The Secret of Pembrooke Park (17 page)

Abigail whispered, “Has he said that’s why he’s come?”

“No, he hasn’t stated his business, and I haven’t asked him, truth be told. Didn’t give him the chance to speak. I seated him, ordered tea, asked the housemaid to look for you, and then excused myself to see if you’d been found. I left him with the tea tray, no doubt set with his own china!”

“Calm yourself, Papa. We were offered this house, remember. Asked to agree to stay for a twelvemonth at least. Perhaps this isn’t Mr. Arbeau’s client at all. Which Mr. Pembrooke is it?”

“Said his name was Miles, I believe.”

The name meant nothing to her. At least it was not Clive Pembrooke—the brother Mac had warned her about.

“All right. Well, let’s not keep him waiting any longer or he will think us very rude indeed.”

“Right.” Her father opened the door and ushered her inside.

The gentleman seated at the tea table rose when she entered. He looked to be about thirty years old. He was of average height and impeccably dressed with brown hair swept over his forehead and
sharply defined side-whiskers coming forward to a point, which emphasized his cheekbones. His eyes were dark and framed by long lashes. He was handsome, if a bit dandyish, with a quizzing glass hanging by a ribbon from his waistcoat, and a walking stick near at hand.

“Mr. Pembrooke, may I introduce my daughter, Miss Foster.”

“Charmed, Miss Foster, charmed.” He bowed with gentlemanly address.

Abigail curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pembrooke. Please, be seated.”

He pulled out the chair beside him. “You will join us for tea, I hope.”

“Thank you.” Abigail sat in the proffered seat, Mr. Pembrooke reclaimed his seat next to hers, and her father sat across from them.

She asked, “Shall I pour?”

“If you would.” Mr. Pembrooke nodded. “Ladies always seem to do so with such impeccable grace.”

“Now that you have set such a high standard, Mr. Pembrooke, I shall no doubt spill it all over myself.”

“I doubt that. But if you do, it shall be our secret.” He smiled at her, revealing a narrow space between his front teeth. His smile lent his face a boyish quality she found disarming.

She finished pouring, handed round the plate of shortbread, and began, “You are the first Pembrooke we have had the pleasure of receiving. Is it you we have to thank for the opportunity to let this fine old house?”

“Not I, no. I have only recently returned from overseas.”

“Oh . . . I see,” Abigail faltered. “Then, may I ask your connection to the family? My father is keen on genealogy, but I confess, I am not as familiar with my father’s Pembrooke relations.”

“Are we related? Delightful!” He beamed at her. “I am so pleased to hear the old place has family living in it again. About time, I’d say.”

She exchanged a quick glance with her father and felt her anxiety release a bit, like air from a balloon.

Mr. Pembrooke sipped his tea, pinky finger lifted, then set down his cup in its saucer with impeccable manners. “Forgive me. You asked about my family. My parents were Clive and Hester Pembrooke. My father was born and raised here. And later, we lived here for a time when I was a boy. I haven’t been back since.”

Then why are
you back now?
Abigail wanted to ask, but instead she gently inquired, “And where, if I may ask, are your parents living now?”

“In the ever after, Miss Foster. In the ever after. At least my mother, God rest her soul. She left us last year.”

“I am sorry.”

“Yes, as was I. Especially as I had been out of the country for so long. The war and all, you understand.” He looked about him once more. “Thought I’d like to see the old place again, now I’ve returned. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. You are welcome, of course.” Abigail considered her next question, then asked tentatively, “I am surprised Mr. Arbeau didn’t write to let us know to expect you.”

“Mr. Arbeau? Who’s that?” he asked, his expression open and politely curious.

“Oh. I . . . assumed you would know him. Sorry. He’s the solicitor who arranged for us to let Pembrooke Park on behalf of its owner. I thought—”

“Owner?” he asked, looking mildly concerned.

“Ah. Well, he didn’t say
owner
specifically, now I think of it. Rather the executor of the estate, I believe he said.”

