That Scandalous Summer (22 page)

“Mather, I have
told
you—”

“I know!” The girl pulled free. Shoving her glasses up her nose, she blinked like an earnest owl. “But you haven’t been to church since Mrs. Addison died, and I know it must have been very upsetting, and I worried that perhaps—perhaps—”

“This is Bosbrea, Mather! Did you think I was kidnapped by a farmer? I am perfectly safe!”

“Villains are
not
confined to cities! It is very naïve to think so, ma’am!”

Liza looked at her in astonishment. The girl looked to be nearly shaking with some suppressed emotion. Surely it couldn’t be fear. “Are you quite all right, darling?”

Mather blinked, then shook her head and rubbed her brow with her knuckles. “Yes. That is—I’m very sorry,” she said more quietly. “I shouldn’t have raised
my voice. But please allow me to worry for you. For I owe you a great deal, ma’am, and I
do
worry. You are far too trusting.”

Her irritation died. How could she resent Mather’s concern? It was so kind, and such an undeserved gift—for despite the girl’s nonsense, she had done nothing to earn such fondness. “You owe me nothing, you silly thing. And—too trusting?
I?
I’d fear you were drunk, but you don’t partake!”

Mather shook her head stubbornly. “Bad things might happen anywhere, ma’am.”

“You are terribly cynical, dear. I do wonder the cause for it.”

The girl shrugged and made no reply. Asking about her past was always the best way to silence her. Liza knew from experience that pressing further would yield no clues.

With a great sigh, she retrieved the girl’s arm and kept walking. “As you see, I am—as ever—quite safe. Only very sleepy.”

“Because you . . . fell asleep.”

“As I said.”

“In the gamekeeper’s cottage.”

“Well, you’re quite right, it
was
unnerving to return to the church. And so I fled like a coward to a place where I thought nobody would find me. One doesn’t wish witnesses to one’s cowardice, you know.”

Mather ran a hand over the top of her frizzing red hair, then down to her nape, which she cupped. This was her thoughtful pose, portending some revelation. “But I found you,” she pointed out.

“Yes,” said Liza. “And once again, I will remind you: you are a secretary, not a bloodhound.”

Mather frowned. “And tomorrow I become a harlot.”

“You can’t talk like that,” Liza said with a snort. But perhaps it was a sign of insanity that she followed the girl’s meaning perfectly. “I’m so glad, though, that your wardrobe was readied in time.”

Mather laughed. “Yes, it’s a piece of good luck, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” And so, too, was Mather’s laugh, for it covered the noise that came from behind them, the sound of a door closing.

Which is a fitting sound,
Liza thought,
very poetic and fitting
. For the door had closed on their event, never to be reopened.

And if that felt like a tragedy to her . . . well, then she would simply not think on it.

Laughter spilled out from the drawing room into the dimly lit hall. Liza, returning from a brief conference with the spirit writer on the room allotted to him, paused and then withdrew behind a marble statue to eavesdrop.

She could hear Weston’s ringing laugh, splintered by Hollister’s cool voice and Katherine Hawthorne’s sultry tones. Now from Tilney came a deadpan remark, surprisingly risqué for only—she checked the grandfather clock—seven in the evening.

Well. That boded brilliantly. She tried out her most carefree smile. She must seem light of heart, without a worry in the world.

The mirror across from her did not offer reassurance. The gown was lovely, perfection, the mulberry skirts a delicious confection of satin drapery, the underskirt and jacket of violet velvet. But the colors washed her out. Or perhaps she simply looked weary. To her frustration, she’d tossed and turned half the night, thinking of a man she could not have—and who, to her
misfortune, had had her too well and too thoroughly to be so easily forgotten.

“Madam.”

Mather came stalking up the hall, skirts swishing. She’d submitted to the ministrations of Liza’s maid, even submitting to the “unnatural indignity”—as she termed it—of having her hair straightened and then curled. “You look absolutely marvelous,” Liza said warmly. Redheads should never wear
any
color but mint.

As with all compliments, Mather became selectively deaf. “There’s a problem with the room assignments. The medium has discovered that you placed the spirit writer next door to her. She says—”

“Did you tell her that he and the clairvoyant are mortal enemies?” So the spirit writer had solemnly informed her.

“Yes, I said so.” Mather readjusted her grip on the heavy ledger in her arms, freeing a hand to nudge her wire spectacles back up her nose. The ridiculously thick lenses made her blue eyes look small and squinty and unjustly porcine. Countless times Liza had advised her to do away with them, but Mather seemed determined to believe that she would be blind without their aid. “It makes no difference to her,” the girl continued. “She says she cannot lodge beside a fraud.”

“What? You’re joking!”

Mather shook her head.

Liza sighed. She was intent on housing
all
the spiritualists together, in the farthest wing from the rest of the guests. After all, it was very difficult to place one’s faith in the mystical powers of someone known to snore.

What she hadn’t foreseen was what a suspicious lot they would be! To a man, each of them assured her that
the others whom she had invited were, in fact, con men and shills.

“I don’t understand it,” she said. “Even if Mr. Smith
is
a fraud, what of it? How can it harm Madame Augustiana’s ability to contact the dead?”

Mather’s brows crested the rim of her spectacles. “Ma’am, I am sorry to say that I have no insight into the workings of Madame Augustiana’s abilities.”

“You’re not sorry at all, you cheeky thing.”

A slow, owlish blink from Mather. “I confess, I may not be.”

Liza snorted. “Well, let Madame Augustiana struggle with the spirits for a bit. I haven’t scheduled her to perform until Friday at the earliest. And what of—”

“That is another message I am bid especially to relay to you.” Mathers checked a notation in the ledger. “Madame Augustiana begs you not to use the word
performance,
as it may offend the spirits.”

