The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (7 page)

He had been somewhat exhilarated at his plan to bring her into fashion, perhaps even to find her the husband the Duchess of Bridgwater had brought her to London to find. He had thought that perhaps at last he would have something
amusing
on which to fix his mind and his energies. It might not be easy to bring Cora Downes into fashion—though none of her partners last evening had looked as if he had had to be coerced into dancing with her. There had been some lascivious glances, of course, especially when she had been dancing most vigorously.

By the time he had reached home and stabled his horse and walked back to his rooms for breakfast, he had still felt almost cheerful. There was always the qualification of the
almost
, of course. Always deep within, sometimes beyond the medium of conscious thought, was the awareness that today, no matter how much he was out and about in Society, he would not see Samantha.

He had been
almost
cheerful. This afternoon he would take Miss Downes up in his phaeton and would drive her in the park and see what amusement might be derived from doing so.

And then he had sat down to breakfast and his newspaper and his letters. And instead of reading the paper first and then tackling the post, he had thumbed through the letters and discovered one from Gabe—his close friend, the Earl of Thornhill. And because Gabe was his friend, and because he lived in Yorkshire on the estate adjoining Highmoor, the Marquess of Carew’s seat, Lord Francis had opened and read the letter before anything else.

The crops were all planted and growing. The sheep
had all lambed, most of them successfully, and the cows had all calved. Everything, in fact, appeared to be going well with Gabe’s life even though he pretended to complain about a projected visit to Harrogate with his wife and children in order to shop. Lord Francis knew that Gabe doted on his wife and family and would take them to Peking to shop if he thought it would give them pleasure. Though not at the present time, of course. Lady Thornhill was increasing—Lord Francis had known about that before—and Gabe was strict about the amount of traveling he would allow her to do at such times.

“And our neighbors, Frank,” Gabe had written just when Lord Francis had been feeling elated and mortally depressed at the conviction that they were not going to be mentioned at all. “Nothing will do but Jennifer must call upon them almost every day when they are not calling upon us, and since I will not allow her far out of my sight when she is in such a delicate way, I call upon them almost every day too—except when they are with us. All is domestic bliss there. We have been delighted and a little surprised to find it, though in truth I am the only one surprised. Jennifer declares that Samantha would not have married for anything less than love (you know what incurable romantics women are and ought to know that Jennifer is perhaps the most incurable of all). But if you had any doubts, Frank, and I know you were a particular friend of Samantha’s, then you may put them to rest. She did not marry Carew for his title and wealth. My wife was purple with indignation when I was unwise enough to suggest to her that such might be the case. And one more
on-dit
, Frank, before I take up the theme of the beginning of this letter and beg you to come and spend part of the summer with us—the children claim that summer will not be complete without the presence of Uncle Frank, who swam and climbed
trees and played cricket with them last year. One more
on-dit
—Jennifer whispered to me and I am whispering to you, in the strictest confidence, of course, that our Marchioness of Carew is to present her marquess with an heir or—heaven forbid—a daughter sometime within the next nine months.”

Lord Francis read the rest of the letter with eyes to which his mind was not attached.

So she was with child. It was hardly surprising when she had been married for longer than a month. Of course she was with child. It did not matter to him. He had lost her as soon as she betrothed herself to Carew. He had lost her utterly on her wedding day.

Now he lost her just a little more again.

DO BELIEVE SHE IS ABOUT TO BECOME A NINE-DAYS
wonder,” the Duke of Bridgwater said to his mother after all her afternoon visitors—except him—had left. Although he lived alone in a large town house, his mother always chose to open her own house, left her as part of her legacy in her husband’s will, whenever she came to town for longer than a week at a time. She was so accustomed to being mistress of her own house, she always said by way of explanation, that she would doubtless be an obnoxious, domineering mother if she lived with her son.

“It is very gratifying indeed, Alistair,” the duchess replied. “One realized that Elizabeth’s status as Hayden’s betrothed would draw visitors and one hoped that Jane’s eligibility would do likewise—do you not agree that she is in remarkable good looks this year? But one could only be anxious about Cora. I find her delightful, though I recognize that there is something about her that is not quite the thing. But one could not help but wonder if her origins would be too much of an impediment in town.”

His grace withdrew an enameled snuffbox from a pocket, flicked it open with a practiced thumb, and proceeded to set a pinch of his favorite blend on the back of one hand.

“Instead of which,” he said, “she very near outshone
Jane this afternoon. It is to be wondered, by the way, if Jane will find someone to her liking during what is left of the Season this year. It became tedious last year sending away all those suitors who came to me with their offers merely because she had assured me each time that she could not possibly, possibly marry so-and-so. I believe I acquired notoriety as an ogre of a brother.”

“Jane is still very young,” his mother said, “and very full of ideals. She still believes that somewhere out there is the person who was created with the sole purpose of being her mate. I believe, Alistair, that she is not alone among my children in harboring such a belief.”

The duke sniffed a portion of the snuff up each nostril and paused for it to take effect. In doing so, he avoided responding to his mother’s comment.

“It appears,” he said when he was able, “that one does not even need to stress the fact that Miss Downes will undoubtedly be the recipient of a very large dowry indeed when she marries. At least, I have not stressed any such fact yet. Have you?”

“Not at all,” his mother said. “People have chosen to take to her for a far more noble reason. She is the heroine of the hour. It is very gratifying.”

“I have often wondered.” His grace regarded his mother with lazy eyes, which perhaps held a modicum of humor. “
Would
Henry have drowned without Miss Downes’s heroic act?”

The duchess looked shocked. “Of course he would have drowned,” she said. “Cora saved his life at considerable risk to her own.”

“Can Henry not swim?” his grace asked. He knew the answer. He had taught the child himself the previous summer.