“Ah, yes.” He raised his chin. “That would be Harry. Well good. About time, as I said. None of us has ever wanted to live here. But it would be a pity to let the place fall to ruin.”

“I agree.” Abigail felt the remaining anxiety seep away. Easygoing, friendly Miles Pembrooke had put them at their ease. She supposed Harry was his brother but didn’t ask. She decided she had pried quite enough for their first meeting.

“You say you have been out of the country, Mr. Pembrooke,” her father said, crossing his legs. “May I ask where?”

“Indeed you may. Gibraltar. Have you ever been?”

“No. But I have heard of it.”

“It’s twice as beautiful as they say, and twice as dangerous.”

Mr. Pembrooke went on to entertain them for a quarter of an hour with tales of his time in Gibraltar.

When he finished, her father said, “You must join us for dinner, Mr. Pembrooke. How long are you planning to visit the area?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well then. You must stay here with us.”

Miles Pembrooke held up his hand. “No, now, I didn’t come to beg an invitation. I only wanted to see the old place again.”

“Well, it’s too late to start a journey now. You must at least stay the night. I insist. The servants have recently finished readying the guest room. Is that not so, Abigail?”

Abigail hesitated. Again the letter writer’s admonition flashed through her mind:
“If anyone
named Pembrooke comes to the house . . . send him on his
way.”
Yet she found herself liking the man, and though she was not sure how she felt about him staying in the house with them, she found herself unable to politely decline. The estate was likely still in his family. Might even be his one day. She rose. “Yes. If you will give us a few minutes, I will see that all is in order.”

“That is very kind. Excessively kind, I must say. But I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No trouble at all,” her father said. “You are family, after all.”

Miles Pembrooke offered his charming, boyish smile. “We are indeed. Happy thought. Well then, I accept. And gratefully.”

Abigail thought of the masquerade ball that evening. She couldn’t very well extend an invitation to this man. It wasn’t her place to do so. How awkward. “I am afraid, Mr. Pembrooke, that I have a prior engagement tonight. I hate to be rude and desert you, but—”

“Don’t give it another thought, Miss Foster. You go and enjoy yourself. I shall be perfectly fine here on my own. I may poke about just a bit—see my old room, that sort of thing—if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Make yourself at home,” Abigail said, hoping she would not come to regret those words.

Her father spoke up, “I was not planning to attend anyway, Mr. Pembr—”

The man interrupted pleasantly. “Miles, please.”

“Very well . . . Miles.”

She noticed her father did not offer the use of his Christian name in return, but then again, he was quite a bit older than his guest.

Her father continued, “I was included in the invitation, but as I have never even met the family, I declined. I was in London on business when Abigail made their acquaintance. The Morgan family—perhaps you know them?”

“I’m afraid I have not had that pleasure, that I recall.”

“They are new to the area,” Abigail explained. “Mr. Morgan inherited Hunts Hall from his cousin.”

“I do recall the name Hunt, yes.”

Her father said, “You and I shall dine together then, Miles. If that suits you.”

“Very well, sir. I look forward to it. And I shall look forward to improving my acquaintance with your lovely daughter as well. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Abigail smiled. “Tomorrow it is, Mr. Pembrooke. Do let us know if there is anything you need while you’re here.”

“I shall. Thank you. You are generosity itself, and I am ever in your debt.” He bowed.

Abigail excused herself to inform Mrs. Walsh of their guest and to ask Polly to put fresh bedclothes on the guest bed and carry up hot water. But even as she did so, she couldn’t help but wonder if inviting Miles to stay would land them all in hot water.

W
ith the upper housemaid’s help, Abigail dressed for the ball. She tied silk stockings over her knees and stepped into shift and underslip. Polly cinched long bone stays over her shift, and helped her on with the white gown, doing up the lacing and the tiny decorative pearl buttons at the back of the bodice. The maid curled her hair with hot irons, pinning up the majority with soft height, but leaving bouncy ringlets on either side of her face. She pinned tiny white roses amid the curls, to match her shimmering muslin gown.