Was that the faintest tremble of
amusement
in her secretary’s voice? “Mather, you’re not
enjoying
this, I hope?”

The girl’s square jaw firmed. “No, ma’am. That would not be my place.”

“Oh, stuff
that
. It would be your place if you’d unbend enough to join the company.” A peculiar creature, Mather. She seemed to have no concern about her spinsterhood, though she was quite pretty, despite her lantern jaw, when she made half an effort. And certainly there were men in the world who would appreciate her . . .
unique
brand of charm.

“It would not be appropriate,” said Mather. “I have explained this. I agreed to the wardrobe, but—”

“Poppycock! You’re a relation!” It had been such
a lovely surprise when they had discovered this a few weeks ago.

“Sixth cousins do not count, ma’am.”

“It must count for
something,
darling. After all, it’s countable: sixth, six—that’s a number, I believe.”

Was that a
roll of the eyes
Liza detected behind those awful lenses? “Ma’am, you are to be commended for your keen mathematical skills.” Mather retreated a pace. “Shall I inform Madame Augustiana that she may leave, if the lodging does not suit her?”

“Oh, very fierce,” Liza said. “Yes, and say it just like that, with that militant tilt to your jaw.”

Mather smiled. “I think I shall do,” she said, and spun on her heel, giving a little kick that made her skirts froth as she strode away. Deny it though she might, she was enjoying that dress.

Liza took a deep breath and once again met her own eyes in the mirror. She must try for the same joie de vivre. She pinched her cheeks and then pressed her lips together to force some blood into them. There. This smile looked more convincing.

She squared her shoulders and swept into the drawing room.

“There she is!” Tilney sprang off the sofa on which he’d been lounging. She had hesitated before inviting him—he was very close with Nello—but vanity had decided it for her. Not only was Tilney a bachelor, and therefore good practice for Jane, but he was also sure to dispatch to Nello very detailed reports of Liza’s romance and courtship. For that was what this house party held in store for her.

“Good evening,” she called brightly, “what a welcome sight!” And one by one she went around the room, exchanging
handshakes and, for the more French among them, kisses.

Jane had been captured by Baron Forbes, which was well and good, provided she was willing to flirt. Silver-haired and sixty and in denial of it, Forbes liked to befriend pretty young things and introduce them as though they were his pets—a habit his wife indulged, so long as he did not grow
overly
fond of them.

Liza exchanged only the briefest of greetings with them before moving on to Katherine and Nigel Hawthorne, troublesome siblings, who stood in conference with Baroness Forbes. The Hawthornes were tall and slender as greyhounds and colored to match, their eyes and hair a drab brown that blended into their skin, for they were great yachters and forever in the sun. As a result, they had a knack for merging with the woodwork—a skill they used to eavesdrop and garner gossip, which they enjoyed spreading as harmfully as possible.

Liza would not trust them with her middle name, but they made delicious company. “Darlings,” she cried.

“Looking smashing,” Katherine drawled as they pressed cheeks. “I see you’ve a new toy. She looks very young. Shall I encourage Nigel to play with her?”

Liza laughed. “I can think of no more dangerous man on which to cut one’s milk teeth. Do be kind,” she added to Nigel.

“Never,” he said, flashing his teeth in a lazy grin.

“Very dramatic repartee,” commented the Baroness Forbes. She was a larger woman, whose upper arm wobbled quite vigorously as she fanned herself. But a kind woman—warm and expansive in her interests—who would do well by Jane even if her husband’s interest made her itchy. “I must say, it was good of you to give us
a reason to flee London. You know my husband would insist on remaining until every house on Park Lane was shuttered.”

The baron heard this remark. “I enjoy town in the summer,” he called with a shrug.

This comment caused Katherine and Nigel to stare. “How bohemian,” Katherine said, in the same tones that a doctor might use to diagnose a contagious disease.

No. Don’t think of doctors.
Liza smiled all the more brightly. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, and turned for the corner where, as fortune would have it,
both
her likely prospects lay.

In fact, it struck her as very good luck that Hollister and Weston should be standing together. She hadn’t known they were friendly, but there was no quicker route to securing one man’s interest than convincing him he was in competition with another.

“My lords,” she said as she sailed up. “I hope your journey to the back of beyond went smoothly?”

Bows and handshakes ensued. “If only all journeys ended in such fair views as this one,” said Hollister, with an admiring look that traveled from her head to her toes and back again.

Weston put his hand over his heart. “Hollister is a flirt, but I am a man of total sincerity. And I tell you, I would travel to Timbuktu if you waited there.”

Her light laugh felt false. It
sounded
false. For a beat of panic, she hesitated. Had she forgotten how to do this?

Don’t be foolish
. “You’re both too kind,” she said. Both wealthy. Both attractive, though she did not favor blonds, which put Weston at a disadvantage. Hollister’s black hair had a pretty wave to it. Their eyes, she
thought, were not particularly beautiful, being a lackluster brown and a muddy green, respectively.

Eyes did not matter. Their bank accounts did. And both were extraordinary in that regard.

“We were speaking of the Ascot,” said Hollister. “Did you wager correctly? Weston claims he’s never lost, but then, I trust no man who claims to be sincere.”

“A lady never tells, sir.” She’d wagered far too much and lost every penny of it. Such idiocy, in retrospect.

As she glanced around the room, it occurred to her that one couple was missing. “Where are the Sanburnes?” She was eager to see James; he and Lydia had returned from their honeymoon only a week ago, after an endless sojourn in Canada, the purpose of which still puzzled her. Twelve months in
Canada,
of all places. Where next? And for how long? Siberia for a decade?

“They went for a stroll in the garden,” said Weston. “Apparently Sanburne has developed an appreciation for foliage.” He traded a wry look with Hollister, who smirked.