York House, where he was presented with a missive from Jonas Pilcher. With an unexpected tension, he tore open the letter and scanned its contents hurriedly.

“Miss Alison Fox,” wrote Mr. Pilcher in a precise hand, “is the only offspring of the Reverend Martin Fox, who died some four years ago. Miss Fox is described as being in her late twenties—tall and slender with dark hair and blue eyes. All the persons I contacted spoke of her with respect and affection. She has lived in Ridstowe all her life, except for a period not long before her father’s death, when she visited a cousin in Yorkshire for an extended length of time. After her father’s death...”

The neat writing went on to detail her departure from Ridstowe to become companion to Lady Strangeways. Here, Pilcher said, his investigation had stopped. Did his lordship wish to proceed?

No, sighed March to himself, his lordship did not wish to proceed. Miss Fox’s life was, apparently, an open book, clean and pure as the first snowfall of winter. He felt an odd sense of relief at the news, as though a burden had been lifted from him—which was quite ridiculous. He was pleased, of course, that he would not be put to the trouble and expense of ridding his aunt of a disastrous encumbrance. In fact, it was beginning to sound as though Alison Fox was the best thing that had ever happened to the old lady. This, however, hardly accounted for the sense of lightness—almost of exhilaration—that swept over him at the thought of Alison’s blameless existence. Nor was there any particular reason why he was looking forward to a tame evening of cards with some of the most hideous bores of his acquaintance, none of them under seventy years of age, solely because the company would include a certain woman “in her late twenties—tall and slender with dark hair and blue eyes.” Blue eyes, he mused. What an inadequate description— like calling the Sistine Chapel an old church with a few pictures painted on the ceiling.

An image suddenly thrust itself upon him of his soon-to-be betrothed. Good God! he exclaimed silently. He could not bring to mind the color of Frances’s eyes. Some shade of gray, he rather thought. Steel gray. Like a pistol barrel. He shook himself. Lord, where had that thought come from? Frances, of course, was not to be compared to a mere lady’s companion— as she would be the first to remind him if she were here, he added, smiling sourly to himself. He rose suddenly. What the devil was the matter with him? Shrugging himself out of his riding coat, he rang for his valet. Time to ready himself for the evening, he told himself firmly, ignoring the traitorous stab of anticipation that left him a little breathless.

Several hours later, Alison stood poised in the doorway of the drawing room in the home of Sir Arthur Dunsaney and his wife, Millicent. Lady Edith had preceded her into the room, and Lord Marchford stood directly behind her. She did not wish to delve into the reason she had elected to dress with particular care this evening. She knew that her gown of turquoise gros de Naples was vastly becoming, having been told on a number of occasions that it made her eyes glow like jewels. It also possessed a lower décolletage than any of the gowns she had worn so far in Lord Marchford’s presence. It boasted a lavish sweep of embroidery across the bodice and the hemline, and, after adding her mother’s pearls, she felt complete to a shade wearing it. In justification, she felt she needed the added confidence the ensemble brought her, for she believed she was taking an extraordinary risk in attending a card party in the earl’s presence. She knew her fear to be irrational, but she imagined that she would only have to pick up a hand of cards to be immediately recognized by his lordship as the hussy who had supposedly cheated his sister-in-law of thousands of pounds.