Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (6 page)

“Well, it is, but Mr. Murray, he sets the rules—and pays the bill.” The man paused, then added, “But we don’t often have questions with this writer. She has a very neat hand, you see.”

Thorne had started to leave, but turned back, latching on to a grain of hope. “Does she now? Would you happen to have a sample that I might see?”

“Might have.” The printer rummaged around, in, and on a messy desk in the corner. “Ah, here we go.”

The sheet of paper contained only the title of the story,
Innocence Betrayed,
the author’s name, Emma Bennet, and three sentences of printing suggestions. Thorne saw that, indeed, the script was very neat—and the Bennet woman had decided ideas about how she wanted her work to appear.

He fished a coin from a pocket and said, “Would you be willing to part with this sheet?”

“Well, now, I just don’t know.” The printer eyed the coin and shook his head.

Thorne mentally measured the man’s greed, then fished out another coin and the man nodded. The exchange was made and Thorne left, pleased that he had a start at least.

 

 

“Annabelle,” Celia challenged, “are you
sure
you have no idea who this Emma Bennet is?”

Annabelle, Letty, and Celia sat around a tea table having a “comfortable coze” in Letty’s private sitting room. It was a well-appointed room, done in Letty’s favorite shades of blue. Sunlight spilled in through opened draperies.

“Well, I have
ideas,
of course,” Annabelle hedged. “I think we all do.” She reached for another biscuit, then thought of the cream-colored silk she intended to wear to the Bradleys’s ball next week. She pulled her hand back. She wished these two would find another topic to discuss.

“Well,
I
think
you
may be Emma Bennet,” Letty announced with a penetrating look at Annabelle. “You were ever the best writer among us.”

Annabelle groaned. “Oh, Letty! We go through this every time Miss Bennet publishes something new.”

“Yes—and everything she writes has a certain sound of Annabelle Richardson to it.”

“Sheer coincidence, I am sure. I do hope you are not voicing that opinion abroad,” Annabelle added in some alarm. She hated deceiving her friends so, but right now it seemed more necessary than ever.

“Well, of course not. I am not such a ninny as that. You
are
my friend, after all.”

“For which I am most grateful.”

“So—tell us.
Did
you write
Innocence Betrayed?”

Annabelle sighed. “Letty, you must know that even if I
had
done so, it would be better if you remained ignorant of such.”

“She is right,” Celia said, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “You never could lie very well, Letty.”

Letty gave a little pout of protest.

Annabelle patted Letty’s hand. “ ’Tis probably best that none of us professes too much interest in public about the author of this particular piece.”

“I suppose you are right,” Letty agreed reluctantly. “It is rather a naughty piece—but deliciously so!”

Celia laughed. “I loved the passage where Brewster was bragging about his ‘swordsmanship.’ So did Frederick.”

“Celia!” Letty’s tone gave an exaggerated impression of a shocked matron. “Do remember that we have an unmarried woman with us!”

“An unmarried woman who—while we were still at school—told
us
about the birds and the bees,” Celia reminded them.

“Speaking of which, I have some news.” Letty paused dramatically.

“Speaking of what?” Celia asked.

“The birds and the bees,” Letty explained patiently.

Celia and Annabelle exchanged puzzled looks, then seemed simultaneously to grasp the import of Letty’s announcement.

“You are increasing!” Celia said with a low squeal of delight.

“A babe,” Annabelle breathed. “How wonderful. When?”

Letty blushed. “Late autumn, we think. I shall be able to finish out the Season at any rate.”

Talk then turned to nurseries and babies. Annabelle quelled the flood of envy she felt toward both of her friends. She was determined to be happy for them—and, indeed, she truly was.

When the exciting news was at least temporarily exhausted, Annabelle gathered up her maid and returned to Wyndham House. As she and the maid walked the few blocks home, she found herself considering again her friends’ domestic bliss. Well, “bliss” might be overdoing it a bit—she knew very well both couples did have their differences now and then, but that was probably natural enough.

Harriet had apparently been waiting for her return, for she met her in the entrance hall.

“Brace yourself,” Harriet said softly. “Rolsbury is here with his brother.”

“Do they know—?” Apprehension gripped her.

“No. But they did come to discuss the latest Emma Bennet publication.”

