Treasured Vows (3 page)

“Tell me what?” The joyful certainty in her daughter’s eyes turned to confusion. “Mama, what’s wrong? Father hasn’t bungled this, has he?”

Lady Evans blanched. “My dear, you are contracted to wed a Mr. Grant Morgan.” Her words came out in a rush. “He’s a gentleman your father knows at the bank.”

Phadra watched the sweet, pleasant expression on Miranda’s face change with the swiftness of rolling
storm clouds. “Mr. Grant Morgan? A
Mister?
” she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

Lady Evans nodded, the salt-and-pepper curls bobbing, her expression tight. “He will present himself shortly to ask formally for your hand.”

Miranda stared as if she hadn’t heard her mother. “My father wants to marry me off to a
Mister?
” Her voice began increasing in volume. “Didn’t you tell him about Lord Phipps? Didn’t you tell him I had more
suitable
prospects?”

The maid and Lady Evans stepped back, leaving Phadra standing in the forefront. Phadra wondered briefly why they had done so—until the young woman, in a sudden, rash action, swept all of the glass bottles and pretty things from her vanity with such force that some hit the wall and broke.

“I won’t do it!” she shrieked as the scent of lily of the valley filled the air. “I won’t marry a plain Mister. I want to marry Lord Phipps. Father can’t make me marry a stupid banker. Do you hear?” For emphasis, she crossed over to her bed and with one firm yank of her hand pulled down the bed curtains and flung them with surprising strength at her mother—but it was Phadra who caught them, taking a step back under their weight. Meanwhile Miranda beat her feet in an angry staccato on the India carpet. “I won’t have it! I won’t!” Her pretty face began turning beet red with anger.

A knock at the door interrupted her tirade.

“Who is it?” Miranda shouted, and stood there breathing in great gulps of air.

The footman’s voice trembled slightly as he answered. “I have a message from Lady St. George and Lady Sophie.”

Before anyone in the room could react, a woman’s voice spoke up from the other side of the door, “Beatrice, open up. I have the most incredible news! I can’t wait to tell you.”

Lady Evans’s eyes opened wide with alarm. “It’s Louise and Sophie.”

Miranda immediately snapped out of her tantrum. “What do they want?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” Lady Evans answered. “Quick, let’s get this room cleaned up.” With surprising strength, she swept the bed curtains out of Phadra’s arms and stashed them under the bed. The maid and Miranda picked up the bottles. Miranda pushed her bottles in the maid’s arms and then shoved the woman off into a small room that, Phadra surmised, had to be the water closet.

“Come in,” Lady Evans managed to call out even as the door flew open. In rushed an almost exact copy of Lady Evans, with the same massive bosom. She was followed by a pretty brunette with a pronounced, but not unattractive, overbite.

“I have the most incredible news!” the woman Phadra assumed to be Lady St. George announced.

“Something that couldn’t wait until dinner this evening, Louise?” Lady Evans asked.

“My dear sister. My dear niece,” Lady St. George intoned in a dramatic voice, moving around the room to embrace Lady Evans and Miranda. “This news is so important that it must be shared right away. Isn’t that right, Sophie?”

Sophie smiled shyly and didn’t answer. Her mother obviously didn’t expect her to.

Lady St. George started to hug Phadra but stopped herself, startled by her presence. “Do I know you?”

Before Phadra could answer, Lady Evans announced, “She’s our guest. Miss Abbott, this is my sister, Lady St. George, and her daughter Lady Sophie. This is Miss Phadra Abbott, the daughter of Sir Julius Abbott.”

“Oh,” Lady St. George responded without interest. Her gaze traveled from the top of Phadra’s head and her circlet of gold to the tips of her toes. “What an unusual costume, dear. Is it foreign?” Before Phadra could answer, she turned to her sister and declared, “I have news of great import! But first, tell me, who is that
incredibly
handsome man sitting in your yellow parlor, Beatrice?”

“Handsome man?” Lady Evans was obviously puzzled.

“Yes,” Sophie chimed in, her face flushing with shy excitement. “He’s gorgeous. I’ve never seen the like. We met him when we first arrived, and he’s so tall he practically fills up the doorway.”

There was only one man who matched that description whom Phadra knew and who might also be cooling his heels in Lady Evans’s parlor. “Mr. Morgan,” she whispered to her hostess.

