An Honest Heart (7 page)

“Because that gargoyle of a housekeeper came upon us.”

Radclyffe frowned. “I hope you did not cause the young woman to lose her position.”

“No—I told the housekeeper it was all my doing, that the girl was not to blame. Though . . .” He sighed. “I do not know that she believed me. I cannot imagine this was the first time she found the chit in such a position.”

Oliver glanced over his shoulder. Thankfully, Edith had moved away from the settee and now had her back turned to him, having cornered her sister, apparently reprimanding her for some perceived wrong. Excellent. Now he could escape unnoticed.

He leaned closer to Doncroft and Radclyffe. “I just learned that the seamstress is in the house. I intend to intercept her before she can leave.”

“Seamstress?” Radcliffe’s boyish face crumpled in confusion.

“
The
seamstress? The one from North Parade whom you intend to seduce?” Doncroft rubbed his hands together.

“Yes. She’s seeing to Miss Buchanan’s cousin’s wardrobe. And I intend to see to her, if I can.”

Doncroft gave him a wicked grin. “Yes, yes—go. We shall make excuses for you if your absence is discovered. It is the least I can do since you covered for me this morning.”

Precisely what Oliver thought. He glanced toward Edith again and—seeing that she still had her back turned—slipped from the room.

He took the service hall at the back of the oversized entry hall and made his way to the east-wing servants’ staircase. He listened for a long moment to ensure no one currently used the stairs before climbing them. Up two flights, he opened the door onto a hallway of closed bedroom doors. He hadn’t been in the family wing of the house before, so he could not be certain which was the cousin’s bedroom, or even if this were the correct floor.

Moving into the shadow of the tall urn at this end of the hall, he waited. And waited. How long could a dress fitting take?

A door halfway down opened. Female voices spilled into the hallway. Oliver straightened and moved forward a bit, ready to intercept the seamstress.

Edith glanced around the room. Ever since voicing her idea of an arrangement to Oliver, she’d tried to keep him close to make sure he upheld his end of the bargain—that he did not do anything to shame her.

She’d known him long enough to know his penchant for outrageous flirting . . . and for backroom meetings with women of certain reputations. No more. Not if she was going to tie her name to his.

Not seeing him at the settee where she expected him to rejoin her, she looked for his two friends—Doncroft and Radclyffe. Each handsome in his own way, but neither one as wealthy or as high ranking as Oliver, she’d effectively ignored the two of them for the past three weeks.

He was not with them either. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere in the room. How dare he depart without begging her leave? Even if she were not his intended fiancée, she was still hostess of the house party.

Well.

Clamping her back teeth together, Edith twitched her skirts to unbunch her petticoats, turned, and found a perfect target.

He’d entered late—not having been with the walking party—and he had not yet come over to speak to her to make his apologies. Edith turned her toes in as she walked across the room, making her skirts sway like the bell they resembled.

She stopped several paces away from where he stood observing the other guests. She dropped into a deep curtsy, wishing tea did not call for the higher-cut neckline of an afternoon gown. “Good day, Lord Thynne.”

The viscount inclined his head. “Miss Buchanan.”

“I hope you found employment enough to keep you from boredom today.” Edith reached her left hand up and twined her fingers in the delicate gold chain holding her mother’s locket. She did not care for the piece, but she liked the air of sentimentality it gave her. And it was the appropriate length for this bodice.

“Yes, thank you. Miss Dearing showed me the water garden, fountains, and pond.”

Edith forced a smile. Hearing that he’d chosen to spend the morning with her cousin confirmed her suspicion that there was more than a mild flirtation between the viscount and the penniless American woman. “Did the garden designer join you? I understand that my cousin has formed quite the . . . friendship with him.”

Perhaps it was beneath her to hint that her cousin was carrying on inappropriately with her father’s hireling, but Edith couldn’t help herself.

Thynne showed no adverse reaction. “Yes, she has learned quite a bit from Mr. Lawton about his plans for the grounds. In fact, I have asked him to draw up a proposal for redesigning the gardens and park at Greymere Hall.”

Edith almost stamped her foot, but stopped herself by shifting her weight and digging the nail of her thumb into her palm. “How lovely.”

Lord Thynne launched into a boring recitation of all the changes he hoped to make to his home, both inside and out. Edith leaned forward, widened her eyes a bit, and nodded occasionally.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Doncroft and Radclyffe watching. The two leaned their heads together for a whispered conversation, then Doncroft left the room.

She controlled her smile of satisfaction. No doubt Doncroft left to warn Oliver that Lord Thynne was flirting with her.

“If you will excuse me, Miss Buchanan. I have an engagement to keep with your father.” Thynne inclined his head again and, without waiting for her permission, walked out of the sitting room, leaving Edith standing alone, in full view of all her guests.

Dorcas’s laugh rang out and Edith’s skin crawled at the sound of it. She marched over and insinuated herself between her sister and the three men standing near her chair, looking down on her with undisguised appreciation.

“Do excuse us, gentlemen.” Edith wrapped her hand around Dorcas’s forearm and squeezed. Dorcas let out a small squeak, but one look from Edith quelled her from complaining about the firm grip. “I need to speak with my sister.”

Dorcas pulled her wrist from Edith’s grasp, but followed her meekly out into the entry hallway. Edith could not believe she needed to speak to her sister again this afternoon about her inappropriate behavior.

“What is it this time?”

