Kate Noble (2 page)

“No,” Romilla replied, “the yellow simply must go. A robin’s egg blue, I think. Now Evangeline, as early as possible tomorrow, we will go about outfitting you with a new wardrobe. The Season’s about to begin, and you need to look your best.”

“But, we just purchased new wardrobes in Lisbon.”

Evangeline’s protest, however, was smothered under the weight of her stepmother’s insistence that foreign fashions would never do in London.

The girls resigned themselves to the conversation Romilla directed of how many flounces would be appropriate on a young lady of Evangeline’s height, with whom Sir Geoffrey needed to renew his acquaintance, and what would spell the greatest success possible for Evangeline. Gail, knowing full well that this conversation would never miss her opinion, turned her gaze to the window, content to daydream.

Their home was in Mayfair, a pleasant, comfortable quarter of the city, with large houses on neatly kept squares. Sir Geoffrey had purchased Number Seven decades ago in something of a coup—a marquis had bankrupted his family coffers and had to sell off anything that wasn’t entailed. Their father considered it an investment, but their mother, when they were in town, had considered it their home. Berkeley Square was a particularly fashionable address, although Gail had a suspicion that the astronomical prices of the homes drove the fashion more than the homes themselves did. Number Seven was situated on the southwest corner of the square, affording the front drawing room a panoramic view of their next-door neighbors and the park, defined by the cobblestone streets that lined it.

It was a bright, sunny spring day, with crocuses bursting forth from the well-manicured grounds—a day when people should be walking arm in arm and enjoying each other’s company. But alas, it was not yet eleven in the morning, and most of the Ton were still consuming their breakfasts, if they were awake at all. And although the sunshine was calling to her, Gail only wanted to go back to her room and take a long nap. Sir Geoffrey had insisted on such an early start to the day that Gail felt like she had barely closed her eyes before she was roused again. She would enjoy the sunshine in the afternoon, she promised herself. If only Romilla would release her so she could get some rest!

Eyes turned to their neighbors to the north, Gail was happily composing a letter in her head, when she spied a twitching of the curtains from Number Eight’s front windows. The curtains twitched again, and this time, Gail saw two sets of shining eyes peering in her direction. She leaned closer to the window trying to get a better view of who could be looking directly into their front drawing room, but could make out nothing more than two shadowy figures. She perched herself on the edge of the sofa, leaned closer and closer, and—

Whomp!

“Abigail, whatever are you doing? Get off the floor this instant!”

“Gail, are you all right?” Evangeline’s sisterly hand helped her to her feet. Romilla looked disapprovingly at her clumsy stepdaughter, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, er, Mother. It’s the people next door in Number Eight…”

“The Pickerings?” Evangeline asked.

“Yes, the Pickerings, if they still live there.”

“What about the Pickerings? And straighten your skirt. What if one of the servants should walk in? What would they think?” Romilla snapped.

“I imagine they would think I fell on the floor,” Gail replied.

“Abigail,” Romilla sighed, “
why
did you fall?”

“Well, it’s just the people in Number Eight. I think they were spying on us from their front windows.”

Romilla blinked once. Then twice. Then she burst out, exasperated, “Of course they were spying on us! This is London! It’s what we do!”

FINALLY
, finally,
finally
, Romilla noticed her stepdaughters were near to collapsing in their chairs and let the girls head upstairs to wash and rest. On the way to the large floating staircase in the middle of the front hall, Gail and Evangeline passed their father’s library. Sir Geoffrey had dismissed his steward and was now speaking with his secretary (although who could tell, the two were practically interchangeable).

“No, no, no,” the girls heard their father say. “I will be damned if I attend one of Mrs. Brenton’s musicales. If they’re the same as three years ago, they’re a damned waste of time. I have no patience for such missish drivel, and neither do my daughters. I expect Romilla will want to choose from the other invitations on that day. Moving on to the twenty-sixth, I’ll be in Parliament…”

As they passed the door, Gail caught a whiff of her father’s cigar smoke, a scent that had seeped into everything that was Sir Geoffrey. Gail blinked back memories of being little and held by her father, inhaling deeply the sweet dark aroma that had settled into his shirts. Gail knew that long after her father was gone, the smell of cigars would stay in the leather of the library’s books, the solid maple desk, the carpets, and the curtains. It was a thought that made her smile, albeit a bit sadly.

“Sounds as if Father will have no trouble falling back into London life,” Evangeline remarked.

“He never has,” Gail replied.

“Are you glad to be home?” Evangeline asked, taking her sister’s arm affectionately.

“I’m glad that we are no longer on the road,” Gail said, laughing. “But it is difficult to call London home. We’ve spent less time here than we have in other cities.”

“Yes, but there we are the guests, the foreigners. There is something wholly relaxing about being a native.”

“I suppose you are right on that score. No language barriers here,” Gail mused.

“As if language was ever a barrier for you!” Evangeline laughed.

As the girls turned into the east wing, they were met by Mrs. Bibb, rushing down the hall with some mending in hand.

