Elizabeth Mansfield (16 page)

A price for the purchase was soon agreed upon, and the two visitors, explaining that they had seven hours or more of travel ahead of them, made a quick exit. As Harry was placing the portrait in his curricle, Leonard took another look at the painted face. "She is quite lovely, don't you think so?" he asked.

"Yes, she is. I think Grandmama will be very pleased."

"You, however, are not showing particular enthusiasm," Leonard pointed out as they climbed up to their seats.

"I'm as pleased as I expected to be," Harry said, picking up the reins.

"But you don't like it as well as you did the portrait you saw at Rendell Hall."

"I didn't expect to find anything like the Rendell portrait," Harry said as he urged the horses forward. "This is a very decent work, but the Rendell portrait—" He sighed as he visualized the other work in his mind's eye. "—that one is a masterpiece."

TWENTY-SEVEN

The next day word was sent to the Rendell rooms that the Tyndales, father and son, had arrived. The family waited all day, but the pair did not call. Charles, urged by the females who were all a bit worried at their unexplained absence, took himself to Pierrepont Street. When he found Edward perfectly well, he demanded an explanation.

Sir Edward shrugged helplessly. "Harry dragged Leonard off this morning on some mysterious errand, and they won't be back until late. But we'll certainly call tomorrow morning." He glanced up at Charles with a strange look. "You'll all be home, of course?"

"Yes, of course," Charles replied. "Why do you ask?"

Edward took a breath. "Isabel, too?" he asked.
 

"I suppose so," Charles said carelessly, having no sense of the significance of the question. "Come for breakfast."

But Isabel was not at home the next morning. Having arisen early, she came downstairs to find herself completely alone. Not at all disturbed by the absence of company, she set about to do what she hadn't had a chance to do since they'd arrived—her embroidery. She'd brought her frame on wheels with her, of course, but to her dismay, she discovered that, in the confusion of the hurried packing her brother had imposed on her, she'd left her embroidery apron and her basket of threads at home. She immediately threw on a cloak and set out to Milsom Street to rectify the situation.

A well-stocked haberdashery, supplied with feminine goods like ribbons and laces as well as hats and linens for men, provided her with just the right blue thread she needed. It was a charming little shop, and she spent the better part of an hour browsing through their stock. By the time she'd finished, she'd purchased, in addition to the blue, a skein of silver silk, a breathtaking orange, a Nile green that she probably would never use, a package of needles, and, for good measure, a lovely straw basket to keep them in. With her new basket swinging from her arm, she strolled happily toward home. Just as she turned into Queen Street, she saw Sir Edward and Leonard approaching from the other direction. Politeness demanded that she stop to greet them. "Oh, blast!" she muttered in annoyance.

They came together at the front gate, and the two gentlemen lifted their hats. Isabel turned at once to the son. "Leonard," she said brightly, offering her cheek, "so you've come at last. Deirdre has been eager for your arrival." Then, as an afterthought, she turned to his father. "And Sir Edward," she said coldly, "how do you—?" She stopped short, gaping in surprise.

"I'm glad to see you," Edward said with nervous sincerity. "I've... er... missed you."

Leonard looked from one to the other, his eyes twinkling. "I'll run inside," he said. "You both may take your time."

When he'd gone, Isabel stared at Edward in frank astonishment. "You've stopped powdering your hair!" she gasped.

"Yes." He twisted his tricorne in his hands. "Do you approve?"

"Approve? I've no right to approve or disapprove. But you look at least a decade younger."

"Do I?" He smiled at her in relief. "I did it for you, you know."

"For me? Why on earth would you do it for me?" Nevertheless, she circled round him to view him from the back.

"You know why. To make amends. For offending you."

"I don't know what you're speaking of," Isabel lied.

"That day at Claydon, when I told you not to eat those greasy lobster cakes."

"I don't remember any such incident," she said icily. "And if you're going to speak nonsense, let's get out of the chill and do it inside."

She opened the gate and marched up to the door.

Edward meekly followed. As they went down the hall to the sitting room, she turned to him. "If you really wanted to make amends, you'd do more than stopping the powdering. You'd cease wearing those outmoded knee breeches and get yourself some proper trousers."

"If I do, can we then be friends again?" he asked humbly.

"Perhaps." But she softened the word with a tiny upturn of the corners of her mouth. "It might interest you to know," she said as they came up to the door, "that I've removed lobster cakes from my diet."