Annabelle quickly divested herself of her bonnet and cloak and checked her appearance in a large looking glass that hung above a table in the entrance. She tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

The three gentlemen—for Marcus was with them—rose as Harriet and Annabelle entered the library. Annabelle noted empty glasses that indicated the Wainwrights had been here for some time. She wished she knew what had been said before her arrival. She greeted the brothers civilly, but with reserve, and took a seat near Harriet on a settee. Lord! How she wished now that Emma Bennet had kept her pen free of ink!

Rolsbury spoke as he reseated himself. “We have been discussing the contretemps in which we seem to find ourselves—and how best to deal with it.”

Annabelle did not pretend to misunderstand. “Oh? Would it not be best just to ignore it? After all, such a thing is usually a nine-days’ wonder.”

“Ordinarily, I might agree with you. But this is not likely to disappear so easily,” Rolsbury said.

“I fail to see why it would not,” Annabelle replied, feeling a bit defensive but trying not to appear so.

“That’s what I told him,” Luke said.

Rolsbury ignored Luke’s echo of this idea. “Because the author of that . . . that . . . bit of drivel so clearly identified the two of you—as well as Beelson and Ferris.”

The condescending tone Rolsbury used annoyed Annabelle. “ ‘Clearly identified’? That is coming a bit strong, I would say,” she argued.

“You
have
read this thing, have you not?” he challenged, pointing to the pamphlet.

Her eyes followed his gesture. The offending publication lay like a viper on a low table. She felt herself coloring. “Well, yes. Of course I have and I just do not see—” She flashed a look of desperation at Marcus.

“Rolsbury is right,” Marcus said gently. “The parties do seem to be rather clearly drawn.”

“Brewster, Franklin, Lester.” Rolsbury ticked the names off. “Do you know of some other heiress who has had suitors with the initials B, F, and L?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Miss Richardson, you are clearly the heiress referred to in this piece, though you are less an object of ridicule than are the gentlemen—particularly ‘Lester’s’ older brother, whom everyone assumes to be
me.
Interestingly enough, though, she seems more intimately acquainted with the others, so I would guess that this person does not really know me as she does the others.”

Annabelle could not meet his gaze. No, this person did not know you, sir, she thought, and once again wished it would all just go away.

“That portrait
was
rather unfortunate,” Harriet said. “Still, would it not be better to let a sleeping dog lie, as it were?”

“I think not, Lady Wyndham, for several reasons. First, the gossips will not allow this dog to lie still. Nor will Beelson and Ferris.”

“It was my understanding those gentlemen had left town,” Harriet said.

“They are back.” Luke’s voice was rather flat.

Rolsbury added, “And Beelson is threatening a libel suit if he can determine just who this writer is. Such a suit would, of course, keep the whole thing alive for weeks—perhaps months.”

“Was the possibility of a suit your most pressing reason for not ignoring the whole affair?” Marcus asked.

“No. There is a consideration more personal to me.” Rolsbury paused and Annabelle squirmed inwardly. Drawing a caricature of a man she had never met had seemed harmless enough at the time. Now it was clear that he was the true innocent who had been betrayed....

Rolsbury continued, directing his points largely to Marcus. “As you know, I am not well known in town circles. The army was to have been my life—the life I chose. I went directly from the military school at Sandringham to the last battles of the war in the Peninsula. Luke here would have eventually handled our family’s estate matters. However, a certain French marksman and our father’s early death changed all that.”

“I think I understand,” Marcus said, “but perhaps you should explain anyway.”

“Just so. I came to town in part to take my seat in Parliament—finally. There are serious matters affecting my people directly that I hope to have a hand in. Now, I am seen as some sort of country dullard, a slow-top to be barely tolerated.”

“Surely when people get to know you—” Annabelle started.

“No.” He turned the full impact of his gaze on her. “That could take forever, you see, and my business is more urgent. Labor unrest in the midlands will not die away as so many in positions of power would hope.”

“Labor unrest?” Harriet echoed.

“Yes.” He went on. “The so-called ‘Peterloo Massacre’ did little to answer the concerns of workers in the mills.”

Annabelle knew he referred to a disaster that had erupted over a year ago when the government sent in the militia to disperse laborers involved in a huge but peaceful demonstration.

“These are my people,” Rolsbury said simply. “I own two of those mills. But I can do only so much independently. And it is most difficult to persuade people who are laughing at you to consider a serious issue you raise.”

“But your writing, too—” Annabelle started.

He cut her off. “Is not enough. Come now, Miss Richardson. With all due respect, you know very well most members of Society—even those in Parliament—rarely read the kind of scholarly analyses that I usually turn out.”

