The Wagered Widow (27 page)

“I should look a quiz,” said Rebecca, but her eyes glowed, and touching the sleeve, she murmured, “My grandmother was a Spanish lady, you know.…”

Mrs. Kellstrand smiled, and began to remove the stomacher. “You might at least like to try it on,” she said.

CHAPTER
11

Three days later, Sir Peter and his grandmother returned. My lady had apparently endured a brief sojourn in London only to decide she would attend the Midsummer's Eve Ball at Ward Marching before going back to her beloved Cornwall. Sir Peter lost no time in repairing to the cottage to invite the ladies to join them for luncheon. The invitation was accepted with alacrity, but no sooner were they upstairs than Rebecca began to inveigle her aunt into a small conspiracy. Albinia moaned that she would certainly have a spasm before they were done with all this, but she agreed, of course. As a result, Sir Peter had ushered his ladies only a short distance across the park when the much-tried Mrs. Boothe discovered that she had “forgotten” her reticule. She rejected Rebecca's innocent and very insincere offer to go and retrieve it and begged instead that the two young people walk on slowly, for it would, she said with a rather warning look at her niece, take her only a minute or two to go back to the cottage.

Left alone with the gentleman, Rebecca found herself horrifyingly tongue-tied. She did not relish what she had to say to him, but it must be said and, as she held down the skirts a mischievous breeze tugged at, she sought desperately for the proper words.

Gallantly keeping his eyes from a pair of occasionally revealed and nicely turned ankles, Sir Peter observed in his well-modulated voice, “There is a most becoming colour in your cheeks today, dear ma'am. Indeed, if I dare remark it, you seem lovelier each time we meet.”

Rebecca brightened. This was a good beginning, surely? She summoned up her courage, but before she could utter anything more than a properly modest assertion that it must be the wind that made her cheeks rosy, he remarked admiringly, “Always so unassuming, so charmingly devoid of the slightest conceit. Speaking of which, Mrs. Parrish, I have found you out!”

Her heart leaping into her throat, Rebecca stammered, “Oh—d—dear me! I did not mean— I would never have—”

He smiled down at her. “How clumsy I am. Have I alarmed you, gentle little lady? I meant only that I have learned—I shall not tell you by what devious means—that you sing very prettily.”

She drew a breath of relief. For a minute she had been sure he'd been told of the borrowed gown and that he was angered. “Oh,” she said. “I assure you, sir, my voice is small, and nothing to brag of.”

“Allow me to be the judge of that, dear ma'am. And I hope I may judge it very soon, although I am already so indebted to you that I scarce dare ask another favour.”

“You want me to sing for you, Sir Peter?”

“Yes. At the ball. Would you? I promise you will not be the only volunteer, for I have been so ruthless as to press several of my guests into entertaining us.”

She smiled up into his hopeful eyes. “It would be my very great pleasure, sir. But as to your being indebted, I must tell you that is far from the truth. In point of fact, I have something to confess to you.” He looked so apprehensive at this that she went on quickly, “It is about my costume for the ball. I hope you will forgive me, but I—”

Aghast, Sir Peter halted and threw up one hand in a graceful gesture of restraint. “Stop, I beg of you! I must know nothing of your fancy dress. I am sure that it can only be delightful, for you would not purchase any that was otherwise. Even so, you cannot discuss it with me. The costumes are kept an absolute secret. That is what makes the ball so excessively jolly.”

“But, you do not understand,” she persisted earnestly. “Mine was
not
purchased. I have, you see, been so bold as to—”

“I shall not listen!” he said, laughing, but backing away from her. “Do not spoil the surprise for me, fair one. Ah, here is Mrs. Boothe coming.”

“For goodness' sake!” muttered Rebecca, frowning a little as she watched him turn with a gleaming smile to greet Albinia. She shrugged. There was no point in worrying about it, and perhaps it was just as well. At least, she had tried.

