“Of course. He asked me to help you, so I am sure he will expect to stand the nonsense. He can well afford it, you know.”
Afford it? No doubt! “I must beg you will do no such thing, ma’am. I cannot possibly accept clothes at Lord Lynchmere’s expense.”
“In the ordinary way, no. It would be quite ineligible. But the circumstances are far from ordinary, are they not?”
“Yes, they are, but still —”
“No one will ever know. Madame Cerisette is the soul of discretion and is besides a family friend. She was used to make clothes for our mothers when they were girls and still in France.”
This piece of information, while it was an intriguing glimpse of her hostess’s history, did nothing to quieten Felicity’s dismay. “Nevertheless, I cannot allow —”
Mrs Summerhayes smiled suddenly, capturing Felicity into a convulsive hug. “You poor dear! It is all too overwhelming, I expect. Now, do not be making difficulties over a very simple matter and let me contrive with Madame.”
With which, she swept off, leaving Felicity without a word to say and considerably troubled. The situation was getting out of hand, and the lurking question of these appalling gaming debts could not but cast a pall of gloom over her spirits.
She made no further attempt to prevent Mrs Summerhayes from dragging her to a hat shop, where a pretty confection was acquired, consisting of a cap of worked muslin with a double trimming of lace and a wreath of flowers tied around the crown, as well as a small-brimmed straw hat with green ribbon threaded through. A shoe shop came next, from which she came away with a pair of fawn-coloured pumps and a sturdier shoe for walking.
“You’ll need it in the country, and we can always get sandals in Reading. I think that will do for now. Madame Cerisette has promised to deliver your gowns within three days, which suits with my present arrangements.”
Felicity had no need to ask what these were because Mrs Summerhayes proceeded to lay out her plan for retiring to the country within the week.
“I must first ensure that Gawcott calls in all the money for the bids and then I may be easy about dear Margaret’s difficulties, poor love. One can only hope the girls receive offers before their situation becomes generally known.”
Felicity listened with only half an ear as the matron beguiled the short journey to her home with much in the same vein. Her thoughts remained obstinately with what she was going to find to say to Lord Lynchmere. She must thank him. Yet she was not nearly as confident as Mrs Summerhayes that he would be happy to pay for her attire. She could only be glad the assumption was none of hers, and that she would make abundantly clear.
It was with a good deal of reluctance that Raoul presented himself in Angelica’s modest house in George Street. Not least of the difficulties that plagued him was the wretched valise he was carrying. He should have taken a hackney instead of walking round to his cousin’s. Already two acquaintances he’d met along the way had given the offending article questioning looks.
Not that he had the slightest intention of explaining away the battered, bulging object. Let them make of it what they would. Yet the incongruity of it against his customarily suave appearance was bound to strike a discordant note. Which was, now he thought of it, perfectly in keeping with the whole affair.
In the cold light of day, the hideous truth could not be avoided. Maskery, the unmitigated scoundrel, had thrust him into a situation likely to plunge the lot of them into a decidedly unpleasant scandal. For which Angelica’s ill-judged insistence upon his attending her wretched auction was palpably to blame. Having reached this conclusion, he knocked on her door with an unpleasant feeling of entering upon an inescapable doom.
The butler admitted him, offering the unwelcome news that his cousin and the young lady were awaiting him in the Yellow Parlour above stairs. Raoul nodded, giving up his hat and cane into the fellow’s hands.
“May I take the valise, my lord?”
“No, you may not. At least, you may hold it for a moment while I remove my coat.”
He gave it up into Maunder’s keeping, stripping off his gloves and shrugging himself out of his overcoat. He moved to check his appearance in the oval mirror set above an ormolu table to one side of the narrow hall, flicking his hair back and deftly smoothing a crease in the sleeve of his mulberry coat. He reset his quizzing glass into place and held out his hand for the valise, shutting the uncomfortable reflections out of his head.
“You need not announce me. I know my way.”
But this did not suit with the butler, who insisted on leading him up the stairs and across the gallery to the pretty front room his cousin reserved for informal occasions.
“Lord Lynchmere, madam.”
Raoul set his teeth and walked into the parlour, his fingers tightening on the handle of the valise. His glance went directly to the red-headed figure seated at the bureau with her head turned towards the door. He had evidently disturbed Miss Temple in the act of writing. He met her eyes briefly. Was it consternation in them?
There was no time to determine, for Angelica’s voice cut across his thoughts. “I thought it was you. What an age you have been!”
She was hovering by the window and Raoul curled his lip at her. “Have you been keeping watch, then?”
“Well, of course.” She moved out into the room, her eyes going to the object he carried. “What have you there?”
A small cry escaped from Miss Temple. “My valise!”
She sprang up and came quickly to meet him as he hefted it higher for her to see. “It is yours, then?”
She fairly grabbed it out of his hold, clutching the thing to her as if it was a long lost child. Her clear gaze came up to meet his. “I thought I had lost it forever. Thank you! Where was it? Did you go back to the Black Swan?”
