Barbara Metzger (8 page)

"No, I cannot face him,” she cried from her chaise longue, having stuffed the novel she was reading under the cushions. Fluttering her handkerchief, she moaned weakly. “It is all my fault, and now we'll be ruined. Susan will never make a good marriage, my only son will hate me forever, and dear Theo will be banned from his clubs."

"Good grief, Mother, what did the two of you do that you confessed in a hatband? No, please don't tell me, I beg of you. And please do not get yourself in such a state. It isn't good for your health. No one is going to broadcast your secrets, and if they do, no one is going to give the gossip any credit. You are a viscountess, for heaven's sake, one of the doyennes of the
haut monde.
Now why don't we go down and let Old, ah, Lord Hume take you for a ride in the park?"

"No, I cannot go out. I cannot face the world.” The hand at her breast added a nice, dramatic touch, she thought.

It also dislodged the novel, which fell at Wynn's feet. He eyed her suspiciously. “Coming too strong,
maman.
Just what is it that you don't want to do?"

The dowager straightened the blanket on her knees, not looking at her handsome, cynical son. She didn't even try to gammon him anymore. “Lenore is sick and cannot chaperon your sister tonight."

"Do not look at me that way, Mother. It won't kill the chit to stay home for once. She can spend one evening reading improving works or doing needlework with you. It seems to me that you've been embroidering the same chair cushions for the last six years."

Lady Stanford did not want to discuss her embroidery or the purple-covered novels residing in her workbasket. “Your sister is a debutante. She must go out, must be seen."

He snorted. “She's been out for well over a year, Mother, and is an acclaimed Toast. She is hardly liable to be forgotten in one night."

"She has already accepted."

"Then you and Hume can take her to whichever ball or breakfast or whatever the boring entertainment is tonight."

"Theo is too distressed. He really is, Wynn. And he gets dyspeptic when he is upset. Besides, he hates to play for the chicken stakes at those affairs."

"I see, so you think to foist the escort duty off on me. It won't wash, Mother. I have more important things to do."

"Like hide out in that smelly workroom? Or stay all night at that place in Kensington?"

"What do you know about the place in Kensington?"

"What, do you think your father didn't have his
chère amie
stashed somewhere, that I wouldn't know about such things? If he hadn't, Theo and I mightn't have—but that's not the point. You should be going to these affairs, Wynn, to find a wife. Just think, then it would be
her
duty to chaperon your sister."

"Zeus, how did we get from Hume's heartburn to my bride? You haven't been talking to the chaps at Whitehall, have you?"

"Well, Susan is not going to find an eligible
parti
sitting at home either. I'll never have grandchildren at this rate."

"Mother, I—"

"Go. What do you care that I should be back in Bath, where the doctors are knowledgeable about my condition, the waters are healthful, and the air is clean? You're too selfish to get married, and now you won't help your sister find a husband."

What, did his mother think he wanted her and Susan living in his house forever? The viscount had been trying to get the chit fired off for ages, it seemed. He might have more luck if she stopped weeping.

"Dash it, Sukey, you look like a sausage, all red and puffy. And I don't appreciate your turning into a watering pot over some foolish masquerade."

Susan left the window seat in the morning room, where she'd been staring out at the park across the way. “You really are a heartless beast, Wynn Alton. I'm not crying over missing a masked ball, although I have never been to one at Vauxhall because you are too stiff-rumped to take me. I am distressed, which you would understand if you had the least consideration for others’ feelings, over the plight of poor Miss Lockharte. She was right, Wynn, you do show a callous disregard for those you consider beneath you, which is practically everyone."

"'Heartless beast,’ ‘callous disregard'? Now why do those phrases sound familiar? Your penmanship instructor didn't write all that to you, too, did she?"

"Of course not. She wished me courage and happiness, as I told you. But that's what she wrote in her letter to you. And don't look daggers at me, Wynn. If you hadn't wanted me to see it, you shouldn't have left the letter lying around."

"It wasn't lying around, by George. It was in my desk in my office!"

"I needed some paper."

"You needed a better look at Stubbing, I suppose."

"You must admit he is attractive."

