Corey McFadden (27 page)

“Oh dear, I think either choice is a dreadful one,” she replied, uncertainly. “My cousin and aunt are home now, and, of course, the boys, unless they are locked away in the dungeon as they so often are, roam the house at will. And the servants—they’re always running to and fro. Why, anyone at all could see you.”

“The wall it is, then,” he pronounced. “It will be easier going down than up—faster at any rate.”

“Are there vines for you to hold onto?” she asked. “I’ve never really been back to the mews now that I think of it.”

“Indeed, the vines are what got me up here. I shall tell your aunt to have them cut down at once. Can’t risk Sir Richard wending his way up to your bedroom in hopes of a delightful interlude.”

“Julian, good heavens, what a dreadful thought!” Elspeth couldn’t help laughing at the idea of the very elderly Sir Richard, working his inexorable way up the vines, hand over hand....

“I must go now, my love. I’ve taken too many risks with your reputation as it is.” He took her hands again and squeezed them tight.

“Julian, what are we going to do?” she asked. “I know you think you can cry off, and I love you beyond all things, but I cannot for the life of me....”

He silenced her with a kiss. This time it was not gentle, but hard, demanding, possessive, his tongue circling hers, lips devouring her own.

At last, he lifted his face from hers. “Now, then. You must trust me, my love,” he whispered. “I will solve the problem, I promise you that. One way or another you will be my wife, not Caroline. Sooner rather than later. Believe me.” He brushed his lips past hers one more time, then in a heartbeat lifted himself over the windowsill. For a brief moment she saw him outside the window; then he was gone.

She stood rooted to the spot, hardly daring to breathe, listening to the faint rustling that came from outside the window. Then there was silence. She crossed over to the window, took a deep breath and leaned out. Scanning up and down the length of the mews, she saw nothing, no Julian, no carriages, no stable hands. She closed the window and made her way over to the bed, stretching herself out on it. She smiled slowly, deliciously to herself as the memory of his wayward hands and lips washed over her. He loved her. And he would find a way. She knew it.

Chapter Twelve

Edgar admired the way the Viscountess Alderson snapped her card onto the somewhat tarnished silver tray held at a precarious slant by a somewhat disheveled, somewhat unnerved footman. “At once, my man,” she announced. “Tell...her ladyship”—Edgar noted the marked hesitation that fairly dripped condescension—“that I haven’t all day.” The queen herself should be taking lessons in intimidation from this woman.

“Yes, ma’am, of course, your…uh…at once…your…ah…ladyship.” The boy nearly fell over trying to bow and work out the correct form of address at the same time, not to mention hanging onto the silver tray bearing its precious card. Given the state of affairs in the dim and dusty household, it was apparent he was not used to afternoon calls from the Quality.

The footman turned to go, then, obviously in a moment of horror, realized he couldn’t very well walk off and leave an actual viscountess leaning on her cane in the hallway in the dark. “If I might show your ladyship to the drawing room, ma’am?” he offered, in something of a squeak. The boy seemed barely out of leading strings, and had no business having charge of the front door.

“Indeed,” came the dry reply. At least the boy seemed to remember which room was the drawing room, and he moved to throw open the double doors, or, at least, he attempted to do so, since they seemed to stick abominably. At last the hinges gave up the fight, and the doors creaked very noisily open.

The viscountess stepped through with a sniff, waving her hand at the hapless footman. “Be off with you, boy, and find your mistress. We can see to ourselves here.” Bowing and murmuring, the boy took himself off. The Viscountess Alderson, true to her word, seemed perfectly capable of seating herself sans formal invitation. She did so, on a nasty little occasional chair, but the cloud of dust that resulted was not encouraging to Edgar, who rather suffered from an unfortunate allergy. He moved to the mantelpiece and stood with a hand cast negligently upon it, attempting to look urbane and at ease but failing somewhat, he had no doubt.

