The Primrose Path (17 page)

“Don’t feel badly,” she told the viscount, noticing his frown. “Robinet didn’t like our gifts, either.”

He saw the discarded doll in Lena’s arms and his stuffed toy in a corner of the room. The little girl had one thumb in her mouth and the other wrapped in one of the outdoor dogs’ fur. Corin raised an eyebrow.

“She got out of the carriage, took two steps across the yard, and saw Gemma, our lame collie. They haven’t been apart since.”

“But the dog is so large, and the child is such a little wisp of a thing. She looks more like three than five. Are you sure she won’t get hurt?”

“Gemma’s the most gentle dog I know. She wouldn’t let anything happen to her little lamb. Look, she doesn’t mind her fur being pulled or her tail getting stepped on. I don’t think she’ll go outside again, if it means leaving Robinet.”

And Homer hadn’t even greeted him with a tail wag, Corin thought, envious of a five-year-old.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” Angelina was asking.

“The dog and the child, or the two mooncalves?” He nodded toward the architect, who was still on the floor, gazing up at Elizabeth, who was wiping tears of joy from her eyes—with Browne’s handkerchief.

Angelina smiled. “Every one of them, I suppose. Robinet is certainly her mother’s daughter, giving her heart on the instant. Isn’t it wonderful to see them all so happy?”

“If it lasts. Browne is a mere stripling, subject to sudden enthusiasms. What if he is infatuated with another woman next week?”

“How cynical you are, my lord. But Averill isn’t a womanizer. He wouldn’t pay such particular attention to a woman without deeper feelings. Why, he doesn’t even flirt with Mercedes.”

“You mean there is a man immune to her fatal charm?” he asked, stung by her implied criticism. Mercedes Lavalier was a beautiful woman, blast it.

“Only Mr. Browne so far. Even Penn is trying to learn French. Oh, and Sergeant Fredricks doesn’t seem to find her attractive, but he doesn’t seem to like much of anything, so he doesn’t count.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Why should I mind if my gardener stares in the windows all day and my stable man finds a hundred errands in the house?” And Lord Knowle gaped at the Frenchwoman’s gaping décolletage like a trout at a fly.

“It doesn’t signify anything, you know,” he told her now, and meant it. “That’s just her way.”

And the way of the world, Angelina thought, not her world, but his. Still, she couldn’t resent the Frenchwoman for being beautiful, not when she was helping defeat the Corsican, not when she was making Angelina’s freckles disappear, and not when she’d cried when Elizabeth walked in with her daughter. Her insistence on a practice session every night with Angelina struggling at the keyboard was another thing, but that was an artistic issue, not a moral one.

Lord Knowle brushed at a speck of lint on his sleeve. “Ah, Mercedes has a big heart, but she can be a trifle indiscreet.”

Angelina laughed. “Indeed she can be—if, that is, you’re referring to how she told everyone in the village she is your dear friend.”

“Then you’ve heard the gossip?”

“How could I not when every servant has a relative in town, and all the tradespeople have been making their deliveries in person? They all believe she is your mistress, precisely what we knew would happen, even without the lady’s own testimony.”

“And you’re not upset?”

Angelina shrugged. “Why should I be? As long as they think Mercedes is your mistress, my own reputation stays moderately untarnished.”

So she hadn’t heard the chitchat that had him keeping a stable of fillies at Primrose Cottage. Corin didn’t think he’d mention that particular rumor right now, when Lena was in a cheerful mood. He did have to warn her, though. “The tattlemongers will have a field day when the ministry fellows start to call. I thought, ah, that is I expect the first of them tomorrow, and it might appear better, for the servants, don’t you know, if—”

“What is it you don’t want to tell me, my lord?”

Corin took a deep breath. “That Primrose Cottage is going to resemble a brothel.”

‘Twas a good thing the doll they’d made did not have a porcelain head, as it fell out of Angelina’s fingers to the floor.

“But I’ve thought of a solution,” he hurriedly added. “We can say the men have come to look over the dogs, with the intention of adopting a new pet.”

The doll’s head was stuffed with sawdust; Angelina thought his lordship’s must be also. “What, the undersecretary to the War Office is looking for a dog that wets the carpet? General Wellesley’s aide asked you for a gun-shy spaniel? Or perhaps Old Hooky himself wants a horse-hating hound. That should go over well in battle.”