"I must admit nothing of the kind, Sukey, and neither must you. Stubbing is a mere second son with connections that might lead to a government post if he is lucky. He could never support you in the style you're used to, so don't think to set up one of your flirtations with him. He is not up to your weight."

"Now you are being hateful, and all because you know I'm right. You
are
arrogant and selfish, just as Miss Lockharte said."

"Dash it, stop quoting the deplorable female, brat. I don't need to hear one more word from her or you."

"She is not deplorable, sirrah; she is dying, of your coldhearted neglect. Poor Miss Lockharte is most likely dead by now.” Susan started weeping again at the thought.

Wynn was disgusted. “Overwrought and unbalanced, your friend might be. Dead, no. No one at death's door knocks so loudly. Her drivel contained so much contempt, so much scathing denunciation of the whole aristocracy, that she simply couldn't be ready to cash in her chips. Confound it, with instructors like that, it's no wonder you turned out to be a spoiled widgeon. I don't believe you care half as much for your sick schoolteacher as you pretend. You're upset because Lenore cannot take you to your party tonight."

"Well, you are far off the mark. Why should I be upset about missing Lady Carrington's musicale? Mama said you would escort me. You'll adore it. Lady Carrington's niece is going to play the harp."

Wynn could think of only one thing to do. He stood in the hall and shouted for Stubbing.

Lord Hume stuck his bald head out of the library door. “Ah, home, are you, Stanford? I've been wanting a word with you."

Wynn combed his hands through his already disordered curls and gnashed his teeth. “Yes, sir, I'll be right there. Just trying to arrange an escort for my sister to tonight's entertainment."

"Good,” the earl said, heading back into the library. “I can't stand the deuced caterwauling myself. I told your mother you'd find a way to get out of it."

There was no way Wynn was going to get out of hearing Lord Hume's confession. Feet dragging, he followed the older man into his own bookroom, which was so thick with smoke that he could barely make out the shelves of books. He opened a window while Lord Hume lumbered over to the most comfortable chair in the room and lowered himself into it.

"Smoke, my boy?” he offered, holding out a fresh cigar. The one in his other hand was a thick, sodden mess, with leaves coming unwrapped from being gnawed on.

Wynn declined politely, then poured himself a glass of wine. He went to stand next to the window, not caring that the early spring day was dank and cold. He was never going to get back to his soldiers, at this rate.

"Bit of a pickle, what?” the antique aristocrat asked, his florid cheeks like bellows as he puffed away.

It was a devil of a coil, letting the army's secrets fall into enemy hands.

"I know it was foolish to have it lying around, but I liked to have the note near me."

Wynn realized the elderly earl was speaking of his blasted hat. “Couldn't you have kept it in your pocket?"

"M'valet goes through the pockets, don't you know. Couldn't trust the chap not to pocket it, like he does with m'loose change, or toss it in the trash."

"Then a safe? Wouldn't that have been the better place for such an incriminating, ah, important document?"

"Likely it would, but I thought it brought me luck all these years. You know what they say about unlucky in love, lucky at cards, or something like that. I felt like I had an angel on m'shoulder, don't you know."

Wynn thought he did. Old Humidor had never wed, not even with a title to pass down, although Wynn thought there were nephews in line for the earldom. But he'd been wearing the willow for all these years and a
billet-doux
next to his heart. Or next to his balding pate. The idea that this tobacco-stained knight of the baize table had loved a female all these years was so sweet, it was making the viscount ill. No, that was the cigar smoke.

"Thing is, the note would embarrass your dear mama."

"She wrote the letter, I suppose?” Wynn asked, resigned to the worst.

Hume spit out a mouthful of wet tobacco. “Said she loved me. I was honored."

"And I gather she signed the letter? And addressed it to you?"

The earl nodded.

"Well, I can't see what all the fuss is about. The ton knows you dote on my mother. Everyone is used to seeing you together, here and in Bath."

"She dated it."

