Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) (3 page)

“‘Pon my word!” he exclaimed. “I’ve gone to heaven.”

“Oh no, Mr. Quentin, you are still quite on the earth.” Fiona smiled, found his broken spectacles amongst the books and set them on his nose. He peered back at her through the thick lenses, one cracked.

“Why bless me, ‘tis Miss Hawthorn! I thought you were a beautiful angel come to take me to the heavenly throne.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Quentin. It’s only me, come to bring you a book. Tell me, sir, are you injured? Shall I send your grandson to fetch the doctor?”

He shook his head and slid his stocky figure to the floor. Fiona sighed with relief and helped him straighten his demolished book table. Afterward she purchased a few more books than she had originally planned to do.

Poor Mr. Quentin
,
Fiona reflected as she walked along the pathway back to Thorncourt, yet another casualty on the long list of those wounded by
Miss Hawthorn’s curse
. At least, he hadn’t broken any bones, which was more than some of her other victims could boast.

She stopped walking, and threw her head back, calling out to the maker of the brilliant blue sky, “Why must these things happen?”

Placid sunlight radiated onto her upturned face. Its warmth comforted her, but provided no answers. The smell of ripening grain on the breeze made her sigh and smile with pleasure. The bluffs rising east of the road enticed her.

Still morning, she thought, plenty of time. She checked behind her to make certain the lane was empty. It was.

With uncivilized glee, she grasped the bottom of her skirt, dropped her books into it, and held it like a bag. Then, in a shocking display of unladylike behavior, she sprinted up the hillside and did not stop running until she reached the top.

Breathing hard, Fiona stood on the crest taking in the unobstructed view of the lands below. Sheep, looking like white tufts of cotton, dotted the pastures. Other fields, thick with yellow grain, stretched toward Thorncourt. She waved to one of the grooms exercising her father’s favorite hunter on the road below.

Turning, she darted in and out among the trees, running toward the lake that fed the pastures and fields below. Poplar and ash trees shimmered in the sunlight, sending golden dots flashing across the ground as she ran. Finally, she came to a small thatch boathouse. Inside, she plopped her books on a table in the corner and began removing her clothing.

A few moments later, she emerged on the short pier beside the boathouse garbed in a dark blue bathing dress. The morning sun winked brightly overhead, which meant Fiona still had a whole afternoon to herself. In a performance that would have scandalized the entire neighborhood, she ran to the end of the wooden dock and dove headfirst into the lake. Plunging down into the crystalline water she no longer felt human, but like a bird soaring through the skies. The cool liquid of the lake surrounded her like a nurturing womb. She spent the remainder of the morning exploring its depths, chasing fish and practicing the strokes her father had taught her as a child.

She was blessed with a father whose zest for life made him ignore the constraints of society, thus he’d granted her the same freedoms he would’ve given a son. They’d spent many happy afternoons riding and hunting, or fishing and swimming here at the lake. Now that he was so far away Fiona’s world kept shrinking until this was the only place she felt completely at ease.

She didn’t think her disappearances caused her step-mamma any concern. To the contrary, Lady Hawthorn was undoubtedly relieved not to have Fiona underfoot, or painfully
over
-foot, as was more often the case. But to Lady Hawthorn’s credit, she deliberately remained ignorant of Fiona’s unusual occupations. After all, she could not openly approve of a young lady from Thorncourt bolting headlong across the countryside for the pure joy of it, or plunging face first into a lake.

* * *

Under that same brilliant sun, Lord Wesmont rode toward Thorncourt on Perseus, his temperamental white thoroughbred. As Tyrell posted up the long gravel drive he calculated how best to make Fiona pay for those moments of panic she’d caused him. Naturally, his presence alone ought to be enough to disturb her.

She’ll be afraid I’m going to mention her torn dress to Lady Hawthorn, or discuss her extraordinary mode of escape from the balcony. She ought to be afraid—wretched Elf—giving him a start the way she did.

Although, he planned to do nothing except make her nervous, a smile curled at one side of his mouth as he anticipated her discomfiture. His momentary amusement vanished as he looked up at Baron Hawthorn’s manor. He pictured Fiona’s father still garrisoned in Spain and swore softly under his breath. Suddenly his whole errand seemed frivolous and wrong. How could he make social calls while other men, good men, like Hawthorn, men to whom he owed his life, were perhaps facing death at this very moment? The sound of crunching gravel under his horse’s hooves roused Tyrell from his dark visions of the Spanish battlefront.

