Lady Pamela (18 page)

Jason Fitzroy had told his sister about the earl’s money woes several weeks past.

“He’s dipped,” the young man had said.

“Dipped?” questioned Annabelle.

“Cleaned up and rolled out. Been happening for some time, I hear, but lately he’s been looking for a sixpence to scratch with.”

“Good heavens.”

“I’ll marry her,” Jason had offered.

His sister rolled her eyes. “She has problems enough already.”

A careful conversation with Millicent later that day had revealed that her friend had no idea of the earl’s oncoming financial disaster. Annabelle agonized over what to tell her, for who would want to know bad news they could do nothing about? With every ball they attended, every
soirée
, Belle tried to steer Millicent to the richest of the younger gentlemen of the
ton
, hoping that one would be as acceptable to the earl as Castlereaugh. But it had been no use.

The earl was holding out, thought Lady Annabelle, for a great fortune.

And
then
, to make matters even worse, Millicent had formed a
tendre
for that ridiculous Lord Peabody. Annabelle sighed. Clarence Peabody! What a squeeze-crab, what a pudding-heart, what an insipid,
insufferable
little coxcomb.

Sensitive
, Millicent called him.

Aye, thought Belle. Sensitive like a worm. Her friend had shown better judgment in the past, and Lady Annabelle could only conclude that recent proximity to Lord Castlereaugh had been enough to addle Millicent’s brain.      

“Oh, Annabelle. What am I to do?” cried Milly, yet again.

* * * *

Millicent was overset. Annabelle didn’t seem to understand, and her friend had always understood before. They had spent
hours
together in this very room, planning their weddings and dreaming of true love’s first kiss.

The wedding gowns they had designed! The flowers they would carry, and the jewelry they would wear! Lady Annabelle had gone so far, on one occasion, to
draw
the scene at the precise, exalted moment of being pronounced man and wife. The groom’s face might have been a trifle indistinct in this creation, but the rest of the tableau was clear.

They would both be married in pomp and beauty, and live happily ever after.

She was an earl’s only daughter, thought Millicent, not some half-cousin of a newly-minted baronet. She should have her pick of the
ton
gentlemen! And now Belle was suggesting she find someone else before her father forced her to marry Lord Castlereaugh. Find someone
soon
.

“He can’t force me! He can’t!” she declared to Lady Annabelle.

Annabelle sighed. “Lord Castlereaugh is quite rich,” she reminded Milly. “I’m sure that your father believes...that he could provide a comfortable life for you. If you are to avoid marrying him, you must marry someone else.”

“But how–”

“The Lincolnshire’s ball is next week,” said Belle. “ ’Twill be the largest crush of the season, and the Marquess of Leight is in town. The marquess is our cousin, you know. He’s very shy and rarely attends such affairs, but Jason says he’s nobs up in blunt.”

Lady Millicent had heard Annabelle speak of this marquess; she remembered that he was young and accounted handsome. Her spirits rose for a moment, only to fall immediately.

“I can’t propose to a gentleman!” wailed Milly. “And I haven’t even been introduced to the marquess!”

“Don’t be a goose,” said Belle. “If Jason can convince him to attend, I can surely manage an introduction to my own cousin. And wear your blue silk–it has the lowest neckline.”

“But–”

“The marquess is said to have a soft spot for melancholy females. Perhaps you could start to cry.”

“But Clarence says–”

“A
pox
,” said Lady Annabelle, “on Lord Peabody.”

“Oh!” said Milly, and poor Clarence Peabody’s sensitive nature would not have survived the next few minutes unscathed, for both girls collapsed in giggles.

Lady Annabelle stayed another half of an hour, until the maid scratched on Milly’s door, bringing a pot of chamomile tea and the night’s candle. As Belle left, she assured Lady Millicent that all was not lost.

“We’ll think of something,” said Lady Annabelle. “I promise.”

* * * *

Annabelle left. Disconsolate and alone, Millicent sat before the fire, a shawl draped over her shoulders for warmth. She thought of Lord Castlereaugh. She thought of Clarence Peabody and the Marquess of Leight. If she was to be forced to marry someone, if her father would not hear of Lord Peabody...

