The Frost Fair (21 page)

“And what about
my
note, eh?” Steele demanded, his usual calm fraying at the edges. “Does
that
give any indication that she intended to return to you?”

“That note proves nothing. It doesn't even make sense to me.” With that, Isham made a dismissive gesture of his hand and impassively resumed his seat.

Steele, in disgust, turned to Geoffrey. “I can't reason with the man. Here, Sir Geoffrey, look at this note. Wouldn't you say it supports my claim?”

Geoffrey, his head spinning with confused emotions, took the note which Steele held out to him and stared at it dazedly.
Dear Arthur
, he read,
You win. Be at the White Hart, Harrogate, tomorrow evening. I shall be waiting. Meg
. His heart sank. What sort of woman was Meg Underwood anyway? How could she play games with so many men at once?

“Well?” Arthur urged. “Does that sound like a note written by a lady betrothed to someone else?”

“I don't … know …” Geoffrey muttered, his eyes fixed on the paper he held in a hand he was hard-pressed to keep from shaking.

“Aren't we straying from the point again?” Isham inquired coldly. “I thought our purpose here was to discover the lady's whereabouts, not to debate the nature of her precise relationship to us.”

“You're right,” Steele agreed, taking back his note and pocketing it. “This discussion is taking us from our object. If you know where she is, Sir Geoffrey, speak up. You must have heard enough by this time to believe that we have every right to know.”

Geoffrey didn't seem to hear. He was staring off into the middle distance, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

“Did you hear what Steele said to you?” Isham demanded, rising to his feet again and joining Arthur Steele in confronting their abstracted host. “What do you know about the girl's—”

He was interrupted by the opening of the door. “Geoffrey, I just had the most
ingenious
idea about Trixie's—” Meg said from the doorway.

“Meg!” Arthur Steele and Charles Isham gasped in concert.

“Ch-Charles! Arthur!” Meg's eyes widened in complete astonishment. “Good God!”

Chapter Fifteen

It seemed to Geoffrey that the room was full of noise and confusion, and all he wanted to do was to get away from it. Lord Isham, red-faced and angry, was demanding from Meg a proper explanation of her actions. Arthur, with the air of an overprotective solicitor, was brandishing his silver-headed cane at Isham and telling Meg that she needn't explain anything at all. Meg was attempting to quiet them both, but they didn't stop their shouting long enough to permit her to utter a full sentence. Geoffrey, convinced that he'd heard more than enough, rose and headed for the door.

“Geoffrey, wait!” Meg called, darting after him. “Don't you want to hear what I—”

“No, ma'am, I don't. I think you know me well enough to understand that I do not like to become embroiled in … er …”

“Women's wranglings?” she teased, making a face at him.

“Exactly,” he agreed, not amused. “I'm sure the gentlemen will excuse me. They cannot wish to be observed by a stranger while you all try to settle what is obviously a private matter among the three of you.”

Meg, who until this moment had not taken this incident to be in any way catastrophic, was chilled by the coldness of his tone. “But … you don't understand. There's nothing much to settle, really.”

“Nothing much to
settle?
” Isham asked in outrage. “I most vehemently beg to differ.”

“Oh, Charles, be still!” She put a restraining hand gently on Geoffrey's arm. “I want you to stay, Geoffrey,
please
. You'll see that the fuss is just a great deal of noise about a small misunderstanding.”

He shook his head. “From what little I've heard already, I think it's much more than that.”

“But you don't know what—”

“Please don't explain. Not to me,” he said, adamant. “Do you remember that we discussed this carriage business before? At that time you told me that you'd managed your affairs very well for years without my help and that you had every intention to continue to do so. Well, then, ma'am,
manage
them! I wish you luck.”

He lifted her hand from his arm in deliberate, icy rebuff and walked from the room. Meg stared after him, aghast. How could this silly
contretemps
have so greatly altered his mood since this afternoon?

“Can't say I like the way that fellow spoke to you, Meg,” Arthur said, looking at the door with a puzzled frown. “What
is
he to you?”

