Lauren Willig (17 page)

 

 

This time, it was Vaughn’s turn to look a warning. “Yes,” he said pointedly. “
The
Lady Hester. Meddler, schemer, occasional republican—except, of course, when it gets in the way of the proper order of precedence. One would not, after all, wish to make do with a lesser seat at dinner. Have I left anything out, dear lady?”

 

 

“Pots and kettles,” returned Lady Hester disdainfully, before turning her icy gaze back to Mary. She looked her up and down with the sort of piercing assessment that made Mary wonder if she had remembered to don clean linen. “So you’re Imogen’s niece, are you? Paugh.”

 

 

Mary had never actually heard anyone say “paugh” before. It grated off Lady Hester’s tongue like sandpaper on granite.

 

 

“Lady Cranbourne is my great-aunt, yes,” Mary said carefully. “I hadn’t realized you were acquainted.”

 

 

Lady Hester’s nostrils flared, highlighting her resemblance to her horse. She had very large, square teeth. “She nearly caught my brother,” she rasped, speaking of Aunt Imogen as though she wasn’t within two feet of her. “Might have got him, too, but she never could stay the course. Always was a flibbertigibbet, was Imogen. Kisses for votes, dashing about with Scottish poets—deuced rackety sort of gel.”

 

 

“And a pretty one, I hear,” put in Mary helpfully, and watched the gargoyle features harden to granite. “One of the great beauties of her day.”

 

 

“Only men put store in beauty,” retorted Lady Hester, her masculine voice even harsher than usual. “Weak vessels, the lot of them. Always ready to be led astray by the next pretty face.”

 

 

“Wouldn’t know about that, would you, Hester?” cackled Lady Imogen from under the depths of her hat, causing Lady Hester to crack her head rather satisfyingly on the top of the window frame. “Frumpy as ever!”

 

 

Lady Hester’s rough features turned a very unbecoming red, although that might have been due largely to the blow to her head. “Some of us put store in greater things.”

 

 

“Hopeless spinster,” murmured Aunt Imogen to herself, although, with the uncertain volume of the mostly deaf, her murmur could be heard halfway to Hyde Park.

 

 

“My brother had a lucky escape. And
you
.” Lady Hester turned on Vaughn with an expression that wouldn’t have looked amiss on Medusa during one of her crankier days. “What would Teresa say to your strutting about with this chit?”

 

 

Vaughn’s face didn’t change, but Mary could see his fingers tighten on the handle of his cane. “It is very difficult,” he said mildly, “to strut while sitting. And,” he added, “equally difficult to ride with one’s head stuck in a window.”

 

 

“Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Vaughn.”

 

 

“I know,” yawned Vaughn. “You’ll be back.”

 

 

Lady Hester didn’t deign to answer. Wheeling about, she cantered off in the direction of Hyde Park, her horse’s hooves striking an angry tattoo against the paving stones.

 

 

“Never liked her brother, anyway. Dull old stick,” contributed Aunt Imogen in a deafening aside. Poking her great-niece in the arm with a bony finger, she added, “If Hester gives you trouble, come to me. I’ll soon set her right. Heh.”

 

 

And she subsided once more beneath her hat, a smug smile visible just beneath the brim. It boded ill for Lady Hester.

 

 

Rapping to the coachman to drive on, Vaughn returned to his perusal of the passing scenery as though he were accustomed to a daily diet of threat and invective. Given his winning manners, the prospect wasn’t all that unlikely. Mary was sure there were many people who would be delighted to see Vaughn tumble off a cliff…or down a flight of stairs…or out a window.

 

 

“And what did you do to alienate Lady Hester Standish?” inquired Mary lightly. “Not the same as Aunt Imogen, I trust.”

 

 

“No,” replied Vaughn at long last. “Don’t be fooled by that display. Lady Hester was—and remains—a very clever woman. A clever woman, and a determined one.”

 

 

Mary had her doubts about the former part of that description. Between her face and voice, Lady Hester’s gender was entirely unclear. Her habit, cut to accommodate her wide shoulders and angular frame, accentuated the impression. But for the fact that she was riding sidesaddle, Mary could have easily taken her for a man.

 

 

“Clever?” she prompted.

