Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] (33 page)

When breakfast was done she ventured up to Rose and Bea’s room. Her sister lay abed, propped up on pillows, her hands folded atop the covers a few inches from an apparently discarded book. Kate went and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “
The Lairds of Glenfern
?” she said, picking up the book and turning it over.

“It’s not very good. I probably won’t finish it.” She stared off toward the window, whose draperies had been pushed wide. On the bedside table sat a cup of something, doubtless a tisane Mama had ordered to be sent up. It had not, as far as Kate could tell, been touched.

She covered her sister’s clasped hands with one of hers. “You haven’t a headache really, I think.”

Rose didn’t answer for a moment. Then she shook her head, eyes still on the window.

Kate pressed her hand, to show she would listen but wouldn’t demand that her sister talk.

Rose unclasped her hands and turned one palm up to lace her fingers with Kate’s. She blinked several times. “I hate to be so weak,” she said finally.

“You’re not. There’s no weakness in objecting to spiteful treatment.”

“Bea told you about the dancing lesson?” Her face showed no sign of surprise. She knew better than to expect confidentiality from her sister.

Kate nodded. “Anyone would wish for a day away from that sort of nonsense every now and again.”

“You didn’t ever. Vi didn’t. Bea doesn’t. I’m the only one so cowardly.” She blinked harder and bit her lip.

“You’re not cowardly. You’re only not as hardheaded as the rest of us. That’s a virtue, not a fault. One day, when you meet the right sort of people, you’ll charm them more thoroughly than any of us could ever do.”

“I don’t know why they dislike us so.” She gave up staring at the window in favor of staring at a spot over Kate’s shoulder. “I’ve done nothing to offend them. I’ve been as pleasant as I can. And I know Mama and Papa’s marriage was irregular, but you’d think it had been a criminal offense. I’m sure a girl born out of wedlock, entirely ignorant of who is her father, could not be shunned any harder than Bea and I are.”

“I know, dear. It’s not fair or right or reasonable. But girls like that will always look for someone to shun, as a safeguard against being the one shunned. People secure in their own consequence aren’t so mean.” Her words felt trite and useless. Could she really offer no better consolation than these poor insights that Rose doubtless already knew?

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Viola put her head in the door. “Someone’s sent you a great bunch of flowers. Some gentleman from that party last night, I suppose. Do you want them brought to our room, or should they stay downstairs in the parlor?”

Kate’s heart leaped and then sank again. Only one man at the party would know where to send those flowers. Well, two men—but she knew better than to suppose they might have come from Mr. Blackshear.

And indeed when the maid Patsy brought them up in a vase—to Rose’s room, that they might have a cheering effect—tucked in among the rosebuds was Lord Barclay’s card. Kate would have welcomed flowers from any other gentleman with whom she’d danced or spoken last night. She would have taken them as a reprieve, a signal that she might still correct her course and make the sort of match she’d intended. But the baron’s roses
loomed like an accusation, a reminder of all her missteps.

“He wasn’t at all bad, for a peer.” Viola studied the card, sitting on Bea’s bed. “If you must marry a Lord Somebody, I suppose you could do worse.”

“I sincerely doubt he wants to marry me.” She leaned in to get a noseful of rose fragrance, and to hide her face from view. “He’s met me all of three times. I’m sure he only meant to be kind, because he knows my situation and knew I wasn’t likely to get flowers from anyone else.”

“A man doesn’t usually send roses just to be kind.” Mama had come in with the maid and stood at the foot of Rose’s bed. “You ought to give serious thought to whether you would accept his addresses. Your father would want to know what answer to make, if he should ask permission to court you.”

The prospect—the very words—twisted her innards. No, she ought to say.
I’ve already thought about it and I cannot accept his addresses
. But the sight of Rose stopped her tongue. If she made a brilliant match, she’d be able to introduce her sister to some of those people so secure in their consequence that they never felt the need to claim it at others’ expense.

She drew a breath. “I’ll give it thought, then.” It was as though she’d stepped into an intricate snare, and any move she made just drew it tighter. “Vi, did you still mean to walk with me to Berkeley Square? I’m expected there in half an hour.”