“How can we help, Lord Rolsbury?” Harriet asked.

“I have given the matter some thought,” he replied. “It seems to me—and I have persuaded Luke—that if Miss Richardson were to be seen as being in charity with us, that might serve to deflect some of the more vicious gossip.”

Annabelle choked. “H-how do you propose to manage that?”

“If Luke were to dance attendance on you as he was wont to do—stand up with you at balls and so on ...”

“Luke is to renew his courtship?” Marcus asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not. That would be up to Luke—and Miss Richardson. But it will
appear
that he has done so.”

“Annabelle?” Marcus asked.

Annabelle was embarrassed—and angry. The nerve of the man! To be pushing them around like pieces on a chessboard! She did not want to hurt Luke’s feelings again, but neither did she welcome the idea of his actually renewing a suit that she would never accept.

“I—I am not sure . . .” her voice trailed off. “Luke? I cannot believe you really want to do this.”

She could see that Luke was as uncomfortable as she was. “N-not really,” he said, “but it does seem like a workable idea and I cannot think of a better one. I promise not to plague you, Annabelle, and Thorne thinks it important that we seem on good terms—our two families, that is.”

She nodded slowly, torn between a desire to refuse the plan flatly and a persistent feeling of guilt, for her own impetuous action had, after all, instigated the situation. “Very well. As long as you put it in those terms, I suppose we may manage to quell some of the talk.”

“Society thrives on dissension,” Harriet observed. “The gossips will quickly lose interest where they find amicability.”

“And then—perhaps—we may turn their attention—and ours—to more important matters,” Lord Rolsbury said.

When Rolsbury and his brother had taken their leave, silence reigned in the library for several moments. Finally, Harriet spoke, her voice gentle and concerned.

“Will you be comfortable with this plan, Annabelle?”

“I—I think so. Luke is an interesting person when he is not ‘performing.’ ”

“I should like to see Rolsbury succeed,” Marcus said. “I spoke with him only briefly at the Harts’ party, but despite his being a Whig, I must own I liked what he had to say.”

This comment came as a surprise to Annabelle, for Marcus rarely said anything that specifically directed her activities, and he seemed to be doing so now. Her affection and respect for her erstwhile guardian was such that she would have agreed to the plan merely to please Marcus.

However, despite her annoyance at the elder Wainwright brother’s high-handed manipulation, she was also aware of having wronged him. That devastating portrait of “Lester’s” brother had undermined Lord Rolsbury’s position. She owed it to him to try to help repair the damage. And she would do what she could, but—Lord!—she hoped he never found out who Emma Bennet really was. The man would probably be a formidable enemy—and his view of Emma Bennet was quite clear.

Well, in a few days, it would all be over and they could all go their separate ways.

The next day Luke called as planned to take her driving in the park. Now that there was not the strain of his paying suit to her, they got on very well indeed after some initial awkwardness. He was entertaining and gallant. She found she quite enjoyed his company, though she could see that their appearance together raised some eyebrows.

“The tabbies will be busy this day,” Annabelle observed nervously.

“Yes. I do believe we have given them something to chew upon.”

A rider astride a very sturdy but fleet-looking black approached. It was Rolsbury. Annabelle was unable to keep her gaze from locking with his. She felt an unfamiliar tremor creep through her and quickly averted her eyes. He paused to pass pleasantries with them, then tipped his hat to her and rode on.

“Your brother is not at all what I expected,” she told Luke.

“No? Well, I am sure I told you he is a great gun.”

She laughed. “Yes, you did—more than once.”

“You should have seen him when he first came home after Waterloo. I was away at school, but I’d come home on holidays and he’d be lying in that bed cursing anyone and everyone who came near him.”

“Why?”

“Well, he could not walk, you see.”

“No. I mean why was he cursing everyone?”

“ ’Cause he hated it so, I think. Hated not being able to do for himself and especially hated having people feel sorry for him. Doctor told him he’d never walk again and ordered up one of those wheeled bath chairs for him. Thorne refused to have it in his room even.”

“So—what happened?”

“Well—he got out of bed and walked.” Luke laughed softly. “Partly just to spite the doctor, I think.”

“It must have been very difficult for him.”

“It was. He fell ever so many times—though no one was supposed to know about those. Hinton—that’s his valet—was his batman in the Peninsula—he used to be near tears himself. Hinton was the only one Thorne would allow to help him.”

“The pride of a Wainwright?” she gently teased.

