Lady Pamela (21 page)

“The chit hasn’t a feather to fly with,” the earl had told him, “and neither have you.”

“Er, well...” The earl’s grip was iron on Lord Peabody’s arm; it hurt terribly, and Clarence was desperate to get away.

“So if my idiotish daughter has given you any ideas–”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Lord Peabody, almost gasping. “Not at all. Your daughter is a delightful young lady, but we are little more than acquaintances, you might say.”

“Excellent, excellent,” said Lord Chambers, slapping Clarence on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Then we understand each other.”

So as Lady Millicent disappeared through the doors to the garden, Lord Castlereaugh’s hand firmly on her arm, Lord Peabody turned away. What did it matter? he told himself. The chit was to be married to the man. No sense involving himself in an ugly scene that would only find him in the suds with both Castlereaugh and the Earl of Banbridge.

* * * *

The Lincolnshires’ garden was larger than one expected. Lady Pamela had strolled its neat, graveled paths during many a ball, but never had she walked them so heart-sore and defeated, regretting every moment of the last waltz, every angry word she had spoken to her partner.

She began to feel foolish. What if someone found her, alone and teary-eyed, as if she was some young miss suffering her first
coeur brisé
? She should return to the ballroom forthwith, as if nothing had happened, and continue on as before. Her dance card was full; she would not want for partners, or be forced to spend anymore time in the company of the odious, the
despicable
Duke of Grentham.

Lady Pamela started as an owl hooted loudly above her. An odd, preternatural quiet followed its call, and Pam heard no music, no sound of voices, but only the wind as it rustled through the long grasses of a meadow left
au naturel
. She looked around, realizing that, in her distraction, she had wandered far outside the bounds of the main gardens.

Had she lost her way? A brief panic seized Lady Pam; she hurried in the first direction she could think of, only to find the pathway come to its end, and a large copse of oaks looming in front of her, dark and forbidding.

A sound. Something rustling through the undergrowth, coming closer– Lady Pamela shuddered, and gasped, her heart thudding hard.

A tiny woodmouse crept onto the path, squeaked in alarm at the sight of her, and hurried back into the brush.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, thought Lady Pam, laughing at herself. Don’t be such a ninnyhammer. This is London.

People did not get lost in London. Pamela began to retrace her steps, hoping that she would soon be able to hear the orchestra, or see the lights of the ballroom as a guide. Fortunately, the moon was full and the sky clear, and she had little trouble following the path. Still, she soon realized that she had paid very poor attention to her directions, for she seemed to be approaching no nearer to the house. Perhaps, thought Pam, she was journeying in a circle. The gown she wore, so perfect within the confines of a ballroom, was not designed for a lengthy walk, and the gravel of the pathway now threatened to cut through the soft leather of her slippers.

Another woodmouse crept onto the path and stopped, frozen, at her feet. Pam and the mouse stared at each other, and she felt a sudden sense of communion with the tiny creature.

Unable to go forward, thought Lady Pamela. Unable to go back.

But she was not a mouse. She was an intelligent, rational human being, and ought not be the slave of her own fears.

Pamela sent the woodmouse scurrying to safety and hurried forward. She was growing tired and, as the cool night air cleared her head, feeling more kindly to Lord Torrance.
I never give him a chance
, she thought.
I’m so convinced of his abuse, of his dislike, that I attack before he takes the opportunity.

Running away like some little miss with the vapours.

Running away when she loved him. It was true. And the duke, thought Lady Pamela, the duke loved her as well. Somehow,
that
she had never doubted. Why did she run from a man she loved? The Duke of Grentham was no cad, no Peregrine Carroll. He was, by every account, a gentleman of kindness and integrity, qualities of which she herself had daily evidence in her dealings at Marchers.

This was stupid stuff. She had been the mistress of Edward Tremayne, the Earl of Ketrick, and that would never change. Benjamin would not be glad of that fact–what man would?–and his feelings would never change, either, but she could live with them. Live with his feelings, good and ill.

Easily.

Perhaps, thought Pam, I feel hesitant of my own behavior, my own past.

She had never felt such insecurity before. Never spared a second thought for those few gentlemen, like Lord Carroll, who had questioned her, thinking that the favours she had extended to Lord Tremayne might be theirs as well.