“Morgan?” Lady Evans repeated blankly, and then caught herself. “Ah, yes, Mr. Morgan.” She shot a glance at her daughter, who glared back, her lower lip protruding in a mutinous pout.

Lady Evans evidently thought the time had come to get off the subject of Morgan. “What brings you to visit, Louise?”

Lady St. George smiled, her attention brought back to the purpose of her journey. Clapping her gloved hands together, she announced, “It’s the most marvelous news! Sophie has contracted an alliance.”

“What?” Lady Evans and Miranda asked at the same time.

The fingers of Lady St. George’s hands fluttered to punctuate her words. “An alliance. Lord Dangerfield has come up to scratch and asked for our little Sophie. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“We’re talking about a September wedding.” Lady Sophie added, blushing with happiness.

“I wanted you and Miranda to be the first to hear our happy news,” Lady St. George went on. “Can you imagine, an offer this soon? After all, Sophie has been out only a year, and Miranda has been out—how long has it been? Three years? Well, we never expected Sophie to land such a glorious catch. Imagine, Lord Dangerfield.”

She put a hand to her breast as if so much happiness was overwhelming. “I feel as though there is so much to do, and I don’t even know where to begin. Wait until you go through it, Beatrice. Oh, I know that you’ve gone through a wedding when your son was married, but it is a completely different matter to be the mother of the bride. So much planning. But you’ll find your opportunity soon. After all, Miranda has had three seasons. I’m sure she’ll find a husband soon.” She stopped and sniffed the air. “By the way, this room smells heavenly.”

Lady Evans and Miranda stood frozen, their smiles plastered on their faces.

Lady Evans found her voice first. “Well, what…wonderful…news,” she managed to choke out.

Sophie blushed deeper. “I knew you would be happy for me, Aunt Beatrice.”

“Oh, I am,” Lady Evans said, though she looked as if she was about to cry.

“And you, Miranda?” Sophie turned toward her cousin. “Aren’t you happy for me, too?”

Miaranda looked like she’d rather plunge a knife in her own heart than wish her cousin happiness. For a moment expectancy hung in the air. Phadra feared they were about to have a repeat of Miranda’s tantrum and realized that her mother feared the same thing.

Miranda looked at her mother and then at Phadra. Her frown, so much like her father’s, grew deeper.

Phadra held her breath.

The frown flattened—and then slowly turned into a dazzling smile. “Of course I am happy for you, cousin,” Miranda said, her smile now as lovely and pleasant as a summer day. Lady Evans gave an audible sigh of relief that turned to a gasp of surprise as Miranda went on, “And you can be happy for me, too.”

“We can?” Lady St. George asked, caught off guard.

“Why, yes,” Miranda responded. “Mother, haven’t you told Aunt Louise?”

“Told her what?” Lady Evans asked blankly.

“About
my
offer,” Miranda said in a low, slightly angry tone.

It took Lady Evans a second to understand. When she did, her puzzled expression curled up into a smile. “Yes. Oh, yes, you need to wish Miranda happiness, Louise!”

“I do? Whatever for?”

Lady Evans smiled. She crossed to stand next to her daughter. Their arms linked in an unspoken bond. “Remember that glorious man in my yellow parlor?”

“He’d be hard to forget,” Lady St. George said with a sly smile.

“He is Miranda’s fiancé.”

Lady Miranda and Mr. Morgan spent fifteen minutes together in the yellow parlor. Everyone in the household, including Phadra and Henny, lined up in the hallway outside.

At last the door opened and Mr. Morgan walked out with a blushing Miranda on his arm. They looked the perfect couple with his dark masculine looks and her cool golden blondness. He announced ceremoniously that Lady Miranda had made him “the happiest man in London” by accepting his proposal of marriage.

Miranda lowered her eyes demurely. “You are very kind to say so, Grant.”

Grant.
Phadra thought his Christian name sounded strange on Miranda’s lips.

The servants clapped while Lady Evans and Lady St. George embraced each other and wept. However, a few minutes later, Lady St. George pointed out to her daughter in a carrying voice, “He doesn’t have a title.”

Immediately Miranda’s back stiffened. A jovial Sir Cecil, as if sensing danger, hastened the family members, of which Phadra was included, into the dining room for a toast to the couple’s happiness.

