Elizabeth Mansfield (15 page)

Once settled on easy chairs on opposite sides of the fire in the sitting room, Percy gazed across at Deirdre admiringly. "Even with your hair tumbled about like a gypsy's, you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," he said in awe. "Positively."

Deirdre put a hand up to smooth her windblown locks, trying not to smile. She knew perfectly well that it was improper to encourage such exchanges. Although she relished his compliments, she nevertheless shook her head at him. "Please, Percy," she cautioned, "you mustn't say such things to me. I might believe them."

"Believe them, my dear, believe them," he assured her. "I meant every word."

She looked over at him, wide-eyed. "Did you really?"

"How can you doubt it? Every man who catches a mere glimpse of you wants to cast himself at your feet."

Even Deirdre could sense that he'd gone too far. "Oh, Percy, you are a silly!" she chastised, giggling.

Encouraged by her laughter, he crossed to her chair and perched on the arm. "Perhaps you'll believe me," he said softly, leaning over her, "if I admit to you that I..." But suddenly he hesitated.

"That you what?" she asked curiously.

He bit his hp uneasily. "That I wrote a poem about my feelings for you."

"A poem? Really?" She turned her face up to him, her eyes shining. "Can you say it for me?"

"Of course. I know it by heart."

"Then recite it,
please!
"

He took a deep breath.

"My love is of a birth as rare,
 

As is for object strange and high;

 
It was begotten by despair—"

He paused for a moment and peered at her, but she was gazing up at him adoringly, so he went on.
"Upon impossibility."

"Oh, Percy," she breathed, "that's absolutely beautiful. Do go on!"

He grinned in triumphant relief. "Deirdre," he exclaimed, "of all the girls in the world, you're top-of-the-trees. Positively!"

TWENTY-FIVE

Early the next morning, Deirdre, still in her nightdress, tapped on Kate's door. She received no answer, but she went in anyway. Kate was deeply asleep. Without a moment's hesitation, Deirdre gave her cousin's shoulder a determined shake.
After all,
she said to herself in self-justification,
I
have something of vital importance to discuss.

Kate stirred and slowly opened her eyes. Finding someone bending over her was startling. She gasped and sat up. "Deirdre! Wha'—?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, dearest. But I must speak to you. Urgently."

Kate rubbed her eyes. "Wha's amiss?" she mumbled thickly.

"It's about Percy." Deirdre perched on the bed and tucked her legs under her comfortably. "Mama always used to say that you and he would make a match of it."

To Kate, who was trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep that still cluttered her mind, Deirdre's words made no sense. "Match? Percy an' I?"

"Yes. Mama knew you were holding off, but she's convinced that you'll accept him sooner or later. So I want to know if she's right. Do you intend to wed Percy one day?"

Although, she now felt fully awake, Kate still could not fathom why Deirdre was asking so strange a question. "I intend no such thing, although why—and at the crack of dawn!—you would wish to discuss your mother's completely ridiculous supposition is beyond my ken."

"Because, dearest, you're like a sister to me," Deirdre said, "and I wouldn't wish to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" Kate put a hand to her forehead in utter confusion. "My brain must still be asleep. Whatever are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Percy. You see, last night we... I discovered something."

"Discovered something about Percy?"

"Yes, but before I tell you, you must swear to me, on your word of honor, that you don't love him and don't wish to marry him."

"Very well, I swear," Kate said with a touch of asperity.

"I'm so glad! Because, you see, I think I do."

"You do—?"

"I wish to marry him."

Kate stared at her, agape. "I'm not awake. I couldn't be. You couldn't possible have said what I thought you said. I actually thought you said you wish to marry Percy."

"But I did," Deirdre said, grinning. "I do. I've fallen in love with him."

"With Percy? Are you speaking of
my
Percy? Sir Percival Greenway? You must be joking!"

"I'm perfectly serious. He's a charmer and all the crack. A true London beau. But you said 'my Percy.' So you do think of him as yours."

"Don't be silly. It was only a manner of speaking, in the sense of 'my' neighbor or 'my' old friend. But I never thought of marrying him. And neither should you."

