A Lady Compromised (The Ladies) (8 page)

Chapter 15

Lady Delia sat at her small, functional writing desk with a pen in her hand and her chin on her small fist. She thought about how her next novel ought to contain a touch fewer duels and a bit more in the way of love scenes than had
Annabelle’s Adventures.
She sighed as she continued to write. Her publisher had informed her that she had six more weeks in which to finish the novel or she would risk her readers forgetting about her by the time the book was printed and finally in shops. However, the publisher had assured her that
Annabelle’s Adventures
was selling quite well, and was enormously popular with the
ton
, presumably as encouragement to finish her next novel expeditiously. Nonetheless, Delia wanted to be sure that her second book was at least as good as her first. 

“Amelia,” she said as she rose and walked upstairs, “Do let’s go for a walk. I must have some air and no one is likely to be about at this hour.” Delia had no wish to encounter any person who might recognize her and so was careful to walk about when it was least likely that any members of the fashionable world would be taking their daily constitutional. 

              “Of course, my lady. I’ll get your pelisse.” Amelia bundled off to gather the requisite clothes and accessories for a walk and Delia wished for what seemed like the thousandth time that she could turn back the clock to before her beloved father had passed away and before the machinations of Christopher Rosewood had forced her from her home. 

Delia had been walking only a few minutes when a young man appeared in the street. As he approached, Delia stuck slightly closer to Amelia and politely bowed her head slightly to him as he passed. He touched his hat as he passed them by and then turned around. He was very young and very handsome, with artfully disheveled brown curls and a dimple in his chin. His fashionable dress proclaimed him a gentlemen and Delia permitted herself a wistful sigh at the thought that she would someday get the chance to be courted by someone young and handsome—unless she was forced to spend the rest of her life hiding from Christopher Rosewood. 

“Excuse me, miss!” a voice called, and Delia turned around to see the young man had turned around and was now walking toward them. “Excuse me, but I’m so sorry to bother you. I am simply at my wits’ end. Do you perhaps know the direction of a Mrs. Belinda Thistleton? She is my aunt and resides in this street, but only recently. I have never visited her here before and was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop, though I have misremembered the address. I do apologize for troubling you, Miss—?” 

His pretty speech and sympathetic story increased Delia’s opinion of the handsome young man and she said, “—
er, Mrs.,” she said, holding out her lavender-gloved hand and shooting Amelia a look, “Mrs. Delia Mannering.” The young man could not hide the look of disappointment that crossed his handsome features as he very properly bent over her hand, coming no closer than he ought to on a public street with a woman he had only just met.

“Freddy Whitmore,” he said, gazing into her eyes with undisguised admiration, “a pleasure to meet you.” 

“I am afraid,” said Delia as she took back her hand, “that I am too only recently arrived in this street to give directions. I haven’t any knowledge of a Mrs. Thistleton. I’m terribly sorry to be of no help.” Delia looked again at Mr. Whitmore, wondering when she would next have occasion to converse with an eligible young man. Unbidden, the image of the Marquess came into her mind and she forced it away.

Freddy Whitmore was thinking that he knew precisely where his aunt Thistleton lived but could certainly visit her another day or at a later hour and racked his brain. “I am so sorry to have bothered you. I suppose I must walk home and look up the address,” he said as he made to do just that. He guessed
correctly what would happen next.

“Oh, dear, Mr. Whitmore, that is so inconvenient for you! Do let me inquire at my house of my staff to see if anyone knows your aunt’s direction? It would be such a waste for you to have come all this way—at least I assume you have come all this way,” she said with a blush, as fashionably dressed men such as himself rarely were seen in Charles Street. 

“That would be far too much trouble for you, Mrs. Mannering. I am afraid I cannot ask you to abbreviate your walk,” said Mr. Whitmore with passably convincing conviction.

“It would be no problem at all!” said Delia with a smile. “Please. It would also be good for me to know of a neighbor, even if only tangentially.” 