Gnarled and elegantly thin hands gripped the gold ball atop her cane; the Viscountess Alderson neither spoke nor looked at him. He could be on the moon for all she appeared to notice or care. The woman was terrifying under the best of circumstances, and these must certainly be among the worst. She held his fate in her bony, aristocratic hands. She could, if she so chose, destroy him socially this very afternoon, and he would have no reasonable course or entree open to him after that. She had said nothing in the carriage on the way here, either encouraging or discouraging. Not for the first time today, Edgar blessed the poverty that had kept him from breakfast and lunch. He wouldn’t have wanted to add fearsome nausea to the discomfort he was feeling.

“Now then, Mr. Randall...” she finally began. When she did speak, it made him start like a guilty schoolboy. Well, he was guilty, when it came to that. “You are likely to hear things during this visit that I emphatically do not wish repeated. If these things become the current
on dit
in the Baths and Assembly Rooms, I shall know precisely whom to blame, and it will not go well with you. I hope I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Why, of course, Lady Alderson. In spite of all appearances to the contrary, I am very good at holding my tongue when necessary.” A raised eyebrow was the only reply. Edgar did feel a bit insulted, but, then again, it was the curse that went along with being known as an exquisite gossip. No one would ever believe he could keep a secret. Still, his finely honed curiosity had pricked up. Something deliciously wicked was coming, he had no doubt.

From above he heard a few thumps and bumps, as if someone were rushing about slamming drawers. No doubt Lady Haverford had been taken unawares by the very August Presence of the Viscountess Alderson in her drawing room. Such an unprecedented Appearance would no doubt cause havoc and consternation upstairs. While one was expected to keep a visitor waiting, particularly an unexpected one, there were unwritten rules about how long the wait should be, all relative to one’s respective position in society. If he knew nothing else, Edgar knew his Dugdale’s Baronage, and also knew, therefore, that Lady Haverford, as a widow of a mere baronet, had better find her way posthaste to the drawing room, where the widow of a viscount was cooling her satin-shod heels at this moment.

It seemed to take longer than it should have, although, to be sure, time certainly crawled under the fish-eye stare of an annoyed viscountess, but finally Lady Haverford made a flustered and very nearly disheveled appearance at the balky drawing room doors.

“My dear Viscountess Alderson!” she exclaimed as she rushed, breathless, into the room. “How extraordinarily kind of you to call. And Mr. Randall. What a pleasant surprise.” That the woman was utterly baffled and discommoded was apparent from the expression on her face. She started over to one of the infernal small tables that infested drawing rooms all over England, then stopped in some obvious confusion. “And so remiss of my staff not to have provided you with refreshment! How dreadful you must think me! Hanley!” she shouted, having turned back to the doors, which stood open.

“Now then, we’ll have tea in just a moment!” the baronet’s widow proclaimed, as if that were the solution to all of life’s difficulties. Quite often that was so, although, Edgar feared, not this time.

There was a short, awkward silence. Edgar could almost see Lady Haverford trying to work out in her mind what this could possibly be about, and what her next remark should be. He’d feel sorry for her if the scene weren’t so amusing to watch. She seemed like a butterfly trapped in a naughty boy’s jar. And for once, he was not the naughty boy, at least not directly. The viscountess, if not enjoying herself, was certainly making no effort to be agreeable or helpful. She sat rigidly upright, balanced on the gold tip of her cane, as if she had been planted there for the last millennia, staring haughty holes in her hapless hostess.

“Ah, well, the weather has been simply lovely for this time of year, hasn’t it, madam?” Lady Haverford finally ventured.

“I prefer it warmer,” came the viscountess’s icy reply. What was the woman up to? She had not cared to share her plans with Edgar in the carriage ride on the way over, and he was at something of a loss. Surely there must be some purpose to making this poor woman so very uncomfortable, but Edgar had not yet divined what it could be.

“And when will you be returning to London, Lady Alderson?” Lady Haverford inquired. Edgar had to at least give the woman credit for making a game attempt.

“When I tire of Bath,” came the unhelpful response.

There was a stir as the benighted footman came teetering in, precariously carrying a large silver tray, on which balanced a variety of pots, teacups, spoons, little cakes, and linen squares. The boy managed to get the thing deposited onto the small table. Edgar was quite sure Lady Haverford breathed a sigh of relief as the tray came to rest without mishap. He watched as she did the honors. Her hand shook just enough to rattle the porcelain teacups. To his practiced eye, it was apparent the tray and pots were plate and not silver, but well enough crafted to pass for good. On the other hand, they could use a good polish.