Lady Ward received them with charm laced with condescension. To see them once more was very nice. They were so kind to bear this wilderness for the sake of little Pamela. It could only be hoped that the ball would provide ample recompense, as it should, since it was always The Event of the summer season and all the County
prayed
to be invited. As for herself, whilst in Town she had conferred with her modiste, and the most original and striking costume imaginable was even now being completed and would be rushed to Bedfordshire at the first possible instant. She coyly refused to divulge the nature of this masterpiece, pointing out that it would not be fair if the judges knew her identity prior to the unmasking lest this bring undue influence to bear. Nonetheless, she admitted she would certainly win the prize for the best costume.

Mrs. Boothe threw an indignant glance at her niece. Rebecca, however, was looking elsewhere. She had chosen a blue muslin gown this afternoon, a charming concoction with an underskirt consisting of row upon row of white eyelet ruffles. She knew she looked well, but was rather surprised by the depth of admiration in Sir Peter's eyes. Returning his smile with becoming shyness, she reminded herself that it would not do to become overconfident. He was certainly interested, but he was also interested in The Monahan, and his close friendship with The Wicked Rake might have resulted in notions that did not include matrimony. The presence of his grandmama was a hindrance also, for Rebecca was quite sure the lady would not approve of her becoming the future mistress of Ward Marching. All things considered, time was of the essence. When the ball was over, their month was also almost over. Sir Peter may have already interviewed a suitable candidate for the post of governess to Patience. There was another item Rebecca refused to consider at all: an item that lurked at the back of her mind, agitating for acknowledgement, its very presence rendering an early conquest even more imperative. She feared this persistent whisper and knew it was becoming stronger so that almost it was as though she fled before an impending disaster that crept nearer with each passing day until the threat would loom so large it must be faced and dealt with.

She cudgelled her brain for the schemes that had once come so readily to mind but that now seemed to elude her. At length, she decided that her entire reliance must lie in the glory of her ball dress. When she had tried on the great farthingale it had been found that only minimal alterations would be required. It was wretchedly uncomfortable, and in order to squeeze even so small a waist as her own into it had necessitated a much tighter lacing of her corsets than she usually affected. Once the rich crimson velvet was draped over those enormous hoops, however, and the pearl-edged stomacher was in place, they had all been able to comprehend why the ladies of that earlier period had been willing to endure such misery. Even with her hair informally dressed and minus the jewels she would wear at the ball, the effect had been bewitching. Mrs. Kellstrand, Aunt Albinia, Millie, and Evans alike had been rendered speechless at the sight, and, although it was odious even to think so conceited a thing, Rebecca had to admit that the rich colour did complement her jet hair and eyes, and she could not but be grateful that she had inherited the clear, pale skin of her British antecedents. If Sir Peter did not succumb when she was arrayed in that magnificent gown, it would be useless to make any further schemes to wring an offer from him.

This decision was arrived at, of course, before she had been introduced to the mouse.

*   *   *

The day before the ball dawned fair and windy, with curtains blowing and windows rattling so that at length they had to be closed against the pranksome gusts. Several guests were to arrive this afternoon, and already the great house had begun to hum with preparations. Carts and wagons of tradespeople rumbled up the drivepath continually, the gardeners worked frenziedly at flower beds and shrubs, while house servants rushed about with mops and brooms and polish, as though the mansion had not been cleaned for years, rather than being maintained always in the first style of immaculate elegance.

Seated in her bedchamber while her aunt and Millie laboured over the shortening of her borrowed ball gown, Rebecca stitched busily at the torn frill of her best chemise. She was kept abreast of developments at the main house by an excited Anthony, who periodically would gallop up the stairs with Patience puffing behind him, to report to his mama. The ball gown was ready to be tried on; Rebecca laid her work aside and unfastened her wrapper. The wheel hoop was fastened about her, and the luxurious velvet draped over it. The length, Mrs. Boothe announced, after much fussing and adjusting, was perfect! Bearing the gown reverently, Mrs. Boothe and Millie went downstairs to undertake the final pressing, and Rebecca, replacing her wrapper, was left alone. Thirty minutes had passed since the children's last departure, and she was worrying over whether they were getting underfoot at Ward Marching, when shrieks arose from the direction of the kitchen. Another instant, and the door was flung open, and Anthony trod gingerly across the floor, his face rapturous and both hands carefully encompassing Something.

