Evelyn Richardson (23 page)

Bertie, who had turned quite pink with pleasure at the count's confidence in his influence, assured him earnestly that he would do his utmost.

Well-satisfied with his choice of conspirator, the count bade him adieu and hastened off for a well-deserved hour of relaxation poring over the latest arrivals at Hatchard's. He had not gone far before he caught sight of Lord Petersham. “The very man,” he chuckled slyly to himself. He was especially cordial in his greeting as he resolved to introduce this avid connoisseur to Lady Frances at the earliest possible moment. Her elegance of mind and manner, her excellent conversation, refined taste, and well-informed mind were certain to appeal to this rather eccentric peer who, despite his eccentricities, was an acknowledged judge of beauty and style. The encounter was highly successful. Petersham looked forward to meeting someone who had lived and been brought up among the aesthetic dictates of classical antiquity. Well-pleased with his morning's work, the comte gave himself up to the pleasures of Hatchard's.

Chapter Twenty-four

On the other hand, the objects of the comte’s machinations, Lady Frances Cresswell and Lord Julian Mainwaring, were having an encounter as disastrous as his had been successful. After passing a more sleepless night than he ever remembered having endured, the marquess resolved to call in Brook Street as early as it would be proper to do so. He had spent the last twelve hours trying out various speeches in his defense. As all of these sounded insufferably priggish, he threw out the lot and began phrasing apologies. But here too he was at a standstill. He could think of no combination of words that would convey his sympathy for the hurt Frances had suffered, his assurance that the opinions of Vanessa were completely without foundation or the concurrence of the ton, and a total disavowal of any interest in that manipulative woman, while still managing to retain Frances' respect. At last he tossed out all his carefully constructed phrases and resolved to be guided by the situation— an unheard-of attitude for a man known the length and breadth of the British Empire for his judicious and diplomatic conduct.

It was with some trepidation, a feeling he had not experienced since his days at Eton, that Julian knocked at Brook Street. Higgins greeted him with his usual dignity, while trying desperately to make his well-modulated “Good day, Lord Mainwaring” carry to the morning room. The butler need not have worried. Lady Frances, prey to her own unsatisfactory thoughts, had been pacing back and forth in front of the window and had witnessed the arrival of Mainwaring's curricle. With a desperate effort she stopped her perambulations and assumed a calm and dignified demeanor that was in total contrast to her feelings.

She presented a charming picture with her newly cropped curls catching the light that streamed in behind her. However, the marquess was too intent upon his mission to take in such a minor detail. In fact, in contrast to Lady Frances, he seemed singularly ill at ease. “Lady Frances,” he began abruptly, “I wish to apologize for the epi . . . ah, encounter in the perk.” He cursed himself for this bald way of putting it. Her gaze remained calm and steady, giving him no clue to her thoughts and no help in organizing his own. He began again. “I am aware that my companion ... I mean, that you may have suffered some discomfort from the ... ah ... for which I apologize.” This was hardly better, and he bit his lip uncomfortably.

Fortunately, Frances' pride and social graces came to the rescue. “Think nothing of it, my lord. If I were someone who craved public acclaim, I might have been upset, but as you know, someone with my preferences cares perhaps too little for such things. Therefore, I was not the least concerned. It is kind of you” to apologize, but I assure you I do not regard it in the least.” Lady Frances congratulated herself on her delivery. It was all she could have hoped for—rational, detached, gracious. She only wished he would leave before her carefully constructed facade crumbled into a million pieces.

