The Darcy Connection (8 page)

“It is my duty,” said Charlotte, her face a serene contrast to Eliza's furious countenance, “to inform Lady Grandpoint of my suspicions. If I do, she will doubtless take it upon her to read any letters that arrive in her house for you, yes, and to see what you send in the post.”

With which words, she was out of the room, and “Just in time,” Eliza said to the closed door, “for I should have said something unforgivable had you remained another minute.”

The door opened, and Charlotte's head came round. “I recommend that you take a rest this afternoon. You do not want to be presenting a cross face to our great-aunt's guests.”

Rest! Eliza said to herself as the door closed for a second time behind her sister. Rest, indeed, I never had more energy in my life. I would be a poor creature if I needed to rest to get through two or three tedious hours in a crowded room. Lord, dozens of people I neither wish to meet nor to converse with, and I may be very sure that they have not the slightest desire to talk to me.

Eliza's temper was always swift to come and swift to go, and it was not many minutes before her irritation—for really, Charlotte was vexing, no more—had subsided.

Practical matters first. She must hide the letter. What if Charlotte did convey her suspicions to Lady Grandpoint? Would her hostess demand that she give up the letter or have a servant search her room? No, Charlotte was a great one for threats, but family loyalty would take precedence over her desire for Eliza not to stray from the path of rectitude. She would consider that the threat was enough to deter Eliza from any clandestine correspondence, and surely she did not actually believe that she had received a letter from Anthony?

No, what she thought was that Maria's letter was full of talk of Anthony, and words of encouragement and support for their friendship. That was wrong enough in Charlotte's eyes; what must it be like to have no imagination? Eliza asked herself.

Her thoughts turned to the evening. She hoped that Lord Rosely would be among the guests, he was exactly the kind of man that Charlotte might be happy with, handsome and with the ease and humour that would balance Charlotte's more serious nature. Eliza had met him only the once, at a dinner party she had attended soon after their arrival in London. The host was a distant cousin of her mother's, which made it a family affair, as Lady Grandpoint said, and thus Eliza had been included in the invitation.

It was evident that Lord Rosely admired Charlotte exceedingly, and indeed, who could not? Charlotte had never been in better looks than since she came to London, and that, coupled with the elegance of her new gowns, was enough to capture at least the attention of most men.

Eliza knew, for Lady Grandpoint kept up a running commentary on the day following any party on every man who had spoken to Charlotte or danced with her, that Lord Rosely was not considered a suitable aspirant for Charlotte's hand. “He is perfectly well bred, of course, and an earldom is not to be sniffed at. Yet his father, dear Lord Desmond, is as hale and hearty a man as you may meet, and I dare say he will live a great many more years. Meanwhile, the family circumstances are not quite what they would wish, and Lady Desmond has her eye out for an heiress for Frederick. She will succeed, I feel sure, for he is an engaging young man. Miss Chetwynd would make him an admirable wife, and she has not a penny less than seven or eight thousand a year, her grandfather's fortune, you know.”

Eliza listened to her with only half her attention. She cared nothing for the schemes of matchmaking mamas, keen for their sons to marry heiresses, she knew all about that, thank you. She had not met this Miss Chetwynd, but she doubted if she could hold a candle to Charlotte in looks; indeed, she knew from her great-aunt, and Lord Grandpoint, neither of whom were given to exaggeration, that Charlotte outshone all the other beauties currently on parade in London.

By chance, almost the first person she encountered at the soirée that evening was Miss Chetwynd. Down at a dutifully early hour—staying in the Grandpoints' house, it would have been unmannerly not to be downstairs in good time, before guests began to arrive—Eliza had been sent back upstairs for her maid to arrange her hair in a more becoming style. It was her own fault, for dressing in haste. Absorbed in the novel by Miss Griffin which Maria had enquired about, she had lost track of the late hour and had only had time to scramble into her gown and run a comb through her hair.

With the protests of her maid sounding in her ears, she hurried downstairs, pleased that after all she was not late, but Lady Grandpoint had taken one look and expressed her strong displeasure at her appearance. “Lord, have you done it deliberately? Do you want our friends to see you as a poor sister, a Cinderella, obliged to spend her time scrubbing floors? Upstairs this instant, and if your maid cannot turn you out looking more presentable than this, she will be turned off without a character.”

