Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (24 page)

Sir Edmund gave a little start of surprise. "Why?"

"Says she is not the girl I knew in London. Says it was all play-acting, not real. The woman I fell in love with, she tells me, does not exist. That is why I have come to you, sir. I need your help to make her see how wrong she is."

"Damnation." Sir Edmund started to pace again, his hands behind his back. After a long pensive moment, he said, "She's running scared."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Let us have a glass of claret, Davenant, while I tell you about my daughter."

Sir Edmund summoned the butler to bring a decanter and two glasses. He continued pacing in silence until it was delivered. He poured each of them a glass, then sat down behind his desk and gestured for Max to be seated in a chair across from him.

"Before my wife died," he began without preamble, "we were a large, boisterous family. Our eldest child, Rosie, was the liveliest of the lot. Her little face always wreathed in smiles, constantly into some kind of mischief. I confess that when Louisa died, I became so wrapped up in my own grief that I did not notice the change in Rosie. I daresay it was harder on her than anyone, because she was the oldest, just fourteen, and had to take charge of the rest of her brothers and sisters. A huge responsibility, especially when I did nothing to help her."

He paused and seemed lost in some distant memory, his glass poised halfway to his mouth and his gaze somewhere beyond Max's shoulder. Max waited in silence, and a moment later Sir Edmund continued his narrative.

"It became easy to let Rosie take care of this and take care of that, until finally she had complete charge of the house, all the duties once performed by her mother. We took all of her time away so that she had no life of her own." A note of profound regret crept into his voice. "I have only just realized all this, since she went away to London. I allowed the fire to die in that lively young girl."

"It did not die," Max said. "It was merely smoldering beneath the surface. It flared to life again in London, I assure you."

"So I have been told." He took a deep swallow of wine and then continued. "But once she realized her foolish mistake about dying, she doused that fire with a vengeance. She won't speak of what happened in London—though her siblings are pressing hard to know all the scandalous details. She is pretending it never happened. Or, as she told you, is pretending it happened to someone else, someone who doesn't exist."

"She is afraid to admit that she is that person, the spirited Miss Lacey who set London on its ears."

"Yes, I believe you've got it right. It is much easier for her to be plain old Rosie, to slip back into the life of convention and responsibility. That other person—"

"Rosalind."

"—frightens her. To think that she might be capable of losing control, of flying in the face of propriety, of shirking her responsibilities, scares her. Dammit all, I wish it hadn't taken all this drama to make me see what was happening to Rosie. I tell you what, Davenant."

"Yes?"

"I
will
help you."

Max threw back his head and allowed a wave of relief to wash over him. If Sir Edmund would only talk to her, make her understand some of the things he had just said to Max, perhaps she would reconsider his offer.

"Frankly, I cannot believe I am saying this," Sir Edmund said, "considering your reputation. But I have a suspicion you are precisely the sort of man Rosie needs. I want her to be happy. I owe her nothing less. And I want my lively little girl back. And something tells me you could do it."

"I certainly want to try," Max said. "I am convinced the woman I knew in London is real, is lurking beneath the prim, country mouse, just waiting to be set free again."

"I believe you have the right of it, Davenant. Now, if only I can convince Rosie. I daresay she is not quite ready to see you again just yet, after your unsuccessful meeting earlier."

"No, I do not believe that would do any good. She heard all my arguments. I think she needs to hear them from you now. I will return to the King's Head. You can send word to me there after you've had a chance to speak with her. And Sir Edmund, please tell her that I do love her."

*          *          *

"Are you certain, my dear?"

"Quite certain, Papa. I cannot marry him." Lord, how she wished this day would end, that Max would go away, and everyone would leave her alone. None of them understood. She could never be the woman Max wanted, and would grow miserable in the trying. In the end, he would learn to hate her for disappointing him. She could not bear that. She would rather not have him at all, even if it meant her heart would be forever broken.

"He's a good man, Rosie, even if his reputation is a bit fast and loose. Can you believe I am saying such a thing?"

He was trying to coax a smile out of her, but she had none to give just now.

"Who would ever have guessed that I would recommend a renowned libertine to my own daughter? But I like him. Have you never heard that old saw about reformed rakes making the best husbands? He loves you, Rosie. I do not believe he would ever hurt you."

Not deliberately, perhaps, but the scorn in his eyes would be pain enough. "We live in different worlds, Papa. It would not be a comfortable match."

"It is important to you to be comfortable, is it not? You would rather remain with the familiar than strike out in new directions."

"It is my decision, Papa. And I think it excessively unfair of you to expect me, after all this time, to become something other than what you have always wanted me to be, depended on me to be. I do not deserve your mockery for preferring to be comfortable. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to do."

Rosie left the library with as much calm dignity as she could muster. When she reached her bedchamber, she closed the door and locked it, then threw herself upon the bed and wept for her broken heart.

*          *          *

"This is as sorry a business as I've ever seen," Fanny said. "How on earth did things manage to turn out so badly?"

Fanny sat on her favorite settee in the drawing room, clasping the hand of Lord Eldridge, who was doing his best to comfort her. But Fanny was as distraught as she could be, after receiving another disturbing letter from Edmund and a difficult visit from Max.

"How is he taking it?" Lord Eldridge asked.

"Max? Not well, as you can imagine. He really did love the girl. But like all men—forgive me, me dear, but it's true—he takes solace in anger. He paced and growled like a caged bear, spitting out horrid venom about her stubbornness, her groundless fears and anxieties, her lack of backbone."