“Here, Mama,” he whispered. “Only see what I found in the music room.”

Eyeing his almost closed hands with the caution born of long acquaintance with large and small little boys, Rebecca said carefully, “Show me, love. I trust you are not making yourself a nuisance up there?”

“Oh, no. I was helping one of the flunkeys and he asked if I could move the bench, so I did and then I found it, but I said nothing for they would have been silly, you know, as Aunt Alby and Millie were just now. Is is not the prettiest thing?”

Lulled to a sense of security by that last sentence, Rebecca smiled and bent forward. She drew back hurriedly. The mouse was quite small, but the tail compensated, and the bright eyes and busy pink nose combined to send the foolish shiver down her spine that all rodents caused in her. “Good—ah, gracious,” she said faintly.

“Ith a mouthie,” Patience beamed from the doorway. “Lottha mouthieth.”

Rebecca glanced to her. “All in the music room?”

Anthony nodded. “I only brought this one. I was thinking, though, that I had best take them away, or there might be a rumpus, do not you think? For lots of ladies are come now.”

“Are they so? I had thought no one was to arrive until this afternoon.”

“Ith art'noon,” lisped Patience, and, coming forward, squeaked, “Art'noon, mouthie!”

“Do not scare him,” Anthony rebuked angrily, swinging the little creature away.

Her eyes following his hands, Patience's vision encompassed the window. “More peopleth!” she chirped.

Anthony gave a whoop. “Three carriages, by Jupiter! And two with crests on the panels!” And he was gone, Patience trundling faithfully in his wake.

He relinquished his captive as soon as he left the cottage and, comforting himself with the recollection that cats were anathema at Ward Marching, charged in the direction of the main house. He completely forgot about the unauthorized inhabitants of the music room.

At six o'clock, Rebecca and Mrs. Boothe, who always dined at the main house, entered the drawing room. It was quite crowded. Rebecca knew most of those present by sight, if not intimately. Letitia Boudreaux had arrived and ran to greet her. She was followed by the gentleman with whom she had been chatting, a singularly handsome young man who begged an introduction and was presented as Horatio, Viscount Glendenning. Rebecca liked his friendly smile and the lack of any height to his manner and thought it remarkable he was not wed. Walter and Martha Street came over and said in their cooperative fashion that they had so hoped to find Mrs. Parrish present.

“You are certainly—” began Miss Street.

“—in looks,” said her brother heartily. “Dare we ask—”

“—what you mean to wear to the ball?”

Giving a hand to each, Rebecca apologized for being a marplot, but, “Is a secret,” she finished with a dimple.

“So everyone says,” Mr. Street observed. “Including Lady Ward. But we know—”

“—how
she
means to dress!”

“
Do
you?” said Rebecca, highly intrigued. “Oh,
do
pray tell me! Is it Joan of Arc? My lady let fall a little hint about a warrior maid.”

Mr. Street said confidingly, “Wrong warrior, ma'am. She will come as—”

“—Queen Boadicea!” Miss Street finished in triumph.

“A warrior, indeed. Though I had thought she was wed—no?” Rebecca could not imagine that sharp-featured face hidden beneath a great helm, and, dubious, murmured, “Are you quite sure? I doubt it will become her.”

“Several of the gentlemen have a tidy wager riding on it,” Miss Street said confirmingly. “The Reverend Boudreaux, Colonel Shephard, my brother—”

“—and de Villars and Glendenning,” said Mr. Street.

Rebecca's heart gave a jolt. “De Villars?” she echoed, hollowly.

“At your service, dear lady,” purred a deep and familiar voice at her elbow.

It was ridiculous to tremble so as she gave him her hand. Many in the room must be watching her reaction to this man who had fought her brother. She should appear cool, and was infuriated to feel her cheeks burn because of a treacherous memory of being crushed to his breast and smothered with kisses.

“Not
too
ardent, love,” he teased softly, as he kissed her hand. “Else they may guess 'twas your bewitching self we fought over.”

She bit her lip. What an uncanny knack he had for putting her at a disadvantage! Suppressing a powerful desire to rap her fan over his horrid head, she said in an undertone, “What a pity you are so well recovered of your deathbed!”