A Lady of Esteem (8 page)

The scene was too reminiscent of the one that took place when she left the viscount’s for London ten years ago. Amelia sat on a trunk in the front hall, clutching a valise, waiting for the promised carriage. A basket of Mrs. Harris’s best cooking efforts sat on the floor at her feet. She, Miss Ryan, and Lydia had said their good-byes an hour ago. Only Fenton remained, pacing from window to window.

A strong knock on the front door made Amelia jump. The second had her clutching the valise to her chest. The third sounded like a death knell.

Fenton wrenched open the door to reveal a liveried footman standing tall and straight like the guards in front of the palace. “The carriage for Miss Stalwood and Miss Ryan has arrived.”

Amelia placed one foot in front of the other with deliberate precision. There was no room for hesitation today. God had promised her nothing but this moment, and she would make the best of it. “Good day. I am Miss Stalwood, but please call me Miss Amelia. And you are?”

The footman shifted his weight. “M’name is Gordon, miss. Jeremy Gordon. I thought there was to be a child?”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Gordon. I’m afraid there’s no child today. Only me. Miss Ryan is unfit to travel, unfortunately. If you would be so good as to assist me with my trunk, I will not delay our departure any longer. I have a basket of scones and biscuits and other good things prepared by my housekeeper that I will be more than willing to share on our journey. Shall we be off?” Her tension uncurled as she discovered her voice could remain steady. She even managed a smile.

Gordon gave her basket a strange look but said nothing about it as he hefted her trunk. “Will this be it, miss?”

“Yes, that is everything.” Everything she had to mark twenty years of life fit in a single trunk. “Thank you, Gordon.”

The driver helped Gordon secure the trunk. He started to yawn and ducked behind the carriage out of sight.

Amelia followed him. “Are you well?”

The man flushed. “I beg your pardon, miss. We didn’t arrive from Essex until late last night.”

And now the man had to make the drive back. Amelia couldn’t help but wish they’d taken a day to rest. Then she could have attended the ball tonight. She felt a bit guilty over that. The driver and his employer thought they were rushing to the aid of a distraught young girl. She held up the basket. “Would you like a raspberry scone?”

The driver and footman exchanged glances again but then graciously accepted her offer of pastries.

Gordon handed her into the carriage and toasted her with his last bite of scone. “These are quite good, milady.”

“My— That is Mrs. Harris is an extraordinary cook.” Amelia fought back the tears at the thought that Mrs. Harris was no longer her cook. She had no claim to the woman anymore. “Please, call me Miss Amelia. Everyone does.”

“Very well, Miss Amelia.” His smile looked a bit more genuine as he shut the door and climbed atop the carriage. “You get comfortable. It shouldn’t take us long. The roads seemed fairly empty this morning.”

The steady clop of the horses’ hooves gave Amelia something to cling to. All she had to do was maintain her composure until the next hoof fell. If she could manage that, by the time they reached Essex she would be in complete control of her faculties.

She watched the buildings roll by, expecting to take the same road out of London that she’d arrived on so many years ago.

The sudden turn took her by surprise. This road took them deeper into the heart of Mayfair. Were they lost? Perhaps they’d gotten turned around, unfamiliar with the tight streets of London.

After a bit of struggle, she managed to open the window and lean her head out. A fat raindrop fell on her forehead before she could ask if they needed assistance. Another soon joined it and within moments the sky was full of pelting rain.

Amelia jerked her head back inside. They must be staying in London somewhere overnight instead of risking the country roads in the rain.

A trickle of hope wormed into her mind, even as she tried to squash it. If they were staying in London for the night, could she make it to the ball?

A few more turns took them clear to the other side of Mayfair. Amelia had never visited this area, so she wasn’t likely to find anyone willing to help her get to the ball. The warm glow of hope faded away.

They stopped in front of a simple but stately terrace house, at least six windows across.

Gordon flung open the door and lowered the step, water dripping from his nose.

“We’re stopping here?” Amelia hated making him stand in the rain, but she couldn’t just walk into someone’s house without knowing who they were or what they expected.

“Of course, Miss Amelia. Lady Barnstoke is expecting you.” Gordon reached out a hand to help her alight. “She thought a trip to Essex might be a bit much for a grieving child, so she came to London to meet you.”

A scraping noise preceded the driver carrying her trunk down to the servant entrance.

Gordon rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “‘Course, you’re not really a child.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to take a bit of explanation.” Amelia took a deep breath and stomped out of the carriage. Her determination caused her to slip on the stair, nearly sending her bottom first into a puddle.

Gordon righted her before resuming his formal stance.

“Thank you.” She stared at the steps to the front door, all determination replaced by fear.

“You’re getting wet, miss.”

“Yes. Right. I should go in, then.” She flew up the stairs as if another moment’s hesitation would make everything disappear. The front door swung open as she approached, and her momentum sent her careening into the front hall. Her slippers slid across the slick marble, and Amelia managed her second narrow escape in as many minutes. It wouldn’t do to meet her hostess by sliding across the hall on her backside.

The butler closed the door slowly. He didn’t have a smile on his face, but his eyes crinkled a bit at the corner. “Would you care for a towel?”

Amelia gratefully accepted the length of linen he extended toward her.

“There is a fire laid in the drawing room. I’ll have Lady Barnstoke summoned. You’re a bit earlier than she anticipated.”

The butler took her wet pelisse, but the dress underneath was still damp. Amelia retreated to the room the butler indicated, but she refused to place her sodden clothing on any of the beautiful upholstered furniture. Instead she stood by the fire, enjoying the warmth on her skin as cold trepidation seeped through her blood. Who was Lady Barnstoke? What had she been told? She had a vague recollection of a Lady Cressida Barnstoke getting married last year. Had that been her name before or after she’d gotten married?