 

 

“Do they discuss nothing more exigent than the properties of lemonade at these soirées you attend? Lady Hester was, at one time, one of our foremost philosophers. She schooled Wollstonecraft in the rights of women, flirted with physiocracy, corresponded with Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Mme. de Stael—you do know who Mme. de Stael is, don’t you?”

 

 

Mary thought Mme. de Stael might have something to do with poetry…or was it painting? Nor could she have said with any confidence just what physiocracy entailed, other than a vague notion that it was something to do with political economy. But she wasn’t going to let Vaughn know that.

 

 

“Of course,” she said, putting her nose up in the air. “Doesn’t everyone?”

 

 

“My apologies,” said Vaughn ironically, in a way that made it quite clear he had seen through her bluff. “Perhaps later we might discuss some of her works. At your convenience, naturally.”

 

 

Mary made a mental note to raid her brother-in-law’s library for anything by a Mme. de Stael. “I shall look forward to that,” she said coolly. “I gather your friendship with Lady Hester was an intellectual one?”

 

 

“It certainly wasn’t amorous. Before the war, Lady Hester hosted one of the most celebrated salons in London. As her views became more radical, her guests trailed off to more peaceable pleasures.”

 

 

“Like you?”

 

 

The only answer she received was an infuriating little shrug, which might have meant anything from assent to an unidentified itch.

 

 

With the carriage pulling up before the portico of Pinchingdale House, Mary abandoned the subtle approach. “Why does she hate you so? Not simply for abandoning her salon, surely?”

 

 

Lord Vaughn swung his long legs onto the folding steps as a footman rushed to open the door. “Do you doubt the power of politics?”

 

 

“To produce that sort of venom?” She accepted Lord Vaughn’s hand as he reached up to help her descend. “Yes.”

 

 

There was no sound as he handed her to the ground except for the swish of her hem against the bottom step. His reserve was so marked, his withdrawal so complete, that Mary thought he meant to abandon the topic entirely, as he had so many others.

 

 

She was framing a suitably light and flippant farewell when Vaughn said with studied blandness, his arm stiff beneath the light touch of her fingers, “Lady Hester’s brother was the Earl of Petworth.”

 

 

“I see,” murmured Mary.

 

 

And she did. Even before Vaughn added, with chilling finality, “Lady Hester is the aunt of my wife.”

 

 

Or, more accurately,
was
the aunt of his wife. Even now, over a decade later, dowagers still whispered over the mysterious death of Lord Vaughn’s wife. No wonder Lady Hester resented her presence in the carriage with Vaughn. Another woman, taking her niece’s place…or, as Lady Hester had so vividly put it, strutting about in her niece’s place.

 

 

Only one thing niggled at her. In preparation for her debut, Mary had pored over
Debrett’s
, memorizing the lines of all the great houses, their spouses, their offspring. She could see the page as though it were in front of her, the paper creased from wear, the print small, the ink smudged, but still readable for all that. A list of all Vaughn’s titles and honors—followed by the name of his wife. Lady Anne Standish, daughter of the Earl of Petworth.

 

 

Lady Hester had mentioned a woman’s name. But it hadn’t been Anne.

 

 

Behind them, one of Lord Pinchingdale’s footmen helped Aunt Imogen from the carriage. Mary looked quizzically at Vaughn. “I had thought,” she said slowly, “that your wife was named Anne.”

 

 

Lord Vaughn’s eyes followed Aunt Imogen as she ascended the short flight of steps into the house. No hint of emotion illuminated his features. His countenance was as still and cold as a plaster saint’s.

 

 

“She was.”

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

I know you what you are;

 

And, like a sister, am most loath to call

 

Your faults as they are named.

 

—William Shakespeare,
King Lear
, I, i

W
ho, then, was Teresa?

 

 

Mary slowly followed Aunt Imogen into the foyer of her brother-in-law’s London mansion. All around her, white marble nymphs sneered down at her from their niches, arrogant in their chilly perfection. One held an urn as though ready to dump water over the head of anyone so unwary as to walk directly past. No hint of color enlivened the entry hall, not so much as a black tile on the floor. The octagonal room had been executed all in icy white, like a Roman temple—or a tomb for the living.

