Shadows of Doubt (2 page)

“As grateful as I am for your offer, Your Grace, I no longer own anything suitable for the Assembly. Perhaps another time.” She smiled gratefully. There would never be another time and she knew it.

Her mother lifted her head off of her pillow and looked directly at her. “Gwendolyn, I want you to go. I need you to go, for me.”

She suffered momentary astonishment. Was this her mother speaking? Her mother fretted if she left the room for more than ten minutes. She looked back at the Dowager who nodded at her.

“Very well, Mother. If that is your wish.”

The Dowager stood. “I must take my leave, Millicent. Gwendolyn, would you be as kind as to see me to the door?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“I will send my maid over to help you dress. The carriage will be by for you at seven.” She leaned in and said quietly, “Your mother is worried about what will become of you. Oblige her by appearing to enjoy yourself.” She smiled knowingly at Gwen and walked out of the door.

***

He was being set up. And the worst part was, he knew it and his grandmother knew it, and she knew that he knew that she knew he knew. But he had already agreed to go beforehand, so he was stuck and she knew it. He did not mind meeting new people—a distant relation even—and he certainly did not mind helping out. Someone who was in need, as his gran had so painstakingly put it. However, he knew her motives were deeper than that. She had a look in her eye, a certain twinkle, when she was on a mission.

He had made a point of avoiding being the object of one of her missions until now. Unfortunately, he was the last man standing.

“Very well, Gran. Spill the truth. Is she four-score with warts, or is she sixteen with spots and eight chins?”

“Andrew Charles Abbott!”

He refused to feel guilty. He crossed his arms and stared.

His gran was nearly an octogenarian, and she had not reached that age without acquiring some skills.
 

“What is it you want from me? To smile at her? To dance with her twice? To bring her lemonade?”

“That all sounds lovely, yes.” His grandmother nodded her satisfaction.
 

“And?” he prompted.

“That is all. Nothing more.” She was silent, trying to look innocent.

“And?” He stopped his pacing and stared.

“Well, perhaps...”

“Aha! I knew it!”

“Young man, you forget yourself. You interrupted your grandmother. Now sit. You are irritating my delicate constitution.”

He snorted. “As delicate as a...”

“Enough. I don't need any vulgar analogies. I was going to say some conversation would be nice. I know better than to attempt to force you in to anything.”

He looked at her sceptically.

“Besides, she is a highly ineligible match, a penniless spinster. She missed her debut when her father died in disgrace, and has spent her bloom caring for her invalid mother, my cousin Millicent. I agreed to look after her if something should happen, to help her find an eligible position. She has little hope for anything more.”

Andrew let out a whistle. His gran was serious. Now he pitied the poor girl. “I beg your pardon. I assumed you already had the wedding arranged in your mind.”

“I?” She looked offended.

He knew it to be an act.

“Very well. I will try to show her a nice evening. If she is capable.” Some ladies weren’t.

“That's my boy. I knew you would understand.”
 

He reached over and kissed her on the cheek. She patted his cheek in return. He was sure he was being manipulated somehow, but he just didn't know what he could do about it.

***

Hanson arrived and had trouble disguising her shock when she saw Gwen. Wild would not be the exact word Gwen would use to describe her hair, but when she considered the shade of red and the long curls that escaped her every effort to contain them, she supposed the description apt. She should be used to the stares after six-and-twenty years.

“Hello, Hanson. I see Her Grace did not warn you how much work I would be. You need not bother with my hair. It is impossible. No one has ever been able to tame it.”

Hanson smiled and removed her mobcap.

Gwen burst out laughing. “I see you understand.”

“Yes, miss. I can manage the hair. First, let us try the gown on. Mary here will make any alterations necessary, while I style your locks.”

“Did you say gown?” Gwen turned to see another maid holding a dress bag and held it up when Hanson indicated. The two worked to remove the gown and hang it up for Gwen to view.

She looked to her old faded gown that she had planned to wear, six years out of fashion at least, and could not find words.

“It is one of her granddaughter’s that she left here. Her coloring and size are similar. Should do nicely.” Hanson knew her thoughts. It was as magnificent as the silk she had seen that day in Milson Street.

She stood in disbelief as the maids helped her into the gown and pinned the necessary adjustments for her frame. She almost looked beautiful again. She should pinch herself and wake up.

“This is a mistake.” She shook her head back and forth.
 

“Pardon, miss?”

“I cannot go. There is no point. Why pretend?”

“Miss, you'll pardon my saying so, but what's the harm?”
 

“A taste of something I will never have again is the harm.”

“I see ye like books.” The maid indicated the stack Gwen had just brought from the library.

Gwen nodded wondering what Hanson was alluding to.

“Pretend yer the heroine of a book. Dance with yer handsome prince.”

“As if one would dance with me.” She shook her head. “I am sorry. Self-pity is unbecoming at best.”

She saw the maid’s point, but this was different. There would be real people with whom she would have to interact, people who were not comfortable socially with someone who had lost everything. The poor widow and spinster daughter. And her looks. If she was rich and titled, people would call her exotic.

“Her grace thought ye might try to change her mind, and said to remind ye of yer mother.”

Gwen sighed. Her mama had been adamant, which was strange.

“Oh, very well.” It might be her last chance.

She stepped out of the gown, and Mary went to work on it.
 

“Now for your hair.” Gwen tried not to get her hopes up. She had never had her own maid to dress her hair. She had not had her locks cut in years. She unwound the untidy knot and her hair fell down her back in riots of curls.