“You might say that—or else just plain stubbornness.” Luke was thoughtful for a moment. “Our father was ill at the time, too. So there was the Earl of Rolsbury, dying in one chamber, and his heir struggling just to walk in another. Sad times at the Manor.”

“You must have hated to come home on school holidays.” Her heart went out to all three Wainwright men, but especially to the man struggling so to overcome adversity.

“Strangely enough, I did not. Both of them were fighting so hard. And Thorne at least finally won his battle. Took him a year and more to do so. And by then,
he
was the earl.”

“I see why you admire him so,” she said.

“And do you see why that Bennet person’s portrait of him is so unfair?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Yes. I think so.”

 

 

Thorne turned his mount around and tried to erase from his mind the image of honey-brown-blond curls and intelligent brown eyes. Well, she was cooperating. That was all he required of Miss Richardson. He still suspected she knew more of this Bennet and her—or his!—writings than she let on. But Thorne Wainwright was a patient man.

Now that he had become somewhat better acquainted with her, he admitted to very mixed feelings. So, she was not a fortune hunter out to trap an innocent youth. But what
was
her game? She was not in the first bloom of youth—not if this was her third Season. Why had she spurned Luke’s offer? She had turned down Beelson, too, he had learned—and Beelson had a title to offer. Well, rejecting a titled nobleman might be unusual, but rejecting a man like Beelson was simply a sign of good sense.

Connection with the Rolsbury title might be considered a tremendous coup in many quarters. Moreover, she and Luke seemed—at the moment at least—to get on well enough. There was still the fact that Luke was far too immature to marry. The boy deserved a chance to grow into his manhood—not just be thrust into it by responsibility for a wife and children.

Oh, you want him to gain maturity? some inner voice of cynicism asked. Then find a war to which you can dispatch him. Nothing like seeing your companions chopped to pieces to produce instant adulthood.

Another voice, equally cynical, broke in. Experiencing a little self-pity, are we, Rolsbury? You chose your life. Perhaps Luke deserves the same privilege of choice.

He does not need to be hurt by a woman, though. Thorne distinctly—and painfully—recalled another young Wainwright suffering just such hurt. Lady Diana Santee had been the reigning debutante of the Season before Thorne went off to the Peninsula. She had reveled in the attentions of every eligible male of the
ton.
Thorne had been ecstatic when she seemed to single him out to receive her favor. But he had been plunged into the depths of despair to learn that she had used
his
suit to bring the Marquis of Everdon up to scratch.

There had, of course, been other women from time to time—most particularly a certain Spanish señorita during the long siege of San Sebastian, and a Belgian woman during the occupation leading up to Waterloo. Only lately had he extricated himself from the cloying tentacles of a sometime mistress—a widow in another town in the midlands. He had vowed hereafter to deal only with “professionals.”

Every man knew woman problems were simply a part of growing up. So—where did he come off, trying to keep Luke insulated from such?

Lifetime habits were hard to ignore, though. And all his life Thorne had protected Luke and their sister Catherine. He had been hardly more than a boy himself—Luke’s age now, in fact—when he had rescued his schoolgirl sister from an unscrupulous fortune hunter. No wonder he had leaped to conclusions about Miss Richardson.

Well, he might have been wrong about Miss Richardson being a fortune hunter, but there was something about her.... And he damned well was not wrong about that pesky novelist. As an aspiring member of Parliament, he could not openly attack Emma Bennet in London drawing rooms. Doing so would keep the talk alive and serve to inhibit his efforts as a lawmaker. However, as a sometime literary critic he might find a way to do so.

Not that he had been much of a
literary
critic heretofore. During his long convalescence after Waterloo, he had begun to submit articles to
The London Review,
a high-toned magazine that featured articles on matters of government, politics, literature, and social history. At first his work had been confined to matters of military history, but then he had branched into reviewing a number of scholarly tomes.

“You want to do
what?”
Henry Watson, editor and publisher of the
Review,
had been bowled over by Thorne’s proposal.

“I thought I might do a review of popular fiction—you know, the sort of stuff women seem to snatch up at Hatchard’s and other bookshops.”

“I had no idea you even read that stuff,” Watson replied. “Are you not the very man who turned his nose up at even that superb book,
Pride and Prejudice,
when it came out?”

