Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (22 page)

Lord Dalry looked stricken as he met my eyes, waiting. All at once, I had the sharp realization that he truly had suffered. Only he’d dealt with it far differently than I. He kept trying to heal others, whereas I spurned them.

It was the first time we were on level ground and he was as exposed as I was.

“She said . . . ?” he prompted.

I shifted in my seat, trying to cover the fact that I’d lapsed into silence as I thought out how to handle him. “If you must know, she said you were too old to be sucking your thumb.”

His eyes widened; then he laughed that amazing, clear laugh of his. “She would remember that detail.” His entire body relaxed as he leaned back in his chair. “I’d nearly forgotten. Good gracious, she used to dip my thumb in cod-liver oil before tucking me in.” He shook his head and chuckled.

Rather than give room for a friendship to spring up between us, I fixed my cold gaze on the flames. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired and wish to retire now.”

Lord Dalry quickly stood as I started to retreat. “Miss Pierson, wait, please. There’s something very important I need to say—”

“Good night, Lord Dalry.” It hurt to dismiss him so unkindly, but it was necessary. I gave him a stiff nod, then shut the door.

A LETTER EMBOSSED with a
D
sat atop my breakfast plate the next morning. Though I’d arrived five minutes late, my father beamed and waved me to enter.

While he resurrected a wall of paper and ink, I picked up the linen stationery and frowned. It was completely improper for Lord Dalry to write when we had no formal understanding. Twiddling her fork, Kate feigned disinterest, but her gaze flitted to the note between my fingers. Even James rose up and down on his tiptoes.

I peeked at my father, who watched me from the side of his newspaper, his eyes twinkling, too overjoyed at the prospect that Lord Dalry and I were exchanging notes. I bit the inside of my cheek. It would serve him right if I ordered James to burn it. Yet my curiosity was too piqued for that extreme measure. With all his propriety, it was unlikely Lord Dalry would write unless driven by need.

The seal crumbled easily, and I unfolded the letter, aware of everyone’s scrutiny.

Miss Pierson,

Forgive this letter, yet I feel remiss leaving without finishing what I intended to say last night.

Should something greatly distress you at Lady Beatrice’s house, you have my permission to refuse to attend her. Tell your father that you are acting upon my direct instruction. He will honor my wishes until I can arrive home to defend them for myself.

Please take no such measure unless circumstances merit a drastic action. I trust your judgment on this matter, despite your Pierson temperament.

Until next we meet,

Isaac

I read his letter twice, puzzled over its entire tone. He’d ended with his Christian name. A hint that he wished me to use it? The paper crinkled as I folded the note. What on earth could he mean about refusing to attend Lady Beatrice and trusting my judgment on the matter? I found it insufferable. Pierson temperament, indeed! I’d never suffered from ill temper a day in my life.

James stepped forward to serve me, but I shooed away the steaming teapot he held. Looking up, I found my father waiting for comment. Did he actually hope I was pleased? Or did he think my moods were as fickle as his? I shivered, realizing how cold it was this morning, then beckoned the footman back. “James, I think I will take that tea.”

Kate’s lower lip protruded in a pout. “You mustn’t be too hard on Isaac. Perhaps he’s not very good at writing love letters yet. Practice might help him. I’m sure his next one will be better.”

James’s mouth contorted like an acrobat as he poured my tea. He turned the second he could.

“I can assure you, it’s no love letter,” I said, placing it aside.

My father laughed aloud. “I would have hoped that with as much money as he squandered on those woeful poetry volumes, he could have produced something better than that scowl. James, is there a problem?”

A red-faced, watery-eyed James turned and with a closed fist pounded his chest. “No, sir. Just a bit of dust caught in my throat.” He squeezed his eyes shut and with great effort resumed a normal stance.

“May I be excused?” I asked.

“No. If I allow you to stay after you have the audacity to arrive late—you eat.” My father nodded at the letter, and his voice softened. “What did Isaac say?”

I pushed the note farther under my plate. What if it had been a love letter? Did my father assume the right to monitor every aspect of our relationship? “It was a personal note to me . . . which . . . which I’d rather not share.”

Crow’s-feet crinkled around my father’s eyes as he smiled and turned a page. “Fine. A little intrigue might lighten the mood around here.”

Frowning, I glanced over the table, but my stomach was tied in knots. It was bad enough knowing I had to go face Lady Beatrice without the addition of Lord Dalry’s strange instructions.

Fifteen minutes before the o’clock, my father exchanged newspapers. “You’d best leave now, Julia. The last thing I want today is Lady Beatrice on my doorstep.”

I gave a nod and stood, suddenly wishing I never had to leave the walls of London House.

The distance to Lady Beatrice’s residence was scarcely worth the climb in and out of my father’s barouche. Little distinguished her street. The houses mimicked one another, patterned after their owners’ attempts to mimic each other. The street’s only
distinction was a row of mossy elms that stood sentry. I eyed them, fearing for their lives. All it would take was a stray comment from a countess, a note that their existence differentiated the street, and down they would go.

