Jane Feather (5 page)

“I believe it is, ma’am,” Esther said before her sister could respond.

Lady Collins leaned forward a little. “But that could produce some awkwardness, I would think. Dear Imogen would not wish to run into Mr. Riverdale.”

Imogen’s smile was tight as she said, “I believe the gentleman and I know how to conduct ourselves, ma’am. There will be no awkwardness.” She refused to look at Emily and Sarah.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Imogen, but Mr. Riverdale is here. He has brought Zoe back.” Sharpton had entered without knocking, as was his privilege, and no one had heard his soundless arrival.

Imogen turned sharply to the door where the butler stood, quietly attentive and expressionless, his substantial figure effectively blocking the view into the hall behind him. She felt the interest quicken around her. She smiled and stood up. “How kind of Mr. Riverdale, Sharpton. I will come and thank him. The wretched puppy ran off at a gunshot,” she explained to her guests. “She’s gun-shy and I’m trying to train her.” She moved to the door but was not quick enough to forestall Charles’s appearance as he stepped around Sharpton, Zoe leashed at his heel.

The puppy barked sharply and lurched towards Imogen, her tail wagging furiously. Charles brought her to heel with a sharp tug. “Forgive the intrusion, Imogen . . . Esther . . . but I found Zoe wandering and thought you might like her back.” He bowed to the Collins ladies. “Lady Collins . . . Miss Collins . . . Miss Sarah . . . please forgive my interruption. But I know how fond Imogen is of Zoe. I didn’t want to risk her getting caught in a trap.”

It was Esther who came forward. “How thoughtful of you. Sharpton, would you take Zoe to the kitchen? May I offer you sherry, Charles?”

“Thank you, Esther. If I would not be intruding?” He glanced at Imogen.

She gave him a cold smile. “Of course not . . . how could you? Pray have a seat.”

Chapter 5

Charles took an armchair a little away from his former betrothed. He had changed out of his shooting jacket, Imogen noticed, and was looking particularly elegant in a gray tweed coat and trousers, and a plain gray waistcoat. Elegantly and perfectly suited to paying a morning call in the country. But of course, she reflected acidly, Charles never made a faux pas when it came to dress. Turning up so casually, as if he was as welcome a visitor at Beaufort Hall as in the past, came into a different category of faux pas. He was putting her on the spot, and he knew it. The fascinated curiosity emanating from her other visitors in the drawing room was almost palpable.

“Did Zoe wander onto your land?” she inquired. “You were dressed for shooting when I last saw you, just after the silly puppy ran off in Hawker’s Wood.”

“No, I found her wandering and whimpering among the trees soon after you’d left in high dudgeon, for which,” he added hastily, “I do not blame you in the least. I took Zoe home with me, changed my dress, and brought her back. Does that satisfy your curiosity, ma’am?” The lightly mocking tone was accompanied by a politely raised eyebrow.

“Amply, I thank you,” she responded. Zoe adored Charles and would have gone with him at a word of encouragement. “Have you abandoned your guests?”

“Let us say I thought it politic not to bring them with me. Formal introductions at this point might not be appropriate.”

Despite their intrigued audience, Imogen had to fight the urge to laugh. Charles’s sense of humor was irresistible, and back when things were good between them, he could almost always make her smile, however indignant she was. She bit her lip hard and murmured something that could have been a vague assent, before having recourse to her sherry glass.

“Why would it be impolitic?” Emily Collins inquired.

“I was wondering that myself,” Esther said, glancing at her sister for enlightenment.

“One of Mr. Riverdale’s guests belly-shot a stag,” Imogen stated. “I put the poor animal out of his agony.” She turned with a brittle smile to Charles. “I trust your guest was able to salvage the antlers to his satisfaction. I’m sure they’ll make a splendid trophy above his fireplace.”

“Oh, cry truce, Gen,” Charles declared, throwing a complicit smile around the company as he raised his hands palms-up in surrender. “Yes, it was a barbaric kill, we both know it, but can we let it go now,
please
?”

