‘You think me censorious, ma’am, but be assured I onlywish …’ He stopped. How could he tell her he wished for her happiness when it had been he who, however much he had retracted the term on an instant, had set her up to be beset by unwanted suitors? How could he tell her that he wished for something else that, at this moment, he did not comprehend within himself?
‘Wish what, Sir Lucius?’ It was barely a whisper, scarcely audible over the scrape of the violins, more lip-read than heard.
He swallowed. ‘I only wish to be of service.’
It was so much more than he had intended to say, and so much less than he felt.
‘I see.’ She did not. There were undercurrents, and such things dragged one down into the depths of Charybdis, so she tried to ignore them. ‘Then you might serve me by telling me what you think of Lady Godmanchester’s grey mare. I will be in the park early tomorrow. You are, as I hear from all sides, the connoisseur of horseflesh, and I would hate to find myself as poor a judge of a horse as I am, apparently, of men.’
She had said it light-heartedly, but her last words brought a stiffness to her that he felt within his grasp. The music had reached the concluding phrases, they were finishing138the formalities of the dance, walking from the floor, and without thinking, he was guiding her to the supper room. She made no demur, and Mr Escott, who had watched their dancing in growing indignation, entertained positively murderous thoughts in his head.
Not normally of a bellicose disposition, Mr Escott was being assailed by strong emotions, the mildest of which was a burgeoning desire to plant Sir Lucius a facer. The fact that he had proved a dismal pugilist at school was temporarily forgotten in this desire, which might have overpowered him had he not retained just enough sense of his surroundings to recognise that to brawl in Lady Manningham’s drawing rooms would be a solecism so great that people would assume he was wildly inebriated, or mad as Bedlam. Either was social suicide. The trouble was that Miss Ashling, his Muse, without whom he just knew his inspiration would wither, was being kept from him by the wicked Sir Lucius, a man with no poetry in his soul, a man who saw beauty only in terms of four legs and good conformation. This Philistine was out to destroy him, and indeed his anger over the sight of Miss Ashling whirling round the room with him had already wiped away some very promising couplets about Miss Ashling dancing, ‘Terpsichore in Mayfair’, from his head. Had it not taken him a considerable time to create the careful disorder of his gleaming locks, he would have run his hands through his hair in distraction. He did, however, manage to make himself hyperventilate to the point where the room began to spin, and he felt a little faint. He groped his way to a chair and sat down heavily upon it.
139He was not the only interested observer. Lady Godmanchester, in whose bosom the horse purchase had raised hopes for her friend, had watched the couple closely. Her feminine intuition told her that matters stood as yet in flux, but that neither was impervious to the other. She certainly did not detect any animosity in their body language, nor sign of quarrel. Her husband understood Sir Lucius as she could not, but discussing such things would, at this stage, bring down a charge of being fancifully romantic. Men were such doubting Thomases, demanding physical proof where a woman trusted instinct.
She thought Elizabeth’s resolve to keep gentlemen at a distance was crumbling, which would alarm her and make her withdraw as much as possible. She hoped Sir Lucius had the intelligence to make allowances for this, and help her dismantle her defences. Aware of the gossip, but unwilling to broach her concerns with her friend, she also hoped that the Earl of Easby was not using the breach for his own less honourable ends. Three years’ experience of London society had given Lady Godmanchester knowledge that Miss Ashling, with not even one full Season behind her, could not hope to possess, for all her natural intelligence and good sense. The Earl of Easby was, in her ladyship’s opinion, both dangerous and unpleasant. She could not see how Elizabeth could be blind to his faults, but, from all that Elizabeth said, knew that any remonstration on her part would be regarded as paying too much attention to the old tabbies. He was, Elizabeth had assured her several times, not interested in her and was simply a friend. It was Helen Godmanchester’s firm belief that there was nothing140at all simple about Lord Easby, and that the concept of ‘friendship’ with a woman was alien to him.
The object of her disapprobation had also taken note of the last waltz. Lord Easby had been dancing with another young woman, a chattering blonde with the faintest hint of a lisp. The lady found him a little distant, since he was focusing upon what he could detect as he manoeuvred his partner closer to Sir Lucius and Elizabeth. What he saw gave him pause for thought. Whilst he still refused to see Radstock as a serious rival, if the man’s word grew to have weight with the chit, he might yet ruin at the least a promising seduction. He himself would have to make some slight alterations to his plans in order to negate this threat, but he was confident that it was quite within his powers. After all, the dismally reputable Sir Lucius would only use fair means to achieve his aim, and he was not similarly constrained. In fact, it might even add a little extra spice to the whole thing.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sir Lucius returned home prey to unsettling thoughts.He had not formed any intention of revealing anything of his feelings to Miss Ashling, largely because they were not clear in his own mind, but he now believed that she could not be in total ignorance that he felt some ill-defined inclination towards her. She had not ripped up at him at this meeting, which was an advance, and had made what was effectively an assignation with him in the park for the morrow. This was, on the one hand, a pleasure to be anticipated, but at the same time it presented further risk of him saying too much, far too soon. Perturbed, and trying to unravel complicated knots of thought and emotion, he did not sleep well, but awoke to find that the Heavens had been kind to him, and opened. A summer storm of torrential proportions meant that there would be nobody out riding this morning. He lay back against his pillows as his valet announced this news and declared it a ‘poor sort of day’, and contradicted him.
142‘No, Jutton, it is an excellent morning. I shall deal with my correspondence without fear of interruption from callers, and when the rain passes, the London dust will be laid, so you will have less work brushing my coats.’