While Polly made the final touches to her hair, Abigail powdered her nose and brushed just a hint of blush on her cheeks and lips. Then she touched dainty dabs of rose water to her neck and wrists. Finally she pulled on long white leather gloves, and Polly helped her tie them with ribbons above her elbows.

“You’ll be the prettiest girl there,” Polly assured her.

“I doubt that, but you are kind to say so.” Abigail gave her reflection in the glass a final look. She did look pretty, she admitted to herself. And without Louisa in attendance, she felt she just might hold her own with the likes of Miss Padgett from Winchester.

Taking her reticule, mask, and a colorful India shawl with her,
Abigail went downstairs and was surprised but pleased to see her father waiting in the hall.

He rose from the sofa, his eyes widening. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

The endearment sounded a bit stilted, stiff from lack of use since their falling-out, but she was happy to hear it nonetheless.

“Thank you, Papa.”

Perhaps this was a taste of the favor Louisa was accustomed to receiving—people ready to forgive her anything because of her beauty. It felt strange. Good and somehow deflating at once. Was she only to be treated well when she put such efforts into her appearance? She felt weary at the thought.

“Mr. Pembrooke will be down for dinner shortly, no doubt, but I wanted to be here to see you off.”

He helped her settle her shawl around her and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Have a good time, Abigail. Mr. Morgan is sending his carriage?”

“Yes. For the Chapmans as well. It should be here any time.”

“Very thoughtful of Mr. Morgan. Is there something I should know? Shall I expect a call from him sometime soon?” His eyes twinkled.

Confusion flared, followed quickly by comprehension. “Oh. No, Papa! Mr. Morgan doesn’t admire
me
. Not in that way. He may admire Miss Chapman, I think, though his kindness extends to me as well, as her friend.”

Frown lines creased his brow. “But you are a lady, Abigail. A gentleman’s daughter. I don’t know that I like you being reduced to the same level as Mac Chapman’s daughter. . . .”

“Father, don’t say that. Miss Chapman is everything good and ladylike.”

“Well.” He drew back his shoulders. “Don’t hide in her shadow, Abigail. Our circumstances may be reduced, but you are a Foster—kin to the Pembrookes. Remember that, and do us proud.”

Her father’s snobbish vanity made Abigail uneasy. Who were they to view themselves above others? It was on the tip of her tongue
to tell him that some people in the area had tied the name Foster to the banking scandal, knowing it would knock him down a peg or two. But looking at him now, in the fading evening sunlight slicing through the hall windows, her father suddenly looked older than his fifty years. Perhaps he had been knocked down enough already.

The rumble of carriage wheels and the jingle of harnesses announced the arrival of the Morgans’ coach-and-four.

Her father opened the door and she bid him good evening. Outside, a liveried groom hopped down off the rear board to open the coach door and let down the step. Mr. Chapman and Leah were already inside.

Leah said, “You look beautiful, Miss Foster.”

“Yes, she does,” Mr. Chapman agreed, eyes shining.

“So do you,” Abigail said, admiring Leah’s curled hair and glowing complexion, the dress so becoming on her.

“Which of us?” William joked.

“The both of you.”

He grinned. “Forgive me, Miss Foster. I did not mean to beg a compliment.”

“Yes you did. And why not?” she teased. “It’s a pleasure to see you formally attired—and not in black forms or surplice.”

“You think this is formal?” Mr. Chapman said. “You’ve never seen me in my university gown—then you would be truly impressed.” He winked at her.

Mr. Chapman did indeed look handsome in his dark frock coat, striped waistcoat and elegant cravat, breeches and white stockings outlining muscular calves. The man obviously did more with his time than compose sermons.

Noticing Leah’s nervous expression, Abigail reached over and squeezed her hand. “Are you all right?”

“I shall be,” she replied, with a brave smile.

They arrived at a Hunts Hall awash in light—torches lined the drive and candle lamps glowed in every window.

“Time for our masks,” Abigail reminded them, pulling forth her own. “Though we probably won’t need to wear them all night.”

“I don’t mind,” Leah said, tying on hers.

