Mally : Signet Regency Romance (9781101568057) (6 page)

Chapter 9

“There, Lucy, what do you think?” Mally twirled before the nurse.

“Miss Mall, you'll finish her completely.”

“I hope so.” Mally smoothed the folds of blue mantua silk and the soft material shimmered in the firelight. But it was not triumphing over Annabel which was uppermost in her mind about tonight's dinner party, it was meeting Richard Vallender again. Since her breakfast with Chris after the “burglary” she had become more and more convinced in her own mind that it had had something to do with Maria. Tonight she might be able to find out more about her sister's friendship with the late Mr. York.

Lucy smiled fondly. Blue was Mally's best color, and tonight she looked exquisite with her dark curls piled so expertly by the ruby pin so that they cascaded in ringlets at the back of her head. And the Italian silk clung to her body when she moved, outlining the curves to perfection. Then Lucy looked at Mally's face. “But a little more rouge would make you look healthier.”

“It would make me look feverish.”

“Better than liverish. Besides, it's
in
at the moment to wear rouge, even I know that.”

“I know—but I've more than enough natural color.”

“Maybe you do—normally. But you've had late nights in plenty and a few upsets, and you're worrying about your sister. To say nothing of whether you are doing the right thing in marrying Sir Christopher. You look
pale!
Come on now, just let me brush a little Spanish wool on your cheeks.

Mally gave in and allowed Lucy to color her cheeks. “Have you hung the chenille lace shawl?”

“Of course, I don't forget things like that. Be sure to wear it properly now, sweeting, for it's warmer than your others and silk is
not
the most sensible of materials for this time of year.”

“I'm wearing this gown because I know Chris likes me in it, and because Annabel knows he does too! Oh, God, she said she'd keep me on my toes and she was right. I only wish she were less beautiful and dazzling!”

“Well, she's got the height to carry everything off, has that one. And her hair is the brightest
natural
gold I've seen in years.” Lucy nodded approvingly. “And she knows well to wear different greens all the time. It's her device.”

“Don't deflate me, Lucy, I beg of you.” Mally looked at her reflection again. “Perhaps I should have worn the white gauze—”

“That pale blue is perfectly good, Miss Mall. Now then, I've put your white gloves and reticule on the dressing table. Shall you wear a necklace?”

“I don't know. No—” Mally smiled and took off her engagement ring. “I shall wear no jewels at all, except my ring over my glove.
That
will be something to rub Lady Annabel's nose in the mud with!”

“Sweeting, I don't think you need to rub her nose in any more than you already have done.”

“And I shall change the ruby pin for that green enameled butterfly Maria's betrothed bought for me in Italy—it will catch the green in the ring. There. Now I feel I can take on the world and his wife—and any predatory titled lady!”

She was pulling on the slender white kid gloves when Digby knocked upon the door. “Yes, Digby, what is it?”

“Mr. Paulington is here, Madam. I have shown him secretly into the library and Mrs. Berrisford does not know he is here, as you directed.”

Mally took a long breath. “Yes, thank you, Digby, I shall be in the library directly.”

The butler closed the door again and Mally bit her lip. Lucy patted her shoulder. “Don't let anything spoil your evening now, for dining out with Sir Christopher and his friend will do you good.”

“That is easier said than done, isn't it, Lucy? What if he's discovered something dreadful?”

***

“Good evening, Mr. Paulington. Have you discovered anything?”

He scrambled to his feet hurriedly, for he had been lazing very comfortably in Daniel's chair. “Oh, good evening, Mrs. St. Aubrey.”

“Please sit down again, Mr. Paulington.”

“Thank you. Thank you kindly. Well, Mrs. St. Aubrey, I have managed to discover something concerning your sister. She did indeed leave the mail at Cirencester and spent that night in a hostelry named the Castle. On the following morning she was called for by a gentleman driving a phaeton.”

“She was
called
for?”