The cups got handed around, along with the little plates of teacakes. Edgar was feeling well enough again to partake of some nourishment. Heaven only knew when he’d get his next meal. The cakes were gritty and not fresh, but he had long ago learned not to be choosy. For a few moments there was only the sound of the faintest chinks from teacups knocking against saucers. He fancied Lady Haverford viewed this as something of a reprieve.

“Dolly, I understand you saw something unfortunate the other evening in the maze at Sydney Gardens.” Obviously choosing her own moment, the Viscountess Alderson sallied forth like a knight riding to war. Deliberately or not, she caught her hostess in mid-chew, with the hapless result of a small choking sound, and a hurried press of a small square of linen to the lips.

“I—I beg your pardon, your ladyship?” Lady Haverford finally stammered in response.

“Don’t play around the bush with me, Dolly. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” The viscountess took a small sip of her tea, not omitting a slight grimace. It did taste a bit stewed, at that. Probably had been hastily reheated below stairs.

“I…er…I assume you refer to that little incident with the Quinn girl?” Lady Haverford ventured timidly.

“What, precisely, do you think you saw, Dolly?”
asked the viscountess. She set down her cup and stared pointedly at the woman, eyebrows raised. Edgar had been on the receiving end of that particular stare not so long ago, and he did not envy Lady Haverford.

He could almost see the wheels turning inside Dolly Haverford’s head. Was the viscountess here for a naughty natter, or did she have a bone to pick with Dolly, herself, on the subject? Edgar watched while she gathered her thoughts.

“Well, I’m sure it was all such a blur, your ladyship...” Lady Haverford temporized, allowing herself to trail off. If she thought the Viscountess Alderson could be fobbed off with an inane remark like that, she did not know the viscountess terribly well.

“And what do you recall of the blur, Dolly?” The woman would have made an excellent interrogator for the Bow Street Runners.

“Er…well, Mr. Randall and I wandered into the maze…” She trailed off again, and glanced hopefully at Edgar, as if he would gallantly pick up the narrative. He would not. She turned her attention back to the viscountess, perhaps hoping that the old woman had taken a stroke and died in the last few seconds, obviating the necessity to go on. Alas, no.

The viscountess continued to gaze upon her victim, eyebrows ascendant. Edgar would give a tidy sum, had he such, to know how she did that. It was a marvelous look. He turned to the dim mirror over the mantelpiece and wiggled his eyebrows. No luck. Just looked like puny caterpillars having a nice frolic on his forehead.

Dolly Haverford took a deep breath. “And, well, it was nothing, really, just young people getting a bit ahead of themselves, that’s all.” She stopped and stared brightly at the viscountess.

“And how many people have you told this story, Dolly?” the viscountess asked.

“Oh, well, I may have mentioned it here or there, but they were engaged to be married, after all...” Lady Haverford stammered. It was clear to her now she was on the carpet, but she still was not certain why.

There was a long pause while the viscountess picked up her cup and took a tepid sip gazing coldly over the rim at the hapless baronet’s widow. After what seemed an eternity, she set the cup down.

“I seem to recall your own wedding, Dolly...” the viscountess ventured, in what sounded like pleasant, reminiscent tones.

The effect of this seemingly innocuous remark on Dolly Haverford was something along the order of a lightning bolt. The woman sat up suddenly, suppressing almost instantaneously a look of alarm, and stifling a small gasp that just managed to escape her lips.

“Do you, indeed, madam?” she squeaked. Her hands were suddenly busy in her lap, dry-washing themselves, and she licked her lips, holding them in what passed for a smile, but looked more like a rictus.

“I recall there was some question...?” The viscountess allowed her voice to trail off.

Now there was no doubt that the baronet’s widow looked fit to burst into tears, or faint, or do whatever it was ladies thought to do when confronted with some matter they emphatically did not wish to address. She slanted her eyes at Edgar, then looked imploringly at the viscountess, working her mouth, with
no sound coming out.

“Oh, you needn’t worry about our dear Mr. Randall, Dolly. He can be a veritable tomb when he chooses to be. Isn’t that right, Mr. Randall?”