But she felt it now, the insecurity and doubt, with Benjamin Torrance, whom she loved. Whose opinion she valued above that of all others. She could not bear to think he thought poorly of her. She could not bear it, she must speak to him at once.
They would not argue, not ever again, she would never again take his words amiss.

Lady Pamela took
a deep breath and tossed her head, ready to return to the ball.
It will not signify. I will not allow it to signify.

She would live with her past, and her future, which was this man that she loved. She would be absolutely and gloriously content.

* * * *

’Twas time for the happy couple to be discovered, thought the earl. He had picked his current dance partner with care for the event; Lady Beatrice Harkins, an inveterate gossip, and a high-stickler who fancied herself the last bastion of good morals among the
ton
. She had spent most of the waltz complaining of her many nieces, her cousins and their daughters, and the current crop of debutantes as a whole.

“I can assure you, Lord Chambers, that in my day we were not allowed to run wild at a ball,” said Lady Harkins, sniffing in distaste at the sight of a young woman open-mouthed in laughter.

“Hmm,” said the earl.

“Such events are serious business, you know. One imagines these young people think of nothing but their own enjoyment.”

“Ah, yes,” nodded the earl. “Too true.”

“In
my
day–”

“My dear Beatrice,” said Lord Chambers, “I fear that my delight in your company has blinded me to my responsibilities. I can see, now, that the ballroom has become too stuffy for a lady of your delicate constitution–”

Lady Harkins, interrupted in mid-complaint, cooed at the unanticipated use of her Christian name. “Oh, my good sir, you are entirely correct. My constitution is of such a sensitive nature, you know, that–”

“–so let us take a turn in the gardens. For your health, of course.”

“Indeed, indeed. Sir, you are too kind.”

The earl led Lady Harkins, still cooing, toward the garden doors, and out onto the Duke of Lincolnshire’s terrace.

* * * *

Where on earth had she gone? The moonlight afforded Lord Torrance a clear view of the path ahead, but the path curved, and the surrounding bushes were so extensive and so high that he could not see more than a few yards in any direction.

It if is to be a path
, thought the duke irritably,
why can it not be made straight?
What was the point of all this absurd twisting and sweeping about, as if the directions had been marked out by a drunken sailor?

And the
yews
. The rows of enormous, never-ending yews.

A pox on all evergreens, thought Benjamin, quickening his pace. At this rate ’twould be morning before he found her.

“Lord Castlereaugh!”

A young girl’s voice, fearful–and close by. Benjamin stopped, frowning. A rustle of leaves, somewhere on the path ahead of him. Then, silence. The duke wondered if he had mistaken passion for fear and heard only a lover’s quarrel. Perhaps he should retrace his steps and not intrude upon a private moment.

“Someone help me! Please! Stop it!
Stop
it!”

’Twas no mistake. Benjamin ran toward the sound of the girl’s voice and in a few steps he discovered two people struggling upon a patch of grass, within easy sight of the pathway. An older man, on his hands and knees, holding the wrists of a young woman beneath him. The girl was fighting fiercely, trying to kick the man, her head thrashing back and forth.

“What’s this?” roared the duke. He lunged forward and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, and pulled hard. The man stumbled backwards, off-balance. Benjamin yanked him upright and, cocking his fist, knocked him back down. The man fell to his knees, yelling an obscenity. He lurched to his feet and tried to run. The duke’s arm shot out and caught him. The man howled.

“Oh, please, sir, please–” The girl’s voice, breathless. She was struggling to stand up, her hair falling around her shoulders and full of leaves. “Please let him go.”

“Let him go? Absolutely not!”

“Oh, please. If anyone finds us...if anyone finds out.”

Benjamin understood. ’Twould be the young woman’s reputation in tatters, ruined beyond repair.

“Run,” he said to the man. “Run now. Pray that I never see you again.”

The man ran.

* * * *

Lady Pamela, her heart easier than it had been in months, no longer worried that she might be lost. She followed the pathway as it turned this way and that, relaxed and confident that she would soon see a familiar area of the garden, or hear the orchestra in the distance.