 

 

Mary’s boots echoed sharply on the white marble floor, in counterpoise to her thoughts. She could picture Vaughn, his hand clenched on the head of his cane in the sort of reaction she herself had failed to elicit. What had this Teresa been to him? Or, rather, Mary corrected herself, what was she to him. There was nothing to indicate that a use of the past tense would be more appropriate to the occasion.

 

 

Was this Teresa Vaughn’s mistress? Mary hadn’t heard any rumors linking Vaughn to a particular member of the demimonde, but that would explain Lady Hester’s use of a first name alone, without title or honorific. It was a form that might indicate either familiarity or contempt. A devoted aunt might be deemed to have reason for reviling her niece’s husband for his extramarital antics.

 

 

But Vaughn’s wife had been dead. For ten years. Most men didn’t remain constant in wedlock, much less after it. The only reason Mary’s father hadn’t strayed was that he was more interested in his books than in women. And an income of three hundred pounds a year didn’t leave much room for supporting a mistress.

 

 

Mary became aware of a certain bobbing and fluttering on the corner of her vision. A maid, in a neat gray dress and white cap was trotting along beside her, jogging anxiously up and down in an unsuccessful bid for her attention.

 

 

“Yes?” Mary asked sharply.

 

 

The maid melted into relief. “It’s her ladyship. Her ladyship said as to tell her—”

 

 

“Yes, yes.” Mary cut her off with a wave of one hand, and the maid subsided into alarmed silence. Mary had a feeling she knew all too well what it was her ladyship wanted. She seized on the most expedient means of delaying the inevitable. “I’d like a bath brought up to my room.”

 

 

Chewing on a hangnail, the maid hovered indecisively, torn between following her original orders and the unmistakable tone of command. Mary’s back stiffened. Someday, she was going to have her own household, where her servants obeyed her orders. The operative word being hers. Hers, hers, hers. Not her parents’. Not her sister’s.

 

 

“Sometime today,” added Mary, with a pleasant smile ringed with steel. Vaughn’s conversational habits appeared to be catching.

 

 

They were also effective. With one last anxious glance over her shoulder, the maid went. A moment’s observation confirmed that she was, in fact, heading for the nether regions where servants and hot water were to be had and not to her mistress’s chamber to tattle. That should earn her at least fifteen minutes before Letty came banging on her door.

 

 

Tugging in turn at each finger of her glove, Mary proceeded pensively up the broad marble stairs. Even without the added incentive of delaying her sister, a bath wasn’t a bad notion. She could still feel the grime of the tavern like a film on her skin, laced with the nauseous scent of stale beer and day-old sausage rolls.

 

 

She wondered, idly, if Lord Vaughn was doing the same. She couldn’t imagine he liked the stench of sausage any better than she did. Lord Vaughn with his impeccable lace and linens. And yet…Mary closed the door of her temporary bedroom behind her, tossing her gloves onto the bed. And yet, Vaughn had seemed awfully at ease with the group of radicals in the tavern. For a man who had been on the Continent for the last decade, he had been surprisingly familiar with their proceedings.

 

 

Yanking free the ribbons of her bonnet, she sent the straw and silk confection skimming after the gloves onto the white eyelet bedspread that Letty had chosen for her. Embroidered with a twining frieze of white flowers and vines about the edges, the coverlet was all that was pristine and virginal, a perfect haven for an innocent young girl’s maidenly dreams. Mary hated it. It jeered at her of her failure, frozen at twenty-five in an inappropriate and attenuated girlhood.

 

 

She took pleasure in tossing her spencer onto the coverlet, the braided twill creating a wide blue blot on the pristine white. It was a petty sort of revenge, but it was better than nothing.

 

 

There were times her palms ached to close around a china ornament and fling it against the wall just as hard as she could, for the satisfaction of hearing it smash into a thousand tiny pieces. She would take the Dresden shepherdess on the mantel, blond and smug, and she would hurl it at the pink-patterned paper on the walls, that hideous pink paper covered with rosebuds that would never bloom, frozen in artificial sterility from here to eternity. And she would exult as the porcelain shattered, as the pattern cracked, as a million little pieces sifted sparkling to the muffling calm of the carpet.