Mrs Summerhayes threw up expressive hands. “Oh, I know all that, my dear Silve, but that is for the future. Nothing can be done until we discover what has become of her guardian.”
She turned as she spoke to Felicity, who had made no attempt to stem the flow, too bemused by the give and take of words and Mrs Summerhayes’ competent air to voice any objection. But at this, she rose swiftly to confront the matron.
“I have no wish to find my guardian, ma’am. I should never have allowed myself to be beguiled into taking this step, and the sooner I return to my former life the better.”
Mrs Summerhayes grasped her hands, her face wreathing in a smile of such warmth that Felicity was taken aback. “You are bound to say so, my dear child, after the way he has behaved towards you. But I know Raoul, and if he has not already set in train a means of ferreting out the truth, you may call me a Dutchwoman.”
Felicity’s stomach clenched. “Lord Lynchmere? But why should he? I am persuaded he cannot wish to pursue the matter. He will be only too relieved to be rid of such a troublesome charge.”
To her astonishment, the matron let out a snorting laugh as she released her. “Ah, you have his measure already. In general, I would agree with you. Raoul loathes anything that threatens to disrupt the tedium of his days. Would you believe it, helikesa dull life?”
This did not ring with Felicity’s experience, for she strongly suspected Lord Lynchmere’s attitude of boredom was carefully cultivated. But she refrained from saying so, merely reiterating her intention to return to Bath at the earliest possible moment.
“Whether Lord Lynchmere agrees to it is irrelevant. I am of age, and even Lord Maskery had no hold over me.”
“Ah, but there’s the rub, my dear Felicity — if I may?”
“Of course, but —”
“It is clear to me that you know very little of Maskery and his reputation. Hard living is the least of it. The plain fact of the matter is he has enormous gaming debts, and although my cousin would never mention it to me, I happen to know that Lynchmere is one of his creditors, to the tune of several thousand.”
The intelligence that her guardian owed Lord Lynchmere a considerable sum of money set up a train of discomforting reflections in Felicity’s head. So much so that she was too distracted to protest as strongly as she’d intended when Mrs Summerhayes insisted upon carting her off to the modiste of her choosing.
Severalthousand, to one used to eking out a matter of guineas every quarter, was an impossible sum. Felicity’s head felt cloudy from trying to imagine it. That a marquis could afford to gamble to the tune of thousands was perhaps understandable. Foolish and reckless, of course, when she dared say there were better uses for his substance. But that was no concern of hers, she reminded herself, trying to subdue a rise of indignation at the sheer waste of it all.
Lord Maskery, however, was another matter altogether. If he was so deeply in debt, what in the world induced him to drag his erstwhile ward from her secure employment to an uncertain future at his hands? Some reason he must have had. And not the impulse of kindness he had pretended.
A gut-wrenching apprehension floated at the back of her mind, making her abruptly glad to be doing something other than thinking when Mrs Summerhayes, in concert with the elderly Madame Cerisette, whose accent spoke her origins, began bundling her in and out of a variety of gowns, the like of which she had never before worn.
“I think the leaf green muslin with the lace trim, my dear, and the pale jonquil we liked so much with that blue riband around the neckline. Both complemented your hair so well.”
Realising her hostess was bent upon making actual purchases, Felicity dragged her attention fully in. “Ma’am, if you insist upon doing this, let us leave it there, if you please. I cannot bear to be so beholden.”
Mrs Summerhayes waved this away. “Nonsense, my dear. You can scarcely go about in Hetty’s gown for days, now can you?”
“I will not be here for days.”
“True, but we do not have a modiste anywhere close to Cherry Lodge whom I could trust to make up gowns. Barkham is merely a village, you must know. Petticoats and shifts may be had in Reading, but we must certainly do shoes and hats before we leave Town.”
She then turned back to continue negotiating with the modiste. The scheme of returning to Bath receded further out of Felicity’s reach. She felt too deeply enmeshed in the farce into which her guardian had thrown her to be able to extract herself easily. The simplicity of getting onto the stagecoach had been swept away by the dreadful realisation that she was somehow involved in Lord Maskery’s debt-ridden state. An inkling of the truth made her writhe inside. She could not even take comfort in the notion she was not to blame. She had ignored her instinctive distrust and allowed her doubts to be overborne. Now here she was incurring indebtedness on her own account. Rebellion rose up.
Without ceremony, she interrupted the conference. “Excuse me, if you please, Mrs Summerhayes, but may I have a private word?”
The matron’s brows flew up, but she cared nothing for the implied rebuke. Seizing the woman’s arm, she pulled her to the far end of the little salon, which was thankfully free of any other persons beyond Madame Cerisette’s assistant.
“Mrs Summerhayes,” she began in a determined way.
“You may as well call me Angelica, my dear.”
Felicity was in no mood to be interrupted with social niceties. “As you wish, ma’am, but pray pay attention!”
The brows, so like Lord Lynchmere’s as it suddenly struck Felicity, rose up again. “Dear me. You sound just like a schoolmistress.”
“Well, I am one,” Felicity rejoined impatiently. “The thing is, I wish you will not purchase any more gowns for me. I concede the two, for I can see —”
“Oh, I am not going to pay for them, if that is what worries you. I shall charge them up to Raoul, never fear.”
Horror swept through Felicity and she stared at the creature. “Charge them up to Raoul?”
