Miss Pymbroke's Rules (8 page)

“And would you not agree, the actresses savor their performances onstage? That they consider what they do an art?”

Verity looked up to see if he was taunting her. But his face merely reflected a polite interest. “They seem proud of their profession,” she admitted. “No wonder they would not listen to my urgings for them to find another means of making their living.”

Louisa broke her silence to ask incredulously, “You’ve been moralizing to a group of actresses? How could you be so silly, Verity?”

Verity’s hands twisted the strings of her reticule. “Father left us for an actress ...” she whispered.

“Lud, that wasn’t Mary Jennings’s fault. Father had his own weaknesses and made his own decisions,” Louisa stated with the air of one to whom the matter had long since been resolved.

“Mary Jennings, was that her name?” Verity asked, the likeness painted on the miniature springing into her mind.

“She was the one named at the time by the tattlebearers,” Louisa replied with a yawn.

Lord Carrisworth said gently, “Miss Pymbroke, most of the actresses have no home to return to, no family capable of providing for them. And, as you saw tonight, even if they did, they would probably choose to remain where they are. Think on it and see if you can still find it in your heart to condemn them.”

Verity experienced a gamut of perplexing emotions. Under the marquess’s steady scrutiny, she could barely think. This serious side to him caused her heart to beat hard.

For some reason, when he spoke thoughtfully, she found his appeal much stronger. When he was clearly flirting, she found it much easier to resist his charms. This glimpse of a sincere, unaffected demeanor drew her to him, frightening her.

She was grateful when the coach stopped in front of Lady Iris’s and could have screamed in frustration when Louisa asked his lordship to share their tea tray and the invitation was accepted.

Entering the drawing room, the party found Lady Iris sitting on the dark blue settee, attended by the sisters’s maid, Beecham.

Her ladyship took one look at Verity’s gown and stomped her cane on the floor so hard that Empress, curled in her mistress’s lap, awoke with a start. The cat jumped from Lady Iris’s lap to the floor, her slanted blue eyes glaring at the company in reproach for this disturbance.

“By Jupiter, Verity, how could you have gone to the theater dressed like the lowest parson’s daughter? If you’ve taken it into your head to go about in Society—and it’s past time you did—you must be properly gowned first.”

Verity bristled. “I would like to go out more. But, must appearances count for so much? I do not believe in improving overmuch on what the Good Lord has given me.”

“
He
didn’t give you that gown,” Lady Iris howled. “You had it off some unfashionable dressmaker.”

“Good evening, Lady Iris. Mrs. Barrington promised me a tea tray,” said Lord Carrisworth, trying to divert the elderly woman’s attention while everyone sat down.

“Bring the damn tea tray, Beecham,” Lady Iris commanded, her gaze moving from one person to the other as if trying to fix blame for the social solecism committed by her young friend.

As the hour was late, Louisa forgot for a moment that Verity’s appearance suited her purposes. She was goaded into saying, “You should have seen the way people laughed and stared at Mouse at the theater. I declare they all thought it was a rare joke.”

Verity’s mouth dropped open in astonishment at the revelation it was she, and not the marquess, who had garnered the unsavory attention.

Seeing Miss Pymbroke’s crestfallen expression, Lord Carrisworth experienced a strong desire to slap Mrs. Barrington’s face. Instead, he decided to raise Miss Pymbroke’s ire. That would at least remove that wounded look in her brown eyes, a look he was finding he could not bear.

He raised his quizzing glass, studying the dress in question. Then he quickly dropped it, as if in disgust. “It is a perfectly horrid gown, Miss Pymbroke. Surely your year of mourning is over. You are one to follow rules.  What do the rules state regarding when a lady may put off her blacks?”

The marquess was content with the swift shadow of anger that swept across her face. She had no chance to respond to him, though, because Lady Iris had found a person she could hold responsible for her young friend’s attire.

“Louisa, I’d have thought you, as Verity’s loving sister, would have instructed her as to how to dress, mayhaps lent her a gown.”

Seeing the look of offended hauteur crossing Louisa’s features, Lady Iris pressed her point. “Yes, Louisa, now that I think on it, you will want to share your gowns with Verity. Beecham tells me you had four trunks’ worth of ’em for her to unpack, so you won’t care a rush about giving half of them to Verity. She can’t afford new ones and won’t allow me to help her. Of course, Beecham will have to make them over to fit her, Verity being better endowed than you, but then at your age everything begins to droop.”