And even through her anger at the public way he was behaving, as if nothing untoward had ever happened between them, Imogen began to feel as if she had slipped through a crack in time. This was the old Charles, the one who always knew how to puncture her moments of high dudgeon and bring her back to an amused sense of the ridiculous. Of course she had been going on too long about it, and if it hadn’t been for Charles’s involvement, she would have long since let it go.

She shrugged and heard herself ask, “Are you staying for lunch?”

She sensed the startled reactions of the others in the drawing room, but even as she issued the casual invitation, she knew that she had hit upon the perfect way to handle Charles’s attempt at revenge. Quite simply, she would not be in the least uncomfortable in his company. She would treat him with casual friendliness and no more than that. He hated it when his carefully planned strategies failed—not that they did that often, at least not in the courtrooms and chambers of Lincoln’s Inn—but on this occasion, if he intended to embarrass her, make her feel awkward in his company, he was not going to have that satisfaction.

Charles crossed his legs at the ankles and regarded her over his sherry glass. “That would be delightful,” he said in a considering tone. “Unfortunately, however, I have guests at Beringer Manor, and I cannot leave them to fend for themselves.” Setting down his glass, he rose from his chair. “Lady Collins, such a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.” He bowed over the lady’s hand, then turned to shake hands with the Misses Collins before extending his hand to Esther. “I hope you and your sister will honor me with a visit to Beringer Manor very soon. Once I have ridded myself of troublesome houseguests, of course.” Here he shot a quick, almost mischievous glance in Imogen’s direction.

It was a look to be resisted at all costs. “Is it a very slow season in the divorce courts at present?” she inquired with a smile that was pure honey. Charles’s work defending apparently injured husbands had always been a bone of contention between them. He would never discuss the details of a case with her, but they almost always involved members of London society, who were, after all, the only people actually able to afford the hugely expensive process, and Imogen invariably had heard the wife’s case in one of the meetings of the Westminster branch of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies to which she belonged.

The union did more than work towards women’s suffrage, providing what support they could for the women involved in a divorce case. The support in general was limited to emotional rather than financial, although they did what they could. But in Imogen’s mind there were never two sides to these cases—how could there be, when the cards were stacked so powerfully on one side? The woman was always wronged, and she had argued case after case with Charles.

Now her remark was rewarded with a flicker like forked lightning at the back of his dark gaze before he returned her smile with a neutral version of his own.

“I have one or two briefs, but none that require my arduous attention at Lincoln’s Inn,” he said blandly. “My clerks are more than capable of handling the preliminaries, and I am hoping the ground here will soon soften sufficiently for hunting.” He gave her hand a brief, cool shake. “I understand your brother is coming down soon with a few friends?”

“So he writes,” Imogen said.

“Then I trust you will all ride over to Beringer Manor for luncheon one day soon.” He didn’t wait for a response, merely offered a slight bow, another cool smile, and took his leave.

“Well, my dear, Imogen, you conducted yourself very well in what must have been a most awkward situation,” Lady Collins declared. “It is very peculiar of Riverdale, though, to have bought the neighboring estate.” She shook her head in disapproval, although her eyes were shining with the prospect of sharing this gossip and her personal account of the first meeting between the jilt and the jilted.

Imogen had little difficulty reading the lady’s mind. She glanced at her sister and saw a warning gleam in Esther’s eyes, as gray as her own. She bit her unruly tongue, saying only, “I daresay it was a bargain, ma’am. It had been on the market for quite six months I believe. . . . Shall we go into luncheon?”

Charles stood on the gravel sweep outside the house, deep in thought, for the moment unaware of the dog cart he had used to drive the five miles to Beaufort House waiting for him in the driveway, a young stable boy holding the pony’s bridle. He didn’t know what he had expected of that encounter. He had cherished the ignoble hope that Imogen might have been a little flustered at his unexpected arrival, but she had rallied to the occasion like the fighter she was. He had questioned his motives for buying the Beringer estate from the first. What was he hoping for? A renewal of his relationship with Imogen? Or the opportunity to buzz around her like the most irritating mosquito, always on the periphery, ready to pop up when least expected to put her at a disadvantage in whatever social situation they found themselves?