‘Indeed, sir. I had not perceived it in such a positive light, but I see now that you have the right of it. Er, you said last night, sir, that I should remind you of your intention to visit Messrs Rundell, Bridge and Rundell today, though if the weather remains inclement …’
‘Thank you. I will probably take the carriage anyway.’
His mother had sent the steward with a hamper containing some choice early fruits brought on in the succession house at Paley, as if such things were not purchasable in the metropolis, and a ruby necklace, part of what were termed ‘the family jewels’ – though they were only purchased by Sir Lucius’s grandfather as a wedding gift to his bride – which she said needed cleaning and two loose stones securing. She would be sure to write and ask if he had attended to this, so he had decided to do so before other events might lead him to forget. He was not, he knew from experience, too old to avoid being rung a peal over by his mama.
The morning passed as he had hoped, and he ate his luncheon secure in the knowledge that he had dealt with several important matters and cast his eye over the domestic accounts that had been brought up for his approval. The rain was considerably lessened, but he did take his carriage to Ludgate Hill, not wishing to bear such a valuable burden in the public thoroughfare.
Whilst far from the most illustrious of the clients of143Messrs Rundell, Bridge and Rundell, Sir Lucius’s family were always treated with the greatest courtesy. Lady Radstock was known to smile and say it was because the senior Mr Rundell had had a secrettendrefor her when she was newly married, and it was true that if ever she did visit the premises, he made every effort to attend to her ladyship himself. On this occasion, Mr Rundell had to content himself with asking after her ladyship’s health and promising that the ‘Radstock Rubies’, which grandiose title nearly made Sir Lucius laugh out loud, would receive their prompt attention. With his errand completed, Sir Lucius then gave in to a spontaneous urge, being surrounded by jewels, and undertook a more modest purchase. He selected a small pearl brooch in the form of a ring, which might be thought suitable to nestle in the folds of the stock with a lady's riding habit. It was whilst this item was being wrapped that Lady Rendlesham entered, head held high and as imperious as royalty. She paused for effect and awaited someone to come forward and be suitably obsequious. Sir Lucius gave her the briefest of nodded acknowledgements, and then shook hands with Mr Rundell.
‘We will, of course, send to you as soon as the necklace is ready, Sir Lucius. I never like to keep a lady waiting, after all. I am sure it will look as good as when the first bride received it.’
With which he nodded to an underling to open the door and bow Sir Lucius out. Lady Rendlesham raised an eyebrow and smiled to herself. Perhaps Lord Easby was not taking the opposition seriously enough. What was144potentially more useful was the opportunity to start a little rumour that might give Elizabeth Ashling palpitations, if it was true that she wanted nothing to do with men.
The rain had ceased by the time that Sir Lucius’s carriage reached Piccadilly, and so he directed the coachman to set him down at Hatchards. His mother’s letter had made mention of a new novel over which one of her friends was waxing lyrical, and he thought that enclosing her a copy with the letter confirming that he had discharged his errand would please her. Since his father’s death, Lady Radstock rarely came to Town, and certainly not for the Season. She contented herself for the most part with good, if dictatorial, works in the neighbourhood, writing to a wide network of friends and reading eclectically, fromImprovementsin Horticultureto far-fetched romances. When he was at home she would be as likely to read him a snippet from the former as the latter when they were alone after dinner, and he never knew whether he was going to hear advice on growing cucumbers or the most lurid details of a Gothic romance. On balance, he preferred the former.
Hatchards was busy, those who had been put off by the morning’s rain having now emerged to make their purchases. He recalled the name of the novel but not that of the author and so made his way to the desk to ask for assistance. The young man offered to direct him or to fetch a copy for him, but he chose to find it himself, since browsing the shelves, redolent of the leather-bound volumes, was a pleasant way to spend twenty minutes before heading to St James’s to look in at his club. He had not expected, however, to bump145into Mr Disley, a gentleman who shared his interest in thoroughbreds. Disley was in a similar position to himself, with a modest little stud in Cambridgeshire. They greeted each other warmly, and for a while the purchase and wrapping ofThe Rescue of Lucrezia, clutched in his hand, was forgotten.
The Misses Ashling, having spent a frustrating, and far less productive, morning, had been keen to get out shopping in the afternoon, so whilst Lady Chalford enjoyed a welcome visit from an old friend, they headed for Grafton House. Their object was to purchase some figured muslin that Amelia had seen a few days previously and had persuaded her mama to let her buy to make a morning gown when the Season was over and she was back at Marden Hall. That Lady Chalford secretly hoped that she would be too busy with wedding preparations to worry about making a gown was something that lady kept to herself.
They made their way down to Piccadilly, the footman carrying the parcel of muslin and some lengths of ribbon that Miss Amelia Ashling could not resist, and they crossed the busy thoroughfare to Hatchards, where Amelia hoped to buy a book of poems for her mother’s birthday. Elizabeth had greeted this announcement in mock horror.
‘No! Please, not poetry. Your mama might start holding evening readings or press Mr Escott’s lamentable suit upon me. Take pity, Amelia, dearest.’
Her young cousin merely laughed.
Standing before several shelves of slim volumes, Amelia began to leaf her way through them, giggling occasionally.
146‘I think,’ whispered Elizabeth, ‘the authors generally wish to rouse the reader to joy or tears, but rarely mirth.’
‘But Elizabeth,’ hissed Amelia, ‘this is nearly as “good” as Mr Escott.’