Mainwaring was left with nothing to do but murmur, “You are too kind,” before bowing over her hand and departing. Once outside, however, the last shreds of his dignity disappeared. “Damn and blast! What a cowhanded fool you are, Mainwaring!” he cursed. No, he thought bitterly, it wasn't that I was so lacking in address, as that she was so completely mistress of hers. Why did she have to be so gracious and understanding? No, why did she have to be so damned cool, so completely unaffected? That last, he realized, was what tormented him. Though he sympathized intensely with the hurt he was certain he had seen in her eyes yesterday, he had secretly been glad of it because it showed him that she cared for his friendship. Today she acted as though this disastrous encounter had changed nothing between them because there had been nothing there to be changed. Infinitely more uncomfortable though it would have been, he found himself wishing that she had raged at him for spending time with someone as useless as Vanessa Welford, for allowing his mistress to be seen with him in public, for not coming to her, Frances', defense. At least then he would have known where he stood. Now, as he was beginning to be aware of just how much their friendship meant to him, she gave him ample proof of how little it meant to her. With this gloomy conclusion he was forced to be satisfied for quite some time, because the moment he arrived at Grosvenor Square, Kilson put into his hand a letter from one of his captains requesting that he come down to Plymouth to inspect a new merchantman under construction there.

Frances' hard-won composure deserted her the instant the sound of the carriage wheels died away. She sank limply into a chair and bowed her head in her hands. Wellington, sensing his mistress's distress, swallowed his scruples—he scorned lapdogs with passionate intensity—and climbed into her lap, sighing sympathetically. Frances knew she had done the only thing she could have. Under the circumstances, she had carried off the interview magnificently. Why, then. did she feel so utterly wretched? Gone was the easy camaraderie, the trust between friends. But what could she have done to change all that? Nothing. The tears slipped through her fingers onto Wellington's rough coat. He sat looking curiously up at her. This was a behavior he had never witnessed before, and he was not at all sure what he should do about it. Finally he placed a paw gravely on her hand. She gathered him closely in her arms. Much as he scorned lapdogs, he felt this was not the time to stand on principle, and contented himself with licking the tears on her cheeks. She soon came to herself. “And why should I be miserable? I have not behaved badly. I have not put a friend in an awkward situation. Come, Wellington. We need some fresh air.” Relieved to see that he had recalled her to her senses, Wellington barked his approval and frisked on ahead of her as she went to fetch a bonnet and pelisse.

Chapter Twenty-five

While Frances was taking a brisk salutary turn around the park, the other party in the contretemps was bowling along at a spanking pace toward Plymouth in a rapidly decaying frame of mind. At any other time he would have welcomed the opportunity to inspect the ship, the chance to use his brain and swap stories of foreign ports with the captain and crew. During any other Season he would have been delighted to have an excuse to leave the stuffy ballrooms, smirking young ladies, and rapacious mamas, but now he damned it as an inconvenience of the highest order. He was determined to reestablish his friendship with Frances. Recognizing her as a woman of decision and character, he realized that it would take a great deal to regain her trust in him. A campaign of such magnitude required his constant presence in London, at the halls, operas, and plays Frances was likely to attend. It was this campaign and the strategy called for, rather than the upcoming business, that occupied his mind as he tooled along, mentally rehearsing one scene after another. If anyone had told him that he would have spent that much time analyzing a relationship with anyone, much less a woman who was only passably pretty, and a bluestocking as well, he would have questioned his sanity. However, he was in no state to reflect on this departure from his usual attitudes.

He arrived at Plymouth late one evening and spent the next day walking the decks of his unfinished ship with the captain, discussing the fittings, requirements of the cargo, and the disposition of the crew. But all the while he was conscious of the small corner of his mind that dwelt on Frances and the state of her mind. Becoming aware of the direction of his thoughts, he would dismiss them with an impatient gesture and try to concentrate more deeply than ever on the business at hand, but he was never entirely successful:

Later that night he sat gazing into the fire as he lingered over his port, ruminating over the entire state of affairs. The longer he dwelt on it, the more he cursed himself for a fool in expending such thought and energy on the matter. Mainwaring, you're all about in the head to waste another second's consideration on any of it, he told himself sternly. Besides, you never wanted a friendship to develop in the first place. You should count yourself lucky, old man, to be so well out of it. Satisfied with this conclusion, he set down his glass with a decisive gesture and prepared to go to bed. He had not risen from his chair before he was overcome with such a sense of loss and emptiness that he remained staring moodily into the flames, his dark brows drawn together in a deep frown. How long he stayed that way he didn't know, until the guttering candles recalled his attention and he cursed softly to himself: “You know what's wrong with you, Mainwaring? You've fallen in love like any callow youth.” This realization, coming as it did after their recent disastrous encounter, only intensified his somber mood. He fell to thinking of Frances and all the little ways that were peculiarly hers—Frances comforting the terrified Nelson, Frances telling the children stories. Frances laughing at Grimaldi as hard as any child, or Frances looking up at him with that special teasing look of hers. He realized that the thought of life without any of that was no longer possible.

