Bridal Favors (8 page)

She’d seated herself on the plump yellow chaise, pulled her tatting from her chatelaine, and proceeded to draw from her daughter a recital of her adventures over the past few days.

If she felt any disapproval of the means her daughter had used to gain access to Mr. Powell’s town house, she hadn’t voiced them. She only looked up when Evelyn mentioned the cut on her leg and, after having been reassured that the wound was healing nicely, returned to her tatting.

“Why?” Evelyn replied in response to her mother’s mild query. “We both know it would only be to satisfy convention, and I don’t think there’s enough convention in East Sussex that it needs satisfying.”

“Do we?” her mother murmured, frowning over an intricate knot.

“Yes, we do,” Evelyn replied, jotting down the projected costs of shipping five hundred hothouse gardenias to North Cross Abbey.

“If you say so, dear,” Francesca said. “I suspect you know best. Besides, Justin Powell doesn’t strike me as the sort of gentleman who would take advantage of a lady.”

Evelyn, in the midst of her calculations, didn’t think before speaking. “Oh, he would. He has.”

The sudden termination of movement from the chaise alerted her to her mistake. She looked up and met her mother’s startled eye.
Oops
.

“You aren’t listening to rumors, are you, dear?” Francesca asked. “You know how unreliable they can be.”

Unhappily conscious of her vow to remain mum on the Underhill matter, a vow she had just come perilously close to breaking, Evelyn regarded her mother mutely.

Francesca set her lacework down in her lap. “I can’t quite believe it. Justin Powell, a cad.”

Evelyn attempted not to squirm. Her mother would be enlisting her father’s aid to stop her from going to North Cross Abbey if she didn’t quickly remedy her blunder. “I didn’t precisely mean
that
. I only meant that he has a Certain History where women are concerned. But before you get upset, Mama—”

“I’m not upset, dear.” And truthfully, Francesca looked perfectly composed, as opposed to Evelyn.

“Besides,” Evelyn said, “all that is in the past. Mr. Powell assures me that he is reformed.”

“He does?” Francesca said. “Well, I suppose that’s nearly an admission, isn’t it? I mean, you can’t reform if you haven’t done anything worth reforming, can you?”

“Er, yes. I mean, no.”

Francesca shook her head. “Who’d have thought it? I mean not that he’s not perfectly yummy and all—and you needn’t look at me like that, Evelyn, I’m not so ancient that I can’t appreciate a handsome young man—but he never seemed in the least bit
interested,
if you take my meaning.”

“Not really,” Evelyn said wryly, thinking of Justin’s interest in Mrs. Underhill.

“Your father and I run into Mr. Powell occasionally in town. And though he has very sweet manners, he always seems a bit, well,
vague
.” Francesca smiled and shook her head. “He struck me that way at Verity’s coming-out, too. I distinctly remember commenting to your father how unlike the other young gentlemen he was.”

“I don’t think he seems vague,” Evelyn said.

“No?”

“No. Perhaps you mistake his extreme ease of manner for a lack of interest in what’s going on, but I feel confident that very little goes unnoticed by Mr. Powell. He just doesn’t conform to the usual pattern, you see, and I expect that can be misinterpreted.” She found herself remembering very distinctly the manner in which his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and the feel of muscles moving beneath his shirt as he picked her up. She also recalled his laughter, and she smiled in response to it, even if it was only a memory.

“To be honest, I found him likeable,” she said. “And clever. In a bohemian sort of way. A sort of careless way. But not an objectionably bohemian careless way.”

“You did, did you?” her mother murmured, regarding her closely.

“Yes.”

“And you are perfectly satisfied he will not attempt to importune you?”

Evelyn gave her mother a wry look. “I am certain he’ll find the wherewithal to resist me. He’s only there to plot the migration of some odd little bird he discovered.”

“You could take Merry with you,” Francesca suggested, startling Evelyn. The idea of the perennially ‘entangled’ Frenchwoman playing the part of chaperon was too delicious. She burst into laughter.

“Merry? You’re teasing!”

“Not at all. Granted, Merry’s morals are somewhat lax, but only in reference to herself. She believes herself to be cursed, or blessed, with an artistic soul. Which she is, the darling!”

Evelyn wasn’t nearly so sanguine about the direction of Merry’s moral compass, but as she’d planned to send for the dress designer soon after her arrival at North Cross Abbey anyway, she might as well make her mother happy by toting her along right from the start. “All right,” she agreed. “I shall ask Merry to come along with me.”

