Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (17 page)

Simmons’s voice carried from outside the door. “Master Isaac? Are you in there?”

“Yes,” Lord Dalry replied in an irritated voice.

“Is Miss Pierson with you?” Simmons demanded.

Lord Dalry crossed his arms with a sigh, clearly frustrated that we’d been interrupted at such a crossroad. “Yes.”

“And your chaperone?”

“Honestly. Have you any idea how ridiculous this is!” Lord Dalry turned and argued with the door. “Do you truly think you have to monitor us?”

“You can shut all the doors you want after you’re married,” Simmons replied. “But for now you will open this door!”

Lord Dalry pinched his nose in a rare gesture of exasperation but then wordlessly crossed the room and opened the door.

With an armload of books, Simmons cast his hooded gaze at the two of us, then sniffed. “The next time I catch the two of you alone—”

“Spare us,” Lord Dalry said, returning to me. “I’m in no mood for a lecture. Have you work to do here?”

Simmons deposited his books on the desk and began to lay them out. “Yes. If I were you, I’d hurry along. Lord Pierson was quite impatient when I left, and that was ten minutes ago.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Lord Dalry returned to me and offered his arm. “Miss Pierson, if I may see you to your father.”

Though I took his offered arm, I did not look directly at him. For I still had not made out whether or not his logic was faulty or whether his speech angered me.

“I wouldn’t let her show up looking like that.” Simmons opened a desk drawer and thumbed through files. “Her eyes are positively red, and if there’s anything his lordship hates, it’s weepy eyes.”

Lord Dalry flashed him a warning look.

“That reminds me.” Simmons patted his pockets, looking for something. “Lady Beatrice sent a note, demanding explanation
as to why Miss Pierson’s neglected her duty. I thought I placed it . . .” He frowned. “Well, never mind. Her ladyship will only accept explanation from you. Best pencil her into your day, as well.”

At the threshold, Lord Dalry gave him a slight bow. “Fine.”

Shafts of sunlight filled the front of the house as Lord Dalry shut the door and frowned at it.

His behavior was so curious, I hugged myself and inquired, “Why don’t you care for Simmons? Does he not have great potential too?”

“Hmm,” was Lord Dalry’s disinterested reply.

“What about Kate?” I ventured, testing this new theory. Part of me longed to believe what he’d said about my father, but so far, my stepfather’s teachings seemed more sensible—believe only what you see. “What are her prospects?”

Lord Dalry’s expression was poised as he turned his full attention on me, making it impossible to tell his thoughts. “She’s a generous, funny little soul, isn’t she?”

I said nothing. His answer was of no help.

“When we reach the library,” Lord Dalry instructed en route, “I recommend you call your father Papa.”

“Papa?” I felt so stunned I stopped walking.

“Yes. Besides the fact that all the fashionable young ladies call their father that, it will go a long way toward winning his heart.”

“You mistake me. I have no desire to win him.”

Lord Dalry’s gaze gave the impression that he saw through my dissembling. “I’m only trying to be of assistance. If you wish to break through this wall separating you, start by calling him Papa.”

I frowned, pulling my shawl tight, deciding that Lord Dalry might choose to walk in the realm of possibilities, but I would keep my feet on the solid ground of reality.

Nonetheless, upon reaching the library, I carefully studied
my father’s features as he gave me instructions on how to answer his social correspondences. In vain I searched for a hint that he, too, desired relationship.

His jaw tense, he jabbed his finger toward a basket of posts. “Any invitations from a marquis or higher rank, set aside. I may need to attend those events. Decline all others. Listen carefully, for this will be your duty for some time. Members of the royal household receive embossed stationery with our emblem.” He splayed his fingers over a stack of papers. “Tell Simmons when we are low. It takes a month to order new.” He turned toward me suddenly, his face distrustful. “Don’t waste it. It costs over a pound a sheet!”

Seeing that he expected some sort of reply, I managed, “Y-yes, sir.”