From her position on the floor, Empress miaowed in evident agreement.

Louisa rose, her color heightened. Unable to trust herself not to tell Lady Iris exactly what she could do with her ideas she said stiffly, “I shall select some gowns for my sister in the morning.”

Verity stood and embraced Louisa. “Thank you. You are the best of sisters.”

Hearing this statement, Lord Carrisworth and Lady Iris exchanged apprehensive looks.

Louisa broke away from Verity and curtsied to his lordship. “Good night, my lord.” In her haste to quit the room she nearly collided with a footman carrying the tea tray.

Lady Iris turned her attention to the marquess. “Carrisworth, in future I expect you to request my permission to escort Verity about. I know she’s not my ward, but she’s living under my roof and needs guidance.”

“Very well, my lady,” the marquess replied with easy grace. He accepted a cup from Verity and asked, “Do you go to the Foxworths’ tomorrow? Mrs. Barrington is being escorted by Sir Ramsey, and I should be happy to drive you as well as Lady Hyacinth and Miss Pymbroke.”

In the act of preparing a cup for Lady Iris, Verity ground her teeth in exasperation. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but are my wishes not to be taken into account?”

“No,” Lady Iris said baldly. Then her gruff voice softened. “It’s been over a year since your Mama was consigned to her tomb. You needn’t be covering yourself in mourning clothes or staying home for the rest of your life. You should be around people your own age, having fun. That’s what’s wrong with your generation. You’re mealy-mouthed and don’t know how to have a good time.”

With a perfectly bland expression, Lord Carrisworth said, “How right you are, Lady Iris. Perhaps together, Miss Pymbroke and I might somehow contrive.”

Verity frowned at the marquess, but before she could say anything, a scream pierced the air. Another quickly followed, catapulting the company up the stairs to find their source.

The marquess was first in the upstairs hallway. He followed the sounds of the continued screeching and flung open the door from which they emanated. It was Louisa’s bedchamber, and she stood by the fireplace, white-faced with terror. In her hand, she held a heavy poker.

Verity and Beecham arrived with a breathless Lady Iris on their heels. The trio rushed into the room full of questions. Louisa stood mute, using the poker to point toward the four-poster bed.

Lord Carrisworth crossed the room and let out a derisive laugh. “Is this what all the wailing is about, madam?”

The bedclothes had been turned back for the night, and on one of the pillows lay a dead mouse.

A chuckle escaped from Beecham before she moved forward to remove the offensive sight. Lady Iris barked out a laugh, muttering about how they weren’t so missish in her day, and Verity was left to comfort her sister.

But anger had replaced Louisa’s fear. She glanced across the room and saw Empress framed in the doorway, a triumphant expression on her feline face. “That horrible cat did this deliberately to spite me. After dinner I told it to go away and catch mice, and look what it did! It is a nasty creature and should be kept below-stairs if not thrown out into the streets.”

“What ... did ... you ... say?” Lady Iris demanded, glaring at the widow.

“Oh!” Louisa cried, bursting into false tears in hopes his lordship would console her.

Unmoved, the marquess promptly said, “I cannot abide a watering pot. I shall see myself out.” He bowed to Lady Iris, informing her he would call to escort them to the breakfast tomorrow at three.

Raising Verity’s gloved hand to his lips, he pressed a brief kiss upon it. He stared into her flushed face for just a moment. Then he was gone.

Lady Iris picked Empress up and slung her pet over her shoulder. The cat cast Louisa a feline grin while riding out of the room on her comfortable perch. Lady Iris’s gruff voice could barely be heard in the hall. “How about a dish of cream to wet your whiskers, Empress?”

After Beecham had changed the pillowcase, Louisa was left alone with Verity.

“Dear sister, let me help you into your night rail. You have suffered a shock and would be better for some rest. I am persuaded I should have asked Beecham to bring you some hot milk before I dismissed her,” Verity said, fussing with the tapes to Louisa’s gown.

Louisa’s temper snapped. She flung Verity’s hands away. “Go away and leave me in peace, Miss Do-good. I cannot bear your moralizing now, and I can tell you are ready to launch into a sermon.”

