Regency Sting (6 page)

“Yes, but you've been praying that he would
remain
on the other side of the ocean—”

“Never mind. Now that he's here, I find that I like him very well. I'm glad he's come to head the family—it's a position that
I
don't feel at all qualified to hold. He seems a generous and capable man—just what this family needs.”

“Ha!” snorted Anne bitterly, “you've much to learn about his character. But if you think he's so perfect, why do you want to change him?”

“I don't want to change him—only to give him some town-bronze. You can't wish for the head of our family to make a poor impression on the
ton
of London.”

“I don't care
what
sort of impression he makes!”

Lady Harriet frowned. Then, carefully inserting her needle into the fabric for safekeeping and taking a deep, calming breath, she rose with as much dignity as her plump figure permitted and confronted her stepdaughter purposefully. “You
must
care, my dear, for all our futures depend on Mr. Hughes. We must, therefore, assist him in every way possible to adapt to his new station in life. He must be made content and comfortable in his new surroundings, but this will not come to pass unless he is accepted without restrictions by all of London society.”

“But I don't see why
I
need be involved in—”

“You must be involved because there is no one else so well-qualified to instruct him.”

“Nonsense!
You
, my dear Mama, are every bit as qualified as I!”

Harriet was momentarily at a loss. “Perhaps I am,” she admitted reluctantly, “but it is better for him to be instructed by … er … someone closer to his own age.”

“Then what about Peter?” Anne persisted. “At least Peter is a
male
—”

“Peter!” exclaimed Harriet with a snort. “What a notion! I suppose he can help, of course, but you know very well that the boy is completely at a loss when it comes to matters of style and social intercourse. For a boy who is universally considered to be brilliant, he has many areas of complete ignorance.”

While his mother was ruthlessly maligning him behind his back, Peter, in the upstairs hallway, was making himself known to the new head of the family. The American was following the butler down the hall when Peter stepped out of his study for a brief respite from his books. He took one look at the enormous stranger, blinked behind his spectacles and gaped at the man open-mouthed.

The butler took the opportunity to introduce them. “May I present Master Peter Hartley, your lordship?” he asked with appropriate formality. Then, his formal duty done, he dropped his usual imperturbability to murmur into Peter's ear, “It's the new Viscount, Master Peter. Can you credit it? He's just arrived from
America
!”

Peter, embarrassingly aware the new Lord Mainwaring could scarcely have missed noticing Coyne's solecism, glanced quickly at the Viscount's face to catch his response to the butler's lapse. Coyne had known Peter from birth and stood on comfortably intimate terms with the boy. Although Peter was aware that the butler should have kept a closer guard on his tongue in front of the new head of the household, he hoped that the American would understand Coyne's justifiable excitement.

But there was no sign on the American's face that he'd taken any notice of Coyne's dereliction of duty. He merely put out his hand. “You're Lady Harriet's son, aren't you? I'm Jason Hughes.”

Peter found his hand being shaken with enthusiasm. He peered up through his spectacles at the tanned face of his American cousin with undisguised curiosity. “This is an unexpected surprise, my lord,” he ventured. “I had supposed that passage from America would be impossible to obtain in these times.”

“Difficult, but not impossible, as you can see,” the American answered in his pleasant, drawling colonial accent. “And please, don't call me ‘my lord.' We don't cotton to titles in the States.”

Peter couldn't help smiling at the unfamiliar usages; “
cotton to
” and “
the States
” had such an American sound. “Then what
am
I to call you?” he asked shyly.

“Won't just plain ‘Jason' do?”

Peter considered. “It seems an unwarranted liberty to use your given name on such short acquaintance—”

“But we Americans enjoy taking liberties, you know,” Jason assured him with a warm smile.

“So I've heard,” Peter smiled back, “but you're not in America now, you know. I don't think Mama would approve of my calling you Jason so brazenly.”

“Well, let's not stand about in the hall debatin' the point,” Jason suggested. “Why don't you keep me company while I unpack my gear, and we'll discuss the matter?”