“For those of our rank, use the vellum with my monogram. Those below our rank, use plain paper and make certain to affix it with this seal.” He set forth a brass. “Otherwise, use the gold seal, the larger one for royalty.” He paused, looking over the table. “Unless it’s Baron Van Tross. Set any of his aside. Do not read them. Oh yes, and for the speaker of the House of Commons, use the monogrammed vellum. I don’t need to cause problems between him and Isaac.”

He dumped his instructions upon me too quickly to grasp them fully, then gruffly demanded, “Am I clear?”

While his instructions weren’t, his nonverbal cues were—I was expected to agree. Across the chamber, Lord Dalry also gave me a quick nod, as if to say that now was the hour to call him Papa.

I tightened hands into fists, refusing to reward my father by calling him Papa while he was in that temper. “Yes,
sir
.”

“See to it, then.” My father placed his hand on my back and steered me toward the hall, past where Lord Dalry stood at the threshold. He thrust the basket of correspondence into my hands and the door closed behind me, but I heard my father say,
“Russell is intending to ask for an increase in the Navy. I want you to have an argument prepared, ready to send to Palmerton by tomorrow, as to why we should approach Russia with negotiations about manning the Baltic first . . .”

I listened until his voice drifted to the other end of the library, then hugged the basket against my stomach.

Knowing Simmons occupied my former chamber, I tested the room where I’d met Lady Beatrice and found it open. With a sigh, I dumped half the basket’s contents onto the small desk. The sheer number of invitations amazed me. It would take me hours to finish the task.

The first post I opened was from someone titled Master of the Horse. I frowned, not knowing the rank. It sounded as if it had something to do with the queen, which would have meant the expensive stationery. Yet that felt wrong.

Someone sniffled loudly from the direction of the settee. Frowning, I turned and found Kate sullenly watching me, her lower lip trembling and her downcast eyes glistening.

All at once, I wondered if that was how I must have appeared to Lord Dalry—childish and full of self-pity. Despite myself, I smiled, then chuckled at the image.

She stood, lifting a haughty chin.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” I said, trying to hold in my smile, determined not to allow myself to act in such a manner again. “I’m so sorry. That was awful of me.”

She blinked as if considering, then raced to me and flung her arms about my waist. “It’s not all your fault,” she cried, her tone plaintive. “I heard Isaac tell Mama we’d have to take care, as you had your father’s temperament, and Mama told me I would need to be extra patient with you.”

I stiffened, not certain what to make of that statement. Rather than tackle it, I redirected her. “Any chance you can help me sort through the ranks?”

Kate peered over her shoulder before releasing me to skip
over to the basket. Drawing out a large handful of posts, she said, “Don’t let your father find out you’ve not properly memorized precedence. Isaac also told Mama that Lord Pierson is angry at how poorly you were educated.”

I did my best to look aloof, though each word stung. Starting a pile of letters, I shrugged. “Well, he has no one to blame but himself.”

Kate’s amused eyes met mine. “That’s what Mama said too!”

Gold wax oozed from beneath the signet, and the smell of burnt paper filled the air. The last
We regretfully must decline
had been penned. I set the seal aside and massaged my cramped hands.

I reached my arms over the desk to loosen my shoulders, then sank against the back of my chair. I’d sent Kate to bed hours ago when her yawns became contagious, but now I was the one hardly able to keep my eyes open. Sun stretched across the room, warming my dress, tempting me to nap. I shut my eyes, but to stay awake, I favored a mental picture I kept of Edward. Once again, I recalled how pale he looked that morning in the front parlor of Maplecroft, knowing he would soon leave. How well I recalled his silent anguish and how tightly he held my hands in his.

“It’s just for a little while,”
he had whispered between kisses near my ear.
“This too shall pass, and nothing will ever separate us again.”

I’d clung to his neck, sobbing.

“We’ve always done this,”
he’d assured me.
“Just one more separation. That’s all this is. Just one more.”

