The Sins of Lady Dacey (11 page)

“Ware taking Aunt for a drive?” replied Honoria. “Not very much. They are well suited, I think.”

Pamela looked at her curiously. Had there been a slight edge in that clear voice?

But she said, “Now that we have a little free time, I feel I must visit my sister. She does complain so of my neglect.” Pamela sighed. “And yet when I go there, all she does is lie on the chaise longue in that darkened room with her eyes half-closed.”

“I will come with you,” said Honoria. She did not want to sit there until Lady Dacey returned but refused to think of the reason why.

Pamela crossed to the writing desk. “I will leave a note for Clarissa.” She scribbled a short message saying they had gone to Lincoln's Inn Fields to visit her sister.

They ordered the carriage to be brought round from the mews and changed into carriage dresses, Pamela thinking of the days not so long ago when one morning gown, and a very plain one, too, was expected to serve until evening.

Amy, Mrs. Aspen, was at home. But then she always was. Honoria hated that dark sitting room of Amy's where the hostess lay on the chaise longue, a console table at her head containing an assortment of little medicine bottles and pill boxes.

“You are come at last,” said Amy faintly, one limp white hand waving them toward chairs. “I was beginning to think the only news I would ever have of my own sister would be through the social columns. There is much talk of Miss Goodham here and the Duke of Ware.”

“Tittle tattle,” said Pamela. “Lady Dacey is returned, and Ware has taken her driving.”

“Ah, well,
that
was only to be expected,” said Amy.

“Why?” demanded Honoria in a brittle voice. She could not understand her own feelings. She had been relieved when she had learned that he was to go out with her aunt, for she was beginning to feel strangely threatened by him, but the relief had gone and there was a sour aftertaste.

“Like to like,” said Amy languidly.

“I did not know she had a sister in London,” said the duke, thinking Lady Dacey meant Honoria.

“Yes, a Mrs. Aspen in Lincoln's Inn Fields, hard by The White Stag. Now, some wine?”

“No, I thank you. I must leave.” He kissed her hand. Disappointed, Lady Dacey watched him go and then ran to the window and sighed romantically as she saw him climbing into his carriage. Such a paragon was too much of a man for a widgeon like Honoria.

The duke decided to drive to Lincoln's Inn Fields and see this sister of Honoria's. Perhaps the woman would turn out to be common and his visit would embarrass Honoria and quite rightly, too. Besides, he was curious to meet a member of this infuriating girl's family.

He inquired at The White Stag for the address of the Aspens. He did not pause to think what speculation his visit might provoke. Like most aristocrats, he was single-minded, and did not often stop to think about anything other than satisfying his curiosity.

Honoria was to remember for long afterward the almost ridiculous change in Amy Aspen when the Duke of Ware was announced. She let out a shriek and cried to the little maid, “Keep him belowstairs for a moment. Fetch my green shawl. Draw back the curtains. Open the windows.”

With the energy of a young girl, she rose from the chaise longue, swept all the bottles and pills into a work basket, and slammed down the lid.

When the duke entered, Amy was standing by the fireplace, one hand on the marble shelf, wrapped in the green shawl and showing some vestiges of the prettiness she had once had.

“What brings you here?” demanded Honoria bluntly once the introductions had been made.

“I found I had time on my hands,” he said, feeling silly. “I have just taken Lady Dacey for a drive.”

Amy rang the bell and ordered wine and cakes. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. In that moment, as he looked at her and recognized the family resemblance, the duke realized she was Mrs. Perryworth's sister, not Honoria's, and felt even sillier. He covertly studied Honoria as Amy began to prattle London gossip that she had culled from magazines and newspapers. Honoria's face was shadowed by a Pamela bonnet, that wide brimmed straw hat that was still in fashion. The crown was decorated with white and gold flowers. Her carriage gown, worn under a pelisse, was of gold silk. Her long lashes veiled her eyes. She had taken off her gloves. Her small hands were white and well shaped. He wanted to take one of those ungloved hands in his own with such a sudden intensity that it surprised him.

He answered Amy automatically with the practiced ease of a man used to being bored. When Amy at last paused for breath, Pamela asked him if he had enjoyed his drive. “Yes, very much,” he said politely. He saw Honoria glance furtively at the clock on the wall and found himself adding, “I found her delightful company. Do you go anywhere this evening?”

“To the opera,” replied Pamela. “We really must leave, Amy.”

Amy made a moue of disappointment and then said gaily, “No matter. I am refreshed by your visit. The next time I shall call on you.” Pamela and Honoria exchanged glances, each thinking the same thing. There was a social gulf between Lincoln's Inn Fields and Hanover Square. Rattle she might be, but both instinctively felt sure that any visit by Amy would be regarded as social presumption by Lady Dacey.

They all rose at once. The duke saw those white hands reaching for the gloves. He crossed the room and seized Honoria's hands and raised them to his lips, kissing first one and then the other. Honoria's hands trembled lightly in his own and then she freed them and pulled on her gloves. Her eyes surveyed him candidly.

And then to Pamela's surprise, she heard Honoria say, “I am glad you enjoyed your drive with my aunt. Mrs. Aspen was just saying you and Lady Dacey are well suited.”

“How very true,” he said blandly, although he was suddenly furious. “We are all in a matchmaking mood today. It must be the spring weather. I have almost decided that Lord Herne would do very well for you.”

“Surely not, Your Grace.” Honoria smiled up at him. “So very
old.
Perhaps if you and Aunt do not suit, she might find Lord Herne a suitable partner.”

He had thought that when the time ever came that he should decide to get married, all he had to do was smile on some young creature for her to fall into his arms. He could hardly believe Honoria's behavior.

“Will you be at the opera, Your Grace?” asked Honoria.