Another carriage clattered to a stop outside the house. Had Lady Barnstoke been away?

Curiosity propelled Amelia to the window, but she couldn’t tell anything about the people who alighted from the carriage. Two women wearing deep-hooded cloaks and a man with his greatcoat pulled up close to his top hat rushed up the stairs.

Amelia heard footfalls in the hall as she crossed the drawing room. She recognized the butler’s quiet gait from earlier, but the heavy tread of boots and the swish of slippers were new.

Wanting to know the situation before bumbling into it, Amelia peeked around the partially closed drawing room door. She couldn’t see the people entering from the street, but she saw the elegant woman coming down the stairs from the upper floors and the mountain of a man approaching from the back of the house.

The woman had touches of grey threaded through her dark blond hair. She reached a hand toward the large blond man in riding clothes. “I’m glad you managed to be here this morning. I must have misunderstood—they told me a woman had arrived.”

The man gestured toward the front door, where presumably the newly arrived party had shed their coats and cloaks.

“Mother!” a young, slightly familiar female voice called.

Amelia tried to see the front of the hall without opening the drawing room door any wider, but it was impossible.

The girl continued. “I’m begging you to convince Miranda to stop this mission.”

Amelia jerked away from the door.
Miranda?
It couldn’t be the same Miranda. That was impossible.

“She’s not a mission. Besides, she sent me a note this morning canceling our plans for the evening and then had her butler tell me
she wasn’t home when I went by. I think she’s scared and means to drop our friendship entirely. Mother, you have to help me make her see reason.”

It
was
the same Miranda. Amelia had wanted to tell her good-bye since she had little intention of returning from Essex, but she put off writing the letter until all she had time to do was scribble a note that she wouldn’t be able to go to the ball. But how could she . . . ? Why would she . . . ? Had they called the woman
Mother
?

“Of whom are we speaking?” The older woman’s smile was indulgent. Definitely that of a mother.

“Some poor girl Miranda has decided to yank into society as a sacrificial lamb,” Georgina muttered.

Amelia paused in the act of reaching for the door latch. Were they talking about her?

“That is not true,” Miranda grumbled.

“Trent has decided to court her,” Georgina continued.

“That’s not true.” Trent walked into view. “Good morning, Griffith. What brings you to town? By the by, I think she was lying in that note she sent this morning. It was rather vague.”

Miranda huffed. “Why would she lie to me?”

Amelia crossed her arms and frowned. She hadn’t lied. Unforeseen circumstances was a perfectly acceptable explanation for why she wouldn’t be attending the ball.

“Beg pardon,” a voice she assumed was Griffith’s said, “but of what are we talking? Aren’t you all here to meet my new ward?”

“I met a lovely young
disadvantaged
gentlewoman and have befriended her.” Miranda paused. “Trent does appear to have decided to court her though. What do you mean you have a new ward? Who died? No one close or I’d have heard about it.”

Amelia’s head was spinning. She looked for a second door out of the drawing room. She couldn’t possibly face them now, not after hearing that conversation. How could she face Trent when her heart was already Anthony’s?

“Nonsense, Miranda. I have merely befriended her as well. I value my head, you know. Anthony would kill me if I courted her when he’s already claimed her for himself.”

There wasn’t another door. She was going to have to face them. With the towel pulled tight around her shoulders, she eased the drawing room door the rest of the way open, but no one noticed her.

The man she assumed was Griffith was looking from one family member to another.

His mother looked delighted. “Anthony is courting her?”

“Of course not,” Georgina said. “He has a marquisate to think about.”

“I do so love it when you’re wrong,” Trent said, smugness oozing from his smile. “He’s been to call on her already. Even took her to Gunter’s for ices.”

“That was her?” Georgina pouted.

Miranda clapped with glee. “Everyone’s talking about that. No one could see the lady for the tree. Rebecca Laramy claimed he’d taken her, but I knew it couldn’t be true.”

“This is all fascinating,” Griffith said, “but a young girl is going to be arriving here soon—”

“How young?” Georgina’s eyes narrowed.

“You never said who died,” Miranda said.

The import of Griffith’s statement penetrated Amelia’s spinning brain.
He
was her new guardian. But how was that possible? How could God do that? The one friendship she’d formed where the other person had nothing to gain but her company was about to be tainted with obligation. “Oh my.”

Five heads twisted in her direction.

“Amelia!” Miranda danced across the hall and wrapped her arms around Amelia.

“Who are you?” Miranda’s mother walked forward with a frown. “Are you the governess? What did you do with the child?”

Georgina coughed. “She’s a servant?”

Miranda frowned. “But I thought you were the ward of the Viscount of Stanford.”

Amelia swallowed. “I am, but—”

“No,” Griffith said, “the viscount’s ward is an eleven-year-old girl, I’m expecting her here any minute.”

“But the maid told me the girl had already arrived.” His mother, who was presumably the Lady Barnstoke who lived here, looked very confused. “So you must be Miss Ryan.”

“Miss Ryan is sick. She couldn’t accompany me. I’m—”

Trent grinned. “I like Amelia better than an eleven-year-old girl. Can we keep her instead?”

“Mind your tongue.” Lady Barnstoke poked Trent in the chest. “We take care of the less fortunate in this family, and a young girl who’s been uprooted twice is most unfortunate.”

“Her name’s not Ryan—it’s Stalwood.” Miranda crossed her arms over her chest.

“But the ward’s name is Stalwood,” Griffith said. “Amelia Stalwood.”

Everyone stared at Amelia in silence. The sudden quiet was heavy. She gave a tiny wave. “Hello.”

“You,” Lady Barnstoke finally said, “are not eleven years old.”