The Primrose Path (24 page)

The old dragon Lady Hathaway could make or break a young lady’s social Season, so Melissa decided to curry her favor by petting her dog, the tawny Pekingese who matched Miss Wyte’s ruined habit.

“Don’t pet Tippy!” came from at least three voices, three pats too late.

She’d killed Lady Hathaway’s pet. Miss Wyte sank gracefully to the floor, next to the twitching dog, whilst out in the hall, Sadie ate her Limeric yellow leather gloves.

Chapter Twenty-six

Dinner was canceled. That is, dinner was held at Knowle Castle for the viscount and his houseguests, and dinner was also served at Primrose Cottage for Miss Armstead and the other residents thereof. Florrie was in despair, Henri was in high dudgeon, and Miss Wyte, according to the physician, was in a temporary decline.

The doctor had driven out from Ashford, posthaste, when informed his patient was the Wyte heiress, the distance from here to there growing considerably shorter with a larger fee. He declared the young lady in excellent health except worn to a frazzle from trotting too hard at social London’s frenetic pace. Nothing a quiet stay in the country couldn’t cure, he declared: fresh air, healthful exercise, regular meals, and no parties lasting all night, every night. Which regimen sounded so dull to Melissa that she would have had the megrims anyway, even if she weren’t still furious with the viscount.

Her frantic papa was relieved. His little puss wasn’t vaporish, he repeated to everyone, especially Lord Knowle; she was simply exhausted from her Season as reigning Toast. It was a good thing he’d taken the chit out of Town when he did.

It was also a good thing that handsome Mr. Truesdale and an array of undersecretaries and military aides were parading through the castle or Melissa wouldn’t have left her room until it was time to return to London, with its balls and breakfasts and Bond Street shops. She did like to ride, though, and there was no denying that his lordship was an excellent horseman.

Corin escorted Miss Wyte about the countryside whenever he could in atonement for his many sins. He also had flowers sent to fill her room, her favorite dishes prepared in the kitchens, and he let her win at croquet, charades, and the nightly card games. Compliments had Melissa smiling, gifts had her cooing, he quickly realized, so he emptied the local stores of everything suitable for a suitor to present—everything except the family engagement ring.

She was beautiful, Corin couldn’t deny that. And, when things were going her way, she was charming company, with tinkling laughter and fluttering lashes. She was a deuced fine horsewoman, too, even if Corin privately thought the high-strung Arabian a bit too much horse for her diminutive strength to handle. A regular pocket Venus, was Miss Wyte. Melissa would make some man a delightfully decorative wife, even more delectable when one considered her father’s fortune. Corin simply hadn’t gotten around to making Lord Wyte a formal offer for his daughter’s hand.

He had spoken to Nigel again, however. The fellow was actually turning out to be helpful, agreeing to escort Miss Wyte on afternoon calls to the neighbors, sightseeing in the vicinity, shopping in the nearby towns, so Corin could get some work done. With all the rides he’d taken, the viscount could see improvements that needed to be made on his lands—cottages that needed repairs, fields that needed draining. He had to confer with his steward and his tenants, so he couldn’t dance attendance on Melissa as much as he thought he should. Nigel was decent enough to take up the slack.

His cousin was more of a detective than Corin had given him credit for, as well. He’d found Doddsworth by sending notes around to the employment agencies, and he’d found a doctor, the brother of an old crony of his, who was just finishing his studies at Edinburgh. The chap and his wife would arrive in a month if Corin would pay their coach fare. The viscount would send his own carriage, by George.

Nigel had feelers out in the dives and dens in London about Lady Hathaway’s daughters, but he wasn’t holding out much hope. Old crimes were hard to uncover; old criminals were rarer, their way of life not being conducive to longevity. Nigel reported that he wasn’t moving any closer to finding Angel’s sister, either, but he did hint about a quick success in the confidential search he was conducting for Lord Wyte. Corin couldn’t imagine what the mogul had lost that he couldn’t just go buy another of. The viscount found that he was too busy to care, what with entertaining Miss Wyte, running his estates, and conferring with the chaps who came down from Whitehall to see the Scribe. And looking after his dog.