“Oh! Miss Evangeline, Miss Gail, you gave me such a start!” Mrs. Bibb proclaimed, hand to her breast. “But where are the two of you headin’ now?”

“We are very tired, Mrs. Bibb. We are going to wash and rest for a few hours,” Gail explained to the housekeeper.

“But, beggin’ your pardons, dears, you’re in the west wing, with the family rooms.”

“Mrs. Bibb, are you certain? I’m quite sure our rooms were in the east wing, in the…” Gail’s voice fell as she realized…

“The nursery, miss? La, you haven’t been in this house since you were out of the schoolroom, have you? Your rooms used to be in the east wing, but now that you’re not young girls anymore, you’ll be in the west wing with your parents.”

“Well.” Evangeline cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose that does make sense. Gail?”

Gail, a bit thrown by her own wrong presumption, recovered well enough to reply, “Yes, of course. How silly of me, Mrs. Bibb. Could you show us the way?”

More than happy to oblige the young ladies, Mrs. Bibb led Evangeline and Gail to a pair of rooms in the west wing, across the hall from each other.

“They’re not connected?” Evangeline inquired.

“Well, miss, Lady Alton thought you would be wantin’ your privacy,” Mrs. Bibb mumbled as she twisted the mending garment in her hands.

“But we always…” Gail’s voice drifted off sadly. She couldn’t remember a time she and Evie had not been together. If they weren’t sharing a room, they at least had a connecting door so they could talk at all hours of the night.

But apparently, not anymore.

“Think of it this way, my dears,” Mrs. Bibb said, as she opened the door to the room on the left, ushering Evangeline inside, “you’ll be right across the hall from each other, not six feet away. Also, Lady Alton said you could each do up your rooms in any way you please. Seein’ as the front drawing room and a few other rooms are going to be done over as well, it’ll be no bother to have some new wallpaper or cushions in here.”

Evangeline’s room indeed wanted refurbishment. It must have been ten years at least since the walls had been covered in a pattern that alternated pink roses with pink stripes, and the color had faded in time to take on a hint of dingy gray. The linens were freshly cleaned, but dulled by time and disuse. Mrs. Bibb then crossed the hall and opened the door to Gail’s room, a mint green, which was equally in need of touching up. Still, Gail was a little peeved to have been so maneuvered.

“Why does she want to change everything?” she blurted to the faded walls.

“Oh now, Miss Gail, when a lady enters a house she intends to make her home, she needs to put her own stamp on it. That’s all her ladyship is trying to do.”

“But this is my mother’s house,” Gail replied, her voice cracking under its own exhaustion and despair.

Mrs. Bibb looked Gail up and down. “Now, dearie, I know it’s hard, but a house is a thing—a pile of bricks, nothing more. The only thing left in this world your mother can still lay claim to is the two of you. And she had right proper young ladies, ones who can weather any change that comes their way. Am I right?”

Gail nodded grudgingly and turned to her sister. Evangeline smiled bravely, determinedly putting a bright face on the situation.

“At least you got the view of the garden,” she said. “I look out on the road.”

Gail went to her sister’s window. “No, you have a view of the park, I look out onto our one tree behind the house.”

“We can switch if you like—” but Gail interrupted her.

“We wouldn’t want to deprive all your suitors of the opportunity to serenade you in the moonlight, or break their necks scaling the sheer face of the front of the house,” she grinned impishly.

Gail took a deep breath and pushed her shoulders back. Crossing back to her own room’s doorway, and smiling just as bravely at Evangeline, she said, “You know, my room could use some new colors. What do you think of a butter yellow?”

Evangeline smirked. “I think the color is quite becoming on you.”

Mrs. Bibb sagged in relief. Gail walked through her door and watched Evangeline enter hers across the way.

“We’re going to lie down for a spell, Mrs. Bibb,” Evangeline told the housekeeper.

“Yes miss, never you worry. You two have yourselves a good rest.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bibb,” the girls chorused, as they shut their doors.

“I’ll have you up by half past two, because Lady Alton wants you both in the drawing room come three to discuss plans for your coming out ball,” Mrs. Bibb said as she walked away.

As if on cue, two heads emerged from opposite sides of the hallway.

“What ball?”

“
DO
you have to snore through everything I say?”

The speaker kicked his subject a little less than gently with his heel, but all for naught. His faithful steed, Jupiter, who on any other day would have torn through Hyde Park like one of the mythical furies, simply would not move faster than a slug. Maximillian, Viscount Fontaine, and future Earl of Longsbowe, let out a frustrated roar, which of course did nothing to speed Jupiter’s step. Max dismounted and thought to pull the bloody horse along, but quickly discarded the idea. Knowing Jupiter’s disposition, which today was one step above that of a stubborn mule, he would simply dig in his hooves and stop moving altogether. So Max, bereft of other options, decided that this indeed was a lovely spot to stop for a rest and tethered the black beast to a nearby tree, where he could mope to his heart’s content.