“That's just what I'd like to know,” Isham agreed. “And what are you doing in this place? I find it quite shocking, now that we're on the subject, to find you apparently taking up residence with a complete stranger.”

Arthur jumped immediately to her defense. “Come now, Isham, climb down from your high ropes. ‘Taking up residence' is putting it much too strong. Besides, it isn't your place any longer to comment on Meg's behavior.”

“Isn't it?” Isham's nostrils flared. “It's
your
place, then, I suppose.”

“Oh, be quiet, both of you!” Meg, who'd been staring at the door, whirled about and faced them furiously. “Why couldn't you have gone about your own business instead of coming here to seek me out? You've probably spoiled everything!”

Arthur's brows knit in sudden suspicion. “Spoiled what, my dear?”

Meg bit her lip. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Your sudden arrival has … startled me … that's all.”

“That's
not
all,” Arthur said, his eyes narrowed. “Seems to me that you and this Carrier fellow are thick as thieves. Haven't I a right to know—”

“No, you haven't,” Meg said bluntly.

“Aha!” Isham's exclamation resounded loudly round the room, ringing with mirthless satisfaction. “So it isn't your place
either
to make inquiries. Who has to come down from his high ropes
now?
”

“See here, Isham, I'm a patient man, but these last few days of being forced into your company have shortened my temper! I've had more than enough of your lordly disparagement, and if I hear much more, I shall be strongly tempted to plant a facer on your lordly nose!”

“Why were you forced into his company?” Meg asked curiously.

Arthur looked at her with some surprise. “So that we could join forces to look for you. What did you think we were doing?”

“I don't know why you had to look for me at all.”

“Really, my dear,” Isham said, “didn't you expect me to wonder what had become of you?”

“No, I did not! I expected you to believe that I'd gone home—which is what I fully intended to do.”

“But what about me?” Arthur inquired. “Didn't you think, when you failed to appear at the White Hart, that
I
would be concerned for your safety?”

She cast him a guilty glance. “I … I'm sorry, Arthur. I just … forgot about you.”

“Ha!” Isham chortled sourly. “
Your
betrothed, eh?”

“Confound you, Isham, hold your tongue!” Steele barked, his usual good nature pushed beyond its limits. “As for you, Meg Underwood, that is the most unkind thing I've ever heard you say.” And he cast himself into a chair in morose disenchantment.

“I'm truly sorry, Arthur,” Meg said, taking a chair beside him. “I never dreamed matters would take this turn. You see, I
was
on my way to the White Hart when the snow came. We were unable to proceed, there was an accident, and we were taken here. First we thought my ankle had been broken, and by the time that problem had solved itself, Isabel fell ill. During all those difficulties, I had little opportunity to think about anything else. I simply assumed that you would have returned to London, and I put the matter out of my mind. It didn't occur to me to suppose that you'd take the trouble to go to Isham Manor to seek me out.”

The explanation brightened Arthur's mood considerably. “So you were injured, eh? Then that explains everything. It wasn't
your
fault if you couldn't walk.”

“Not quite everything,” Isham reminded him, taking a stance at the fireplace and looking down at them both in haughty disapproval. “There is still the matter of Meg's absconding from Isham Manor on the eve of our betrothal dinner without so much as a by-your-leave—”

“Yes, I owe you an explanation for that,” Meg agreed, her eyes lowered to her folded hands. “More, I owe you a most sincere apology. It was a dreadful thing to have done. To break a vow … a betrothal … so thoughtlessly and abruptly, too … it was quite unforgivable. I was cowardly to have done it, and for whatever pain my behavior has caused you, I am truly sorry.”

Arthur studied her with raised eyebrows. “I must say, Meg, that was sweetly said. Very contrite. Very penitent. Very humble. And not a
bit
like you! I don't know what's happened to you in this place, but I'd better get you back to London before you become completely unrecognizable.”