Thorne and Watson were friends of long standing, despite Watson’s family background in trade and Rolsbury being heir to a respected title. At boarding school Watson had been an object of ridicule and even brutality—until “Thorny” had become his champion. The two later maintained their friendship, though Thorne had gone to the new military academy at Sandringham and Watson had entered university. It was Watson who brought the injured Major Wainwright out of his deep depression following his injury. Watson simply gave him something useful to do. Thorne began to take pride in what he
could
do instead of lamenting what he could no longer do.

Thorne grinned at his friend now. “Well, I have not really changed my mind about those works in general—though I do admit to liking that particular lady’s portraits of her minor characters.”

“But you want to immerse yourself in such stuff?”

“My idea is to expose much of it for the sheer drivel that it is.”

“Ah, I see. That Emma Bennet got under your skin, did she?”

Thorne pretended to take umbrage. “Hank, you always were too sharp for your own good!”

“Whoever she is, Miss Bennet does not know
you—
that much was obvious. But—Lord!—what a laugh that piece was!”

“Yes. Well . . .”

“If you want to write it, I will surely print it, but do you really think it the wisest course of action?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I mean, the talk will eventually die down—will this not just keep it alive?” Watson asked.

“Perhaps. But I cannot leave it unanswered.”

“No, I don’t suppose
you
could do so.”

 

 

The plan for both Wainwrights to be seen as being on easy terms with Miss Richardson went forward. At the Bradleys’s ball, Luke stood up with her not once, but twice. However, it was not dancing with Luke that dominated her just-before-sleep thoughts later. No. Her mind dwelled on Lord Rolsbury.

Standing on the sidelines, talking with Harriet and Marcus, Annabelle found herself searching the ballroom. She spotted Rolsbury in a group that included at least two hopeful misses and their ambitious mamas and was startled to realize she had been looking for
him.
He glanced her way and caught her gaze. Their eye contact sent an increasingly familiar tremor coursing through her body. Soon, he seemed to excuse himself and approached Annabelle and the Wyndhams.

In elegant evening attire, the Earl of Rolsbury was quite the most attractive man in the room, she thought. His ever-present walking stick merely added a touch of vulnerability to what might otherwise be seen as polished perfection. Annabelle had already overheard—and inexplicably resented—certain females gushing over his appearance and spinning tales of his bravery.

“Good evening.” His smile included all three of them, but Annabelle surmised that it turned only her own knees to jelly. Try not to be such a peagoose, she chastised herself.

The four of them engaged in polite small talk for a few moments. Then the musicians swung into a waltz that had maintained its popularity the last few years. Harriet gave her husband a speaking look.

“Yes, dear.” He spoke as a beleaguered husband, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “Will you excuse us?” he asked politely of Annabelle and Rolsbury.

“Do you mind, Annabelle?” Harriet asked.

“Of course not.”

“Did I miss something here?” Rolsbury asked when Marcus and Harriet had taken the floor.

Annabelle laughed softly. “No. Well, perhaps. You see, Marcus and Harriet danced to that tune the night they were betrothed.”

“I see.” An uncomfortable silence settled on them, then Lord Rolsbury cleared his throat and said, “If you’ve no partner for this dance, would you mind sitting it out with me?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask.” She gave him a nervous smile and again felt herself reacting to his very presence.

He took her elbow and steered her to a seat nearby. “It has been so long since I attended one of these affairs, I have quite forgotten how to behave.” He grinned at her. “Do we discuss the music or the weather or the amazing success of our hostess?”

She laughed. “So! You do have a sense of humor.”

“You doubted such?” She could tell his offended tone was a sham. “I shall have to take Luke to task for that.”

“No, no, no.” She waggled an admonishing finger at him. “You cannot lay blame on Luke. A man whose nickname is ‘Thorny’ may not hold others responsible for the impressions he leaves.”

He sat back and gazed at her with amused curiosity. “And just how did you come to know of that sad misrepresentation of my character?”

“Well—” She could not admit to having discussed him with her friends, could she? “A little bird told me?”

“Oh, I doubt that. My errant brother shall have to answer for that, too.”

“Luke is innocence itself in this affair,” she said and then immediately regretted her choice of words.

“ ‘Betrayed’ innocence?” His voice still held a hint of amusement, but it was more serious.

“I did not intend—”

“I know. ’Tis I who cannot seem to let go of it.” He shrugged. “And eventually I shall find this writer and take her—or him—to task for that piece of work.”

Annabelle felt a shiver run through her and she prayed silently for his failure in that endeavor. Aloud she said, “That sounds needlessly vindictive. Miss Bennet has probably gone on to other things by now.”