Elaborate scrolled handrails flanked both sides of the wide stoop. From there, I plunged into Lady Beatrice’s world, leaving James and daylight behind.

Her drawing room was a cerise nightmare, and though my only memory of it is from those weeks, I recall it with clarity. Drapes of that shade adorned with gold tassels matched the exact color of the stripes that alternated over the wallpaper. Red carpets stretched beneath the clawed feet of scarlet upholstered furniture. The only relief was an immense gilded crystal chandelier—yet even that was so disproportioned, it squatted upon the room like a giant toad amidst a faerie gathering.

Lady Beatrice sat near the window, taking the only shaft of light that managed to penetrate that chamber. Bitter lines etched her face, particularly around her mouth, as I entered the room. Though her knuckles looked rheumatic, she plied a large embroidery hoop that was situated near her.

“You will sit there,” she instructed me, nodding toward a chair at the opposite end of the chamber beneath an arrangement of brown wax roses. “Study the book on the seat, and do not speak. Today is the day I receive callers. Expect to be removed from sight at a moment’s notice.”

I picked up the mildewed book and to my dismay found it was in French.

The look of pleasure on her face told me all I needed to know. I opened the useless book, knowing it was pointless to argue. This was part of her revenge on my father—to spend his money and then watch us flounder.

It made me feel defensive of my father. Her desire to see me fail became my fuel to succeed. She gave me a far greater gift than that, however.

Though it was her day for callers, no voice hailed in her hall, no footstep sounded at her door. She speculated that the rain or weather must be keeping everyone away, but we both knew better.

Dreadfully long hours passed, hours during which I looked at meaningless pages, my back ached, my neck cricked, and my feet alternately fell asleep. Whenever I dared to circle my head to stretch it, Lady Beatrice glared over her embroidery. Occasionally, she’d question me in French and then berate me for not knowing the answer.

By the time the sun cast long shadows over the room, I’d memorized the flaking crown molding, the art on the wall, the Bohemian glass collection, and the dying plants. When the clock chimed five, I rose, not caring if she commanded me to sit back down. I wouldn’t.

Nonetheless, I felt pity for her. I’d witnessed firsthand the cost of bitterness on a life.

It was no wonder to me that Lord Dalry chose to continually forgive offenses. He, too, must have spent time there.

The windows of my father’s house were aglow with welcoming light. During my absence, rain had washed the streets, so that as James helped me alight from the carriage, the wet brick shimmered like glass beneath my feet. Leaves, gathered along the cement stiles at the bottom of the wrought-iron gate, offered their dying fragrance—a respite from the city air.

“Careful, now.” James supported my arm as I stepped firmly onto the ground. His kind tone alleviated the painful hours of her ladyship’s scissored tongue.

London House once more displayed her enchantment. Inside, the ornate staircase and spindles shone and gave off the fragrance of beeswax. The polished floors looked wet with puddles of hazy light beneath the sconces. Two suits of armor glinted near the door, brave knights guarding the house
during its slumber. I paused to view them as Kinsley approached, wondering if men had ever really worn them in combat.

“Did you enjoy tea with the duchess, Miss Josephine?” Kinsley’s eyes creased in a kindly smile as he removed my fur mantle.

I could have kissed his wrinkled cheek as I breathed in his peppermint smell. Though I wanted to savor the moment, I reminded myself not to grow attached to this life.

He bundled my cape in his arms. “Come and warm your feet before the fire. You’d best pray your mother doesn’t learn you’ve snuck out again.”

“I’m quite certain she’ll never learn of it,” I replied.

“You always claim that right before you’re caught.” His cloudy eyes lit in expectation of a familiar retort.

Only I did not know my grandmother’s reply. I gave a heavyhearted smile. At least the world Kinsley wandered in seemed pleasant. The idea that my grandmother used to sneak out of the house was both shocking and satisfying. Perhaps I wasn’t the first who risked scandal.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re home.” Kate’s plaintive voice carried from the parlor. Before I turned, she’d raced to me and flung her arms around my waist.

I pressed my cheek against her glossy curls, gladsome for her presence.

“Goodness! I can hear your stomach growling. You must be starving.” Kate stepped back and grinned. “I’m so glad!”

I wrinkled my nose at her as I peeled off my gloves.

In a trice, Kate bounced on her toes and clapped her hands with delight. “Isaac made certain tea would be waiting for you the moment you returned from Lady Beatrice’s. Come see!”

Confused, I picked up my skirts and allowed Kate to tow me toward the parlor.

The sight that awaited me, however, caused me to pause at the threshold, amazed.

A full tea with shimmering crystal and sparkling teacups was set before a roaring fire. A three-tiered stand was adorned with a fully poached pineapple perched atop a glistening display of candied oranges, plums, grapefruits, and even a bowl of rubied cherries. Sugarcoated leaves nestled between the glazed fruit, adding to the glittery display. Lemon-curd tarts and pound cake sat alongside roasted chicken and herbed asparagus. Candles glimmered at varying heights, their flames adding luminosity to pink tulips that spilled from their vases.