The Perks of Being a Beauty (5 page)

It had been galling to accept help from someone whom she’d once made the object of her cruelest derision, but Cecily had assured her that it meant nothing to her. And Amelia had promised to send her as much of her salary from the Smithsons as she was able. So far it had been little enough. And Amelia was convinced that she’d still be repaying her friend when they were both in their dotage. But her pride wouldn’t allow her to accept Cecily’s charity on any other terms.

People like Quentin, good people who didn’t quite understand just how selfish and conniving girls like the old Amelia operated, might see her plans to draw gentlemen to her charge’s side in a less than charitable light, but Amelia knew that it was simply a means of getting gentlemen who knew no better to see past the superficial to the sweetness below the surface. To see the real Harriet. And she hoped that through such acts she might repay the debt to her conscience that sometimes felt more egregious than the monetary debts she owed.

She was on her way up the servants’ staircase leading up to her room in the attics, when she heard a sound curiously like a mewling kitten.

Perhaps she was dreaming it. She had been forced to give back her own kitten to the Duchess of Winterson when she’d taken this position and she’d been missing him terribly. But when she reached the first landing she saw that the source of the noise wasn’t a kitten, but a small housemaid whose gulping sobs were heartbreaking.

“Mary,” Amelia said quietly, trying not to draw attention to them. “Whatever is the matter?”

The girl was barely fifteen and had been hired by Mrs. Smithson from the village as a housemaid. But her slight frame made her seem little more than a child.

Surprised at being caught sniveling, young Mary started, the fear in her eyes making Amelia’s stomach tighten in sympathy. “M-Miss Snowe,” she said, pulling out a balled-up handkerchief from her sleeve, “w-what are you d-doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing, Mary,” Amelia said. “Should you not be seeing to the ladies’ rooms while they are downstairs?”

Mary nodded miserably. “I was, Miss Snowe. But I … that is … one of the ladies come back early to find a wrap. And…”

Just then Amelia noticed what looked to be a palm print on Mary’s right cheek. The livid red of the impression stood in stark relief to her pale complexion.

Now the little maid’s misery made sense. Something in Amelia’s spine stiffened at the notion of one of the Smithsons’ guests slapping the girl.

“Mary,” Amelia said calmly, “did one of the guests hit you?”

The fear in the girl’s eyes told the tale, even when her words denied it. “N-no, Miss Snowe. Of course not. I just ran into the door. In Miss Fotheringham’s room.”

Miss Mabel Fotheringham was an heiress with the face of an angel. And the soul of a devil, if the way she treated those she considered beneath her was anything to judge by. The guests had only arrived yesterday and already Amelia had heard complaints from belowstairs of the young lady’s sharp tongue. It would appear that she also had a sharp hand to match.

Rather than pressing the maid for more information, Amelia simply nodded. “Of course not. I suggest you go wash your face and get back to your duties. You do not wish Mrs. Smithson to find you loitering here on the stairs.”

With a relieved sigh, Mary nodded. “Thank you, Miss Snowe.” And with an abbreviated curtsy, appropriate to one of Amelia’s lowered station, the maid hurried up the stairs to the top of the house where her room, which she shared with two other girls, was located.

Amelia followed behind her at a more sedate pace. Something would need to be done about Miss Fotheringham, of course. But if anyone knew how to rout a bully, it was Amelia herself.

She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction at the thought.

*   *   *

After luncheon, the young ladies all decided to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather and went out into the garden to sketch or paint. The gentlemen all retired to the billiard room.

When Quentin wandered in from Smithson’s study, where he and his host had just put the finishing touches on their sales agreement relating to Quentin’s purchase of the other man’s northern factory, it was to find the younger men gathered round the table trading bon mots.

“I think the younger Hume chit has her eye on you, Freddy,” said Mr. Theodore Wilkes to Mr. Frederick Carstairs as he lined up a particularly complicated shot. “Didn’t take her eyes off you all morning, for all that Mrs. Smithson’s scavenger hunt thingamabob paired her up with Wallace.”

“I’d have been happy enough to hand her over to Fred if it meant I could get the glorious Miss Fotheringham to notice me,” said young Mr. Reginald Wallace, his disappointment reinforced by his naturally morose expression. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes like that on a human woman.”

