Cynthia Bailey Pratt (23 page)

Triumphantly, he pulled away a round cushion near the arm of the settee. Behind it was a leather bag, its mouth pulled up tight by a drawstring. The young clerk lifted it with a grunt, and swung it slowly to the table. When it touched down, it gave out a clink that had something half-musical, half-industrial in its note.

Danita reached slowly out and touched the bag. Its dark surface gave slightly beneath her fingers and the clink repeated. “How much is in here?”

“Fifty,” Mr. Eaves said, as pleased as though the money were his own. “Fifty round ‘uns.”

“Did Mr. Kitson say what it is for?”

A guilty expression crossed Eaves’s face and he clapped a hand to the breast of his slightly shiny coat. “That he did. In this here letter. He said I was to give it to you as soon as I saw you. So sorry, miss.”

Smiling, Danita said, “Never mind. Give it to me now.”

Sorted from the solicitor’s exquisite language, the letter simply said that the money was an advance on her annuity to supply any wants she might find. Until young Mr. Clively came home or sent word, there could be no settlement of his father’s estate. Mr. Kitson closed by saying that young Eaves was entirely trustworthy, and, should Miss Wingrove require any aid once he himself returned to London, he hoped she would call on Mr. Eaves.

“Mr. Kitson speaks very highly of you.” The young clerk turned red and wriggled at this unexpected praise. “I wonder if, on your way, you might deliver a note for me?”

“I’m to do anything you want, Mr. Kitson says.”

Danita went to the writing desk and quickly moved her pen across a half-sheet of paper. “If you would just hand this in at Number 15, across the street? Thank you, Mr. Eaves.”

“No, no, I’m right glad to help a lady like you. Those sandwiches were just the ticket. Mum’ll wonder that I don’t make a better dinner.”

Walking with him to the door, Danita said, “Perhaps one day I might have the pleasure of meeting your mother. And you have sisters?”

“Yes, I certainly do! Three!” he answered like a man embarrassed by riches.

“I envy you. I have none. Why not give me your direction so I may call on them? I don’t know many people in Bath, yet.”

Mr. Eaves hesitated. “Maybe I’d better ask her. I know she’d be happy to see you, but some days...”He mentally reviewed the washing and the baking and the multifarious toils with which mothers seemed to occupy their days.

“I quite understand. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eaves.” She shook hands with him, a procedure that left him speechless. As he left the morning room, she thought that his mother must be a good woman. Certainly her son had turned out more promisingly than a certain duke she knew, whose mother doted on him to the point of spoiling his character.

Danita waited one moment, until she heard the front door close. Then, she jerked at the string of the leather bag and plunged her hand among the cold coins that seemed to fall in around her questing fingers. She brought out her fist and let all but three sovereigns tumble back into the bag with a sound like heavy rain.

She went to look out the window beside the writing desk while Mr. Eaves executed his commission. She could imagine Sir Carleton’s butler debating with himself on whether to deliver this note immediately. The hour had gone five, the quietest time of the day. Tea was over, dinner not yet begun. She did not know what gentlemen did when at home in the late afternoon, but the ladies would be thinking of the night ahead while they reserved their energies for the fatiguing task of dressing in their best. Was Sir Carleton thinking of his next gamble? Or did he sit in a comfortable chair, reading the book he’d purchased at Godwin’s the day they’d met there? In either case, did a thought of her cross his mind?

She almost did not notice the opening of the door across the way. When Sir Carleton came out, though, her attention was caught and held. He walked quickly, not coming toward her, but going away down the street. His head, beneath the dark hat, did not even turn in her direction.

Without stopping to think, Danita ran out of the morning room, through the foyer and, leaving the door open behind her, down the steps. Her closed hand held to her bosom and the other holding up her skirt, she dashed after Sir Carleton. She had, after all, caught up with him once before.

“Sir, sir!”

Windows flew up and lace-trimmed heads emerged. Front doors and scullery doors opened and servants peered out. Two chairmen passing with their burdensome passenger stopped to rest and to stare, while the elderly woman inside shook her head at the goings-on of the modern generation. Danita saw them, but she did not care. Her cheeks were red already.