So when she descended again, some twenty minutes later, her hair dressed in a more flattering if not exactly fashionable style, she reached the hall just as Miss Chetwynd and her mother were being shown in.

What a plain girl, Eliza said to herself, and then when Lady Grandpoint glided forward to greet them, with a “Dear Mrs. Chetwynd, dear Miss Chetwynd,” she could barely suppress a smile. Miss Chetwynd might be possessed of any number of admirable qualities apart from the substantial income, but she would not stand any kind of comparison with Charlotte.

Lady Grandpoint beckoned Eliza and Charlotte over to the other side of the room, where a man stood beside the fireplace, a man in his forties, of above-average height, with such coldness in his expression, such icy hauteur in his bearing, that Eliza felt the room would be improved by a few flames from a fire, May or no May.

“Charlotte, Eliza, may I present Lord Montblaine? Marquis, these are my nieces, Miss Collins, Miss Eliza Collins.”

“Enchanted,” he said in a voice that was as cold as everything else about him. His eyes swept over Eliza and rested on Charlotte for a long moment. “Enchanting,” he murmured, and then, without endeavouring to make any conversation, he walked away to join Lord Grandpoint on the other side of the room.

Eliza was indignant. “How rude,” she whispered to Charlotte, but Lady Grandpoint seemed to see nothing odd in his behaviour. “My dear,” she said to Charlotte, “did you see how gracious he was?”

“Gracious!” cried Eliza. “I would not call that gracious.”

Lady Grandpoint paid no attention. “He is the Marquis of Montblaine, you know. Rarely in town, but he has come up for the debate next week. He wields immense influence, although he does not often speak in the House. He is an old acquaintance of Grandpoint's, of course, and we are fortunate that he has put in an appearance tonight, he seldom goes about in society. He is enormously rich,” she added, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Look, there is Mrs. Chetwynd trying to catch his eye, but she will not succeed; there, he has turned away.”

Eliza was introduced to a succession of men and women in whom she did not have the slightest interest, and she retreated to a quiet corner of the room, hidden behind a large urn containing a feathery fern, where she could enjoy a glass of wine and not be obliged to smile and talk. How she wished Anthony were here. What joy it would be if he should walk into the room, catch her eye, hurry to her side; how differently she would feel then, the evening would no longer be an insipid gathering of uncongenial persons, and instead become a thoroughly entertaining party.

There was Lord Rosely, no sooner through the door and paying his respects to Lady Grandpoint than his eyes were searching the room, Eliza noticed with satisfaction. A moment later, he was at Charlotte's side, greeting her with smiles and a glowing look of pleasure. There was another man with him, a dark man with a good figure and a keen, intelligent face. However, he looked to be as uninterested in this soirée as she was; no doubt Lord Rosely had dragged him here against his will.

At that moment, Charlotte said something to Lord Rosely and nodded in Eliza's direction. He turned to look at her, and Charlotte beckoned to her. Reluctantly, Eliza emerged from cover.

“We meet again,” said Lord Rosely, bowing over her hand. “Miss Eliza, may I have the honour to present Mr. Bruton? Miss Eliza Collins,” he added, as his aloof companion looked at her without a flicker of interest, and bowed. Eliza gave him her hand and dropped a swift, slight curtsy, looking for a short moment into a pair of dark, disdainful eyes.

Eliza wasn't affronted by his indifference; instead, a smile flickered over her lips. So much male arrogance, such evident disinclination to meet her, and, sensing an enemy, such clear disapproval of the fascination Charlotte's beauty was exerting over his friend.

He looked away and laid a hand on Freddie's arm. He nodded to the other side of the large reception room. “Lady Desmond is trying to attract your attention.”

“Damn it,” said Freddie. “Lord, there she is with your mama, feathers shaking in their turbans. Forgive me,” he said with a lingering look at Charlotte. “I must pay my compliments to my mother and aunt, I shall find you again.”