William followed suit, his mask a thin strip of black silk with cut-out eyeholes.

The groom helped Abigail and Leah down, and William escorted them to the door. Inside, liveried footmen took their wraps. Since it was a masked ball, no butler called out the names of those arriving, which would of course render the masks futile.

In truth, masks did not disguise everyone’s identity. Abigail knew she would recognize Andrew Morgan with his curly dark hair and athletic build, mask or not. And there was no disguising William Chapman’s deep red hair. And the black mask framed his telltale blue eyes to great advantage.

Leah, however, in a gown so much more elegant than her usual plain dress, and with her hair curled and arranged so beautifully atop her head, looked far different than her usual self. And with the large mask she’d chosen to wear, extending from forehead to mouth, she was nearly unrecognizable.

Andrew, however, no doubt identifying William, lost no time in coming over to greet them.

“Who are these mystery women?” he teased. “And how does such an ordinary ginger-haired fellow come to have two such enchanting ladies on his arm? It isn’t fair.” He gazed at Leah warmly. “Do me the honor of taking my arm, miss, whoever you may be.” He playfully offered his arm, and Leah took it with a faint smile, though Abigail did not miss the nervous tremor of her hands as she did so, nor her eyes darting around the room from behind her mask.

“Will she be all right, do you think?” Abigail whispered after Andrew led Leah away.

“I hope so,” Mr. Chapman said. But he looked worried as well.

He and Abigail strolled slowly around the anteroom for a few minutes, Mr. Chapman greeting the people he recognized and performing introductions.

From inside the ballroom, musicians struck up a minuet.

“I don’t care for the minuet, Miss F . . . fair lady. But if you have your heart set on it, I will of course dance it with you.”

“I don’t mind sitting it out.”

“Then may I have the honor of the next set?”

“You may indeed.”

He bowed. “I am off to pay my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Morgan. If I can find them. But I shall be back to claim you.”

She nodded and walked slowly into the ballroom, taking in the modest number of dancers opening the ball. Were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan among them? She thought not. But there was Andrew Morgan dancing the old-fashioned, formal minuet with a lady
not
Leah Chapman. Had he abandoned her already? Apparently, his mother had insisted he open the ball with a different young lady. Miss Padgett, she guessed, taking in the woman’s blond ringlets, low-cut heavily flounced gown, and tiny mask, no wider than a pair of spectacles.

Abigail looked this way and that for Leah but did not see her in the ballroom. So she returned to the anterooms—card room, vestibules, and then dining room, where servants were busy setting up an overflowing buffet table for the midnight supper.

She asked a footman where the ladies’ lounge was located and found Leah inside, staring at her masked reflection in a cheval looking glass. Seeing Abigail, she quickly touched a hand to her coiffure.

“Just checking my hair,” she said. But again Abigail noticed her hand tremble.

Abigail stepped nearer. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly.

Leah shook her head. “It’s nothing really. Mrs. Morgan has every right to ask her son to open the ball with the lady of her choosing. Who wasn’t, of course, me.”

Abigail pressed her hand. “Come, let’s join the others,” she urged. “No doubt Andrew will want to dance with you as soon as his duty allows.”

Leah forced a smile. “You go on. I’ll be there in two minutes, I promise.”

“Very well. But if you’re not, I shall come back and drag you out.” Abigail winked, pressed Leah’s hand once more, and left the lounge.

Crossing the hall, she was about to return to the ballroom, when a man’s profile caught her attention. She froze, heart pounding.

“Gilbert . . . ?” she called. She would recognize him anywhere, ill-fitting mask or no.

He turned to face her, eyes widening behind his mask. “Abby! I had no idea you knew the Morgans.”

“Nor I you.”

He walked nearer. Though not a tall man, he still cut an impressive figure in his evening coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He said, “I only recently met Mr. Morgan in Town. He hired my employer to design an expansion for Hunts Hall and invited us down for several days. A bit of a house party.”

“I see. I was glad to hear you had returned from Italy safely.”