S
HE
’
D WISHED
for flowers from some other man, and at Harringdon House she had them. Lord John Prior had sent a tasteless profusion of blossoms, along with a note apologizing for the sudden indisposition that had robbed
him of the pleasure of dancing with her, to Miss Westbrook in care of Lady Harringdon.

“I do believe he mistakes matters.” The countess, spaniel in her lap, looked over Lord John’s note with delight. “He supposes I’m bringing you out as a marriageable young lady.”

He mistook matters, surely enough. If he thought she didn’t know exactly what sort of indisposition had led to his departure, or what physick he’d received for his pains, well, he was gravely mistaken indeed.

“I’m not sure there’s necessarily any mistake.” Louisa Smith’s conduct simply put Kate to shame. Even with this new awkwardness between them, she was staunch in stepping up to challenge Lady Harringdon’s slights. “He feels sorry for having had to break his engagement to dance with Miss Westbrook, and, not knowing her own direction, thought to send his bouquet to the lady with whom he’s now seen her in company twice.”

“If it had been a more modest bouquet, I might agree with you, Miss Smith.” Lady Harringdon waved Lord John’s note at the floral arrangement, which she’d had brought to the parlor that the two young ladies and Mrs. Smith might consider it thoroughly. “But these are the flowers of a man who means to impress himself in a lady’s imagination. He’s left nothing to chance, you see. Whatever might be Miss Westbrook’s favorite color, she is assured of finding it here.”

“Mistake or no, I think his regard for Miss Westbrook speaks well of him,” Mrs. Smith ventured, sending Kate a kindly smile. She’d looked so pleased last night, when she’d seen Louisa turned out to such advantage. She must not know of the wilting that Kate had later induced.

“Indeed. And I’d say it speaks equally well of Miss Westbrook, who has proven that her manners and charm, at least, are worthy of a duke’s son.” Lady Harringdon
handed back the note. “We shall have to take care to find you a position with an older lady who hasn’t any wish to marry. No younger lady likes to feel that her companion outshines her with the gentlemen.”

Kate folded the note to put away in her reticule. When she’d imagined stupefying a gentleman of rank, she’d supposed that the state of stupefaction would prevent him, at least in the beginning, from running off to engage in indecency with other women. Not to say Lord John was stupefied. But it was, indeed, an extravagant bunch of blooms. Perhaps he strove to assuage his guilt, and perhaps this was a representation of how he would go on with whatever lady he married. Committing indiscretions and paying penance in flowers.

“I’ll own my taste in these things is old-fashioned, but I remain partial to a simple bouquet all of one color.” Mrs. Smith nodded to her daughter. “I thought the roses Lord Barclay sent to Louisa were perfectly charming.”

“Miss Smith, you sly devil.” The countess trained the full weight of her attention on the other of her young callers. “You’ve been here five whole minutes and didn’t breathe a word of this. Have you made a conquest, and what will this mean for Sir George Bigby? I insist you tell us everything.”

Well. Apparently Mama had been wrong about what was signified by a man’s sending roses, or perhaps Lord Barclay meant to court two ladies at once. Kate felt her fingers curling to grip the sofa cushions, in spite of her mightiest effort at aplomb. No sooner did she think she knew her circumstances, than something must change.

“There’s nothing very much to tell.” Miss Smith went pink. “A bunch of roses arrived this morning with his card.” She threw one anxious glance to Kate. “We’d danced fairly early in the evening, and also spoken a bit before supper. He does make better conversation than many gentlemen.”

“Better than Sir George, I think she means to say.” Lady Harringdon looked around in satisfaction at the others. “I don’t recall ever seeing you blush, Miss Smith, when speaking of the baronet.”

What if she did just step aside, and leave Lord Barclay to Miss Smith? She could send back his flowers with some explanatory note.
It’s clear to me you have a better prospect before you, and I suspect it’s clear to you, too. I’m sorry but my heart is engaged elsewhere. I’m sorry but we just wouldn’t suit
. Any of those explanations would do. Then she could live in hope that Lord John Prior would follow his garish bouquet with more attentions, and not too often make a wallflower of her while indulging himself in someone else’s arms.

Somewhere in this dull meditation came the sound of footsteps in the hall; purposeful, urgent footsteps. All conversation trailed off at the appearance of Lord Harringdon in the doorway, pale and clearly distressed.