Perseus snorted, tossed his head and danced sideways while Tyrell stared up at the three-story limestone house. A curtain moved in the upstairs window. No doubt he’d been observed. He swore softly, and contemplated turning around and going home. He shouldn’t have come—not for a mere moment’s sport.

A stable lad ran up to take his mount and the die was cast. “I’ll see to ‘im, sir.”

Tyrell sighed and swung down. “Keep him close, I won’t be long.”

He trudged up the front steps and handed his card to the butler awaiting him at the door. The foyer reverberated with the sound of hammering pianoforte strings, as someone upstairs, most likely Fiona, plunked out a sonata with scant regard for meter.

The butler returned, and led him up to Lady Hawthorn’s sitting room, announcing Tyrell with a grand flourish. The pounding of piano keys stopped abruptly, for which he silently thanked God. But when he stepped into the room, his mouth fell open and he could only gape in disbelief.

He could not comprehend a room so riotously cluttered with mismatched decorations. Tyrell stood as rigid as a post, staring, trying to make sense of it all. It couldn’t be done. Order and reason had no part in the creation of this room. Maroon Chinese vases clashed with the blue side chairs. Egyptian artifacts looked crude atop the baroque, gold-encrusted credenza. Over the mantle hung a Georgian-style painting of a shepherdess whose bird-like features closely resembled Lady Hawthorn’s, but the lady had donned every jewel she owned for the portrait, and was outfitted to meet the Queen rather than herd sheep. The entire room was a garish jumble that seemed to march toward him like an army of lunatics.

He glanced over his shoulder, down the stairs, and wished he’d turned around and ridden away while he had the chance. Lady Hawthorn rushed forward and extended her hand. He took it and inclined his head, noting that Lady Hawthorn smiled with her lips, but the rest of her face neglected to come along.

He recouped his equilibrium, remembered the purpose for his visit, and turned his gaze toward the pianoforte—toward his intended quarry. His newly regained composure relapsed into confusion again as he realized the pianist was not Fiona.

In her place sat a chit with straw colored hair arranged into a platoon of ringlets standing in stiff attention around her head, so that it looked as if she were wearing a wreath of straw. He quickly schooled his expression as Lady Hawthorn introduced him to Emeline, her daughter from a previous marriage.

“My former husband, a good man, passed on eight years ago. May God rest his soul.” Lady Hawthorn bowed her head in a brief mournful homage. With that sad bit of business out of the way, she beamed at him as if she’d just found a shiny new gold piece in her stocking. “Surely you remember Emeline, my lord? Your mother introduced her to you at the ball.”

He muttered an incoherent response. No, he didn’t remember. He’d stared straight ahead in a blind cloud of irritation as the reception line had passed by. He’d merely shaken the hands offered him and grunted, while his mother prattled on about every eligible female in the district.

Next, Lady Hawthorn presented a freckle-faced girl of about thirteen years. Her youngest daughter, Sylvia, stood up beside a large embroidery hoop and curtsied prettily.

He glanced around the room in search of Fiona. It was possible she sat hidden behind one of the voluminous floral arrangements. Or obscured by the imposing bronze statue of Neptune riding on the back of a sea serpent, lightening bolt in one hand and a trio of mermaids clutching at his hips. But Fiona was not to be found in the crowded room.

Lady Hawthorn directed him to a yellow silk Egyptian sofa, which promised little or no comfort, and clashed mightily with the red roses painted on the blue striped wallpaper. Tyrell inhaled, inwardly cursed himself for coming, and sat down.

Emeline scurried over and planted herself on the other end of the sofa. He winced. Garbed in a frothy ruffled concoction with dozens of bows, her pink dress set against the yellow couch bruised his eyes. He would need something stronger than the tea Lady Hawthorn was offering to get through ten more minutes in this room.

Sylvia bent her head laboriously over her embroidery frame and tried valiantly not to cry out as she stuck her finger with the needle. He silently wished himself anywhere but here, India perhaps, or better yet, back on the Peninsula where he belonged, or darkest Africa—
anywhere
.