Verity had been ready to do just that, thinking of Louisa’s use of cosmetics, the low cut of her gown, and her bold manner with Sir Ramsey. But she shrank from the look in her sister’s eyes, contenting herself by saying, “Your nerves are overset. We shall say our prayers together and then—

“Out!” Louisa shrieked.

Verity hurried out, cringing when her sister slammed the door after her. She leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.

One thought crystallized in her brain. It was her duty to guide her sister toward more virtuous ways. She might have to give up as lost her mission with the actresses. But here was someone closer to her who was important.

A soft glow came into Verity’s dark brown eyes. Louisa needed her help.

And if Verity had to accept the Marquess of Carrisworth’s escort in order to help her sister, she simply would have to make the sacrifice.

* * * *

The next morning, Lady Iris stood by the pantry in the kitchen. She held a very large reticule, more like a poacher’s sack, into which she was stuffing the small bottles of liquid she’d spent the previous evening preparing.

When finished with her task, Lady Iris pulled the hood of a drab cloak down low over her veiled head, which— for once—was not adorned with her customary white wig.

She slipped out the servants’ entrance in the rear of the house and into the crisp morning air.

Next door, the Marquess of Carrisworth, having returned from an unaccustomed but refreshing morning ride, had just finished changing his coat. He was standing at an upstairs window contemplating how he would amuse himself this day, when he glanced down and spied the furtive figure of Lady Iris.

Now what is she up to?
He thought. He turned away from the pink curtains and picked up a pair of York tan gloves.

Mr. Wetherall, who was neatly stacking foot-wide, newly laundered cravats into an armoire, said, “My lord, I must say this bedchamber is most unsuitable.”

“Nonsense, man,” his lordship replied, rapidly pulling on the gloves. “My hat and stick, if you please.”

Wetherall handed the requested items over to his master, his left eye twitching with disapproval. “But this is a lady’s room, my lord. It is not appropriate for one of your consequence to sleep on a bed topped with a pink coverlet.”

The marquess’s lips twisted in a grin. “On the contrary, I often frequent beds sporting pink coverlets, as you well know.”

When his master reached the door, Mr. Wetherall called out, “My lord! Do you not wish me to call a groom or footman to accompany you?”

But Lord Carrisworth was already out of earshot, leaving his long-suffering valet to cluck his tongue in disapproval. Mr. Wetherall consoled himself with the thought that his lordship had not come home in his cups last night. It had been the first such occurrence in quite some time. Mayhap the puppy would finally be done with what Mr. Wetherall charitably termed his lordship’s youthful frolics and settle down.

Meanwhile, the marquess followed Lady Iris at a careful distance through the Mayfair streets until he saw her step into an apothecary and herb shop. He waited outside, pretending an interest in the colorful bottles displayed in the window.

A few minutes later, when Lady Iris stomped out of the shop, still clutching her heavy bag, the marquess casually strolled inside and faced the proprietor.

This shrewd merchant, recognizing a member of the Nobility, bowed low. “How my I serve yer honor?”

“You may tell me what business you conducted with the veiled lady just here.”

The fat shop owner grimaced and said, “That one! Thinks I don’t know who she is, but ye can’t fool ole Jack Millweed. Trying to clear her sister’s account by sellin’ me some home-brewed potion she called ‘Love’s Helping Hand.’ Imagine that, milord! Why, I’d be in a mort o’ trouble selling them bottles without the proper tax stamp, no less not knowin’ what’s in the stuff.”

Mr. Millweed then winked lewdly. “She did say the elixir would cause the most unloverlike person to become energetic, but. . .”

The marquess was making a heroic attempt at concealing his amusement. Love’s Helping Hand? Lady Iris was concocting some sort of aphrodisiac? By God, the woman was a Trojan.

Then his lordship’s thoughts grew solemn. Lady Iris must truly be in need of money to go to such lengths.

He produced a roll of coins and instructed the shopkeeper. “You are to send a discreet note round to the lady’s house. You are to apologize and say you will buy whatever she can supply you with. Send me word when she delivers the potions. I expect you to give the lady half this amount, you may keep the rest.”

The marquess scribbled a generous figure on the back of one of his cards, and then passed it and several of the coins to the stunned Mr. Millweed. “Here is something for your trouble today.”