“Unpack your
gear
?” Peter asked in surprise, eagerly falling into step alongside his enormous cousin. “Why don't you let Coyne—?”

The butler, leading the way to the large bedroom in the northwest corner of the house (the room which Lady Harriet had hastily chosen as the most appropriate one available on such short notice, despite its drafty windows and smoky fireplace), looked back over his shoulder with a grimace of disapproval. “His lordship insists on doing his own unpacking,” he said, with an ill-concealed air of offense.

“No need to get miffed,” Jason said placatingly. “There ain't much to unpack, you see.”

The butler didn't answer, having arrived at his destination. He opened the bedroom door cautiously and looked inside. Relieved to discover that the maid (whom he'd hastily dispatched to remove the dust covers and tidy up the room) had accomplished her task, he stepped aside and permitted his lordship to enter. Jason looked around with interest at the square, moderately sized but ornately paneled room. His shabby portmanteau had already been placed on the upholstered bench which stood at the foot of a large, canopied bed. A fire had been started in the grate, the furniture had been dusted, and the curtains had been drawn back to permit the gray afternoon light to filter in.

The butler, well aware that the bed hangings were threadbare, the chair upholstery shabby and the room enveloped in gloom and chill, nevertheless hoped that the new Viscount would not be overly disturbed by these defects. He need not have worried. The Viscount surveyed his new quarters with an approving smile. “Now, ain't this
grand
!” he exclaimed, impressed.

Peter, whose bedroom was larger, warmer and more comfortably furnished than this one, glanced quickly at Jason's face, but there was not a sign of insincerity written upon it. Mr. Jason Hughes of Virginia must have had a humble background, Peter surmised, if he found
this
room grand.

When Coyne had bowed himself out, Peter perched on the bed and watched in fascination while his cousin unpacked his meager belongings. Three or four changes of linen, a riding coat, a few outmoded day and evening coats and three pairs of breeches were all that Jason had brought, except for a strange-looking furry garment which Peter took to be a greatcoat. Peter wondered what sort of life his cousin had led in America. From all appearances, it was not the comfortable, elegant, easy life which he would have led if he'd been brought up in England.

Jason, meanwhile, looked about him for a place to store his things. The only piece of furniture which seemed suitable was an odd-looking chest with more than a dozen small drawers in it. “What
is
this thing?” he asked Peter. “May I put my things in it?”

“It's a gentleman's dressing table,” Peter explained, getting up from the bed to demonstrate the chest's many intricacies. “You see, although it appears to be merely a chest of seventeen drawers—”

“Seventeen? Amazing!” Jason marveled.

“Not all of these are drawers, however. This is really a mirror which pops up when you open it. This one here unfolds and becomes a writing desk, see? And this one, on the left, is compartmented to hold your cuff links, watch fobs, and such trinkets. And
this
one—”

“Stop, or I shall be hopelessly confused!” Jason laughed. “It's truly a wonder, but are any of those just plain
drawers
?”

“Of course. All the lower ones. And you needn't worry about becoming confused. Your valet is the only one who has to bother with it.”

“But you see, I have no valet,” Jason explained with a shrug.

Peter resumed his perch on the bed and adjusted his spectacles thoughtfully. “Don't they have valets in America? Or were you too poor to have one?” he asked with frank interest.

“Money was never a worry to me,” Jason answered with equal directness. “Don't know if there are any valets in America or not—no one I ever knew had one. Can't you English fellows dress yourselves?”

Peter laughed. “Not the dandies. Why, some of them take three hours to tie their neckcloths!”

“You don't mean it!” Jason said, looking up from his portmanteau in disbelief.

“It's true,” Peter assured him. “I've heard that some of them spend half the day dressing for dinner.”

Jason merely shook his head and stooped over to store his shirts in one of the lower drawers. Peter noticed the grace and agility of his movements as he bent down. “You must be well over six feet tall!” he exclaimed admiringly. “Do all American men grow so tall?”