When his pace slowed, she saw his broad shoulders drop. He turned and she would have had to be blind to mistake the impatience on his face. “Miss Wingrove?” he asked, but not as though glad to see her.

“I ... I wrote you a note,” she said, breathless.

“I received it. Unfortunately, pressing matters require that I postpone the pleasure of responding to it immediately. I had no notion that your requirements were so much more urgent than my own. How may I be of service to you?”

This was not the man she had come to know so well, or at least to feel she knew well. She felt it was only good manners that kept him from bringing out his watch to indicate his haste. His entire expression was one of boredom, polite enough not to yawn in her face but nothing more.

“I thought I should give you these,” Danita said, holding out her hand. Somewhere along the street, one of the coins must have flown out, for only two golden circles left impressions on her hot hand. “You needn’t worry,” she said, her voice unusually high. She gulped and went on, “I have plenty now.”

Sir Carleton bowed, and Danita came close to hating him. “I’m obliged to you, Miss Wingrove. You must see, however, that I cannot take them. Certainly not in the open street. I am no mendicant, Miss Wingrove.”

“Stop calling me that!” Oh, but she could have died. His eyebrows rose in mild disapproval, as though she were a brat misbehaving in public. And she felt like one, though without the privilege of biting, kicking, and screaming. With an effort, she brought herself under control. “Won’t you tell me what I have done to ... to displease you? Yesterday...?”

“If you’ll pardon me, Miss...that is, my engagement is most pressing. Please,” he said, and for a moment, it seemed he would reach out to her. “Please, go home. You mustn’t behave in this way. Not after all ...”

“Very well.” She took no step, however. There must be some way of returning to their old lighthearted footing. She smiled at him, biting her lip. “I never thanked you for writing to the Massinghams. You knew Miss Lucy could never keep a secret.”

“You are mistaken. I did not write.”

“Then what secret about you is Miss Lucy hiding?”

“Is she hiding something? How intriguing.” He did fumble for his watch at the edge of his waistcoat. “Now, if you please, Miss Wingrove, I must go and I am reluctant to leave you until I see that you are safely returned home.” His amber eyes burned into hers as though willing her away.

“All right, then. Good afternoon, Sir Carleton.” She spun about, tossing over her shoulder, “I suppose you are off to some awful gambling den or other. One would think a man of your talents could find something better to do with his time.”

“You know nothing of my true talents. Are you never going to walk on?”

There was a teasing note in his voice that sounded like the man she knew. But, with one swift lift of her eyelashes, she saw he still wore that curiously frozen face. With a toss of her head, she went back up the street, her back strenuously straight.

Irresistibly, she looked back as she mounted the steps. He had not waited for her to reach the door. Sir Carleton walked away with an aggressively swift stride, arms swinging as though in time to a martial beat. Danita opened her hand to gaze at two rejected sovereigns and wondered what had become of the third. It seemed almost laughable to her that the first thing she’d done with her new-found fortune was throw money away. This idea amused her so much that tears traced their way down her face.

Sir Carleton had made it plain that if she accompanied him to the card party, her obligation to him would be discharged. Obviously, he felt it was best that their association was to end there, as well. He had only stopped to speak with her at the Assembly because he felt some lingering gratitude for his triumph that other night, though she knew she had nothing to do with it.

Danita had written to him playfully and impulsively, longing to share again that easy commerce of mind they’d seemed to know in each other’s company. If she’d stopped to think, she would have realized how condescending he must find her gesture.

Danita dismissed this thought. She’d never thought of herself as being superior to Sir Carleton. How could she, for what had she been on their first meeting? Unless he was a fool, which he was not, he must know that her feelings for him were…

Heedless of those curious eyes that still gazed upon her, Danita sat down on the first step. She put the coins beside her and contemplated them, her chin on her hands. Taxing her memory, she tried to recall whether she’d fallen in love with Carleton Blacklock at first sight, or whether she’d waited an entire five minutes. Had it been when he first turned those wicked eyes on her, or at the first sound of his laughing voice, making light of the rain, the proprieties, and himself?