       “Yes, I can see where the plan needs some refinement.”        “What it needs is for you to stay away. Without you and your rakish reputation, the doings at Primrose Cottage won’t seem half as interesting to the local people. In fact, if you’d stayed away in the first place, there would have been no gossip.”

And there would have been no kisses, no curricle ride, no verbal sparring, no awareness of him as a man. Angelina watched the viscount bow over Mercedes’s hand, kissing every finger, and felt she was losing something she’d never held. Mercedes would always have her men and her muse; Elizabeth would have a whole family, with luck. Angelina had the dogs.

Chapter Nineteen

No, she would not indulge in a fit of the blue-devils, Angelina told herself the following morning. Her life was richer than she’d ever expected, more secure and comfortable than she could have imagined. She had friends and responsibilities and perhaps her sister.

Penn had sent Mavis to say that a lady had come about the advertisement and was waiting downstairs. The abigail sniffed her disapproval that the woman did not give her name, but she did allow as how Penn distinctly said a lady. Lady Sophie’s butler could discern Quality better than an Almack’s patroness, Angelina knew, so she took extra pains with her appearance. The short curls were a definite improvement, and the ribbon Mavis threaded through them gave her a girlish look. She wouldn’t shame her sister.

The woman waiting in the parlor was well dressed and well groomed, with a strand of enormous pearls draped over her imposing chest. She was obviously a lady, and just as obviously old enough to be Angelina’s mother, not her sister.

“I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake,” Angelina said, her welcoming smile fading. Then she rushed forward before this distinguished visitor could pet the Pekingese in her lap with a diamond-ringed finger. “Tippy goes off if you pet his back wrong. We think it’s a brain fever.”

“Then I won’t pet the darling’s back, will I? You like your ears scratched better, don’t you, Tidbit?” She looked up at Angelina and explained, “I used to have a Pekingese when I was a girl.”

Almost a half century ago, Angelina estimated, wondering what such a
grande dame
was doing in her parlor. She wasn’t one of Lady Sophie’s friends, unless she was a correspondent who had never visited before. But Penn had said she was there about the notice in the papers, and yes, there was the column with Angelina’s inquiry atop the woman’s beaded reticule next to her on the loveseat.

“I’m sorry, Mrs.—ah, my lady, ma’am. I didn’t get your name.”

The woman didn’t answer for a moment, staring at Angelina. “You’re very like her, you know. Your mother, that is.”

“You knew my mother? Oh, do I resemble her? I’ve often wondered, for it’s been so long I cannot remember, and there was never a portrait or miniature for me to look at. If you knew my mother, ma’am, pray, do you perhaps know what happened to my sister? Is that why you’ve come?”

The lady shook her head no. “I’m sorry, my dear, I only knew your mother briefly when she had her come-out. I was already married by the time Rosellen Kirkbridge took the ton by storm, she was just such a beauty as you.”

“Oh, but I’m not—”

“There was a dreadful scandal when she ran off with some vicar’s son, but that was the last I ever heard of her until word came that Rosellen and her husband had perished. I never knew there was a daughter.” She looked at the scrap of newspaper. “Daughters.”

“Then why... ?”

“Why have I come? No, you are not being impertinent, child, and I must beg your pardon for not being more forthcoming. I suppose I wished to appraise your character before discussing my private affairs.”

“Oh, but I would not betray a confidence, ma’am.” She hadn’t told anyone that Mercedes Lavalier was a spy or that Lord Knowle was working for the government or that Elizabeth was in love with the architect. She couldn’t imagine what secrets this stately lady could have to tell.

Still petting the Pekingese, who had rolled over in ecstasy at having his belly scratched, the older woman nodded. “Yes, your mother had such strength of character also, besides her beauty. She needed it, to stand up to Kirkbridge and marry the man of her choice. I didn’t.”

“You knew my grandfather, ma’am?”

“No, but my own father was such a one. When he arranged a match for me, I was too weak to resist his dictates. The man he chose was unexceptionable: wellborn, well to pass, well favored. Hathaway was some fifteen years older than I was, but had all his hair and teeth.”

“Hathaway?”

“The Earl of Hathaway.” She nodded. “It would have been an excellent match, except that I did not love my husband.”