"Why not, if you don't want him? Please believe me, Kate, I truly care for him. The hours we spent together last night were the most delightful I've ever spent. We laughed and talked like true kindred spirits."

Kate sighed. "Are you forgetting that you're betrothed? Have you given no thought to Leonard?"

"Of course I thought of Leonard. But Leonard doesn't speak to me the way Percy does. If only you'd heard him last night. He said the most delicious things to me."

"If memory serves," Kate said drily, "you said the same sort of things about Ainsworth, a mere four months ago."

"Yes, Harry was utterly charming, I admit, but Percy... why, he even composed a message of his love especially for me."

"Did he, indeed?" Kate eyed her bedazzled cousin with pitying amusement. "A poem, perhaps?"

"Good gracious! How did you know?"

Kate rolled her eyes skyward. "Just a lucky guess."

"You should have heard it, Kate," Deirdre rhapsodized. "No one has ever written a poem to me before. It was the loveliest thing."

"I'm sure it was," Kate said with a helpless sigh, "but Deirdre, please don't make him any promises for at least a week."

"A whole week? But why?"

"Because, my impetuous cousin, in that time you may very likely discover someone else with whom to fall in love."

TWENTY-SIX

Sir Edward and Leonard arrived in Bath just before midnight the next day. Because the hour was too advanced to make calls, Leonard merely sent a note to his friend Harry that he'd arrived and was staying in rooms on Pierrepont Street.

He was to regret that act, for Harry charged into his bedroom the next morning at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. "Wake up, you slugabed," he ordered, callously pulling off the comforter into which Leonard was snuggled.

"Wha's th' matter?" the bewildered redhead asked, sitting up in alarm.

"I have to go to Cheltenham. Want to ride with me?"

Leonard blinked. "You woke me up at dawn to ask me that?"

"It isn't dawn. The sun's been up for hours. It's after eight. I want to be back by midnight, so get up and dress, if you're going with me."

"Well, I'm not," Leonard grumped and pulled his coverlet out of Harry's hand. "Eight o'clock's the crack of dawn to me." He wrapped himself up in the comforter and threw himself back onto the pillows.

"Very well, if you must sleep away a promising adventure," Harry said and started out.

"Adventure?" Leonard opened one eye.

"I'm going to Cheltenham to see a painting. I'm told it's in an old castle with a tower and a moat. Who knows what we may find lurking inside. It sounds just the sort of place for ghosts."

"What we'll find is a dotty old codger who'll gabble nonsense at us until our ears ache," Leonard said in disgust, nevertheless tossing aside the bedclothes and throwing his legs over the side of the bed, "and then we'll discover it's all for nothing. It won't be the painting you want."

"Probably not," Harry said complacently, "but in that diatribe I did hear the word 'we,' did I not? So you're coming?"

"Yes, you clodcrusher, I'll go with you, damme for a fool. I hope you can spare me ten minutes to dress."

Half an hour later, they were tooling along the North Road in Harry's curricle and pair, Harry handling the horses and Leonard perched on the seat beside him. "My agent sent me word that the latest painting he's discovered is a very likely candidate," Harry told his friend. "It's called
The Girl in White,
but the description mentions that she's fair-haired and wearing a blue scarf of some kind. That sounds promising, doesn't it?"

"Is the painting signed?" Leonard asked.

"No, but my noble ancestor didn't always sign his work. Family legend has it that he had high standards and didn't always approve of his own creations. If he felt a particular work fell short of his expectations, he would toss it aside unsigned."

"Then this painting will probably not be a great work of art?"

"Probably not. But Grandmama wants it because it's a family portrait and belongs in the gallery with the rest of the family portraits. She's not particularly interested in its artistic value."

"But you are?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm not expecting a great work, but I keep hoping it will reveal that the artist had some talent."

"I suppose that really talented artists are a rare breed," Leonard said thoughtfully. "Did I tell you that Charles has promised me a portrait of Deirdre as a wedding present? I hope he finds an artist who can do her justice."