If he was brutally honest with himself, some of the latter motive had weighed heavily. He was still so angry with her for ruining the life that lay ahead for them. But the former motive was even more powerful. He missed her so much. His life these days tasted like butterless bread, stale bread at that. He was used to the bite of sharp cheese, the sweetness of strawberry jam, the vinegar edge of a pickled onion on the bread he had shared with Imogen.

Was there any hope of rekindling the glorious exchange of wit and lust? The jigsaw puzzle of his life without her was missing so many pieces, sometimes he found it difficult to get up in the morning and get through his day.

Could Imogen feel the same?

Nothing he had seen of her today indicated that she might. But she was still as pointed, as combative, as passionate in her opinions as ever. And it was that passionate commitment to her causes that always filled him with the urge to swing her into the air, hold her against him, throw her on the nearest soft surface, and tumble with her in a gloriously sensual wrestling match that would leave them both helpless with laughter and afterglow. Imogen was the most physical lover he had ever had . . .

And reflections like that had got him into the mess he was in now.

Finally he became aware of the dog cart and the patient stable boy. With an almost unconscious headshake, he ran down the steps, jumping lightly into the vehicle, tossing the stable boy a coin and a word of apology for keeping him waiting.

His mind was now clear. Revenge be damned. He wanted Imogen back, and he would not rest until he had her.

After luncheon the party moved to the drawing room, where Lady Collins settled herself comfortably in front of the fire with a small glass of Madeira. The four younger women waited, murmuring small talk until a little snore from the sofa told them that the Madeira had done its work. Lady Collins would nap blissfully for at least an hour.

Emily leaned forward in her chair, her voice dropping. “So how do you really feel about Mr. Riverdale living next door, Gen?”

“Indifferent,” Imogen responded, pleased to hear that she sounded quite convincing. “Our engagement is broken, but there’s no reason for incivility.” She took up her coffee cup. “It was a mutual decision.” She felt Esther’s disbelief like a wave hitting her from the chair opposite but ignored it. Esther was not the person she needed to convince.

“Oh?” Sarah’s eyes widened. “But you broke it off so suddenly?”

“Yes, or so it must have seemed,” Imogen said with a light gesture of her free hand as she took a sip of coffee. “In fact, Charles and I had been talking about it for some weeks. Our only concern had been the inconvenience for everyone else . . . and then, of course, when the inevitable decision was made, we’d left it so late that the inconvenience was magnified a hundredfold.”

Esther regarded her sister with some awe. This was a new twist even to her, but she respected Imogen for it, guessing what lay behind it. Charles would find the story difficult to contradict, and social rehabilitation for them both would be a much quicker and simpler matter with a simple, mutual decision that they were not suited.

“So you don’t mind that he’s living right next door?” Emily pressed, regarding her friend closely.

Imogen shrugged. “Not really . . . how should I? What Charles Riverdale does now is no business of mine. He’s always wanted a country estate, and I daresay Beringer was a bargain.”

“I heard Papa say it went for ten thousand guineas,” Sarah informed them, with a quick glance at her mother’s somnolent figure. “A steal, he said.”

“And Mama told him not to be so vulgar,” her sister reminded her.

“Well, I’m happy that Charles managed to achieve his ambition,” Imogen said. “More coffee?” She lifted the pot and adroitly changed the subject.

“Oh my goodness . . . my goodness . . . is that the time?” Lady Collins awoke suddenly, blinking and adjusting her pince-nez. “Girls . . . girls, we must be away. You know how your father hates his horses to be out after dark.”

“You have at least an hour to full dark, ma’am,” Imogen reassured. “And the drive is not more than twenty minutes.” She rose and rang for Sharpton. “Could you ask for Lady Collins’s carriage, Sharpton?”

“Certainly, Miss Imogen.” The door closed behind the butler.

“Well, I trust you girls have had a comfortable gossip.” Lady Collins rose to her feet, peering into the gilded mirror above the mantel to adjust the pins and high pads that held her elaborate coiffure in place.

“Very comfortable, Lady Collins.” Esther went to the door. “Let me fetch your furs. You won’t wish to go outside without them.”

Ten minutes later their guests were gone and the sisters returned to the drawing room. “That was harder than I expected,” Imogen declared, flinging herself onto a sofa and kicking off her shoes. “I never lie to Emily.”