"You know, Fanny, this may be for the best in the long run. If that's how Max sees her, then she may have been right to refuse him."

"I cannot agree with you, Jonathan. She is making a terrible mistake. How she can toss away the love of a man like that is beyond me. Especially when I know she loves him, too. Did you not see it every time she looked at him?"

"I did, indeed. I confess I thought they seemed well suited."

"So did I!" Fanny's voice rose on a note of desperation. "Oh, Jonathan, I cannot simply sit by and watch two lives be ruined. What should I do?"

"Not much you can do with Max here and Rosalind in Devon. They must meet again if they are ever to solve their difficulties."

"And Max is unlikely ever to want to show his face at Wycombe again any time soon. If ever."

"So, Rosalind must come to London."

Fanny gave Lord Eldridge an incredulous look. "Nothing will persuade that girl to come back here. According to both Edmund and Max, she is so mortified she has crawled into a sort of shell, trying to pretend none of it ever happened."

"Know what I think?" Loid Eldridge said. "I think all this mortification we keep hearing about has nothing to do with any stunt she pulled while in town. I'll wager she's more embarrassed that she believed she was going to die, that people will ridicule her foolishness."

Fanny's eyes widened at the man's unexpected perspicacity. "You may be right, Jonathan. But outside of you and Max, I've told no one. She would not have to be afraid of any sort of public humiliation, if only we could contrive to get her back in town. I cannot, though, imagine what would convince her to come."

"What if you fell ill?"

"Don't be silly, darling," she said while patting his hand, "you know I am fit as a draft horse."

"But what if Rosalind
believed
you to be ill?" She developed quite a deep affection for you, my dear. Do you not think she would feel obliged to rush to your side if you asked her?"

"Jonathan, you clever man, I think you've hit on just the thing." She reached over and kissed his cheek.

*          *          *

"I do not believe Fanny would joke about something like this," Sir Edmund said.

"She really is ill?" Rosie asked.

"Here, read her letter and judge for yourself." Sir Edmund passed the parchment to Rosie and hoped she would be convinced by Fanny's words. She wrote that she had grown terribly ill, had seen Sir Nigel Leighton, and been told to remain in bed indefinitely. She wondered if Edmund would be so obliging as to send Rosie to Berkeley Square to lend her companionship until Fanny had recovered her strength.

Sir Edmund would not reveal to Rosie that a second sheet had been enclosed, one for his eyes only, in which Fanny spelled out her plan to get Max and Rosalind back together. For once in his life, Sir Edmund was in total agreement with his sister.

"She is a bit vague about the nature of her illness," Rosie said. "What do you suppose is wrong?"

"I do not know for sure, of course, but Fanny has occasionally been troubled by a weak heart."

"Fanny?"

Sir Edmund realized how unlikely a notion that was the moment he said it. "Yes, but it could be something else." He stood before Rosie and took both her hands in his. "My dear, you know I was not thrilled to have you stay with my infamous sister when you went to London, but I had no proper reason to deny you the visit. Fanny wrote to me several times while you were in town, praising you to the moon, thanking me for allowing you to visit, and so on. She became quite fond of you, Rosie."

"And I of her," Rosie said. "She is the most remarkable woman. Papa. Getting to know Fanny is the one part of my trip I do not regret. I hope you are not offended, Papa, but I absolutely adore her."

"Then you should go to her, my dear." He squeezed her hands and his eyes told her that he was not offended by her admiration for Fanny. "She is not a young woman, you know. She realizes you might be uneasy returning to London after all that has happened, but you can see that she says she will have to keep you quietly to herself since she is confined to bed. No one need know you've come back to London. And even if they do, no one but Fanny and Lord Eldridge—and Davenant—know why you returned home. As for Davenant," he said, and Rosie braced herself for another attempt to change her mind about Max, "he mentioned something about an estate in Suffolk. In fact, most of the ton has returned to their various country homes. London will be very thin of company. There should be no embarrassment of any kind, if that is what concerns you."

"I daresay you are right, Papa."

"Fanny needs you, my dear."

"Then I must go to her."

Chapter 16

"All things considered, Max darling, you cannot deny it was an eventful Season."

Max raised a sardonic brow. "Eventful is not the term I would have chosen."

"But you must admit you were not bored. I recall sitting here with you before the start of the Season, listening to your complaints of constant tedium, of how the whole social whirl of the Season had begun to bore you to death."

"It was more true than you know." Max still carried Freddie Moresby's note, though he no longer regarded his friend's option as one he would ever consider for himself, even in the wake of Rosalind's rejection. That was one thing he retained from the London Rosalind: a respect for life. Max found it ironic that he had learned the lesson better than the teacher.

"And I was worried about my tedious niece," Fanny said. "How wrong we both were."

"Fanny, you know I adore you, but I am going to have to cease visiting if you insist on always bringing her up in the conversation. It was a painful interlude, but I wish to forget and move on. Can we not speak of something else?"

"Yes, of course, my boy. Did you hear—"

She was interrupted by the drawing room doors opening and the entrance of Rosalind.

Rosalind?

"Rosalind!" Fanny shrieked. She leapt to her feet, let out a mournful moan, and collapsed in a heap on the settee.

Max did not know what startled him more, the sudden appearance of Rosalind or Fanny's uncharacteristic and overly dramatic swoon.

Rosalind, avoiding Max's eye, rushed to her aunt's side. "Aunt Fanny!" She stroked the flushed cheek and patted the limp hand. "What is she doing out of bed?"