“The dowager Lady Harringdon has taken very ill.” He spoke to his wife, not even acknowledging the guests. “Morland has sent for the physician. I’m going to have him send for all the family as well.” He bowed, seeming only now to realize that he’d neglected to do so before, and as he came back up, his eyes connected with Kate’s.

She was halfway to her feet, as indeed Mrs. and Miss Smith were, preparing to take an immediate leave. His gaze froze her. She felt every bit of his worry, as surely as if her heart took its rhythm from his. And she wanted—so, so badly she wanted him to ask her to send for Papa, but he didn’t. “Ought I—” Her throat was parched and the words barely made a sound, and before she could try again he’d turned and gone.

“My apologies.” Lady Harringdon rose, too. “I shall have a servant fetch all your wraps. Mrs. Smith, I’ll have your carriage brought round.” She hurried off, leaving them to wait for their cloaks.

Kate stood where she was, with nothing in the world to do but wait for her wrap and walk home. She still felt the echoes of Lord Harringdon’s alarm in the middle of her chest. Everywhere else she felt numb.

“Miss Westbrook.” Louisa stepped forward suddenly, hands clasped before her. “Kate. May Mama and I send our carriage to fetch your father?” She hadn’t even asked her mother’s permission. Her eyes were grave and resolute.

And now the numbness gave way to a crawling desperation. “You’re so kind to offer. But even if he were welcome here, I don’t know where to find him. If he’s in a courtroom, he cannot simply leave. And I’ve no idea whether he’s in a courtroom, or if so, which one he’d be in, or whether he’s someplace else altogether.” She’d never felt so helpless, so useless in her life. “And even if we do find him, I can’t be at all sure that he’d want to come.”

Louisa moved a step nearer. “He must have an office. We’ll start there. If he’s not in his office, someone there may know where he’s gone. We’ll ask everyone until we’ve found him.” She reached out and took Kate’s hands. “You’ll feel better to be doing something than you would if you simply sat about.”

Beyond her, Mrs. Smith nodded. Their generosity was almost too much to bear.

“Thank you.” A footman came with the cloaks. She pressed Louisa’s hands before releasing them, and bowed her head to Mrs. Smith. “Thank you both so much.” She blinked back a few tears—she might have more need of them later—and hurried into her cloak.

T
HE CLERKS
in Papa’s office said he’d gone to meet with a solicitor, and gave her the direction. She and the Smith ladies arrived at that man’s office to find he’d already
left, and the solicitor hadn’t any idea of his next destination.

“It wouldn’t be his own office, or surely the clerks there would have said they expected him back soon,” Miss Smith reasoned. Thank goodness for Miss Smith’s ability to reason, because Kate’s own had fled.

Papa could be anywhere. There were so many buildings in the Inns of Court, and so many rooms in each building. And for all they knew, he might have gone to see a solicitor who kept an office elsewhere, or to the wig maker’s, or to any of a dizzying number of places. Where were they to start looking?

“I think we’d best try his office again,” Mrs. Smith suggested. “Perhaps he finished this last appointment early and has gone back before the clerks expected him there.”

Halfway back to his office, they ran into the Mr. Kersey she’d met the day she’d gone with Sebastian and Viola to see Mr. Blackshear in the criminal courts. Mr. Kersey hadn’t seen Papa and had no way of guessing where he’d be, but he thought Mr. Blackshear might be of use, and lost no time in sending for him.

They were waiting with Mr. Kersey in his chambers when Mr. Blackshear came up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She’d never been so glad to hear anyone’s footsteps, or see anyone come into view. He swung through Kersey’s doorway in a swirl of robes, got them all resettled in his own rooms across the hall, directed Kersey to make tea, and asked her and the Smith ladies to tell him every detail.

What had happened, exactly? What did they wish him to tell Mr. Westbrook? Ought he to bring him back here, or could he take him straight to the Smiths’ carriage? Where was the Smiths’ carriage to be found? Where had they looked for him already? Did they all wish to wait here, or would they like him to order hackney cabs to
take them home? With marvelous efficiency he got through all of this, and then he stopped in front of her. “I’ll find him, Miss Westbrook. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” And in another swirl of robes, he was gone, and she heard the thump of his quick pace down the stairs.

It seemed a very long time before he returned, and he looked weary when he did. But he’d found Papa and sent him in the carriage, just as he’d said he would.