“Thank you, yes. It was an excellent experience, but I’m glad to be back in England.”

His eyes lingered on her face, masked though it was. “And I must say I am relieved to see you looking so well. I feared the move would be difficult for you.”

“It has been a great deal of work, but I’ve enjoyed it. It’s a wonderful old house. You should come by and see it while you’re here. In fact I was thinking of you only last week, wishing you were here to help me decipher some old house plans I’d found.” She suddenly realized how forward she might sound. “Forgive me, I’m prattling on. I’m sure you shall be much too busy. . . .”

“I would enjoy seeing your new home, Abby,” he quickly assured her. “In fact, I wouldn’t miss it. Susan would never forgive me if I came all this way without seeing our old neighbors.”

“Susan . . .” The memory of his sister and her old friend squeezed her heart. “How is she?”

“Excellent, last I saw her. And your father? He is in good health, I trust?”

“He is—and will be glad to see you.”

Gilbert reached out and gently lifted her mask from her eyes to her hairline, his touch sending nerves and warmth through her. Again his gaze roved her face—her eyes, her mouth, her hair. “I
can’t get over how well you look.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you, Abby.”

She lowered her gaze from his admiring one. “Thank you,” she murmured, and an awkward silence followed. She forced herself to ask casually, “And how was Louisa when you saw her last?”

It was his turn to look away self-consciously. “Oh . . . well. She seemed in good spirits at the Albrights’ ball. You and I danced at that a few years ago, you may recall.”

“I do,” she managed in a choked little voice.

He continued, “Louisa was sorry, but all her dances were spoken for save the final Boulanger by the time I arrived. She was greatly in demand and generally admired by the gentlemen, if not their mammas. But she seemed happy enough to see me. Full of apologies for not writing more often. You had all been quite busy with selling the house and the move and all, I understand.”

“Ah . . .” Abigail murmured noncommittally, for in truth Louisa had done very little. She said gently, “Louisa is young and has had her head turned by all the attention. I’m sure when the fanfare has faded and the invitations dwindle, she’ll come back down to earth and remember her . . . friends.”

He slowly shook his head. “I hope she does come back down to earth, as you say. And the sooner the better, for her sake. But I . . . But never mind that. I am so glad to see you. I—”

Mr. Chapman appeared. “There you are, Miss Foster. I’ve come to claim you for our dance.”

He looked from her to Gilbert and hesitated. “But if you are . . . otherwise engaged . . .”

“Mr. Chapman, allow me to introduce an old friend from London, Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott, this is Mr. Chapman, our parson and neighbor.”

“How do you do, Mr. Chapman?”

“Well, I thank you.” The two men shook hands. “A pleasure to meet any friend of the Fosters.” Mr. Chapman sent Abigail a raised-brow look of question.

Abigail said, “I had no idea Mr. Scott would be here tonight.”

“A pleasant surprise, I hope,” Gilbert put in.

“Of course.”

Mr. Chapman smiled. “Well, if you wish to visit with your old friend, I shall release you from your obligation and leave the two of you to talk.”

“Not at all, Mr. Chapman,” Abigail assured him. “I am looking forward to our dance. If you will excuse us, Gilbert?”

Gilbert bowed. “Of course. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of a later dance?”

“If you like.”

Mr. Chapman offered his arm, but she noticed a subtle stiffness in his bearing.

He looked down at her in concern and asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

“I . . . think so. It was quite a shock seeing him here.”

“Is he the architect who disappointed you in favor of your sister?”

She pressed her eyes closed. “I wish now I’d never mentioned it.”

He laid his free hand over hers. “Any man who would let you go for another woman isn’t worthy of you, Miss Foster.”

“You have never met my sister.”
And I wish
you never would,
she added wistfully to herself.

He pursed his lip. “When I came upon the two of you, I was certain I saw admiration in his eyes. Nearly challenged him to a duel on the spot.”

She managed a grin. “What you saw was fond affection between two old friends. That’s all.”

He looked at her, eyes wide in compassion. “You are not very convincing. Are you sure you wish to dance?”