The two men walked away; Charlotte was immediately surrounded by a little bevy of admirers, and Eliza, moving quickly back to her position behind the urn, was thus within earshot of the two men. To her pleasure, Lord Rosely was expressing his admiration for Charlotte. “There, you have to admit I didn't exaggerate when I spoke of her beauty. Did you ever see such perfection of feature, such a sweet expression, and yet so serious?”

“Quite,” said Mr. Bruton, who had clearly not been bowled over by Charlotte's beauty.

“And her sister, Miss Eliza, a charming girl, with a merry smile.”

“Provincial,” said Bruton, with a shrug of his elegant shoulders.

Retreating further behind the urn, Eliza was distressed to feel a rising tide of embarrassment and, yes, mortification. Provincial, indeed. To be sure, she wasn't dressed in the silks or satins of other women, yet…

For the first time she looked, really looked, at the women in the room. Not at the older women, although some of them were startlingly elegant, but at those nearer to herself in age. Charlotte's dress, which had appeared so fine to her, would pass muster, but was not exceptional. Her eye was caught by the way Miss Chetwynd's dress hung, with a movement that made her look graceful, although Eliza was sure that she was not naturally so. That dark girl, standing beside Lord Rosely and Mr. Bruton, wore what was apparently a simple white dress, yet the cut emphasised her fine bosom, and the excellent fit showed off her figure to advantage.

Eliza looked down at her own dress. It was more than three years old, and its heavy flounces caught up in bunches of tiny roses looked to her now fussy and odd. She tugged at her neckline, low cut, but with a generous fichu for modesty. It gaped slightly, and she knew that the set of the sleeves was poor, making the gown pull slightly at the back.

Annie had noticed that at once, saying she could have the sleeves off in a trice and reset. “And also, Miss, appliqué flowers are not in fashion this year, overtrimming is quite passé.”

Eliza could no longer tell herself she didn't care. Provincial? Yes, she was provincial, but here in London, however much she might tell herself she didn't care a jot for the company or what any of those in the room might think of her, she knew that she did care when that word was used to insult.

What if Anthony were to walk into this room? Would he notice that she was ill dressed? Perhaps not, yet she felt she looked untidy, dowdy in a way that wasn't asserting her low opinion of London and its ways, but instead spoke of a lack of taste and style.

She heard her name and spun round to find she had been addressed by a man she had met at the family dinner party. She held out her hand. “Mr. Portal, is it not?”

“Ah, you remember me.” He was a large man, large in physique and personality, with such an agreeable, good-humoured face, that Eliza felt cheered just to see him.

“What are you doing, languishing here? If I knew you better, I would venture to suggest you were hiding behind that ridiculously large urn, but why should you wish to do that?”

“Because I know few people here, and to be honest, I have just heard myself described as ‘provincial,' and I have come to the uncomfortable conclusion that it is so.”

“Ha,” he said. “Nonsense. You look very well. Allow me to present Mrs. Rowan. My dear,” he said to the tall, dark-haired woman who had come up to stand at his side, “this is Miss Eliza Collins, sister to the beauty everyone raves about. She is feeling provincial.”

“Your sister is astonishingly beautiful,” Mrs. Rowan said with a smile. “Do you find it hard to bear?”

“Oh, no, not at all. It's a gift of God, and one I am glad not to have. It is very difficult for people to see beyond her beauty, you know.”

“As to provincial,” said Mrs. Rowan, looking across at Charlotte and then back at Eliza, “there is nothing provincial about her gown. From Madame Jeannette, if I'm not mistaken. How come you to be dressed so plainly?”

Eliza winced inwardly at the direct comment. “I came to London as an afterthought. I did not want to come. For Charlotte it is different. Lady Grandpoint is her godmother, and very fond of her, it is only right that she wished to treat Charlotte to a season. Our father is Bishop of Ripon, you see, and normally, there would be no question of a London season for either of us.”

“But your parents, sensible creatures, I am sure, jumped at the chance for Charlotte to spread her wings. Well, it may serve, I hear she has some expectations from her godmother, and that, combined with her looks and good manners and a respectable background, should stand her in good stead. But you, my dear, are you to spend the next few weeks lurking behind plants, listening to men casting aspersions on you? Or was it a woman?”

Eliza said, in her laughing, husky voice, “Oh, how absurd you make it sound.”