Beyond Innocence (6 page)

"Indeed," she said, then grabbed his hat and gloves and rang for her rail-thin footman, John.

"Yes, your Grace?" he said in his distinctive sepulchral tones.

"Take Lord Greystowe's coat," she ordered. "Bring the port and bar the door. I am presently
indisposed."

"Very good," he said and glided off with what might have been the ghost of a smile.

She would not let Edward speak until the port arrived and he'd downed one brimming glass. "Now,"
she said, "I suppose your need of my social clout means you've found some chit foolish enough, or desperate enough, to consider a match with the footman's scourge."

"Is that what they're calling Freddie: the footman's scourge?"

"Well, I can think of one footman who isn't. From what I hear, they were having a lovely time before
that wretched beermaker burst in. Oh, don't pull that face with me, Edward. I'm older than you and I've seen things a good deal more shocking than young Freddie's peccadillo.
Done them, for that matter."

She patted his shoulder and filled his glass again with wine. Edward frowned into its ruby depths. Then
a happier thought struck him. If the duchess could view this scandal with levity, Freddie's position must not be as irretrievable as he'd feared.

"Tell me about this girl," she said. "Just how impossible is she?"

"Not too, I don't think, but green. She's a vicar's daughter.
Grew up in
Lancashire
somewhere.
Poor as
a church-mouse, of course, but
very
pretty."

"Oh, 'very'?" said Aunt Hypatia, with a humorous twist to her mouth.

Edward ignored what his unwitting emphasis might have meant. "She needs polish," he went on,
"and someone to sponsor her for the Season."

"What does the Season matter if she's going to marry Freddie?"

"She doesn't know she's going to marry Freddie. I want him to woo her. I want people to believe this
is a love match."

"Does Freddie know what you intend?"

"He will," Edward said, "and he will do what I say."

"I've no doubt he'll try, but—"Aunt Hypatia stopped herself midsentence. Lost in thought, she stacked
her hands over the cut-glass stopper of the wine decanter. "No," she said slowly. "You're right Freddie needs to settle. Better he should do it now, before it becomes impossible."

"So you'll help?"

She turned to him with her still brilliant smile. "You know me, darling: my family right or wrong.
Besides, how could I not help my favorite nephew out of a bind?"

The sting of hurt pricked him too suddenly to hide it True, Freddie had the charm of the family; Edward was accustomed to his little brother being everyone's favorite. The only person who'd ever preferred Edward was their father, a compliment he could not prize since the former earl had been a bastard. But
of the people Edward himself respected, he'd always thought— He swallowed and clenched his hands. He'd always thought Aunt Hypatia was partial to him.

Reading the involuntary flash of pain, she clasped his face in her cool, papery hands. "Oh, Edward, Freddie is only my favorite because he needs people's approval more than you do. Why, sometimes I think you'd survive the very Flood all by yourself." She lowered her hands to squeeze the conjoined fist he'd made of his own. "Dearest, I love you every bit as much. What's more, you're the one I would turn to were I in need."

The concern in her eyes made Edward aware of how ridiculous he was being. Of course, Freddie ought
to come first. Edward put Freddie first himself. Gently, he pulled his hands loose and cleared his throat.

"No need to talk nonsense," he said. "I'm a grown man, not a child."

"We're all children when it comes to love," said his aunt "When you're my age, I hope you know that
as well as I do."

Edward hoped he would not, but only time would tell.

* * *

The dowager duchess
of
Carlisle
was the most imposing woman
Florence
had ever met. She was as tall
as a man, nearly six foot, and not yet bowed by age. Her clear blue eyes were as sharp as diamonds, and far more penetrating. Her dress was exquisite, a tailored masterpiece of navy and silver stripes with a long basque waist and a bustle so restrained it made one long to burn one's ruffles.

At least, it made
Florence
long to.

Her knees had begun to knock the moment the ghoulish footman led her up to the drawing room. The ceilings were twice the height of a normal room, with gilded moldings and a teardrop chandelier that no doubt took the
servants
days to clean. The only thing that saved her from utter terror was an amusing coincidence: the duchess had the same gold and white Louis XV furniture as Madame Victoire. The duchess's, of course, was no papier-mache' imitation.

"Stand up straight," she snapped when a smile threatened to touch
Florence
's lips. "How can I tell how you look if you slump?"