Jason straightened up. “I'm six feet three or so,” he grinned, “and as big a gawk back home as I'll no doubt be here.”

“And weigh fourteen stone, I'd wager,” Peter estimated, looking over his cousin speculatively. “What a fighter you'd make in the ring!”

“I don't get much chance to box—a man my size has trouble findin' a challenger,” Jason grinned. Then, looking at his bespectacled cousin in surprise, he added, “Don't tell me that you've a liking for boxing! Your mother gave me to understand that you're the scholarly sort.”

“That's about all I'm good for,” Peter admitted with a sigh. “I ride a bit, of course, but I'm not fit for much else. Certainly not boxing.”

“Size doesn't have much to do with prowess in the ring, you know,” Jason said, feeling a flicker of sympathy for his slim young cousin. “So long as you're matched with an opponent of equal weight, it's speed and footwork that make the difference.”

“I've always thought so,” Peter said, brightening, “but there's never been anyone around who could show me how—”

Jason understood immediately what Peter could not quite explain. The young, bookish son in a household of women—it was not the atmosphere in which a boy would learn to develop the manly arts. “I'll be glad to teach you a few of the skills and tricks of boxing—not that I'm a great expert, mind.”

“Would you
really
be willing to teach me?” Peter asked with a shy eagerness.

“I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it,” Jason said bluntly.

Peter's face colored with pleasure. “I never thought I'd be saying this, Cousin Jason,” the boy said with obvious sincerity, “but I'm very glad you've come.”

Downstairs, Lady Harriet was finding it beyond her capabilities to convince her obstinate stepdaughter to undertake the education of the American. The girl's resistance was unshakable. “I tell you, Mama,” she insisted, “it would be a waste of time! The fellow is ill-mannered and rude, and he subjected me to vulgar scrutiny and near-insults. Don't look at me so! I'm not being obstinate, I assure you. I am merely trying to explain to you that I cannot accept what I am certain is a hopeless task. I haven't the time nor the ability to undertake the excessive effort which would be required to make a respectable peer of him. Even Mr. Hughes admitted to me—How did he put it? Oh, yes!—that it would be
a job and a half
!”

“Nonsense,” Lady Harriet murmured placidly, resuming her seat at the embroidery frame and picking up her needle, “the fellow cannot be so bad—”

“Not so
bad
? Why, he's positively
primitive
! He can't even speak proper English!” Anne rose from her chair and walked purposefully to the door. But before she stalked from the room, she turned to her stepmother and added dramatically, “Turning that man into a Pink-of-the-Ton would be like turning a
frog
into a
prince
! And for
that
trick, Mama dear, you'd need more than a daughter with a sense of style. You'd need a fairy godmother with a
magic wand
!”

Five

Anne returned to the upstairs sitting room and, finding it deserted, entered, closed the door carefully and returned to the window to read her letter once more. Although the light by this time had all but disappeared, she knew the wording almost by heart. But repeated readings did not lessen her feeling of distaste. Why did Arthur feel so strongly the need for secrecy? Why couldn't he call at her home, as he was used to do?

The letter gave some explicit suggestions for a meeting between them. He'd requested that she arrange for a meeting at Cherry's home in Half-Moon Street. He would send for her answer that evening. With a shrug, she lit a candle, brought it to the writing table and penned two quick notes—one to Arthur and one to Cherry. She would accede to his wishes this once, but she determined to make it clear to him that she would brook no furtive meetings. It was a mode of behavior for which she had no taste.

The meeting took place the following morning. Anne arrived at the house on Half-Moon Street early, so that she would have a moment to confer with Cherry about strategies. Cherry greeted her at the door in pleased excitement. She was overjoyed to be party to such romantic doings. “Come in,” she chirped eagerly, dismissing the butler with a wave of her hand. “Oh, how lovely you look today. That blue pelisse is positively—”

“Never mind the pelisse, Cherry, please. Has your mother gone to her card game, as usual?”