Carola Dunn (8 page)

“Miss Ingram!”

“She is a young lady who resides at my lodging house, the sister of an officer...”

“Lord Roworth, how dare you mention that loose woman in my presence!” Her voice vibrated with fury. “To ask me to associate with your...your chère amie goes far beyond the bounds of what is permissible even in a foreign country!”

Felix was aghast at her misconception, and angry. “In plain English,” he said tightly, “Miss Ingram is my dear friend. She is not and never has been my mistress.”

Lady Sophia flushed. “Since you say so, of course I must believe you. However, everyone knows she has an illegitimate child.”

“Anita’s birth is irrelevant, since Miss Ingram is not her mother. She is the daughter of a Spanish lady and a British soldier.”

“You are excessively credulous, my lord.”

“If she were Miss Ingram’s child, how much easier Miss Ingram’s life would be if she called herself a widow! No one would challenge such a claim, for many of her friends died in the Peninsula and those who survived are very protective of their own.”

“Supposing her to be telling you the truth, she would do better to put the girl in an orphanage. She will never find a husband with a love-child on her hands.”

Felix had to admire her change of heart once she knew the facts: now she was expressing concern for Fanny’s well-being. She was not to blame, gently raised as she was, for being unable to comprehend the impossibility--the horror!--of the notion of Anita in an orphanage.

“Miss Ingram has chosen a difficult life,” he admitted. “All the more reason to give her a little gaiety for once.”

“I respect your kindness in wishing to give her the pleasure of a fashionable ball,” Lady Sophia said stiffly, “but alas, it will not do. I am willing to accept that Miss Ingram is respectable. However, I cannot possibly ask my mother, let alone the Duchess of Richmond, to lend countenance to such a nobody.” Her air of finality was softened by a sweet smile as she added, “Come, my lord, I believe they are striking up our waltz.”

As he led her onto the floor, Felix realized he had been too precipitate. That she should progress in a few minutes from believing Fanny his mistress to issuing an invitation was not to be expected. She had been brought up to consider a respectable nobody to be beneath her notice.

Suddenly recalling the Ingrams’ noble connexions, he realized why they never mentioned them. An unsupported claim must inevitably be disbelieved, making them appear the worst sort of social climbers. It was better forgotten.

All the same, even without that inducement, he’d try Lady Sophia again at the picnic. After all, he wasn’t asking her to accept Fanny as an intimate friend, only to take her to a ball where, among hundreds of guests, her presence would doubtless go unnoticed.

He imagined how Fanny’s face would light up if he told her he was trying to snabble an invitation to the Richmonds’ ball for her. No, best not breathe a word. He was too uncertain of the outcome.

Lady Sophia was particularly charming for the rest of the evening, and his spirits soared. He almost forgot Boney, lurking in his lair.

Chapter 6

“Some of our fellows are giving a picnic tomorrow,” Fanny told Felix when he returned to the parlour next morning after sending off the courier. “Frank was here last night and he suggested that I invite you. I don’t suppose you’d care to go with us?”

“I’m going,” said Anita happily. “And Billy and Jane and Peter.”

“Major Prynne’s children,” Fanny explained. “I expect it will be a noisy, rowdy affair, not at all what you are accustomed to.”

Felix grinned. “That’s what you think.”

“Indeed!” She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Well, harking back to schooldays and...hm...some of the less refined amusements of my years on the town--no, don’t ask for details! I’d like to go to your picnic, but I’m already engaged tomorrow.”

He looked almost as disappointed as she felt. “I wish I had been able to ask you sooner, but the date was only settled last night. Our batteries are scattered all over the countryside so it was difficult to consult everyone.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the river bank near Ninove. Some of ours are quartered there. I daresay I shall spend my time keeping Anita out of the river.”

“So that is why I was invited!” he quizzed her.

“Not at all! I can always find someone to watch her if I want to.”

“I been’t going to fall in,” Anita announced. “The river will make my new dress dirty.”

“I’m not going to fall in,” Fanny corrected absently.

“I hope not,” said Felix, laughing, “but if you do there will be plenty of stout fellows eager to pull you out.”