Florence
's eyes widened because she knew she was standing straight. Her cheeks warmed as the
duchess stumped around her with an elegant ivory cane.
Florence
suspected she liked it more for the sound it made than for any support it might provide.

"Hmpf," said the duchess, the awful thumping coming to a halt. She had stopped just behind
Florence
's shoulder, but
Florence
didn't dare look around. She felt like an errant soldier on review.

"Who made your dress?" the duchess demanded.

"Madame Victoire of

"Never heard of her."
The duchess stumped to
Florence
's front. She touched her collar, her hands surprisingly gentle on the pleated cloth. "This red is good for you but far too dark for a chit barely out
of the schoolroom."

"It was made on short notice,"
Florence
said without a quaver. She'd always found it easier to stand up for others
than for herself, and she didn't want the dressmaker's judgment called into question. "It was
all she had on hand."

"Hmpf," said the duchess. Her diamond eyes seemed to measure every seam. She began to stump again. "Play the piano?"

'Tolerably well,
your
Grace."

"Sing?"

"Not for all the tea in
China
."

The stumping stopped.
Florence
gasped and held her breath. The duchess's stare seemed to bore holes into her forehead. "Are you trying to be smart with me, girl?"

"No, your Grace, it just popped out."

A noise issued from the duchess's nose which sounded uncommonly like a snort of laughter. "Oh, very well," she said in the tone of someone who had grudgingly conceded an argument. "You'll do. Sit and have some tea. I'm parched even if you aren't. And stop calling me 'your Grace.' To you, I'm Aunt Hypatia."

"Aunt Hypatia?"
Florence
's knees gave way as she sank into a chair.

"Yes," said the duchess. "After all, I can hardly present a mere vicar's daughter to the queen."

"Oh,
your
Grace... Aunt Hypatia, I wouldn't presume—"

"You had better learn to presume. No protegee of mine is going to scuffle through life like a frightened mouse."

"I am not a mouse,"
Florence
said, even as she pressed her knees together to still their trembling.

Aunt Hypatia glared.
Florence
lifted her chin. She wasn't a mouse. Shy, maybe.
Timid, certainly.
But
not a mouse.
Mice didn't run their father's home. Mice didn't get themselves to
London
. Mice didn't
risk everything to build a solid future.

After what seemed like an eternity, the duchess's face softened with satisfaction.

"Well," she said, "at least you've got spine. Not much, but some.
Which is just as well.
Most people exercise their temper far too often. Then, when they really need to stand firm, they crumble."

Florence
bowed her head. "I'll try to remember that,
your
Grace."

"Aunt," the duchess corrected, and lifted the pot to pour her tea. "In fact..." Her expression grew distant. "I think you'll be my goddaughter."

At that moment, the duchess could have knocked
Florence
over with a feather. She laughed when she saw
Florence
's face, her eyes twinkling with the mischief of a child.

"I can hardly wait to take you out," she said, actually rubbing her hands with glee. "You're going to
cause a sensation, an ab-so-lute sensation. There'll be so many noses out of
joint,
we'll have to count them by the bushel."

This was not a prediction
Florence
could welcome. "I really don't care to cause a sensation," she murmured.
"Just to meet a nice, eligible man."

"You will, my dear," the duchess assured her.
"Cartloads.
But first"—she chucked
Florence
under the chin— "first we're going to have fun!"

* * *

Aunt Hypatia's generosity
had just begun. She assigned
Florence
a spacious room on the second floor, with windows overlooking the fenced-in park at the center of

"It's a dream," she breathed on hearing the news. "Oh, miss, don't pinch me or I'll wake up!"

Florence
wished her own enjoyment were as pure. What sort of paragon, she wondered, accepted a perfect stranger into her home and treated her not like a cousin but like a long-lost daughter? The
duchess claimed Mr. Mowbry had done her a favor, but Mr. Mowbry must be quite the solicitor to
have a duchess in his debt! Nor did Hypatia seem the type to dedicate her life to charitable causes. Openhanded she was, but hardly self-sacrificing.
Florence
could only conclude some benefit for her
lay in the arrangement. Perhaps she had a social rival whose daughter she hoped to put in the shade.
That
Florence
could believe, though she knew the suspicion did her no credit. Her father had raised
her to think the best of people: to say "thank you" rather than "why." He would tell her to count her
good fortune, not question her rescuer's motives.

When Aunt Hypatia wanted
Florence
to patronize her dressmaker, however, a woman who lived
on