“Ah, good. The more help you have with the wedding, the better.”

Evelyn nodded. “Mother,
this
wedding will be a success. I have arranged for every possible contingency. I have hired backup delivery people, contacted alternate suppliers for various items, and ordered double quantities of everything.

“Added to which, I shall be at hand from a month before the wedding until the final guest has left. This time, I swear I will not fail. The Vandervoort-Cuthbert wedding will be spectacular.”

An odd expression crossed her mother’s face. “Evelyn, darling, isn’t ‘spectacular’ asking rather much?”

“Not at all,” Evelyn said. “People seek Aunt Agatha’s services for the spectacular. They have every right to expect it, and I will deliver it.”

“And what would happen if you couldn’t deliver on that worthy goal?” her mother asked softly.

The question caused an unpleasant twist in Evelyn’s stomach. She frowned. “Don’t you think I can do it?”

Her mother laughed at her expression. “Oh, Evelyn, my darling. I don’t doubt your ability for a minute. If you told me you had decided to fly, I should expect to see you soaring about the rooftops by sunset. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wonder what lured you into the sky.”

Her mother was regarding her with uncharacteristic earnestness. Usually Francesca was a font of tranquil encouragement, unquestioning in her faith in Evelyn’s intelligence, abilities, and resourcefulness. The ache in Evelyn’s stomach deepened.

“Please, Mama. I
can
do this. Don’t worry.”

“But, darling, I do worry. Perhaps I—”

A knock on the door interrupted her, and Evelyn turned with a guilty sense of relief. “Come in,” she called.

The door opened and Mrs. Vandervoort entered, followed by Merry, who had also just arrived. The Frenchwoman greeted Francesca and retreated to the side of the room to wait.

“Good day, Mrs. Vandervoort.” Evelyn rose and greeted the American woman. “May I introduce you to my mother, Marchioness Broughton? Mama, Mrs. Edith Vandervoort.”

The two ladies looked one another over with open interest. On the surface they looked a great deal alike. Both were statuesque beauties, having reached the full bloom of their looks in their middle years. Both had dark blond hair and striking blue eyes. Both were dressed in the height of fashion, though Francesca’s buttercream wool serge had been made over in order to achieve its chic while Mrs. Vandervoort’s dark blue lace dress featuring the new pigeon-breast style was brand new.

Both were quiet women, but where Francesca Whyte’s stillness evoked a sense of tranquility, Edith Vandervoort’s offered only silence. Francesca’s looks charmed and invited; Edith Vandervoort’s beauty held one at arm’s length.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Marchioness,” Mrs. Vandervoort said.

“And I yours, Mrs. Vandervoort.” Francesca tucked her tatting back in her chatelaine and stood. “Evelyn, dear, I am so pleased about your good news.” She turned to Merry. “Merry, if I might have a word with you outside, we can leave these ladies to their business.”

“Of course, madame,” Merry said.

“Good day, then. And,” Francesca paused on her way through the door and pinked up prettily, “may I wish you every happiness on your upcoming marriage, Mrs. Vandervoort.”

“Thank you, Marchioness.”

After Francesca and Merry left, Mrs. Vandervoort turned to Evelyn. “Your mother is a charming lady.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn said proudly, gesturing toward a chair. “Won’t you be seated? May I ring for some tea?”

“Thank you, no.” In one fluid, economical movement, Mrs. Vandervoort took the offered chair and placed her jet-beaded purse in her lap.

“I have wonderful news,” Evelyn began without preamble, retaking her seat behind her aunt’s desk. “Mr. Powell is willing to let us rent the abbey for April.”

Mrs. Vandervoort nodded calmly. She was a woman used to having her wishes granted. It probably seldom occurred to her to wonder about the difficulties she posed for those to whom she gave the task of fulfilling her wishes. “Excellent.”

“There is only one caveat.”

“And that is?”

“Mr. Powell insists he be allowed to remain at the abbey.”

Mrs. Vandervoort betrayed no discernable reaction. “I see. And you have explained that this is my wedding?”

“Yes, but Mr. Powell is an ornithologist.”

Her brows angled sharply up. “Is he? I fail to see the connection. There are presumably other areas in Great Britain where one might see birds?”

“Not the bird Mr. Powell is interested in, a very rare species he discovered himself.”