But how shall I ever set it right with her? he wondered. Ordinarily Julian Mainwaring was never at a loss for an answer. In point of fact, it was known in business and diplomatic circles that the stickier the situation, the more he enjoyed it. Nor did he ever doubt his ability to win a point in the end. Now, when so much was at stake, he found his usual confidence had vanished, leaving him with only a desperate desire to do the right thing. I mustn't fail. I can't fail! he told himself. And with that, he resolved to return to town at the earliest possible moment.

Frances, in the meantime, was allowing herself no such thoughts. On the contrary, she had thrown herself so vigorously into the social whirl that she was astounded at herself. In this endeavor she was aided and abetted by the Comte de Vaudron, who seemed to be everywhere at once.

He squired her to the opera, drove her to the park, and escorted her to a variety of routs and balls. And always he seemed to produce the most amusing companions. Following his lead, she found herself enjoying conversations that only a few months ago she would have been too shy to enter. Much to her surprise, they were not as trivial as she had imagined. Also, to her surprise, she discovered that people seemed to think she had something to say, even to find her amusing. If the shadow cast on her life by her disappointment in Mainwaring kept her from being happy, she was at least occupied and amused. And always at a distance there was the comte noticing and encouraging the change in her. With smug satisfaction he saw her respond to admiration and begin to sparkle and grow more witty.

He was congratulating himself as he stood one evening at the Mountjoys' ball watching Frances whirling around the floor with the totally captivated son and heir of the house. “You have done very well, my friend.” It was so much his own thought that it took some minutes before he realized that the dowager Marchioness of Camberly had come quietly up behind him.

“Ah, from you, Marianne, that is high praise indeed.”

She nodded at him, smiling slyly. “My grandson will have something to think about when he returns from Plymouth. He will have a run for his money.” She nodded sagely. “Not a bad thing for either of them, I should think.”

The marquess did in fact return the very next day, but in spite of an hour spent circling the park and religious attendance at a very dull ball indeed and an equally uninspiring opera, he did not lay eyes on Frances. After one particularly frustrating day spent sauntering with studied casualness along Bond Street and perusing more tomes at Hatchard's than he cared to remember, he repaired to Brooks's. His unpropitious mood was destined to be further impaired by the conversation he overheard as he entered the gaming room. “I quite agree with you, Wytham. She is all that is charming,” drawled a well-known man-about-town. “But she's quite above my touch. Don't know her that well.”

“Meaning that she knows you ain't too full in the cockloft,” interposed his friend.

“I don't argue with you, Wythy. I'm the first one to admit that I ain't all that bobbish. Now, Alvanley here is just her sort. You ask him. He seems to be quite taken with her. Leastways, he spent the longest time at the Marlowes' rout discussing some dashed picture on his snuffbox.”

“Sounds suspiciously like a regular bluestocking to me.” Wytham dismissed the subject of their conversation with an airy wave of his hand.

“That's just it, she ain't at all,” chimed in another young buck. “She's as easy to talk to as your own best friend. Don't put on all of those die-away airs. Don't expect you to bow and scrape and do the pretty all the time. I like her. I can tell you, it's a great relief to dance with a female who can laugh and who don't expect much. Besides, she's quite a taking thing too. Oh, she ain't exactly an incomparable, because she don't look like a dashed china doll, but for my money she's a lot prettier than all those peaches-and-cream misses everyone admires.” A brief pause ensued as he conjured up an image of his favorite. “Tell you what. She's got the most beautiful eyes. They look right into you. Let you know what she's thinking too,” he concluded enthusiastically.