Sunshine was improving daily, hobbling about now and gaining weight. She looked much improved with the filthy hair trimmed away, although he feared she’d never win a beauty contest with her straggly whiskers and shaggy eyebrows. No matter, she barked when he came to the stables and whined when he left. She didn’t like the stable hands changing her bandages and wouldn’t take food from anyone else’s hand. No one in the world had ever held the viscount in such esteem, not his mother, none of his lovers, and certainly not the woman he was thinking of making his wife.

That other woman, the one he was determinedly
not
thinking about, the one whose company he was avoiding with all his ditch-digging and diversions, thought he was an ass half the time. The devil knew what Angel was thinking the other half of the time. Corin knew only that he couldn’t be near her. It wasn’t fair to be courting Miss Wyte while craving another woman in his arms. His thoughts were as dishonorable as his intentions toward Angel. ‘Twould be best to stay away.

* * * *

Angelina had nothing to do. Elizabeth was teaching the children, Preston Franklin was helping with the dogs, and Lady Hathaway was accompanying Mercedes during her practice sessions. Mr. Browne had plans for the kennels in train and wanted to consult with Elizabeth when he called, not Angelina. Her wardrobe was complete, her accounts were up-to-date, and her library books were boring.

Sisters came and sisters went, with Mr. Truesdale or on their own. None stayed. The Duke of Fellstone came with his assistants and associates to see Mercedes. Then His Grace came alone to see the Frenchwoman, who had remarkably little of her memoirs to show for all her time in her sitting room. Florrie Talbot called once to invite them to tea, but she left after the third sneeze. Even Lord Wyte visited to pay his respects to Lady Hathaway, and he stayed for what would turn into a daily afternoon chess match. Everyone came, in fact, except Knolly and his china doll heiress.     ‘

So that was all Angelina could think about, two of the most beautiful people in the world traipsing across the countryside on their magnificent mounts, looking like bookends for an atlas of social consequence. Angelina had never even learned to ride.

It was a good thing he didn’t come, she told herself. She’d get over this silly green sickness all the sooner, drat the paperskulled, pride-filled, priggish man and his perfect peagoose of a riding partner.

He was spoiling his dog anyway. And the primroses were starting to fade.

* * * *

Then it was time for his lordship’s ball. The evening wasn’t to be a ball, precisely, nor a musicale. A
divertissement,
the invitation read. Mademoiselle Mercedes Lavalier was to perform in the ballroom, followed by an informal supper during which the servants would remove the chairs and makeshift stage, so the entire company could later dance to the hired orchestra. Florrie Talbot, on Lord Knowle’s direction, had invited every family of note in the neighborhood, and some not quite as notable, such as the proprietress of Primrose Cottage.

He couldn’t not invite her, Angelina understood, not with her houseguest providing the entertainment; but he didn’t have to invite all of them, the Franklins and Mrs. Gibb included, to the small dinner held beforehand. Only Elizabeth accepted, for Mercedes never ate before a performance, and Lady Hathaway, who was to accompany the ballerina on the pianoforte, declared herself too nervous to eat. Angelina was, too. The ball would be the perfect place to announce an engagement. The entire village was speculating about nothing else. Miss Armstead would gladly have declined the invitation altogether.

Instead she was all rigged out in a new dress, compliments of Lady Hathaway, to repay her hospitality, the older lady said. The gown was a blue-green watered silk that shifted colors as Angelina moved. It reminded her of the ocean, she thought, pleased with the gown’s simple lines and the feel of the gossamer silk, until she glimpsed Miss Wyte in ivory satin with blush-dyed lace at the scalloped hem and the low bodice.

Elizabeth also had a new gown—the rose silk ball gown Mavis had been fashioning for Lena—and Elizabeth’s dance card was already half filled by the time the Primrose Cottage contingent arrived at Knowle Castle. So what if Averill Browne’s name was scrawled across half the dances? Elizabeth was glowing with excitement. Angelina tucked her own blank card into her reticule.

Then Mercedes was dancing and nothing else mattered. Not even playing for the ballerina’s practice had prepared Angelina for the actual event. Like everyone else in the audience, she sat spellbound by mademoiselle’s grace and fluidity, entranced by the intensity of Mercedes’s performance. If Lady Hathaway faltered, no one noticed, so engrossed were they by La Lavalier in her feathery ensemble and fluttering gauze drapery.