Freddy Whitmore looked as if heaven itself had smiled down on him and forcibly resisted offering the exquisite Mrs. Mannering his arm. They walked, side by side, down the street as he asked Lady Delia question after question that displayed his polite interest in her, though just short of an interrogation, as to her availability and history prior to the neighborhood and general acquaintance. 

“Are you recently arrived from the country, Mrs. Mannering?” he asked, hoping he sounded innocuous.

“I am,” she said, “but is it so terribly obvious? I don’t doubt that my wardrobe falls a bit short of town standards,” she continued, knowing quite well her clothes were not quite
au courant
, and they were certainly all in horrible, faded mourning colors. 

“Oh no, Mrs. Mannering! I did not mean to imply such a thing—or even close to it. I only ask because a lady as lovely as yourself cannot go unnoticed in this city for long.” He looked down at her with such earnest admiration that Lady Delia blushed. She was flattered that even if the Marquess did not think she was a
lady, this sweet young Mr. Whitmore certainly did. His compliments were a pleasant change from her other recent encounters with men.

“I do not need to be noticed, Mr. Whitmore, as I am still in mourning. It is not two years since my husband, my dear Mr. Mannering, died. But I found after so many months alone in the country, I needed a change of scenery.” Mr. Whitmore looked as if the sun had just burst through the most torrential of thunderstorms but he quickly attempted to school his features into some semblance of somber propriety.

They arrived at her doorstep a scant ten minutes later. Delia knew her entire staff was home and so felt brave enough to invite him in. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Whitmore?” she asked. “We could have one while enquiring as to your aunt’s address.”

“I should like that above all things, Mrs. Mannering,” he replied as he removed his hat and gloves.

“Amelia,” began Lady Delia, “Would you bring us some tea and send for Martha so we may ask her about Mr. Whitmore’s aunt?” she led her guest into her small but cheery drawing room and settled herself on a lilac-silk settee.

“Is your aunt, Mrs. Thistleton, a frequent recipient of your visits, Mr. Whitmore?” she asked, unsure if she should hope that he would be often in the neighborhood.

“Ah, she is indeed! A very kind lady whom I visit often. I take it upon myself to visit her often as she is a widow in reduced circumstances and does not go often into society. A delightful woman, Mrs. Thistleton.” Mr. Whitmore looked about him and could not keep himself asking, “Do you have any children, Mrs. Mannering?”

At this, Delia blushed deeply, distracted both by the embarrassing thought of children and how she, a virginal lady, would have any, but also at the fact that poor Mr. Whitmore had just admitted to visiting quite often an aunt who lived in her street but could not remember her address. She knew then he must have invented the lady as an excuse to speak to her but she forgave him and managed to reply, “No, Mr. Whitmore. We were not blessed with children. Mr. Mannering was rather close to twenty years my senior and did not wish for children. He was accustomed to peace and quiet.” Lady Delia hoped this lie would prevent any further questions about her imaginary late husband, as elderly, doting men were likely of little interest to dashing young gentlemen like Mr. Whitmore, who seemed more interested in her by the moment.

“Forgive my impertinence, my dear Mrs. Mannering! I hope I did not distress you. I wondered only if there was a young person in the house who would shortly need his mother. I am very sorry for the loss of your husband but I hope you will find the city’s charms improving on the spirits.” His earnestness was palpable and she could not help but smile gratefully at him. Despite her relative lack of experience with eligible young men while living at Washburn Court, she had nonetheless plenty of experience with young men who were
not
courting her. There were young men in the stables and in the village and at neighbor’s homes and country dances, who, as they were not judged to be eligible, were easy and carefree with their speech to her. Mr. Whitmore reminded her of a sophisticated version of them—just as eager to please and delightful—but ever so much better dressed and more polished manners.

“No, indeed, Mr. Whitmore, I do live here alone with my quite competent and agreeable staff. I hope some day to enjoy some of the charms of the city, but I’m afraid until I am fully out of mourning, I cannot enter society.” She hoped this would prevent any invitations, as attending would be absolutely out of the question. She did not know who in town would recognize her as Lady Delia Ellsworth, but it was certainly not worth the risk of finding out.