Harry nodded. "I hope so, too. You wouldn't wish to have an inferior portrait forever staring down at you from above the fireplace. By the way, Leonard, when is that wedding to be?"

"That's a good question," Leonard said, rubbing his chin ruefully. "I can't get Deirdre to make up her mind. She seems very skittish of late."

"Skittish?"

"Yes. As if she weren't certain of her feelings. I sometimes suspect she enjoys flirting too much and isn't willing to give up those girlish pleasures for the more matronly ones of marriage.''

"That's understandable. She's only nineteen, after all."

"Most young ladies are married by that age," Leonard argued. "By the time they're twenty, if they aren't wed, their mothers are becoming nervous, by twenty-one they're considered on the shelf, and by twenty-two they may just as well take up the spinning wheel and the spinster's cap."

"What utter nonsense!" Harry exclaimed in horror. "Isn't Deirdre's cousin twenty-four? No one could possibly think of her as a spinster. But by your standards, she could be called—good God!—an
ape leader!
"

"In Kate's case, that would be going too far, I admit. She's too attractive and independent to be called a spinster." Leonard turned round on his seat and looked at his friend through narrowed eyes. "But you, Harry Gerard, seem to have rushed to her defense with more vehemence than my ill-considered remarks warranted." The corners of his mouth twisted upward into an impish grin. "Can it be that you've more than a casual interest in the spinster in question?"

"Refer to her as a spinster just once more, you muttonhead, and I shall call you out! But to answer your question, it doesn't matter whether I've an interest in her or not. She doesn't like me above half. She thinks I'm a rake."

Leonard guffawed. "You?" he asked, choking.

Harry glared at him. "I'm not at all certain I like that response. Is the idea so ludicrous to you? Am I not debonair enough or practiced enough in coquetry to be thought of in that way?"

"No, Harry, you're not. To tell the truth, the idea
is
ludicrous. You've not a rakish instinct in your nature."

"And what, may I ask, leads you to that conclusion?" Harry asked, offended. "If I liked, I'm sure I could make my mark with the ladies with the best of the rakes."

"That's just it—if you liked. But it's not what you'd like, is it? You're not the sort to flit from woman to woman. You'd more likely set your heart on one, and you'd probably remain true to her forever."

"You make me sound a dreadful bore," Harry sighed, "but you're probably right, worse luck."

"Why worse luck?"

"Because—should I happen to set my sights on someone who doesn't want me, I'd be in a fine fix."

Leonard raised one questioning eyebrow. "Have you already set those sights on someone? Is it Kate?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm afraid so."

"Then you
are
in a fix. If she's set against you, she's not the sort to change her mind."

"Never mind. I don't despair," Harry said, snapping the reins with spirit. "I may not be a rake, but I can be as strong-minded as she. If there's a way to win that lady, I'll find it."

By mid-afternoon they'd reached Cheltenham. The castle they sought was as antiquated and musty as Harry had promised, although their host was not as talkative as Leonard had feared. He did, however, insist that they stay to tea and meet his wife and their daughter. His daughter turned out to be a sour-faced woman well into her thirties, excessively tall and bony. She used the occasion to engage in a desperate attempt at flirtation with both visitors. Harry was sorry for her, but Leonard found her laughable. "There's a good example of what we spoke of earlier," he whispered to Harry when they had a moment alone.

"A spinster, you mean?" Harry asked.

"Worse," Leonard said. "An ape leader."

It took all of Harry's tact to bring the tea party to a conclusion and convince their host to get to the business of their visit—the painting. They were led down a long gallery to the far end, where their host unveiled the portrait in question. It was a simple work, the subject—a young girl with fair hair—placed squarely in the center, facing forward, against a background of greenery. Her white dress was covered not with a shawl but an open, half-sleeved, blue silk pelisse. "What a lovely creature!" Leonard exclaimed at his first sight of the girl.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "And it is definitely the portrait I've been seeking."

"How can you be sure?" Leonard wanted to know.

"It's that little elm tree in the corner there in the background. You can just make out the stone wall behind it. It's the wall of our rose garden. That elm has grown quite old and gnarled since, but the placement makes it recognizable."