“As opposed to all the supernatural women you see on a daily basis,” Carstairs said with a snort. “I swear, Reggie, I don’t know how you made it through university.”

“I made it through because you did my work for me, dear chap,” Wallace reminded his friend. “And don’t think I ain’t dashed appreciative.”

Wilkes, who had missed his shot, nodded to indicate that Wallace could take his own turn now. “What of you, Quentin?” he asked, turning to the newcomer. “Which one of the lovely ladies assembled for our delectation have you chosen to be your flirtation for the duration of the party? I know you’re here on business with Smithson. Don’t tell me you’re here to woo the meek and mild Miss Harriet, for it won’t wash. Last I heard the coffers of your father’s estate were plenty full already, so you don’t have to marry a fortune.”

Disliking to speak so openly of the lady, Quentin merely shrugged. “Who says I’m here to court anybody? I was simply here to do some business with Smithson and when his wife asked me to stay on, I decided to do so. Doesn’t mean I’m in search of a wife. Or a flirtation, for that matter.”

Looking up from his position on the other side of the table where he was about to shoot, Wallace raised a skeptical brow. “I saw you chatting with the delicious Amelia Snowe last night, didn’t I, Fortescue? And now you’re paired with her for the scavenger hunt. Good luck, that. She’s a prime goer if ever there was one. Chit might not have two beans to her name but she’s pretty enough to make a man forget it. At least you’d forget it long enough to pound into that…”

He stopped because someone in the room had begun to growl. And to Quentin’s astonishment, that someone was him. And unaccountably, his hand had become wrapped up in the other man’s neck cloth. And he was dangling the fellow several inches off the floor, gripping him by the throat.

“If you want to keep your teeth, Wallace, then I suggest you do not mention the lady in such a manner again. Do I make myself clear?” The words came unbidden from Quentin’s mouth, as if he were possessed by some primal being that greatly objected to the other man’s disparagement of Amelia.

“’Course, old fellow. O-o-of course,” Wallace said through his constricted throat. “No disrespect intended, old man. None at all. You have my abject apologies.”

Feeling his temper recede somewhat, Quentin gave the other man one last shake then lowered him to the floor. Wallace took in a deep gulp of air, and coughed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Wilkes with a strained laugh, “but you are quite the dark horse, Fortescue. I never would have guessed you had it in you.”

Somewhat surprised himself, Quentin laughed self-consciously. “I suppose I dislike hearing my friends spoken of in such disrespectful tones.”

“Well, you can’t have developed this friendship in London,” Carstairs said with a frown, “for I know everyone who’s anyone in town and you ain’t been to a
ton
entertainment in years.”

“No,” Quentin agreed, “not since my marriage and move to America.” He thrust a hand through his dark hair, suddenly embarrassed at his overreaction to Wallace’s words about Amelia. It wasn’t that the other man had been in the right, for he hadn’t. But Quentin might have handled the matter in a much more … subtle manner. Though he could not be sorry that all the others now knew to leave Amelia alone.

“We actually knew each other years ago in Cornwall. I was home from Oxford and Amelia had just moved into the village with her mother to live on her uncle’s estate.”

Wallace poured himself a drink. “You’ll pardon me for saying so,” he ventured, clearly still aware of the feel of Quentin’s hand around his throat, “but it’s hard to imagine Amelia Snowe as anything but what she is now. A poised, cool, elegant lady.”

Quentin gave a little half smile. “It’s hard for me to imagine her as anything else. She was self-possessed as a girl, but nothing like the polished creature she is today.” He frowned, thinking about how that change might have been wrought. This might be his one and only opportunity to learn what had happened to that carefree girl he’d once known. “What was she like in London?”

The other men exchanged a look. Quentin looked from one to the next, to the next.

“What?” he asked, his heart clenching a bit. “Was it really so bad?”

“Not at all,” Wilkes said with a wave of his hand. “Not at all. It’s just that the Amelia you see today is but a shadow of Amelia in full splendor.”

“How so?” Quentin asked. “Surely she can’t have changed that much.”