“And he? Did he—Forgive me, my lady. I do not mean to pry.”

“No, Miss Armstead, do not apologize. I came here to tell my story, so you would understand. No, Hathaway did not love me, he did not even care for me. He had his so-called outside interests. He wanted me to give him an heir, that was all, and I failed him in that. There were no children at all for many years, and then I bore him a daughter whom he ignored. A year later, I was blessed with another daughter. Hathaway was furious—more, I think, that he had to continue our farce of a marriage than anything. We hardly spoke, so you can imagine the unpleasantness for both of us when—No, you cannot imagine, I hope, being a young miss.”

Angelina smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “But I can understand, my lady. Do go on.”

Lady Hathaway’s gray eyes were fixed on the dog in her lap, but she was looking at the past. “There were no other children. I didn’t mind, for I had my girls, Catherine and Belinda, my little angels. And then ...” She reached for her handkerchief.

“Please, my lady, if it is too painful, please don’t go on.”

Lady Hathaway dabbed at her eyes. “I must. When they were four and five years of age, Hathaway insisted we leave the girls to visit some house party or other, where he could indulge his debauchery. They were kidnapped and held to ransom.”

“Oh, no, how terrible! Those poor little girls. Did you—that is, were they recovered?”

A tear fell on Tippy’s fur. “Hathaway refused to pay the ransom.”

“Their own father? But couldn’t you ... ?”

“I had no funds of my own save some pin money. My jewels were all in Hathaway’s vault, so I could not sell them for the cash. My father was dead by then, and my brother was traveling abroad. There was no one to help me, no one to listen to my pleas. Hathaway said that if we gave in to the blackguards’ demands, no man of wealth would ever be safe. He did send for the magistrate, I’ll grant him that.”

“And did Bow Street find your little girls, ma’am?”

Lady Hathaway shook her head. “Not even a clue. We never heard another word.”

While Angelina was expressing her sorrow and pouring another jot of brandy into Lady Hathaway’s teacup, the older woman was gathering her composure. “That was sixteen years ago. Miss Armstead, about the time you and your sister were orphaned.”

“Yes, but we weren’t stolen by Gypsies or anything, ma’am, although that might have been better. How can there be any connection?”

“To you and your sister? Of course there is none.” She tapped the newspaper article. “But who knows what young women might come seeking their pasts? What missing girls might turn up here, hoping to find their own lost identities? I thought, that is, with your permission, that I might stay nearby and speak with the young women, the ones who aren’t your sister.”

“But what of Lord Hathaway?”

“Burning in hell, I sincerely hope, for his sins. We lived apart after the misfortune. A younger brother inherited the title and estate, but I am a wealthy widow, now that it is too late to buy my happiness. Please, Miss Armstead, I have nowhere else to turn.”

“Yes, you do, my lady. I am paying a gentleman in London to help me with my investigation. I am sure he would be happy to undertake another assignment. Mr. Truesdale is discreet and reliable. I know a great deal of time has passed, but he might unearth something for both of us.”

“Nigel Truesdale? A connection of the Knowltons, isn’t he? I’d heard he was setting himself up in some kind of business. Good for him, trying to make something of himself.”

“Yes, that’s what Lady Sophie thought. Shall I get you his address, then?”

Lady Hathaway nodded, then walked to the window while Angelina searched through her desk. Tippy was still in her arms, tongue curled and tail brushing along the dowager’s substantial girth. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d still like to stay in the vicinity in case your notice brings results. I’d forgotten how lovely the countryside is in spring. The village inn I stopped at for tea and directions seemed clean and pleasant.”

“An inn? I wouldn’t hear of it. Why, Lady Sophie would never forgive me for not offering the hospitality of her house. And you ought to be here to see the young women for yourself, to ask the right questions, and to meet with Mr. Truesdale in person when he comes next week.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t impose.”

“Please, ma’am, you must stay here, especially since I can see you like dogs so well. We have a few others, incidentally.” Angelina rushed on rather than discuss how many dogs constituted a few. “The primroses are not quite blooming yet, and truly that is a sight not to be missed. Please, my lady, I would be honored.” And she would be chaperoned.

“Thank you, my dear, I will accept your gracious invitation if you are sure you have room. And thank you for not laughing at an old lady’s foolish, forlorn hopes. Your mother would have been proud of you.”