“My admiration for you increases!” said Mr. Whitmore, “I can only imagine how difficult it must be for a lovely lady to spend years alone in mourning—you must not be over twenty! Though, I do not believe I would enquire,” he added hastily.

“I can own only twenty years, Mr. Whitmore,” Lady
Delia replied, “However, it is no matter. I enjoy the quietude and take great pleasure in reading.”

“Do you? I enjoy reading myself! The
Racing Times,
cover to cover, every week, as well as the
Times,
of course. I have to catch up on what my friends are doing if I haven’t seen them. Society pages and whatnot.” Lady Delia laughed lightly and sipped her tea while nodding with agreement.

“Absolutely! Of course, I’m not likely to know anyone who’s a subject of gossip in the
Times
or any of the ladies’ circulars. But it is still lovely to read about their lives.”

She looked up to see Martha entering and lowered her teacup.

“Martha, do you know of anyone by the name of Mrs. Thistleton in this street? Our visitor, Mr. Whitmore, is attempting to visit her as she is his aunt, but she is recently moved and he cannot recall the address.”

“Why yes, ma’am! Mrs. Thistleton lives but four blocks from this house, ma’am, across from the statue in the park. I am afraid I do not recall the number. But I know her cook, Dora, she’s a great friend of mine,” Martha belatedly curtseyed to Mr. Whitmore. “Will that be all ma’am?”

“Will that be adequate, Mr. Whitmore?” she enquired, looking at him over the tea things.

“Oh, yes, absolutely!” he replied, tearing his eyes away from Delia to look at Martha. “Thank you very much, Martha. I am certain I can recognize the house once I am so close—and as it is across from the statue—I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir. It’s no problem, sir,” said Martha. “Thank you, ma’am. If that is all, I should get back to the kitchen. I have some rolls that need checking.”

“Of course, Martha,” said Lady Delia as she dismissed the cook and looked back to Mr. Whitmore. “I should not keep you now that you know your destination,” she said with a smile. “I should hate to monopolize your time when a dear lady is expecting you.”

“Oh, no!” Mr. Whitbread replied, “She is not expecting me. We had no appointment—I was only going to call this afternoon. Bit of a surprise to her actually.” He blushed slightly, not wanting to be seen as rude, but Delia thought, not yet wanting to leave. She did not think she wanted him to leave, either.

“Then if there is no time fixed and you will not be missed, we may finish our tea,” she said with clear happiness.

              “Indeed! I would be most delighted,” Mr. Whitmore replied. “I—I wonder, if, I am likely to discover you walking again in Charles Street? I confess I come this way often to visit my aunt but I do not know if I will encounter you—“ he looked so hopeless and unable to find the words to ask to call that she saved him.

“Mr. Whitmore, you are so kind! I would be happy to see you again in Charles Street, or here for tea. I am home most afternoons and you may consider yourself invited to call.” She rose to give him a card with her false name printed, D.E. Mannering, 19 Charles St.,
London.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Mannering! I would be
most
delighted! I confess I am most tremendously pleased to hear you say that. You may rest assured I will visit again in Charles Street within the week,” cried Mr. Whitmore and he, recovering himself and attempting to look more stoic, stood with reluctance. “Thank you for your most generous tea and direction, Mrs. Mannering. I will leave for Mrs. Thistleton’s in quite good spirits, I assure you.”

“I’m so very pleased to have met you,” Delia said as he swept her a brief bow and collected his hat, gloves and cane.

“Until next time,” he said, and was out the door.

Lady Delia smiled as she closed the door herself—Amelia had not returned from upstairs and she did not think to call her simply to show out the young man. She was pleased to have met such a pleasant and attractive man in her street with what seemed to be perfect propriety. More inspiration for her novels was always needed and he seemed so kind and unthreatening. He was very handsome in a quite youthful sort of way. But try as she might, she could not picture the hero of her novel as Freddy Whitmore. Another man, larger and darker, with a sinfully beautiful face and mocking mouth seemed to appear in her mind every time she tried to picture her hero and she dismissed the thoughts with frustration.