Danita snatched up the coins. Once more she went down the steps of Number 12, but this time with greater deliberation, though no one would have stopped her. Crossing the street, she knocked at Sir Carleton’s door. “Excuse me,” she said to the dour-faced butler. “As Sir Carleton passed, he pulled out a handkerchief and I saw these two sovereigns fly out of his pocket. I tried to alert him but he didn’t see me. Would you return them to him when he comes home?”

“Certainly, Miss Wingrove. Do you care to leave a note?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think it’s necessary. Just tell him how I found them, won’t you?” Her smile was so beguiling, the butler resolved to wait up for Sir Carleton’s return, even though it was not in the usual course of his duties.

The following day, Danita was restless as one waiting for a thunderstorm to break. The Massingham sisters were invited for a quiet supper, at Danita’s invitation. Surprisingly, Mrs. Clively had not objected in the least, merely sighing and saying, “I suppose I shall have no influence over you now, except that of an older and wiser head.”

* * *

When the letter from Sir Carleton had arrived in Damingford, Miss Millicent Massingham had lost no action. Lies were being told and lies were wrong. If lies were wrong, they must be stopped, preferably at the source. Lucy had thought the summons terribly exciting, but it is doubtful, without her sister’s stern presence of mind, whether Miss Lucy alone would have acted.

As it was, the hotel was left in charge of the cousin who would inherit it someday, their bags packed, and their journey-money paid. Their arrival in Bath had the desired effect. Unfortunately, Lucy had forgotten Sir Carleton’s request that Miss Wingrove know nothing of their reason for coming.

As they prepared themselves for the supper at Number 12, Lucy said, “He looked right through me, though I think perhaps he smiled. I made a sign to him that his secret was quite safe.”

“What sign?” Millicent demanded. Lucy demonstrated. “How vulgar! From whom did you copy that disgusting motion?”

“Bert.”

“The butcher’s boy! Lucy, will you never grow up? I suppose you made this ‘sign’ before Danita’s very eyes, so that she could not but guess that you and Sir Carleton had some secret. The girl isn’t entirely devoid of intelligence.”

“She couldn’t have noticed. At least, I don’t think she could have. You know what I think?”

“How can I? How can anyone?”

Lucy went on, unheeding. “I think Danita quite admires Sir Carleton. And so does Berenice.”

“I suppose you will tell me next that Mrs. Clively has developed a
tendre
for him as well. Truthfully, Lucy, of all the widgeons...!”

“No, Mrs. Clively doesn’t like him at all.”

“Exactly proper. May I remind you that she recently was deprived of her husband? It would be highly remiss in her to form any new attachments, no matter how charming the man.”

“So,” Lucy crowed, “you find him charming, too!”

“Yes, I am still fool enough for that. But you needn’t trouble to add
me
to your list of his admirers.”

Miss Millicent Massingham would have scorned to admit that she knew there existed any such thing as “atmosphere.” Despite her long experience in her ladies’ hotel, she had never felt the least excitement when emotions ran high. Often she had witnessed quarrels of one nature or another. Whether concerning friendships inexplicably broken, items misplaced, or petty jealousy. Miss Massingham was of the opinion the entire business could be settled by the exercise of a little common sense. She was not interested in emotional details, and refused to listen to the masterly summings-up offered by her sister.

Nevertheless, from the time she’d first entered Number 12 New Bond Street Buildings, she’d known something was amiss. It made her peevish. She did not wish to go there for supper, but Danita had been pressing, and both Berenice Clively and Lucy had pleaded. Millicent thought that friendship quite unsuitable and shuddered to think what might transpire if Miss Clively took up Lucy’s invitation to come and stay in Damingford.

“Such a pleasant dining room,” she said politely, entering just slightly behind her nominal hostess.

“If it is, I am afraid it is none of my doing. We took the house as it stands.” Mrs. Clively sighed as she sat in the chair the butler held for her. “You must forgive me. Miss Lucy, for not inviting any men. When Danita told me ... that is, I thought it would be too much for me to have a great deal of fuss made. And of course, it is perhaps not quite proper to have a large party so soon after....” She sighed once more.

Lucy began to wish she had not come. Millicent had said something about a house of mourning when the subject of dinner was first put forward, but dear Berenice had insisted.