“Alistair!” her grace exclaimed. “A five-year-old who takes a tumble fully clothed into a cold river is scarcely
likely to remember the skills taught him almost a year ago.”

“I suppose not.” His grace returned his snuffbox to his pocket. “And so a number of visitors called this afternoon for the express purpose of conversing with the heroine and congratulating her. There were even one or two eligibles among them. Did they come out of curiosity alone, do you think? Can any of them be brought to the point?”

“I believe Mr. Corsham is a possibility,” the duchess said. “He danced with her last evening and you say he inquired about her after I had fetched her home. He is just the sort of young man who would be eager to marry a fortune, Alistair. He has the one his aunt left him, but he is still very much a younger son.”

“I shall be sure to have a word with him at White’s,” his grace said, “and steer the conversation toward the enormous wealth of Mr. Downes, in addition to his recent emergence as a man of property.”

“Mr. Pandry might be brought around as well,” the duchess said. “Sir Robert Webster might not. He would not wish to risk the reputation of a baronet’s title by taking a bride of inferior rank. Lord Francis Kneller was remarkably kind to her last evening, and he is to take her driving in the park later. Did you know? He is out of the question as a suitor, of course, but his notice can do her nothing but good in the eyes of the
ton
.”

“Yes,” his grace agreed. “It is well known that Kneller takes notice only of those ladies who are worth noticing. He was obliging me last evening and clearly decided to take my plea seriously enough to extend the invitation for today. I shall encourage him to continue to take notice of her. He needs employment. He has recently suffered a severe disappointment.”

“Miss Newman?” his mother asked. “I heard of her recent marriage to your friend the Marquess of Carew. I
was surprised, I must confess. I thought Lord Francis to be the favorite among her suitors, and heaven knows he paid determined court to her for long enough.”

“But Carew bore off the prize,” his grace said, “and Kneller needs diversion while he looks about him for another Incomparable to whose court to attach himself—his words, not mine, I do assure you, Mama. He can do Miss Downes nothing but good. Perhaps he can teach her to be a little less—exuberant.”

The duchess laughed. “I find her delightful, Alistair,” she said. “But you are right, of course. She needs polish. I actually saw her throw back her head last evening and laugh. I was caught between horror and amusement.”

“If it had been Lizzie or Jane,” her son said, his eyebrows raised, “there would have been no question of amusement, Mama.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” she agreed fervently. “I do hope that between us, you and I—and perhaps Lord Francis, if he will be so obliging—will be able to smooth out some rough edges. Cora deserves a respectable husband after what she did for dear Henry, Alistair.”

“We will try what we can do, Mama,” he said. “But I hope for your sake she will not blame us at some future date for lifting her out of her own class and making her unhappy.”

C
ORA COULD NOT
remember a time when she had enjoyed herself more. All her anxieties of last night and this morning and the early part of this afternoon had been for naught. Not only was it not raining, but the sun shone down from a cloudless sky and the day was hot, though only pleasantly so by five o’clock in the afternoon. In addition to these happy circumstances was the fact that Lord Francis Kneller had not forgotten his appointment
to take her driving in Hyde Park. He arrived punctually at half past four.

She was wearing her favorite of her new day clothes—a bright yellow muslin dress with blue sash and blue cornflowers embroidered about the scalloped hem, and a straw hat whose brim was trimmed with artificial cornflowers and which sported a wide yellow ribbon stretched over the brim of the hat and tied beneath her chin. She carried a blue parasol. She wore a pair of her old shoes, a regrettable fact, but better than wearing no shoes at all—which seemed the only alternative for today at least.

Cora was feeling very smart indeed. Her papa had given her a vast sum of money to bring with her to London, with the strict instructions that a certain specified amount of it was to be spent on fashionable clothes. And Edgar had made her a gift of another large sum with which to buy herself baubles and gewgaws, as he had phrased it. She had been happily obedient to the wishes of both.

Another fact was contributing to her happiness. She had had a dreadful thought sometime during the night, when she had woken to think back to the ball and to flex her stinging toes gingerly against the bandages a maid had swathed them in. And the thought had haunted her all day. What if Lord Francis Kneller’s appearance last evening was uncharacteristic of him? What if he was not after all a rather foppish gentleman? What if he appeared today to take her driving, looking as forbiddingly masculine and aristocratic as the Duke of Bridgwater had looked in her grace’s drawing room? She would die. He was
Lord
Francis Kneller, after all. His father had been a duke. His brother was a duke. Her tongue would tie itself into one giant knot and she would doubtless simper and stammer and blush her way through the ordeal of a drive in the park with him.

Not that a duke’s son or even a duke was inherently superior to Papa and Edgar and the other men of their class with whom she was acquainted. But it was one thing for the head to know that. It was another for the body and the emotions to act in accordance with the belief.

She had longed for and dreaded the arrival of Lord Francis Kneller. She had bitten both cheeks to shreds.

Yet again all her fears had been for nothing. He was standing in the hall of her grace’s house when she came downstairs at the summons of a footman, and she felt herself exhale in relief. His coat was not quite pink or quite a mulberry color. It was halfway between the two. She remembered Edgar’s saying that some of the fops of the
ton
liked to appear as if they had been poured into their coats. Cora was reminded of those words as she looked at Lord Francis. And his pantaloons too. They were of fine gray leather and molded his form so tightly that she might have blushed if he had been anyone else. Certainly she was aware of splendid calf muscles—she had had the proof of their strength last evening when he had carried her all the way to the carriage. His Hessian boots were so glossy that she was convinced that if she bent over them she would be able to make sure that the bow of her hat was tied at just the right angle beneath her chin. And his neckcloth was as elaborately tied as the one he had worn last night. He carried his hat and whip in one hand.