By the time they arrived at the sitting room door, Edward was beaming, and Isabel's eyes had a sparkle they'd not had in months. But inside, the scene that greeted their eyes caused both of them to pale. Opposite them, in front of the windows, stood Deirdre, wrapped in Percy's arms. It was plain that they'd been in a close embrace, for their faces clearly revealed their embarrassment and guilt. And just inside the doorway, Leonard was staring across at them, frozen-faced.

"L-Leonard," Deirdre was stammering, "I m-meant to t-tell you—"

"Happened out of the blue," Percy explained with a bit of a smirk. "Can't be helped, old chap. One of those things, don't you know?"

"One of those things, was it?" Leonard growled, shaking himself out of his stupor. He crossed the room in two strides, tightened a fist, and swung it sharply at Percy's chin.

Percy dropped heavily to the floor. Deirdre screamed.

"There's
something out of the blue, 'old chap'!" Leonard sneered, rubbing his sore knuckles.

"Leonard, how could you?" Deirdre cried, wringing her hands.

"Deirdre, how could
you?"
the betrayed fellow retorted in disgust.

"You've killed him!" Deirdre knelt down and began to chafe Percy's hands. Percy stirred, groaned, and lifted his head.

"There," Leonard said. "He may even be well enough for me to knock him down again." And he pulled Percy to his feet, grasped him by his collar, and hauled him across the room. By this time, Charles and Madge, whose bedroom was directly above, had heard the commotion and come running down, alarm written on their faces. "What's been going on here?" Charles demanded, pushing past Edward and Isabel and bursting into the room.

"I'm ridding your house of a rodent," Leonard said, and shoved Percy past them, down the passage, and out the front door. Then he slammed it shut and strode back to the sitting room, a scowl darkening his round, freckled face.

"Oh, Papa," Deirdre screamed, "he's killed poor Percy!"

Edward ran to the window and peered out. "He's all right," he announced. "The damned make-bait's running off."

"Will someone please tell me what's been going on here?" Charles demanded, turning on Leonard furiously.

Leonard glared back at him. "Your daughter can give you the details," he said. "I won't humiliate myself by reviewing them. I'll only say that she's given me adequate cause to withdraw from our betrothal. I leave it to you to make the appropriate announcement in the
Times.
And now, if Pruitt will give me back my hat, I'll take my leave."

He stalked from the room. Edward, with a longing glance at Isabel, followed. Madge, breathing heavily, ran to her daughter. "Deirdre, my dearest girl, what in heaven's name has happened?"

Deirdre covered her face with her hands. "Go away, please, Mama. Everyone, please leave me alone. I d-don't want to talk about it. Not now."

Madge peered at her helplessly. Charles, also feeling helpless, hesitated for a moment before he took his wife's arm and urged her to the door. "Come along, my love. And you, too, Isabel. Perhaps it's best to leave her alone for a bit."

As soon as Deirdre heard the door close behind them, she sank down on the nearest chair and gave way to a flood of tears. When the paroxysm subsided, she got up and began to pace about the room in aimless circles. Percy, she realized, had not shown himself to advantage in the crisis that had just occurred. His behavior had not been courageous, certainly not when measured by her standards for romantic heroes. Had she been hasty in deciding she loved him? And if she had, what had she done to her life? She was ruined, totally ruined! Unseeing, she stumbled into a wall, slid down to the floor, and, resting her head on her knees, succumbed to despair.

It was then that the butler, not hearing a sound from the sitting room and assuming it was deserted, opened the door to admit Harry. "Yes, Miss Kate is home, Lord Ainsworth," he was saying. "I'll fetch her for you."

Harry came in and, glancing about to find himself a seat, saw the huddled figure in the corner. The tousled golden hair was immediately recognizable. "Deirdre?" he asked wonderingly. "Are you hiding from someone?"

The head came up, and two blue eyes, brimming with tears, stared up into his. "Harry!" she cried. "Thank goodness you're here!"

He crossed the room to her and helped her to her feet. Before he could let her go, she flung herself into his arms. "Oh, Harry," she wept into his shoulder, "I've made such a terrible mull of everything."

Harry, startled though he was, managed to speak soothingly. "Whatever it is, Deirdre, can't possibly be as bad as that."

"Yes, it c-can," she insisted. "You said it yourself: 'In the g-game of 1-love, the players wear n-no armor.' "

"Did I say that?" He shook his head in self-disgust. "You must learn not to pay any heed to my pompous pronouncements."