A bell clanged in the front hall, breaking my train of thought. All morning men had come in and out, most of them seemingly important.

Careful to keep the floorboards from creaking, I crept to the door and peeked out. Kinsley plodded past, keys jangling at his hip. The brass ring looked all the heavier against his frailness.

When the door swung open, a middle-aged gentlewoman entered and dropped a travelling bag. She looked around her as she tugged off gloves, then unwrapped a veil from around her hat and face. She viewed the towering balconies of London House with an air of disgusted familiarity.

Kinsley shut the door and took up the silver tray next to it. “Your card, please, miss.”

The woman turned and faced him, her movements as elegant as her dress. “Kinsley?” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you not recognize me?”

“Miss Josephine never sees visitors without a card. Your card, please.”

“Miss Josephine?” She stooped into his view. Tears coated her voice. “Kinsley, look at me. Who am I?”

The butler raised a trembling hand as clarity filled his eyes, and he clutched her fingers. “Why, Miss Moray! How delightful.”

Her eyes crinkled with emotion, exposing crow’s-feet.

I slid from behind the door and entered the hall, trying to look as dignified as I could. Holding my head high, I approached her. “May I help you?”

She scarcely gave me a glance before waving her gloves toward her satchel. “Yes, take my bag to my room. Ask the housekeeper if you aren’t sure which one it is. Then run and inform Miss Pierson that Miss Moray, her lady’s maid, has arrived. Do not dawdle in your task or I shall inform your mistress of your slovenly habits.”

Cool anger filled me. “I am Miss Pierson.”

Steel-blue eyes bored into me as Miss Moray surveyed me from head to toe. Strands of iron grey intermingled in her dark hair, tightly pulled into a bun. She blinked, alternating her stare between the grandfather clock and me, as though timing her silence. When she had redeemed enough seconds to satisfy her, she folded her arms. “Yes, I see traces of Lord Pierson, but I only served Lady Pierson while she lived. Go
fetch your father. I highly doubt I am the lady’s maid he wishes to employ.”

Memory of Nancy’s freckled face clashed with the dreadful woman before me. I highly doubted she was the right person for the job either. Attempting to regain control, I gave her a cold look. “You will remain here. Touch nothing.”

Miss Moray lifted a proud eyebrow.

My steps felt stiff as I turned and opened the library door. The chamber was empty. I glanced over my shoulder and saw her tapping her foot with contempt. Rather than allow her to see my vain search, I set out to find James, in hopes he’d know my father’s whereabouts.

Near the back of the house I caught a strong whiff of cigars, followed by the sound of my father’s voice. Knowing I was supposed to have spent my life in a finishing school, I resisted the urge to fly into the chamber. Instead, I inspected my dress, smoothed my hair, then rapped on the door.

After some shuffling, my father opened the door, holding a cigar. His face flushed red and his eyes narrowed. “Gentlemen,” he managed in a calm voice, “my daughter.”

Behind him, two men rose and hastily hid their cigars behind their backs. They both bowed. The younger one’s eyes beamed mischief beneath his dark brows.

My father set his cigar on a nearby table and urged me into the hall. “If you’ll please excuse us.” The moment the door shut, my father grabbed my arm. I winced in pain, which only infuriated him further. “Do you have any idea how important those men are? What on earth merits disturbing me in the middle of a meeting?” He stalked down the hall, maintaining a firm grip.

“Miss Moray is here. She . . . she accused me of not being Lady Pierson’s daughter.”

My father’s eyes bulged. “Where?”

I pointed before I remembered to answer verbally, but he’d already dropped me and stormed toward the main hall.

My arm throbbed. I despised him, and I wanted to knock down every painting in the hallway. Yet, determined not to show emotion before Miss Moray, I composed my features, then hurried down the corridor after him.

In the front hall, Miss Moray clutched her bonnet by the ribbons, with a demure, empty expression, as she listened to my father. She lifted her gaze to me and curtsied as I entered.