“No,” he said abruptly. “I found it a trifle tedious the other night.”

“Oh, you must avoid tedious company at all costs,” said Honoria sweetly.

“I fully intend to from now on!”

To the devil with her, he thought as he drove off. A man of his rank and dignity was not going to make a fool of himself over a provincial chit who did not know what was due to his rank and consequence. He said as much later to Mr. Delaney, whose eyes began to sparkle wickedly. “Faith, you are grown pompous, Ware. You have just made it clear to Miss Goodham that you prefer the company of her saucy aunt. You tell her further that you found the company at the opera tedious, therefore, in effect, telling her
she
is tedious, and then, when she proves to be the better fencer, you go very stiffly on your stiffs. You'll be ordering me out of your house next. But I am grateful to you. I now know where to find them.”

“You are never going to the opera again!”

“Of course. My needs are simple. To sit next to her, to smell her scent, to hear the rustle of her gown, and the sound of her soft voice.” Mr. Delaney leaned back in his chair and half-closed his eyes.

“How can such a notorious breaker of hearts as yourself become so spoony over a mere vicar's wife?”

“I don't know,” said Mr. Delaney simply. “I have this mad idea of riding north and begging the vicar to release her.”

“From the little I have heard of him, all that would achieve would be to have him post south and take a horsewhip first to his wife and then to you.”

Mr. Delaney sighed. “You have the right of it. Do you come to the opera with me?”

“No,” said the duke harshly. “I am going to go out drinking and wenching and if you had any sense left in your besotted head, you would come with me.”

He found he was sitting forward in his seat with his hands clenched on his knees. She walked onto the small stage wearing a diaphanous white gown, her glossy black hair piled high on her head. Two men carried in a large gilt harp. Mrs. Watkins sat down and began to accompany her singing on the harp. She sang an Irish ballad, sad and lilting, and the vicar sat like a man enchanted.

There was a reception at the squire's afterward. Mr. and Mrs. Goodham were there, carrying newspaper cuttings that contained mention of Honoria being accompanied to this and that by the Duke of Ware. Mr. Perryworth listened with only half an ear, for Mrs. Watkins was chatting to the squire and the squire was leering down the front of her gown.

“Excuse me,” he said abruptly and, cutting the Goodhams off in mid-sentence, he crossed to join Mrs. Watkins and the squire.

“You are not drinking the squire's excellent punch,” cried Mrs. Watkins, looking at the glass of lemonade in his hand.

“Our good vicar never touches anything stronger than lemonade, hey, vicar?” said the squire.

Mrs. Watkin's eyes caressed the vicar. “Oh,” she said softly, “but it is such good punch.” She raised her own glass to her full red lips and took a sip.

“I
am
rather cold,” he said. “Perhaps I will have a glass.”

The squire summoned a maid and told the girl to fetch the vicar a glass of punch.

The squire made very strong brandy punch indeed. The vicar somehow found himself in the bay of the window, drinking punch and listening to Mrs. Watkins, who was telling him how her friends had always said her voice was good enough for opera. The spirits coursed through his veins, giving him a boldness he did not know he was capable of.

After several glasses of punch, when she said she must take her leave and that although her little house was not too far, she did not like walking home alone in the dark, he promptly offered to accompany her. Once outside, under the reeling stars, it seemed only natural to take her arm in his.

His steps faltered and staggered slightly but Mrs. Watkins did not seem to notice, saying breathily that it was so marvelous to have a strong man to lean on. When a fox darted across the road, she let out such an endearing little cry and pressed her body close to his.

Lady Dacey would have been cheered had she known that Honoria privately thought her aunt was looking extremely attractive with her curling black hair in a short crop. Not only was her dress becoming, but her face was skillfully painted and, in the blaze of candlelight in the opera house, looked as delicate as a flower. Lord Herne was sharing their box. Honoria tried not to listen to his compliments, aware that Pamela appeared too absorbed in listening to Mr. Delaney who had joined them to do her duty, namely stop Lord Herne from pestering her.

At the interval, Lady Dacey turned and called to Mr. Delaney, “Where is Ware? Does he join us?”

“He is set on wenching and drinking tonight, or so he told me.”

Lady Dacey glared accusingly at Honoria and then flicked a contempuous glance at her own gown.

Oh, dear, thought Honoria, she will now decide that the only way to attract such a rake is by reverting to her old style and manner, and she may decide she would be better without Pamela and me. The specter of Mr. Pomfret loomed before her eyes. All her previous bravery, her determination to have a say in how she ran her own life, crumbled. She felt quite cross and weepy.

The curtain rose on the second act. It was a poor opera by an unknown Italian composer and the music could not banish her angry thoughts. What was the duke doing? If he was consorting with prostitutes then it was all too easy to imagine what he was doing. There were so many prostitutes in London, and so many in the opera house plying their wares, that it was very hard for even a respectable female to avoid knowing what went on.

She felt obscurely betrayed by the duke. Lord Herne had edged his chair so close to her own that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the powerful scent with which he had drenched himself. Her head began to ache. She began to wonder if, instead of the insipid, careful letters she had been writing home, she should not beg her parents to send for her. They were her parents, after all, and surely if she made a stand, they would not force her into an unwelcome marriage. But then she knew that her parents, like most other parents in Regency England, would consider it a deep disgrace to have an unmarried daughter. Spinsters were a source of pity mixed with dislike, failures on the stage of life.

She felt a treacherous stab of impatience with Pamela. She
had
a husband, although that seemed to be a fact that was slipping more and more from her mind. Mr. Perryworth was a cold fish, but he did not beat her and she had a household of her own.

Honoria decided she would not think of Ware anymore, and when she saw him again—
if
she saw again—she would demonstrate to him by her very coldness just how little he had been in her thoughts.