“Oh? And what is the name of this newly discovered species?”

Luckily, in spite of not actually knowing Latin, Evelyn had an excellent memory.
“Bubo Formosa Plurimus.”

Mrs. Vandervoort, in the process of opening her purse, looked up, startled.

“You have heard of it?”

“I? No, indeed.” She did not offer an explanation for her look of surprise and, after a second, Evelyn went on. “Mr. Powell is adamant that he must be at the abbey for the spring migration, but he promises to be completely undetectable.” He’d actually promised nothing of the sort, but she’d see to it that he remained out of sight even if she had to lock him in his room herself.

“I see.” Mrs. Vandervoort tilted her head. “What is your opinion of Mr. Powell’s offer, Lady Evelyn?”

“I think it is very likely your only option if you wish to be wed at North Cross Abbey.”

“A hardheaded man, then? Rude, domineering, arrogant? His grandfather was.”

Evelyn did not hesitate. “No. I found him quite amiable, actually.”

“Surely, if he’s so easygoing he might be . . .” Mrs. Vandervoort trailed off suggestively.

“Amiable, not tractable,” Evelyn said. “I don’t think he’s likely to change his mind once it’s made up.”

“Then we shall accept his terms.” Mrs. Vandervoort opened the small beaded bag and from it she withdrew a bank cheque. She held it out to Evelyn. “This should cover your expenses for the next few weeks.”

Evelyn stood and reached across the desk. “Thank you. And please, don’t concern yourself with Mr. Powell. Everything will be lovely.”

Mrs. Vandervoort stood, also. The interview was at an end. “I depend on it. And on you.”

“I won’t fail you, Mrs. Vandervoort. You will have a wedding people will talk about for years to come.”

“Bunny will be pleased. Now, I shall send you a guest list at the end of the week. You can expect a small but exclusive number. Fifty or thereabouts, including the servants.”

“I shall look for it in the post.” Evelyn came round from behind the desk.

“When will you leave for the abbey?”

“As soon as possible. Ten days or so. Mr. Powell led me to understand it is in substantial need of attention.”

“Then I leave everything in your capable hands. And thank you for introducing me to your mother. Her style is internationally acknowledged.” Mrs. Vandervoort moved to the door. Her hand on the brass doorknob, she paused. “You say Miss Molière dresses her?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said enthusiastically. “She is true genius.”

“Does she dress you, also?”

The question took Evelyn by surprise. “No.”

“If she is as good as you say and your mother’s example testifies, why not?”

Evelyn blinked. “I have never had an occasion to make use of her talents. I don’t go to balls.”

For a brief instant, Evelyn had the oddest feeling that Edith Vandervoort almost smiled, but the instant passed, and when the American spoke, her voice was perfectly cool. “A ball isn’t the only occasion upon which a woman might wish to look her best.”

Evelyn found this personal turn of conversation uncomfortable. Besides, of what possible concern could her wardrobe be to Mrs. Vandervoort? Being Evelyn, the journey from thought to vocalization was a short one. “Of what possible concern can my wardrobe be to you, Mrs. Vandervoort?”

There was no chill of reproach in Evelyn’s voice, only honest curiosity, and Mrs. Vandervoort reacted accordingly. “You will be present at my wedding and its preliminary celebrations. No matter in what capacity you are there, your appearance reflects on me. I should like it to be unremarkable, and for you to be unremarkable amongst my friends, you must be dressed in the most au courant styles.”

“I see.” And she did. But she didn’t see what she could do about it. Her family was comfortable but by no means wealthy, which was one of the reasons her aunt Agatha had gone into business in the first place. Evelyn’s income did not extend to a frivolous, expensive, and unserviceable wardrobe. “I’ll do my best to remain out of sight.”

Mrs. Vandervoort released a little sigh of impatience. “And how much more comfortable would my friends be, Lady Evelyn, with you dodging behind potted palms whenever they entered a room? Besides, your pride would never suffer it.”

“Oh?” Evelyn said a trifle stiffly.

“Come, Lady Evelyn. I see pride in you only because I’m so familiar with its company myself.”

The admission surprised Evelyn. She wouldn’t have thought Edith Vandervoort a perceptive woman.

“What do you suggest, then?” she asked, mindful that the pride Mrs. Vandervoort had perceived was even less likely to allow her to admit she couldn’t afford such clothes.