As she did, just now. The strains of a lively
polonaise
wafted through the night air, accompanied by the whisper of distant voices. A few short steps and she could see the lights of the terrace, descry a few couples arm in arm, strolling the promenade.

Pam smiled and hummed the tune of the
polonaise
. She would have skipped along the path if her slippers had allowed. The slippers were near worn through, and it didn’t matter. She must look a fright, her hair half fallen from its pins–and it didn’t matter.

They would be together, her heart sang. For the Duke of Grentham had asked her hand in marriage, and she had once refused him, but she would refuse him no longer.

I will go to him at once. Go to him, and say yes.

Sudden footsteps, heavy, someone running on the gravel pathway–

“Oof! Damn ye!”

A man, hidden until the last moment by a massive, towering yew, careened into her with a muffled gasp. His eyes were wild and panicked and furious, and he said nothing, no word of apology, before racing off. It was several moments before Lady Pamela, a bit dazed by the encounter, realized who had hit her.

Lord Castlereaugh. A frightened, angry Lord Castlereaugh–and injured, it seem. For in the moment of his passing Pam had seen a cut on his cheek and a ruined neckcloth spotted in blood, together with a rapidly blackening eye.

Someone had punched Lord Nasty-Breeches.

Pamela frowned. This, she thought, boded no good. She had seen Lady Millicent Chambers–the young woman from the carriage in Hyde Park–dancing with Lord Castlereaugh earlier that evening. And she had seen that same hunted look on the young woman’s face. Lady Pamela despised the tyranny that society sometimes imposed upon its young maidens, the price that they paid for the poor judgement of their fathers. She hated the very thought of an arranged marriage.

Pamela had been enough concerned, in fact, that she had spoken to Maximilian, who had assured her that he would inveigle an introduction–somehow–and ask Lady Millicent’s hand for a dance.

“If she must be married to such a cad,” said Maximilian, “at least she can enjoy herself a bit first.”

Had
Max
hit Lord Castlereaugh? It seemed very unlike him, but if Amanda’s young cousin had been drinking, or egged on by his totty-headed friends, there was no limit to the trouble he might manage to collect.

She hurried forward and now heard a murmur of male voices, close by. One voice seemed familiar.

Lady Pamela turned a corner and saw, a half-score yards ahead, two gentlemen and two ladies, standing at the side of the gravel pathway. In the waning moonlight, close in conversation, they did not notice her, and Pam stepped quickly back, behind one of the yews. It was seconds later before she realized that she knew those people, that she recognized two–no,
three–
of the group.

Lady Millicent Chambers. The Duke of Grentham. And, heaven help us, Beatrice Harkins.

Lady Harkins was a fixture at Luton Court houseparties, and Lady Pamela had experienced enough of her gossipy, meddling ways to know that, whatever had occurred in the Lincolnshires’ gardens, it would soon be an
on dit
among the
ton
.

The gentlemen were speaking in tones too low for Pam to make out much more than an occasional word.

“–disgraced–” the one man said.

“–your daughter–” said Lord Torrance, and Pamela decided that the first man must be Lady Millicent’s father, the Earl of Banbridge.

“My heart!” This was Lady Harkins, of course, and Pamela sighed.

She risked a peek around the yew. The duke was gesturing with one hand and Pam saw what must be blood running from his knuckles. His hand was cut, it seemed. ’Twould explain the other lord’s blackened eye. . . .

Lady Millicent said nothing, and Pamela–who soon heard the words ‘bullying cur’ and ‘Castlereaugh’–began to guess what had happened.

Lord Castlereaugh had made advances upon Lady Millicent and been discovered. The bounder had been given a set-to; the duke’s injured hand, moreover, suggested it was Lord Torrance rather than the earl who had given Castlereaugh such a drubbing.

Lady Millicent was fortunate to have the duke come to her rescue, and Pamela’s heart warmed toward him even as she thought of the complications that might ensue. If Lady Harkins had not been present–what an unfortunate mischance!–Lady Millicent’s predicament might be hushed up. As it was, she would now certainly be forced to wed Castlereaugh.

Lady Pamela’s ire grew at this. To force a young woman to marry such a lecher . . .