Whoever thought women should be educated to read and write ought to be shot. Between that dreadful dying woman in Worthing and his own dear, dunderheaded mother, Wynn felt like tearing his hair out. Except then he might look like Theo Hume, combing his hair across his forehead, all six strands of it The viscount had a more horrifying thought: Perhaps he was destined to look like the earl anyway. How did one ask one's own mother's paramour such a question? Pardon, Earl, but are you my papa? Hell and damnation. “I take it the date preceded my father's death?"

Hume blew a smoke ring, so he'd have something to stare at, rather than his host. “Loved her forever, it seems. But her father wanted Stanford's blunt for his gel. Arranged marriage, don't you know."

Wynn knew he wasn't getting an answer. He supposed it wasn't any of his business, except he might not be his father's heir. “Why the deuce don't you marry her now, then? You wouldn't have to worry about any gossip."

"I've asked once a month since your mother put off her blacks. First of the month, like clockwork. That way I won't forget. She won't have me till you and Susan are settled respectably. Then you can't be touched by any scandals from the past. Says it's her duty to Stanford."

No wonder she wanted to see him wed, and Susan, too, Wynn thought

The earl was going on, talking around the stump of a cigar in his mouth. “She'll never have me, now that I've gone and put her family in danger of being ostracized from Polite Society. Susan most of all."

Wynn thought he knew the date on the letter now. “Perhaps it will never come to that. I still think someone took the hat in error. It could be returned any day."

The earl shook his head, his jowls flapping. “Lost my letter, lost my lady, lost my love.” A tear wended its slow way down his ruddy cheek.

Wynn knew he had to do something to keep the family skeletons in the closet, where they belonged. He wasn't a careless care-for-naught, despite Miss Lockharte's opinion of his character. “I have a few leads to pursue,” he told Lord Hume now, “gentlemen I haven't been able to question because they've gone out of Town. With you and Stubbing to keep an eye on things here, I might as well follow them all south."

That way, his library might have aired out by the time he got back, and he could hunt for his missing soldiers. And while he was in the vicinity, Wynn reluctantly conceded, he might as well look up his sister's mortally ill—or mentally unstable—mentor. Lud, he was actually going to Brighton.

Miss Rosellen Lockharte, meanwhile, was going to Heaven.

Heaven was just as Rosellen had imagined, all white and soft, downy and cushiony. The clouds were like pillows and she was melting into their gentle welcome. She couldn't see anything, or else her eyes would not open, but that was all right. She was content to drift in the fleece. Then a shadow seemed to cross over her and the surrounding billows shifted beneath her. Rosellen wondered if she'd have to share her cloud, the way she'd had to share her bed when she first came to Miss Merrihew's.

Rosellen was not quite as comfortable, not quite as secure on her cloud. She still couldn't see, but now she couldn't breathe either. Perhaps one was not supposed to need air in Heaven, but surely angels didn't go around gasping and wheezing for breath, as she seemed to be doing. What was the point of clouds if they covered one's nose and mouth? She'd have to ask her father about that. Surely he'd know. Meanwhile, she tried to pull the cloud away. Sticking plaster could not have adhered more firmly. She couldn't even call for help.

Suddenly there was less pressure on her face and Rosellen took a deep, revitalizing breath. She thought she heard Fanny say, “Here now, miss, how did you get yourself all tangled up like this? Tryin’ to dance a hornpipe afore you got your sea legs back?'

"Fanny, you're an angel,” Rosellen managed to say when she had enough air in her lungs. The little maid must have caught the influenza, too, poor thing. And no wonder, the way she'd been run ragged. Rosellen hoped she hadn't suffered long.

Bustling about at the bedside with a cup of broth, Fanny laughed. “And didn't the bloke at the receiving office say the
same
thing when he saw me in the red cloak."

"Oh, did you get a new mantle?"

"Still all about in your head, I see. Doctor says the fever's gone now; you just need to get your strength up. Best drink your broth and hurry recoverin'. Mistress won't be letting me wait on the likes of you once the payin’ students come back."

This made no sense whatsoever to Rosellen, but she told herself she'd figure it out once she had a bit more rest. She started to drift away on her clouds again, thankfully on top of them rather than in their smothering midst.

"And all your letters got delivered,” Fanny said, proud she'd managed the task without Miss Merrihew being any the wiser.