"I p-pay heed to everything you s-say. You're the c-cleverest p-person I know!"

"In that case, why don't you tell me about this mull you've made."

Deirdre promptly began to relate—between sobs and hiccoughs—the whole tale of this disastrous event. "And now Leonard is f-finished with m-me," she concluded, "and I shall s-s-spend my life as a dowdy s-s-spinster!"

Harry patted her head. "What nonsense. The beautiful Deirdre Quigley a spinster? That's as likely as the Regent moving himself and all the court to Timbuktu."

She lifted her head at that, the clouded blue of her eyes clearing. "Do you mean it, Harry?"

"Of course I do." He grinned down at her. "In the game of love, you'll always be a winner."

She sniffed away the last of her tears and managed a small smile. "I do believe you've lifted my spirits," she said softly. "I think, Harry, that you're the only one in the world who could."

The door opened and Kate came in. At the sight of Deirdre in Harry's arms, she stopped short. "Oh!" she said, coloring.

"Good afternoon, Kate," Harry said. "I called to see you and found your cousin in a heap on the floor, weeping."

"Indeed?"

"Didn't you hear the commotion?" Deirdre asked her.

Kate realized that there was more—and, perhaps, less—to this scene than she'd imagined at first. "What commotion?" she asked in guilty concern. "What happened, Deirdre?"

Harry released the girl. "Sit down, Deirdre, and dry your eyes. I'll take my leave and permit you tell your cousin all about it in private." He helped her into a chair and turned to Kate. "Will you see me out, ma'am?"

Kate nodded and led him from the room. In the passageway, he sighed deeply. "I suppose it's not possible for us to talk now, is it?"

"Not if Deirdre needs me," Kate said.

"Dash it all, I've wanted urgently to speak with you, but last time I was thwarted by the music, and now I'm thwarted by Deirdre's crisis. When am I to have a moment of your company?"

"How can I say?" she answered, lowering her eyes.

He took her by the shoulders. "Look at me, Kate. I'm warning you that I can be as stubborn and hard-headed as you. Will-you, nill-you, I shall find a way to see you. And soon!"

She looked up at him, expecting him to let her go, but he did not. "Good afternoon, my lord," she said pointedly.

He pulled her closer. "No, it hasn't been a good afternoon. But I can make it better."

There was a look in his eyes that she'd seen before. She remembered at once where she'd seen it—in the Claydon library on that infamous night. She stiffened. "You wouldn't—!"

He smiled. "Are you sure?"

"How can I be sure?" she said icily. "I'm not familiar with the manners of a rake."

His smile died, and his eyes narrowed. "So that's it, is it? That's what's wrong between us. You still think me a rake."

She put up her chin. "I don't think of you at all, my lord."

"Then perhaps this will keep me in your mind," he said, and putting his hands on both sides of her face, he lifted it up and roundly kissed her. He held her there until they both had no breath left. Then he dropped his hold. "As any rake would tell you," he said with a grin, "in the game of love, the rules are never fair."

Before she could catch her breath and retort, he was gone.

She tottered down the hallway, her head in a whirl. How could she have so meekly surrendered to his advances when love was merely a game to him, the rake! She was considered by everyone—and by herself—as a strong-willed woman, but she was a wilting violet whenever he was close to her. She was thoroughly ashamed of herself.

But Deirdre was waiting. Kate shook herself out of the daze his kiss had placed her in and hurried into the room. "Deirdre, my dear, what is the dreadful thing that happened to you?"

Deirdre turned to her, her face aglow with happiness. "Nothing dreadful at all," the girl breathed. "You were right about Percy. I don't love him at all. I'm in love with Harry after all."

TWENTY-EIGHT

After being kept up half the night by Deirdre's overwrought revelations, Kate decided the next morning that she needed some time alone. She could not bear to listen to more of Deirdre's effusive praises of Harry's character, appearance, wit, and charm, so she left the house right after breakfast to take a long walk. On her way out, she met Percy on his way in. The poor fellow's chin was swollen, and he'd covered a bruise on his cheekbone with thick, lead-based
maquillage
that made him look clownish. For a moment, she considered warning him that his visit with Deirdre would not be what he expected, but a second thought restrained that impulse. Her attempt to reason with Deirdre had not made the slightest impression, and reason would probably have no effect on Percy, either. So she merely said "Good morning," and walked on.