“It’s not so much that she changed, but that she toned herself down a bit.” Wilkes continued. “Sort of like a lamp lowering its light a bit.”

Quentin felt his heartbeat return to normal.

“But you can’t forget the outbursts,” Carstairs said with a shrug. “I think those were what spelled the beginning of the end.”

The other men glared at their friend.

“You might as well tell me,” Quentin said, crossing his arms over his chest. He had the feeling that whatever they were going to say would not be pleasant for him to hear. Though he could not imagine that the Amelia he knew could have done anything particularly damning. She was, after all, obsessed with making a good match and that could not be achieved if she were in the habit of calling attention to herself.

“Well,” Carstairs began, “it’s not terribly troubling. That is, it was a bit shocking at the time, but for the most part it was quickly forgotten.”

“But what was it?” Quentin asked. Spreading his hands out before him, he said, “Do not fear that I’ll repeat my own outburst of earlier. I am quite in control now.”

Wilkes gave a short nod. “All right, but just remember that you asked for it.”

When Quentin indicated that he should proceed, Wilkes gave a slight shrug and said, “Last season, when it was becoming apparent not only to Amelia but to the
ton
at large, that she was not going to land the eligible
parti
she’d been dangling for, Amelia went a bit … well … mad.”

“How so?”

The other man’s neck reddened in embarrassment. Whether it was for Amelia, for Quentin, or for himself, Quentin hadn’t a clue. He only knew that if it was taking this long for the fellow to spit it out, it must indeed be troubling.

“It was small things at first,” Wilkes said. “She was overheard threatening Miss Cecily Hurston, now the Duchess of Winterson. Amelia had been hoping that Winterson would offer for her. When he didn’t, she was quite upset. Then she did the same thing to Deveril’s now wife—she actually ridiculed the girl in public. Of course when it was revealed that Lady Deveril had lost her foot in a terrible accident, Amelia looked even worse.”

Quentin shook his head in shock and dismay. He couldn’t imagine the Amelia he’d offered his heart to all those years ago behaving in such despicable ways. When she’d told him earlier that she’d done things she wasn’t proud of, he’d expected the transgressions to be the typical little sins that everyone commits from day to day. Not serious cruelty.

“The last,” Wilkes continued, “came when the Duchess of Winterson and Lady Deveril’s cousin announced her betrothal to the Earl of Gresham. I suppose Amelia must have seen him as her last possible chance for marriage to a peer. And she simply lost her head. She began shouting and complaining that it was supposed to be her he married. It was dashed uncomfortable to see such a thing. And I’ve been to some of the Devonshire’s entertainments.”

“On the plus side,” Carstairs interjected, “ever since the Gresham betrothal debacle, Amelia seems to have turned over a new leaf. I believe shortly thereafter she actually got the courage to go to the cousins and apologize to them all for making their lives so difficult.”

“And since her mother’s death, she’s been employed by the Smithsons and seems to have truly become a pattern card of propriety,” Wilkes said. “Really quite admirable of her. I mean most ladies are just respectable from the beginning and stay that way. I say it must take more bottle to curb one’s tendencies and walk the straight and narrow after one has kicked up a dust.”

“She’s duller,” Wallace said mournfully, “that’s for sure. Won’t even dance the waltz when I ask her anymore.”

Quentin finished his drink and leaned his shoulders up against the mantel. The stories of the other men certainly explained some of the things Amelia had told him earlier. About reforming. And trying to atone for her past wrongs. But he was saddened to think of her so desperate for a place in society that she was willing to step on anyone to achieve it. She was worth ten of the average society chit, and she didn’t even realize it. She certainly must not have realized that she’d been clutching at men who were simply not right for her. How could they be if they could even think twice about another woman while in Amelia’s presence?

“Thank you for the information,” he said to the three men before leaving his snifter on the sideboard. “And thanks for not drawing my cork when I attacked Wallace.”

“It was only Wallace, old man,” Carstairs responded with a shrug. “Think nothing of it.”

Chapter Four

Having washed her face and refreshed herself after luncheon, Amelia was preparing to join the other ladies in the garden with their paints when she realized it was raining. She looked around and found Harriet tucked up in a corner of the drawing room in the window seat staring out at the downpour.