She expected the silence. Hanson finally broke it.
 

“Mary, if you would please go fetch me some scissors and pomade. And oil.”

“Oil?” Gwen questioned in fear.

“Aye, miss. We are going to need everything we can find.”

One hour, two feet cut off, and a bottle of hair oil later, Hanson let out a gasp of pleasure at her handiwork.

“Oh, miss! Do you have a glass you can look in?”

“My mother has a small one in her dresser.”

“We have no time for that, miss,” Mary reminded. “The carriage will be here to pick you up soon.”

The maids helped her into the gown, and she hurried downstairs to meet the carriage.

She stopped to check on her mother.

“Oh, Gwen!” Her mother burst into tears. Well, going to the Assembly had been a nice thought. She should have known her mother could never go through with it.

“It is all right, Mama,” she said in resignation. She bent over to comfort her. “I will not leave you.” She resigned herself to staying home after all and began to sit down.

“No! You will wrinkle your gown. I am only crying because of how beautiful you look. I have taken your life away from you.”

“No, Mama. Father did that.”

Through her mother’s weeping she did not hear the carriage roll up.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” Hanson spoke up. “The carriage is here to fetch you.”
 

“Go! Do not worry about me,” her mother insisted bravely, while clutching her handkerchief.

Gwen looked at her weak and weeping mother hesitantly but nodded, kissed her on the cheek, and went to the door. She nearly fell as the door opened upon her.

“Oh!”

Two large hands steadied her.
 

A deep voice said, “I beg your pardon, miss.”

She looked upward into a set of stunning blue eyes. She was speechless.

Apparently, so was he.

She heard a throat being cleared from the carriage.

“Miss Lambert, this is my grandson, Major Andrew Abbott.”

***

This was the poor old penniless spinster? His gran must have been playing a joke on him. He snapped his jaw shut. He hadn't realised he had left it gaping open. He would play along for tonight. He escorted her to the carriage. He sat across from the girl and tried not to stare. He had never seen anything like her. She did not look old or penniless. He braved a sideways glance at his grandmother and saw a satisfied grin across her face. He would really like to stick his tongue out and make a face at her. Yes, he felt like a greenhorn youth sitting across from this vision in the carriage.

“I like what Hanson did with your hair, Gwendolyn.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You should not Your Grace me, Gwendolyn.”

“I forget.”

Gwendolyn. That was a fitting name. She was blushing. Then she smiled. She had dimples. He had a weakness for dimples. And red hair. This was going to be a long night.

He would be fortunate to be able to even secure her for two dances. Females who looked like her were not wallflowers, though she did appear to be shy as he noticed her looking at her hands or out the window instead of making eye contact.

He was intrigued, but he was leaving at the end of the week, so he would just have to remain so.

Chapter Two

The Upper Assembly Rooms already held a great crush by the time they arrived. Mr. Abbott was escorting his grandmother and Gwen fell in behind. The elders had already retreated to the card room, and the youth were dancing exuberantly in the ballroom. The master of ceremonies greeted the Dowager with all the pomp and condescension he felt to be her due. When he came to Gwen, he repeated her name with a hint of recognition and a flash of distaste in his eyes. Of course, he knew who she was, and of her unfortunate circumstances, it was his business to know. However, he did not insult her openly since she was with such an exalted
parté
.

The Dowager made her way into the room, greeting old acquaintances as she went, and scanned around for a place that would give her the most advantageous view.

Gwendolyn tried her best to ignore the stares, but she felt them like a searing heat permeating her to the core. Her face heated, despite her fervent wish to remain indifferent. She did not want to be noticed or let them know they affected her so. She had hoped the memory of the old quizzes would be failing, but that was not the way Bath worked. It was well known a long memory was required to be one of the notorious nags. But would they dare shun her under the protection of the Dowager Duchess?

“This will do nicely,” the Dowager said with approval as she selected a high bench to hold court.

Gwen tried not to panic when the Dowager chose a spot in full view of the crowd. She automatically began looking for a potted plant for refuge. Mr. Abbott was still nearby—too nearby for her comfort. He had watched her during the extravagantly short carriage ride to the Rooms with the same look most men gave her when they first saw her. She had immediately averted her eyes from the unwanted attention.

He was a fashionable London gentleman, and she was instantly aware of an attraction to him, which set up her guard. She hoped he would retreat to the card room. She wanted the fewest witnesses possible to view her discomfort. He no doubt knew of her penury from her living situation, but it was unlikely he knew the circumstances of her family’s fall. Most town bucks seemed to assume she was available for a left-handed marriage when they found her penniless and her name disgraced.

“Go along, you two.” The Dowager made a shooing motion with her hand, and Gwendolyn looked about to see if she was speaking to her or someone else. Mr. Abbott stood there with a handsome smile and held out his arm to her.

“Shall we, Miss Lambert?” He offered his arm gallantly.

“Shall we what, Mr. Abbott?” She looked at his arm as if it had the plague.

“Why, dance of course.” His face took on a look of perplexity.

“Must we?” she whispered and began to panic.

“Yes, Gwendolyn, you must. I insist. I brought you here to enjoy yourself,” the Dowager said with finality. “Your name was added for the next dance, my dear.”

She most definitely would have stayed at home had she known that. The Dowager had mentioned nothing about her handsome grandson’s attendance or dancing. It was as far from an evening’s enjoyment as she could imagine. She had convinced herself of having no acquaintance or consequence; she was certain she would be assured some measure of anonymity. Mr. Abbott wound his arm through hers and patted her hand reassuringly.