Edith spun around at the exasperation in her sister’s voice. Dorcas stood there, arms crossed, looking quite put out.

“I saw you openly flirting with those men. Laughing aloud. You aren’t even
out
yet. You should not be carrying on conversations with them at all. I warned you about your inappropriate behavior during the walking party this morning.”

“
My
inappropriate behavior?” The organdy flounces of Dorcas’s pink dress quivered and fear whitewashed her face. “Unlike you, Sister, I do not actively seek to flirt with the men. I cannot help it if they choose to come to me after they—” Dorcas’s face flamed dark red.

Edith set her fists to her hips, fury building in her stomach. “After they what?”

“After they walk away from you.” Dorcas’s eyes widened and she seemed to have trouble catching her breath.

Edith found breathing hard too. Never before had her sister spoken to her like this. “I beg your pardon?” She enunciated each word as if it were separate from the others.

Moisture pooled in Dorcas’s eyes, but she swallowed and took a step forward. “I am not the only one who has noticed, Sister, that the men may pay obeisance to you, but they do not stay by your side long. I am also not the only one who has noticed that many of them choose my company over yours.”

Edith wanted to slap her. Wanted to tear her hair out of the perfect coils and ringlets. Wanted to scratch at the fear-filled blue eyes gazing at her from the pretty, heart-shaped face. “You know nothing. You are a simpering fool who will never be able to keep a man’s interest long enough to elicit a proposal from him. You would do well to keep your mouth closed and follow in my footsteps.”

She turned and started up the stairs, unwilling to let Dorcas have the upper hand in this argument.

“Follow in your footsteps?” Dorcas’s voice echoed in the hall, followed by her light footfalls on the stairs. “I have watched you these many years, Edith. And what I have learned is that if I want to catch a husband before I’m a bitter spinster from whom desperation flows like the Thames, all I need to do is the exact
opposite
of what you do.” Dorcas lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs.

Edith gaped after her sister. Bitter? Desperation? How dare she, the impudent child!

She squared her shoulders, lifted her skirts, and ascended the stairs in a slow, deliberate pace. Did they all talk about her and call her a desperate, bitter spinster when her back was turned?

She would show them. Before the season ended, she would be at the altar—and she fully intended to become Lady Thynne, not Mrs. Carmichael. Her American cousin might have caught the viscount’s attention, but she would never keep it. Not if Edith had anything to do with it.

Caddy sent Alice down to the waiting cab with their sewing kits and stayed to help Miss Dearing’s maid remove the pinned gown. She wrapped the silver-and-green silk in white muslin while the maid helped Miss Dearing dress for dinner in another of Caddy’s creations. The deep purple satin brought out the coppery highlights in the American’s hair, and Caddy congratulated herself on choosing the color for her.

“I shall bring the gown out for a final fitting a few days before the ball, Miss Dearing.” Caddy stepped forward and adjusted the lace along the scooped, off-the-shoulder neckline of the dinner dress.

“Thank you, Miss Bainbridge. I look forward to it.” Miss Dearing extended her right hand.

Caddy reached out and shook it, amused by the American’s unusual ways. No woman of Caddy’s acquaintance, including her clients, would ever have considered shaking hands with her. But she liked the idea that Miss Dearing, an heiress to a railway fortune if the rumors were to be believed, saw Caddy as an equal. Someone to be respected and proud to be acquainted with—not someone to be hidden away, shunted off through servants’ passages and back doors.

She gathered up the bundled gown and departed, taking a moment in the hallway to get her bearings and remember the direction to the service stairs.

With the bulky bundle over one arm and using her free hand for balance against the wall, Caddy sidestepped down the narrow, steep stairs, watching her footing carefully. With Mother’s illness—real or feigned—Caddy could not afford to incur any additional medical expenses by falling and breaking an arm or leg. Nor could she afford to be out of work while she recovered. Best to be overly cautious.

She was almost to the lowest level when someone came barreling up the stairs from below. The passageway would have been just wide enough for two to sidle past each other, but not with the additional bulk of the gown.

Caddy pressed herself against the wall, ready to apologize for blocking the way. But the man who stopped on the half-landing below did not look like a servant. Not in a silk waistcoat, fawn breeches, tall boots, and a perfectly tailored hunting jacket.

“Well, who have we here?” He came up two steps until he stood directly below her. “I’ve not seen you around before.”

Caddy dipped her knees into a curtsy as best she could, given her awkward balance and the narrow space. “I do apologize. If you will let me pass, I will be out of your way directly.”

He stepped up onto the same level as Caddy. He didn’t tower over her the way a certain handsome doctor did—no, he was mere inches taller than she. And she could smell the spirits on his breath mingling with the nearly overpowering scent of his cologne. She took shallow breaths, trying to keep from gagging over the effect of the combination in such a confined area.

“Let you pass? No, I do believe I will keep you here with me so I can get to know you better.” He looked her up and down. “You’re not wearing the usual afternoon gray gown of all of the other maids, so either today is your day off or you’re new and haven’t yet received your livery.”

Caddy straightened. “I am no maid. I am Miss Buchanan’s seamstress, and as such, I know you will be a gentleman and let me pass.”

Thick brows hooded blue eyes, and the man leaned closer. “Me? A gentleman?” His arm snaked around her waist, pushing the bundled gown out of the way. “Not until I have to be, which is after my father dies and I inherit the title and estate. Not until I am called
Sir
will I need to behave like a gentleman.”