A few minutes later, a tall, well-dressed gentleman riding atop a lively bay mare came galloping up to Max and Jupiter.

“Fontaine, what happened? The first time in my life I beat you in a race, I turn around to see you’re not running it.” Mr. William Holt dismounted as he addressed his friend.

“Sorry I couldn’t oblige your desire for a little sport, Holt, but Jupiter here had other plans.” Max looked daggers at Jupiter, who solemnly munched on a patch of clover.

“He didn’t wish to race?”

“That’s putting it mildly. He flatly refused.”

“But Jupiter’s a flier, if I’ve ever seen one! Is he injured? Or ill?” Will inquired, looking anxiously at his best friend’s mount.

Max snorted. “Hardly. Jupiter is simply lovesick. He fell madly for a mare at the stables where I was boarding him. But she was sold, and so he mopes. Won’t gallop, barely walks, and refuses cubes of sugar. It’s the damnedest thing I ever saw. I told him there are other females out there and that we’d find him a sweet-faced chestnut to moon over, but he refuses to listen.”

“But, Jupiter’s a gelding,” Will said questioningly. “He can’t—”

“Yes, yes.” Max frowned. “But I fear this has less to do with physical functions and more to do with—as disgusted as it makes me—affection.”

Will looked thoughtful. “Why don’t you buy the mare from its new owners?”

Max sighed, running his fingers through his midnight-black hair. “I don’t have the blunt for a new horse, you know that. Besides, it’s no use. The stable master’s son was the one who handled the sale. He’s barely fifteen and as green as they come. Doesn’t remember a thing about the man who purchased her, just that he paid cash and was a gentleman.”

“Well, that’s something! How many gentlemen do you know who actually pay their debts?” Will smiled good-naturedly.

Max harrumphed. Trust Will to see the hope in every situation, no matter how desperate, or in this case, how silly. He was one of those sunny people that never failed to brighten a room, could contribute intelligently to a conversation, and always seemed to enjoy himself.

It was highly annoying.

“Fontaine,” Will said, “you’re scowling. Don’t be so bloody dour! This is not something that requires the patented Longsbowe black humor. It’s springtime. No wonder Jupiter is in love. We all should be! ’Tis the season to appreciate lovely females of all species.”

Max’s eyebrow arched cynically. He knew his friend too well. “And have you chosen which fair young miss you plan on falling madly in love with this year?”

“Not yet,” Will grinned, “but there is no lack of choice.”

“For you perhaps. Sometimes I believe you are the far luckier to be born without a title or a father who demands heirs in a timely fashion.”

Will’s smile faded. “You received another letter?”

Max nodded. “You’re surprised? He’s sent them once a week since I went to school. Now the old codger insists I be married this year and start producing offspring by Christmas.”

Will sighed. “Do you know,” he drawled, “I do not envy the nobility. Now, now—I realize that as I am in trade, I am naturally beneath your set and therefore should fawn at your feet.” Max shot Will a sardonic look, who blithely continued on. “But I cannot. You have marriage forced upon you to continue your line—and therefore find it revolting, putting it off as long as possible. And forget love! That should only complicate matters. I, on the other hand, am free to fall in love as I please, whether she be pauper or princess. I look forward to falling in love every day.”

“And you do. Every day, with a new girl,” which was a statement to which Will could only agree.

Max raked his fingers through his hair, frustrated, letting Will’s speech roll over him.

“So, I’m hopeless.”

“Now, I didn’t say—”

“So I suppose I should have it over and done with,” Max determined. He untethered Jupiter from the tree, giving gentle tugs on the line to lead the recalcitrant horse back to its lonely public stables.

“Marriage? You’re joking.” Will laughed, meeting Max and Jupiter’s pace.

“No no! First my father, now you—I’m convinced. I should choose a wife—any relatively well-bred young lady would do,” Max said, shrugging off his friend’s disbelief and smothering a smile. “You should look into settling down as well.”

“Me?” Will squeaked, turning paler than marble, much to Max’s amusement.

“We are getting on in years, you know,” he intoned seriously.

“We are eight and twenty, if we’re a day, not exactly diseased and decrepit,” Will argued. “You’re funning me, I know it.”

Max’s eyes were suspiciously wide and innocent. “Not a minute ago, you accused me of being dour. How could I not be serious?”

“I know you, Fontaine,” Will said triumphantly. “As long as your father keeps haranguing you, you’ll keep defying him in the only ways you can. No chance you will ever consider marriage.” And with that, Will blithely nudged his bay mare into a canter, moving in front of his friend.

Although Max acknowledged Will’s statement as true, Max’s face still darkened, his thoughts focused on his father’s most recent, and most pressuring, letter. It was amazing how easily a man whom he hadn’t seen in years still managed to prick at his temper. Annoyed, Max pulled a little harder on Jupiter’s reins than necessary, and suddenly the horse ground to a halt. He pulled all the more fervently and was soon tugging with all his strength. With Will chortling from ahead, Max let out a frustrated yell, capturing the attention of no small number of other riders.