But Phadra felt like an outsider. Listening to the relatives laughing and toasting the future of their daughters, she suddenly felt very alone.

“I trust that your moving in with the Evanses has gone smoothly,” Mr. Morgan’s deep voice said from beside her.

Phadra looked up at him, feeling unaccountably angry with him. “Would it matter?”

His eyebrows came together in concern. “Miss Abbott, I sensed earlier today that you believe I’m your enemy. I’m not. I truly want to do what is best for you.”

“Then why don’t you listen to what I have to say?”

“About what? Leading a search for your father?”

“I think it’s possible.”

He studied her for a moment, as if debating an answer, and then looked away. “Perhaps, but it isn’t feasible at this time.” She sensed that he didn’t believe his own words. He looked back down at her. “Of course, if you marry a man with the right resources, anything is possible.”

“We obviously hold a difference of opinion, Mr. Morgan. I think marriage should be something more than a sham.”

His eyes hardened, and she noticed that they darkened with emotion. “Marriage is a perfectly respectable way for a person to advance in this world.”

Phadra held up her hand. “You may call a cold, impartial alliance a marriage. I cut to the heart of the matter and call it a farce.”

His eyes flashed. “You are naive, Miss Abbott. I like to think that Lady Miranda and I will make a good marriage, one based upon mutual respect and not upon strong, often errant, emotions.”

“Now that sounds boring,” Phadra retorted before thinking of the wisdom of her words.

He looked as if she’d slapped him, and he took a step back, as if needing to remove himself from her presence. “You don’t believe I’m good enough for Lady Miranda?”

The gravity in his tone startled Phadra. An angry
muscle worked in the side of his jaw. But then some little mischievous imp inside her, recalling Miranda’s house-shaking tantrum, caused her to say, “Oh, no, Mr. Morgan. If anything, I think the two of you are very well suited for each other.”

“You do?” he asked, and then his eyes narrowed, as if he suspected a hidden meaning.

“You do what?” Miranda asked, coming up behind them.

“Miss Abbott thinks you will make a beautiful bride,” Mr. Morgan said smoothly, surprising Phadra by the honeyed warmth in his voice. Miranda preened under the compliment, and Phadra found herself more than irritated with him.

“What are you going to do with my possessions, Mr. Morgan?” she asked, her words now clipped and businesslike.

Her sudden change of topic appeared to surprise him. He glanced at Miranda, as if to see whether she needed to be included in the conversation. She was no longer listening. Sophie had started talking about her engagement ball, and Miranda had stepped away from them and joined the little group around Sophie.

“Most of them will be auctioned,” he answered.

Suddenly she felt a painful sense of loss. “All of them?”

He paused, seeming to want to soften the blow. “Most of them. I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry? I’m the one who ran up the debts—or at least part of them.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice and had to look away, her eyes blinking back the sting of tears. “May I at least have my books?”

“I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” Phadra said, the sound coming out in a whisper as she realized how difficult things were going to be. Her reversal of fortune had happened so fast that when she and Henny had returned to her townhouse with Sir Cecil to pack a bag, she hadn’t been able to think of what she was losing. Fortunately she’d had the presence of mind to pack her small silver box, with the few mementos it held of her mother like the emerald earrings and pin that matched the set in the bank’s vault, but she hadn’t thought to bring anything else.

Such as her books. Or the wooden horse that her father had sent to her mother years ago on the occasion of Phadra’s birth. That, along with her debts, was her only link to her father. Could she ask for the wooden horse also? She had no idea how matters worked with creditors and bankers.

Unfortunately Sir Cecil interrupted any further discussion by announcing that an engagement ball would be held the next month in Grant and Miranda’s honor. Miranda squealed her delight.

“Phadra…Phadra, wake up.”

Phadra came awake slowly. Morning couldn’t have arrived this quickly. Again she felt someone shake her shoulder.

There was light in the room. In the dim recesses of her sleep-fogged brain, Phadra knew that it was still night. The light shone from the connecting door between her room and Miranda’s.

“Miranda?”

“Yes, it’s me.” The mattress shifted slightly under Miranda’s weight as she sat down. “Phadra, you have to make me a promise.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. I need your help.”

Phadra rubbed her face, trying to wake up. “For what?”

“I need you to go with me to the exhibit at the Royal Academy tomorrow.”