But why could the earl not wait? Why was he in such a hurry? It was all such a puzzle.

Lady Millicent, as Belle had surmised, was unaware of her family’s true financial situation. She knew nothing of the earl’s debts. Milly’s experience of
ton
society was of luxurious townhomes, expensive clothing, and glorious balls. On no occasion in her eighteen years had she any reason to doubt that her father was wealthy, or that her family had enough money to supply its members’ every whim. The earl seemed to think nothing of purchasing another carriage or team of horses whenever the fancy took him, and her mother had never been one to pass up a new gown.

Milly’s head drooped and a tear crept from under her eyelashes as the little-girl dreams of only weeks ago fled into the London night.

Father. Father, why are you doing this?

It was all so vexing and unexpected. Her life, before this past month, had been pleasant and amusing, and no-one had required anything of Lady Millicent except that she be pleasant and amusing in return.

I have always done everything I was told to do, she thought.

Millicent Chambers had made her debut, as expected, at sixteen. Two years of parties and balls had passed, and she had enjoyed fully the attention given to young, high-born maidens of the
ton
. If fewer young gentlemen paid serious address to Milly than she might have expected–for society knew what the daughter did not of her father’s finances–still her dance card was always full. Lady Millicent had not worried overmuch of marriage these two years. Until now.

Millicent heard the sound of a carriage being brought round to the front steps, and she padded over to the window, frowning. The front door opened and the earl appeared, calling something to the butler over his shoulder. He strode to the carriage, but was interrupted by a small child begging for ha’pence.

Such children were common, even in the finer neighborhoods. Perhaps especially in the finer neighborhoods, as they waited for this precise moment, when a carriage was brought round, and a gentleman emerged from the house.

“Sir?” Millicent heard the child’s call. The poor thing must be no older than five or six years, and dressed in rags. It was impossible to tell from this angle if the urchin was a boy or a girl.

“Yes?” said her father, turning to see who had addressed him.

“Ha’penny, penny. Ha’penny, penny,” came the familiar call.

The earl swung his arm up, walking stick in hand, and then, as Millicent’s eyes widened and she gasped, he knocked the child to the ground.

Silence. The footman standing in wait affected a sudden interest in a smudge of dirt on his sleeve; he brushed it off and then handed her father into the coach as if nothing had happened. The carriage left. The child was motionless for several seconds, then came shakily to his–or her–feet as Milly stood, still rooted to her bedroom floor in shock.

The child picked up a pebble and threw it at the house, and then ran off.

Lady Millicent was trembling. In all of her eighteen years she had never seen violence done to anyone, at anytime. Let alone to a child! No-one would ever describe her father as a kind man, it was true, but still–

This isn’t right, Millicent said to herself. Even if he is an earl, this isn’t right.

It was a strange thought.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Friends, Lord Torrance had said.

Lady Pamela sighed. The easing of tension between her and the duke had at first been a welcome relief, but they had now been
friends
for over a month, and it was wearing on her nerves.

The work at Marchers was not unpleasant, of course, and the redecoration was progressing nicely. Pam had enjoyed every minute of planning and shopping for the duke’s house–and to see the beautiful new fabrics at the windows, the new carpeting upon the floors, and the new furniture in every corner was a daily delight.

The chairs in the dining room, she thought, had been a particular coup. Hardles and Brown had designed a sturdy but graceful chair of oak inlaid with holly; the look was neo-classical and nicely complimented the behemoth of a table, adding a new refinement. The dining room had become one of her favorites, and she had fallen asleep on several occasions imagining the dinner parties that Lord Torrance would someday host, the gleaming china and sparkling silver, all set for fifty guests. She could almost hear the laughter, almost see the different courses as they emerged from the kitchen, carried on the shoulders of fifty smiling footmen.

Lady Pamela, of cheerful and gregarious disposition herself, found other people pleasant company. In Lady Pam’s world, footmen were allowed to smile, and one could never have too many guests. Marchers House would be a true mansion, she thought, in the old sense of that word. A place to
remain
, to dwell in or abide, for both family and friends. The thought cheered her, made her believe that the work had all been worthwhile, even the awkwardness and pain of being so often thrown together with Lord Torrance. Any remnants of the old sadness in the duke’s house had disappeared, and Lady Pamela liked to think that Guenevieve would have approved the change.