“Yes, madam. And she was expecting him, whoever he was. I got a description of some sort from the innkeeper, but unfortunately the fellow was more interested in the phaeton than in the driver. Now then, yes, here it is. He was quite tall, lean, with dark hair—he thinks—reasonably well togged out but no Corinthian or beau. As I said, the innkeeper was more interested in the phaeton. Seems it belonged to one of his rivals, a posting house in Gloucester by the name of the Rose and Crown.”

“A post
phaeton?
That is surely something new!”

“Seems this Kennett of the Rose and Crown has done well with the phaeton, there's many folk fancy themselves up on a high-flyer like that. It is a dark brown drag, well lacquered and polished, and it has red wheels, with a yellow crown device thing in the center of each lamp—the crown of the Rose and Crown. The rose is painted on the back and gets covered with mud with each puddle! Anyway, that was what I discovered. So, I took myself on the next stage to Gloucester and looked up this Mr. Kennett at the Rose and Crown. The phaeton was hired to go to Cirencester and then to Hereford. Kennett sent a boy to Hereford to pick it up two days later, as agreed. He was pleased with himself too, for some rector or other wanted to come to Gloucester and paid for the use of the phaeton, so I reckon that drag's more than paid for itself three times over. So, Mrs. St. Aubrey, the trail led me back right to where it started. Hereford.”

“Did you go there too? To wherever the phaeton was left?”

“Yes, but there wasn't much time to make inquiries, for the mail was about to leave and I didn't want to have to hang around another day. The gentleman left the phaeton at the inn during the night. No one can remember it arriving—there was something of a junketing there that night, for the innkeeper had married again. Anyway it was there come the morning. No one saw the gentleman or the young lady. So that's it, I'm afraid, the trail has run out. I tried, I offered various sums to various people, but they just did not know.”

“And no one could give a better description of the gentleman other than that he was tall, dark, and not particularly fashionable?”

“No, madam. When he hired the phaeton at Gloucester it was a wet day and the man wore his hat well down and a cloak which flapped around him like a live thing. Hid anything of notice about him fairly sure.” Mr. Paulington got to his feet. “To my mind, Mrs. St. Aubrey, it seems certain that your sister knew this man before she left Llanglyn and that the full intention was to run off with him. The fiddling around at London and so on was just to throw off any trail—they were not to know that
I
would be following them.” He sniffed proudly.

“They still succeeded in the end, didn't they?”

“Eh? Well, yes, I suppose I must admit that. Though I
could
go back and try—” Then he shook his head. “No, it'd be more than any needle in any haystack you care to mention. There's roads in and out of Hereford like nobody's business, and the night's long this time of year, they could have gone
any
where. I have to admit defeat, Mrs. St. Aubrey, much as it grieves me to say so.”

Mally opened her reticule, where she had earlier placed a sum with which to pay him. “Thank you, Mr. Paulington.”

“I only wish—”

“Not to worry, no doubt in her own good time my sister will return to us. Thank you again, Mr. Paulington.”

“Thank
you,
Mrs. St. Aubrey.”

She heard the front doors close after him, and then she left the library and went into the drawing room.

“Oh, there you are, Mother. How do I look?” She smiled brightly, much more brightly than she felt.

Mrs. Berrisford put down the eternal crochet work. “Oh, most perfect, Marigold,
most
perfect. Sir Christopher will surely fall in love with you all over again.”

Mally went to the table where Digby had earlier placed a decanter of Malmsey. She poured two glasses of it, more to give herself a moment to consider than because she wanted a drink. What should she tell her mother? Maria had eloped, and had given not one thought to the misery she caused her mother. And it would appear that the man came from somewhere reasonably close to Llanglyn, for why else would the trail end in Hereford? Perhaps he was already known to her mother— Anything was possible. But who was the other man searching for Maria? The decanter rattled against the glasses, for her hand was shaking. Well, whatever it was all about, for the moment the main thing was to reassure her mother.

“Mother, I have just been speaking with Mr. Paulington.”

“Oh, dear. It's not going to be bad news, is it? Oh, it is, I can see it in your eyes, you've something
dreadful
to impart!” The crochet slipped to the floor as Mrs. Berrisford's hands flew to her mouth.