Refreshments arrived. Tyrell took a bite of the biscuit offered him. It crumbled like sugary sand in his mouth, which behooved him to drink down his dish of tea with some haste. Lady Hawthorn poured another cup for him, as she gossiped about their neighbors. He nodded politely and tried to change the subject by mentioning his encounter with Baron Hawthorn in Spain at the ill-fated battle of Salamanca. When she frowned, he assured her of her husband’s good health.

Emeline used her mother’s brief silence to seize the conversation and ply him with questions about his adventures on the continent. Unfortunately, she began to ask too closely about the battles he had fought.

Lady Hawthorn’s eyebrow shot up. “Emeline, my dear, we do not discuss such indelicate matters.”

“My apologies, Mama. I didn’t mean to offend.’ She clasped her hands together and directed a pleading look at Tyrell. “Lord Wesmont, you must forgive me. Oh, say you will.”

It was an overdone performance, he thought. Even the tiny upended portion of her nose turned pink. She really should go on the stage.

“I assure you, no offense was taken.” He left the subject and expressed his disappointment at not having found Miss Hawthorn at home. “Is she feeling poorly?” he pried.

Sylvia answered his question while pulling needle and thread up from the frame. It was one of those remarks a young person makes in imitation of the adults she has overheard. “Oh,” —she sighed with adult-like weariness—“you know how it is on a sunny day. Fiona is, no doubt, tearing up the fields on her horse, or drowning herself in her precious lake.”

This mimicked speech was rewarded with a subtle but swift kick from her sister. Sylvia yelped and looked up from her needlework in surprise. Her sister’s expression gave nothing away, but Tyrell felt certain that Sylvia’s quick glimpse of her mother’s face had apprised her of the fact that she had committed a
faux pas
.

He took mercy on the freckle-faced understudy and smiled. “It’s of no consequence. With such a glorious day beckoning, who could blame Miss Hawthorn for venturing outdoors? She will have forgotten all about our dance the other night and thus not expected my duty call.”

Emeline mewed like a disconcerted kitten. “I would never forget dancing with you.” She cast him a quick adoring look and then fussed with her fluffy skirt, contriving to look properly embarrassed, as if she had revealed too much affection for him.

Poor Sylvia, who had opened the door for this theatrical scene, stared in amazement at her sister, and then bent over her embroidery with renewed interest in the less complicated intricacies of tying a French knot.

Tyrell consulted the clock on the mantel, wishing he were the one out tearing up the fields on his horse, rather than Fiona.
What the devil did Sylvia mean when she said, “drowning herself in her precious lake”?

His ten minutes were up. Tyrell stood abruptly, made a quick bow and left Lady Hawthorn’s chaotic drawing room with as much haste as he could apply without running. Downstairs, he seized his hat from the butler and dashed out the door like a fox fleeing a pack of hounds.

Free of that abominable drawing room, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and assumed a more leisurely pace. He pulled out a three pence and flipped it up into the air. Sunlight glinted off the copper as it spun up and then dropped into his waiting palm. The stable lad holding Tyrell’s horse smiled, probably guessing the flashing coin was meant for him.

Tyrell patted Perseus’s nose. The groom was about fourteen and had intelligent brown eyes, which he lowered as he pulled on his forelock in obeisance, but the lad couldn’t hold back his praise for Perseus. “A prime ‘un he is, sir. I mean, yer lordship, sir.”

“Thank-you.” Tyrell flipped the thrupence and caught it again. “Give you any trouble, did he?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Unusual,” said Tyrell. “Perseus is high-spirited. He won’t let just anybody handle him.”

The boy’s countenance rose. “He din’na give me no trouble.”

“Excellent.” Lord Wesmont took the leads from him. “Perhaps, you know which direction Miss Fiona rode to?”

The boy looked at him obviously puzzled. “Miss Fiona din’na ride out today, yer lordship. Her mare is still in her stall.”

“My mistake.” Tyrell stared absently into the distance and flipped the coin once more. “I was told she was not at home.”

“Oh, well tha’s true ‘nuff. She ain’t home.” The boy offered enthusiastically and then caught himself.

“No?” asked Tyrell. “Then she must have gone for a walk?”

“I dunno it were a walk ‘xactly.”

He flipped the coin again. “What then, exactly?”

The young groom stepped back and eyed him and the thrupence warily. “Miss Fiona is a kind ‘un. An’ I won’t say nuffing to get ‘er in trouble, now will I?”