She smiled. “What a horrid, teasing humour you are in this morning. You enjoyed the party last night?”

“Lady Sophia was all that is amiable, and none of my rivals was present. She was impressed by the Duke’s willingness to grant me a private interview in the middle of his soirée.”

She should have known that if he had enjoyed himself it was because the Goddess had been kind for once. To forestall the expected paean of praise, she asked, “And what was the result of that interview?”

He told her of his concern that Wellington was ignoring the implications of the closed border.

“Old Hookey doesn’t like anyone to know his plans,” she pointed out, “and you have said yourself that he is much concerned to persuade the Belgians of his confidence. Panic among his guests last night would have achieved the precise opposite. I daresay your pride was piqued because he did not at once act on your report, but only consider how many factors he must take into account.”

“True. You are thoroughly commonsensical, Miss Ingram.”

Any praise was better than none, she thought with a silent sigh. She stood up. “Common sense tells me that if I don’t go to market, we shall not dine tonight, and I have promised to bake a spice cake for the picnic.”

“I’ll take care of Anita while you are out.”

“Why don’t we all...” Seeing his dismay, she shook her head and mocked, “No, the heir to the Earl of Westwood carrying a basket of groceries is an image altogether too mortifying to contemplate.”

Flushing, he snapped, “I don’t expect you to understand...”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, contrite. He had every reason to be vexed. No wonder he preferred Lady Sophia’s indifference to her sharp tongue. “I have no right to cavil when you are so generous with your time looking after Anita. Thank you for your offer. I shall be as quick as I can.”

“One does not always appreciate hearing a home truth.” He smiled wryly. “Come, Anita, shall we play at soldiers or horses?”

“Horses,” she decided.

“So much for my dignity!” he groaned, and Fanny, still upset, was forced to smile.

He had so many good, endearing qualities, it was none of her business to point out his faults. Indeed, those who moved in his world--Lady Sophia, for instance--would see nothing objectionable in his high notion of himself, counting it, rather, a virtue. She had spoken out of hurt, she realized, hurt that he considered her daily duties so much beneath him. His easy friendship was making her forget the gulf between them. Beware, she told herself. Beware!

* * * *

The next day dawned perfect for picnics, whether on the banks of the Dendre or in the shady aisles of the beech woods. A shower during the night had settled the dust and cooled the air, and a breeze was chasing the last clouds from the sky.

The artillery officers had hired a farm wagon to take women and children to Ninove. Felix had not yet left when it arrived to pick up Fanny and Anita. Anita clapped her hands at the fat horses, their harnesses bedecked with tassels, fringes, and gleaming brass. The Flemish driver, in his embroidered blue smock, red cap, striped stockings, and wooden sabots, grinned gap-toothed at her excitement.

Felix saw them seated on bales of straw and waved goodbye, then went to fetch his hired hack. For once he had obtained a decent-looking mount, a showy chestnut, though he’d not have counted on the beast’s pace over any distance.

He rode to the Rue de Belle Vue, where he was disappointed but unsurprised to find that the outing was as much the Comte de St Gérard’s party as the Daventrys’. Indeed, Lord Daventry had made himself scarce.

The marchioness, Lady Sophia, an unknown, plump brunette, and the count’s hatchet-faced, overdressed, spinster sister had already taken their places in St Gérard’s barouche. The Misses Ord, youthfully pretty girls often considered indistinguishable, were each driven in a gig by equally youthful and indistinguishable young officers.

Tempted though he was to go straight to the Goddess, Felix refused to push in among the colorful crowd about her. St Gérard, mounted on a superb bay, was holding his own at her side against Viscount Garforth, Major Bissell, Lord Albert Faversham and his fellow Guardsman, and a dashing Hussar. Gold braid and silver laces glittered in the sunshine.

Felix attacked from the flank. He drew up his chestnut on the other side of the barouche and greeted Mademoiselle de Saint Gérard. She introduced him to the plump damsel, who giggled and blushed. Lady Daventry, seated next to Mademoiselle, turned to welcome him.

“Sophie, here is Lord Roworth,” she said, and common politeness obliged her daughter to divert her attention from his massed rivals to exchange a few words with him.