“No, no, Mother, don't immediately think the worst like that. Listen now.” Mally crouched beside her mother's chair and put the glasses on the floor. “I think we have to accept that Maria has eloped. She was met by a gentleman at Cirencester and drove off in his phaeton with him.” Best let the trail end at Cirencester—

“A
gentle
man?”

“Yes. Not a leviathan of the
haut ton,
I fancy, but nonetheless a gentleman.”

Mrs. Berrisford searched her face with hurt expression. “But why could she not have left word? Or sent word? Why leave me to worry so, especially when she knew I was already upset about poor, dear Agatha. I did not think she could be so cruel to her own mother.”

“Oh, you know Maria. She just probably did not think—and she was upset herself, about Mr. York. After all he was her friend, you said so yourself.”

“Yes, indeed I did. Mind you, I was convinced it was more than a mere friendship she had with him,
convinced.
It seems I was wrong. Oh, dear, I don't know what to think anymore. You are
sure
she has eloped?”

“What else can it be? She was met at the inn in Cirencester by a gentleman and went off with him. No one was forcing her.”

“Oh, the disgrace. What am I to say to the Clevelys? I shall never be able to hold my head up again in Llanglyn, never!”

“Of course you will.”

“But Marigold, who was the other man asking about Maria then?” Mrs. Berrisford sat up suddenly as the thought struck her.

“We don't know that he
was
asking for Maria, do we? He could have been looking for anyone. Now then, have a little sip of this, it will do you good.” Mally hurriedly picked up the glass, anxious to gloss over the uncomfortable thought of the country man.

Mrs. Berrisford sipped the wine. “I suppose I shall have to draw myself up for the fray.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I shall have to go back to Llanglyn and prepare for whatever. Oh dear, it's a daunting prospect. What shall I say? When they inquire after Maria, whatever am I to say? I let them all believe she had come to stay with you, d'you see. I cannot
bear
chitter-chatter.”

“Then say that Maria is with me.”

“But Marigold, I was hoping—counting upon—”

“Yes?”

“I would like you to return to Llanglyn with me. Just for a little while. It
would
be a comfort.”

“Then we shall just have to brave it out together and say that we do not know where Maria is, shan't we? I mean, it cannot be kept a secret for long anyway, and the Clevelys' noses are always to the ground—they won't miss a thing.”

Mrs. Berrisford drained her glass in one gulp. “Mercy above, I feel quite faint.”

“Well, when Chris asked about Maria I just said that she was visiting relatives.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“Nothing, he just accepted it. Oh, I suppose we could always invent a distant aunt or something.”

“
Very
distant. On your father's side.” Mrs. Berrisford took Mally's untouched glass from its place on the floor. “Yes, yes, I think that is an admirable solution.”

“Mother, it's only putting off the inevitable, you know.”

“Yes, Marigold, but maybe we'll hear from Maria in the meantime. I will not give up hope. You
will
return with me for a while, though, won't you?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Good. At the end of this week then.”

“Good heavens—so quickly?”

“Yes, my mind is made up. I cannot bear anticipating anything unpleasant, so the sooner I return the better I will feel. Besides, I do not much care for London.”

Mally smiled. “All right, I will make arrangements for us to travel at the end of the week. But, Mother, I will have to tell Chris the truth, for it is not right to conceal such things from him.”

Mrs. Berrisford nodded unhappily. “I suppose so. Oh, dear, I wish your dear father was with me now. How I curse that brute of a horse that killed him so cruelly.”

“Father should not have taken that hedge in the first place; it was not the horse's fault.”

“Shame on you, Marigold.” But Mrs. Berrisford smiled. “Dear James, he was so
dashing.
And so courageous.”

And so pig-headed about hunting.
But Mally refrained from further comment. “Listen—I think that is the carriage Chris is sending for me. Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Yes, yes, my dear, you go along now. I think I shall take myself to my bed in a little while—all this worry has left me quite drained. Quite drained.” Mrs. Berrisford looked up at her daughter. “You know, you really do look your best in that shade of blue. Daniel always said so.”