“Just a moment, Steele, just a moment. Let's not jump to any unwarranted conclusions,” Isham cautioned. He crossed the room in his dignified, measured pace and took a chair facing Meg. “I wish to say, my dear, that I am quite willing to forgive and forget. You ran away. It was probably just momentary panic … an attack of maidenly shyness … it doesn't matter. But you've learned your lesson. As even Steele recognizes, you've truly repented. I'm willing to overlook the transgression. Come back with me to Isham Manor. I'm sure that even Mama will find it in her heart to forgive you when you explain it all to her.”

Arthur hooted. “Isham, you must be touched in your upper works. Can't you understand that she's done with you?”

“Please, Arthur, let me speak for myself,” Meg said. “Charles, I know I was wrong in the
way
I acted, but I wasn't wrong to act. In substance, if not in manner, I was right. Don't you see? It surely
must
be clear to you by this time that we should
never
suit. Our temperaments are completely opposite. I'm sorry that I didn't realize sooner how unsuited we are, but you must agree that a little pain at
this
time is better than having to endure a lifetime of it.” She leaned forward and patted his arm. “You'll see it for yourself when the shock wears off.”

Isham stared at her for a moment, his lips compressed into a tight line. Then he got up stiffly. “Is that your final word on the subject, my dear?” he asked.

“I'm afraid it is,” Meg assured him, lowering her eyes to her hands again.

“Very well, then. Steele, it seems you've been right all along. No doubt you'll wish to make plans with the lady without my presence. Since we came here in my curricle, you'll need to go back with me to Isham Manor to get your carriage. I shall, therefore, wait for you outside.”

“Just a moment, Charles,” Meg said firmly. “I don't know of anything that Arthur has to say to me that can't be said in your presence.”

Arthur, who'd been grinning in self-satisfaction, found his smile fading quickly. “What do you mean? Doesn't your jilting Isham mean that you're going to wed
me
?”

“Of course not! Really, Arthur, how can you ask such a thing? Didn't I distinctly tell you in London that you and I can only be good friends?”

“Yes, but
I
said that good friends make good husbands.”

“Perhaps you did, but I didn't agree with you.”

“But … your note!” He pulled it from his pocket. “Right here! You said, ‘you win.' Doesn't that mean—?”

“How can you be so foolish?” Meg asked impatiently. “It means you win the
wager
. Don't you remember? A hundred guineas to my one that I wouldn't go through with my betrothal to Charles?” She looked up at Isham guiltily. “Sorry, Charles—it was only in fun.”

“You mean you sent for me only to
escort
you?” Arthur asked, deflated.

“Well, yes. You did
offer
the escort, you know.”

He got up and looked down at her with a rueful twist to his lips. “And that's your final word on
this
subject, too, I suppose.”

She nodded.

He shrugged in resignation. “Well, then, Isham, it seems we both were wrong. Come along, man, there's nothing more for either of us here. We've kept your horses standing long enough.”

“Goodbye, ma'am,” Charles said with a formal bow. “I'm sure Steele will agree with me when I say that we wish you all the good fortune and happiness that life can bestow and that the future may bring you all manner of—”

“Oh, come along, you clunch!” Arthur said, pushing him to the door. “She doesn't need your prosy speeches.” He turned back and gave her a good-natured wink. “Goodbye, my dear. I'm still available to escort you to London if you should need me.”

By the time the two gentlemen had taken their leave, Keating was ready to announce dinner. When the Carrier ladies and Meg had taken their places at the table, Lady Carrier explained that Geoffrey had asked to be excused. “It seems that his attentions had been diverted from his work this afternoon,” she said, “and so he's making up for lost time by poring over his papers now. He says he'll be content with some cold meat and bread, sandwich-style, at his worktable in the library.”

None of the ladies noticed that Meg was unusually silent during the meal, for each of them had a great deal to chatter about. Sybil had discovered a new symptom; Lady Carrier had spent the afternoon playing cards with Isabel and was full of glad tidings of that lady's improved condition; and Trixie had called on Harriet Habish, where she'd been “delightfully surprised” to discover that Mortimer Lazenby had called at the very same time. Meg, out of patience with all of them and playing dispiritedly with the food on her plate, found herself wishing that she too could take her dinner sandwich-style in the library.