So what if her limbs showed a bit more than was decent or her lips were too red, her eyelids too dark? She was an
artiste,
the
premiere danseuse
in all of Europe, including Britain, and the thunderous, standing ovation in the ballroom proved it. Angelina was as gratified by her guest’s success as if she could take credit, like Harry Elkins learning his letters, or Charlotte Franklin’s baby taking his first steps. Her heart swelled with pride.

Angelina was more pleased when Lord Wyte immediately claimed Lady Hathaway for his dinner partner, and the Duke of Fellstone raced General Cathcart to the Frenchwoman’s side. There would be no slight to her friends for performing in public.

Lord Knowle was escorting Miss Wyte, naturally, and Averill was bowing to Elizabeth. Angelina stood uncertainly. Should she trail after them or trip on her hem so she could escape to the retiring room, claiming to make repairs? For once she did not have Lady Sophie’s wheeled chair to hide behind, to pretend that she didn’t mind being ignored.

Then Mr. Truesdale made an elegant leg and offered his arm. Nigel was stunning in burnt-orange satin, with saffron knee smalls, and hummingbirds embroidered on his green waistcoat. “Inspired by your primroses, don’t you know?” he drawled when Angelina was struck dumb by his magnificence. How lowering to be overshadowed by one’s supper partner, she thought, besides every other female at the table.

Nigel was pleasant and polite, even if his eyes did keep straying to Mercedes—along with all the other men’s stares—or to Miss Wyte. Angelina couldn’t blame him. She herself thought Melissa looked like a princess in her lace-trimmed gown, with a ruby pendant at her low décolletage and a diamond tiara in her honey gold hair.

“It’s too much for such a young girl,” Elizabeth whispered in Angelina’s ear, noting the direction of her gaze and comprehending the direction of her thoughts. “They may as well put a price tag on the chit.”

Elizabeth’s sympathy was no consolation. Angelina was sorry she’d refused the countess’s offer of a necklace or Mercedes’s offer of a brooch. She had the cameo Lady Sophie had given her last Christmas. That was enough, she’d thought—earlier.

She gave herself a mental shake. Rubies and sapphires and emeralds wouldn’t have made a difference. Lord Knowle was standing up and asking everyone for quiet. The lobster patty Angelina was eating tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She only hoped she wouldn’t disgrace herself when Corin made his announcement.

Instead of a public declaration, however, Corin proposed a toast—to Mercedes Lavalier for her great talent she’d shared with them, and her great service to the country. Corin was making sure everyone knew that Mercedes was a heroine in addition to being a famed performer, as well as an infamous courtesan. Everyone raised their glasses, and tears came to Angelina’s eyes.

And to Miss Wyte’s, she was pleased to note, although she did not think their reasons were the same. Melissa’s beautiful face was disfigured by a scowl, now that she wasn’t the center of his lordship’s attention.

Of course, opening the ball on the arm of the host, a viscount to boot, went far toward mollifying Miss Wyte. It made Angelina wish she hadn’t had that second lobster patty.

Chapter Twenty-seven

At least Angelina had a partner of her own. It seemed, at an affair such as this, that everyone kept their supper partners for the first set, the minuet and promenade, thank goodness.

Angelina stood up with Averill Browne for the next set, happy that the figures of the country-dance kept separating them, sparing her a continuous litany of Elizabeth’s charms. Then Florrie Talbot introduced her to a series of weak-chinned youths—Talbot’s relations, Angelina inferred—as suitable partners. For her pittance of an inheritance, Angelina also inferred, but she was happy to dance with the stuttering, spotted ninnyhammers anyway, rather than hold up the wall.

Later she danced with His Grace of Fellstone, likely at Mercedes Lavalier’s urging; he had been a frequent visitor at Primrose Cottage. If nothing else, Angelina could remember this night as the one she danced with a real duke. She smiled at His Grace gratefully, and didn’t even mind when he took a coughing fit during the quadrille, causing them to sit out the rest.

Mercedes was holding court near the terrace, surrounded by scarlet regimental jackets and black formal swallowtails. She chose not to dance again after her exertions. How else could she have so many gentlemen at her feet at once?

Lady Hathaway wasn’t dancing, either. She was sitting to the side of the room with a group of older ladies, Florrie Talbot’s mother-in-law and Squire Hardwick’s wife among them, with Lord Wyte hovering over her shoulder. The nabob had on almost as much sparkling jewelry as the countess.