Whether more than common politeness animated her, he could not guess. Perhaps he had imagined that last night she had made a particular effort to please him after her refusal to act in Fanny’s behalf. Still, he was gratified with the success of his tactics in outmaneuvering the military, however briefly.

The cavalcade set off, leaving the city by the Namur gate then trotting through the suburbs. The ladies furled their lace-trimmed parasols as the road entered the shade of the forest of Soignes. On either side, the smooth grey trunks of beeches rose like pillars to a roof of green. Here and there shafts of sunlight broke through to the floor of rich russet leafmould. A pair of squirrels scampered across the road and sped chattering up the nearest tree.

They turned off the road onto a winding track and soon approached a delightfully dappled glade.

Felix was too busy planning his campaign to take much notice of the scenery. He dropped back to where a closed carriage brought up the rear with servants and hampers of food. The Daventrys’ butler was perfectly willing to reveal the contents of the hampers and which delicacies Lady Sophia was especially fond of.

While a bevy of beaux rushed about making the Goddess--and, as an afterthought, the other ladies--comfortable with rugs and cushions, Felix was filling three plates. As the rest of the gentlemen clustered about the hampers, Felix handed well-chosen luncheons to Lady Daventry and Mademoiselle, and joined Lady Sophia on her cushions.

“Have I guessed correctly what you will like?” he asked, as she spread a snowy linen napkin over her peach sarsnet carriage dress. He passed her a selection of salmon in aspic, chicken vol-au-vents, and a salad of artichokes.

“Perfect,” she murmured, taking the silver fork he offered. “But you have nothing.”

“As long as I can feast my eyes on your beauty, what need have I of aught else?”

“You are fantastical, sir. Pray take a vol-au-vent. I cannot eat so much.”

So Felix ate from the Goddess’s plate while the rest of her suitors scrambled for sustenance. And as he bit into the pastry, delicately flavoured with truffles, he wondered what coarse fare Fanny was subsisting on. Cold chicken eaten with the fingers, farmhouse ham, hard-boiled eggs, crusty loaves torn apart and slathered with yellow butter, perhaps a treat of oranges for the children. And the fragrance of her spicy cake had filled the house this morning.

Suddenly he was hungry.

However, after his extravagant compliment he couldn’t very well desert Lady Sophia in search of food, especially as his rivals would at once usurp his place.

“About Miss Ingram...” The words escaped him against his will. He had meant to lead up carefully to a second request. “Now that you know her to be respectable, will you not reconsider?” he said to her stony profile.

She turned a blank stare on him and said in glacial tones, “I wonder at your persistence, my lord. Such persons cannot expect to mingle with Society.”

The count came up just then and sat down on her other side. Felix was presented with an excellent view of pale gold ringlets beneath the upturned rear brim of a Leghorn hat adorned with three curling, peach-coloured ostrich plumes. Gloomily he contemplated pulling them out, one by one, to recapture her attention--but it would hardly be the sort of attention he wanted.

What a muttonheaded fool he was! He knew very well she set herself on high form, as was only right and proper in the daughter of a marquis. He recalled his momentary anger yesterday when Fanny had teased him for being too high and mighty to go to market with her. She was from another world, and the two worlds rarely mingled happily. If he had obtained an invitation for her, what, for instance, would she have worn?

With a last, useless, pleading glance at the back of Lady Sophia’s head, he stood up and went over to the picnic hampers. Sir Henry Bissell narrowly beat out Lord Garforth to take his place.

Felix filled a plate and went to join Lady Daventry and the count’s sister. The plump brunette was simpering under the attention of Ensign Faversham, a well-brought-up young man who restrained himself from all but an occasional jealous glance at the Goddess. Felix made polite conversation and picked at his food. He had lost his appetite.

At last the company broke up into small groups to wander through the woods. Attempting to join the gentlemen around Lady Sophia, Felix was treated to another frigid glare. He dropped back, retrieved his horse, and set off riding aimlessly between the trees.

He came out of the forest close to a village. In a huddle of brick and stone cottages, opposite a curious domed church, stood a small tavern. Hitching the chestnut to a post, he went in and ordered a glass of beer.

“What is this place?” he asked the tapster.