Rest easy, she thought. The master of this house has returned, and he is nothing like the old duke.

So Marchers was at peace. But as to her own relationship with Lord Torrance...

Friendship, thought Lady Pamela, did not feel like this. The passion that had flared between them for those few moments on the gallery carpet, was that not how they truly felt? How could she have thought it would ever fade from memory? She was a fool. Each new day, each time the duke opened the door to Marchers and welcomed her and Lady Detweiler into his home, Pamela felt the added pain.

Lord Torrance had kissed her as...as he had kissed her, long before. But since then, nothing.

How can he be so indifferent? Lady Pamela wondered, forgetting that she had once tried to claim indifference herself. He went on as before, spoke to her as before, not a sidelong glance, or an accidental touch, to let her know that they were more than... friends.

Pah, thought Lady Pam.

And she could not avoid him, not now. It was far too late to return to any previous life of merely wondering where the Duke of Grentham might be, and if he was ever to come to London. She was fair stuck, in a prison she seemed to have made for herself, the prison of Marchers House, where she must go, and where she must see him. Pam remembered, with nostalgia, the days of her roundabout walks through Audley Square. A simpler time, a peaceful time, with nothing but the broken windows of a ducal townhome to cause her worry.

* * * *

Lady Detweiler, unencumbered by such reminiscence, was making plans. She had seen the tension building between the duke and Lady Pamela, and felt that it was time things were brought forward. Pamela no longer moped, it was true, but was wound so tightly these days that Lady Detweiler feared she might break. And as for Lord Torrance...Amanda was tempted to laugh.
Friends
, he had told Lady Pamela, but if it was friendship that gentleman felt, Amanda was the Empress of China.

Sadly, however, the duke seemed absurdly capable of keeping his passions in check. He had yet to pounce upon Lady Pamela in the library, or ambush her in the back gardens, despite the stratagems Amanda had devised to leave them alone. No, it was nothing but work, work, work all the day long.

Sheer boredom, in a word. Fabric samples for the draperies in the music room, or a new Aubusson carpet for the smaller breakfast parlour were all very well, but those two needed less to occupy their time, not more.

Lady Detweiler had high hopes for an upcoming ball to be given by the Duke and Duchess of Lincolnshire. Lord Torrance had been invited, of course, and Amanda had made it her business to remark several times, in his hearing, that it was the
one
ball at which a duke new to town must be seen. On the occasion of her third such remark–or was it the fourth?–Lord Torrance had chuckled, and assured her that he would, indeed, attend such a consequential and momentous event.

A good ball was just the thing to detach Lord Torrance and Lady Pamela from this preposterous, self-imposed friendship. One waltz would do the trick, thought Lady Detweiler.

* * * *

“Hold still, yer grace,” said the valet.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Josiah, it’s only a neckcloth,” said Benjamin. “Tie it and be done.”

“The ladies like ’em fancy, they say.”

“They do, do they?”

“Yup.”

“Well, the ladies can wear the damned things, then. It feels as thought my neck is being held in a vise.”

The valet ignored him. In a moment he grunted with satisfaction, and stepped back.

“There ye go,” he told Lord Torrance. “Right fine, if I kin be so bold.”

The duke regarded his reflection in the mirror. The rugged planes of his face were indeed set off nicely by the folds of white linen, and Benjamin supposed he looked well enough. Josiah helped him into his coat and brushed off the last few traces of London dust.

“Them ladies like pretty words too,” ventured the man. “An’ smiles.”

 Benjamin grimaced. Had things come to such a pass that his valet was offering him romantic advice?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he told Josiah, and rang for the coach.

* * * *

The Banbridge carriage drew up in front of the Duke of Lincolnshire’s great Mayfair townhome, only one of what seemed fifty such
equipages
now fighting for the best position in front of his grace’s front steps. The house blazed with light and Millicent could see the crowds milling about in the second-floor ballroom as they waited for the dancing to begin.