Anne Barbour (22 page)

The rest of the evening passed smoothly. After a short business meeting, several readings were given of one of the more obscure writings of the poet Gray, which led to a rather lively discussion on certain current events. The guests were then offered a light collation in the blue salon, and it was not long before they began moving toward the exit.

In the periphery of her consciousness, Hester had been aware that Robert Carver and Barbara had come together several times during the evening, only to draw apart again almost immediately, like snowflakes eddying in a blizzard, but now they stood in a far corner of the salon in a confrontation that seemed to render them oblivious to their surroundings. Barbara frowned and her face was delicately flushed, Robert’s pale and tight.

As Hester watched interestedly, Barbara lifted her hand in a beseeching gesture. Robert grasped it and looked as though he would have lifted it to his lips. Instead, he released it an instant later with what looked like an exclamation of disdain and turned away, leaving Barbara to stare after him, blinking back distressful tears. Hester would have gone to her, but she was stayed by a voice at her shoulder.

“Hester, I must have a word with you.”

She turned to behold Trevor. He was apparently in the grip of deep emotion, for he placed his hand on hers and gazed deeply into her eyes.

“I must leave, but first. I would speak with you”—he breathed intensely—”in private.”

Sighing, she led him out of the salon into the music room across the corridor.

“I wish to apologize,” said Trevor rather portentously.

Hester relaxed a little. “That is kind of you, my friend, but unnecessary. I know that you—”

“It is just that I am concerned about you, in this house of worldly pleasure.” He gestured vaguely about him.

“Oh, Trevor—” protested Hester, laughing, but Trevor rushed on, unheeding.

“You know how I feel about you, Hester. Indeed, I hope that one day you and I will be one, and I can protect you from such unwelcome influences, but—

“Trevor,” said Hester firmly, pushing against him, for he had moved to stand very close, his hand on her shoulder. “If you think our friendship gives you the right to dictate my actions, you are very—”

“But, you know we are much more than friends, my dear.”

So saying, to Hester’s astonishment, Trevor grasped both her shoulders and pulling her roughly toward him, crushed her mouth with a kiss that smelled slightly of the oysters she had served for supper.

“Oh, I am sorry.”

The voice, instantly and heart-sinkingly recognizable, spoke coolly from the doorway.

Chapter Fifteen

Hester’s heart somersaulted and Trevor jumped as though he had been poked with a sharp stick.

“Wh—wha—?” he croaked. “Miss Blayne and I were speaking of—that is—

“Of course,” murmured Thorne smoothly. “These intellectual discussions can become quite lively, can they not? I do beg your pardon for the intrusion.”

He began to withdraw from the room, but Hester gasped, “No! That is—” She patted her hair and attempted to speak calmly. “We were quite finished with our—discussion. Trevor was just leaving.”

Trevor’s expression was that of a man ready to chew bricks.

“Indeed.” His voice was icy. “I shall bid you good evening, my dear,” he said to Hester, and with a nod to Thorne, he strode into the corridor.

“Oh my,” said Thorne, his voice vibrating with amusement. “I fear I have driven away your—friend. How very unfortunate. But there will be other moments for, er, intellectual discourse.”

Hester turned on him, and the glance she sent across the room raised its temperature enough to melt glass.

“I am so pleased to have provided some amusement for you, my lord—again. Not that it is surprising you find the honest affection of a good man a source of entertainment— mixed with a dollop of contempt, of course.”

Thorne blinked. Good God, what had there been in his words to arouse such vituperation? Particularly since, on entering the room, his first sight of Hester locked in an embrace with Trevor Bentham had caused a maelstrom of rage to sweep over him. His initial impulse was to wrench Bentham from her and pound him into a satisfying smear on the carpet.

It was only when he observed the determined push Hester administered to her swain that the red mist faded from Thorne’s vision and he was able to put the scene into proper perspective. It was, he supposed, his astonishment at the violence of his reaction that had led him subsequently to fall back on his usual attitude of bland amusement.

He saw no reason to adjust this strategy.

“But, surely your own response to his honest affection was no more cruel than my own? Can it be that the gentleman’s ardor is not reciprocated?”

Hester paced the floor in an exasperated swish of silken skirts. “I hold Trevor Bentham in great affection,” she said firmly. “It’s just that—” She sighed. Really, there was no accounting for the agony of embarrassment she had experienced when Thorne entered the music room. Even though Trevor had been mauling her as though she were a light-skirt, she had not been cooperating in the embrace. She sighed again. “Not that any of this is your concern,” she continued, “but, as I have asserted in the past, I have no room in my life at this point for any—entanglements.”

“Is that what an
affaire de coeur
would mean to you?” he asked curiously. “An entanglement? And you call me heartless!”

“That’s not what I meant,” she sputtered. “I merely—oh, never mind.” She inclined her head. “If you will excuse me, sir, I must bid good evening to my guests.”

Thorne swept her an exaggerated bow as she strode past him. He gazed speculatively a moment at the vacant air, which carried the fragrance of violets.

He turned, preparing to make his way to his rooms when he was stayed by an imperative voice.

“A word with you, my lad, if I might.”

Thorne sighed. “What is it, Gussie? It’s getting late and I was about to seek my bed.”

Gussie uttered a sound that in anyone a shade less regal would have been called a snort. “You haven’t sought your bed at any time for the past fortnight a minute earlier than four in the morning. If we were to speak of someone else’s bed, of course—”

“That will do, Gussie.” He led her into a small salon just off the drawing room and gestured her to a comfortable chair near the fire. “Now, what is it?”

“I wish to speak to you about Hester.”

Thorne stiffened and said in a colorless voice, “If you are going to prose at me again for inviting her here, I beg leave—”

Gussie interrupted him with an impatient wave of her hand. “No, no of course not. I never prose. In any event, I am more than pleased you brought Hester to us. She has proved to be a welcome addition to the family, and in view of that fact, I have come to believe that for all her talk of feminine self-sufficiency, what she really needs is a good husband.”

His attention thoroughly arrested, Thorne stared at his aunt through slitted eyes.

“I see. And do you have a candidate for the position?”

“Certainly. Robert Carver. Don’t you see?” she continued as Thorne seemed momentarily bereft of speech. “He is perfect—wealthy, unattached, intelligent, a thoroughly nice man, and one who takes an interest in intellectual pursuits.”

“And what makes you think this paragon is in the market for a wife? I do not know him well, but I understand he is quite happy in his single state—possibly,” he added acidly, “because he has no relatives to concern themselves with the unhappiness of his situation.”

Lady Bracken laughed, unaffected. “Well, that’s my point. It is up to us to bring this lack in his life to his attention. I have, in fact, been working on it for some days.”

“What!”

“Oh, yes,” said Gussie blithely. “I introduced them, you know, and it was I who saw to it that Hester invited him to her little soiree this evening. I must say, they seem to be hitting it off remarkably well. The next step is simply to throw them in each other’s way at every opportunity. Propinquity is a wonderful thing.”

Thorne expelled an exasperated sigh. “Of all your ridiculous starts, Gussie, this ranks right up at the top of a very long list. For one thing, Hester has no desire to marry. For another—”

“Nonsense. Every woman wishes to marry, no matter how she might decry the fact.”

Thorne, without stopping to analyze the deep repugnance he felt at the idea of Hester marrying Robert Carver, strode about the room.

“Lord, Gussie, I wish you would give up this wretched penchant of yours for organizing other people’s lives. I daresay Carver may be a perfectly decent fellow, but he is not the man for Hester. Good God, she’d make his life a living hell.”

Gussie turned a blank stare on him.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well—um, she’d fill up his house with malcontents— eating his mutton and swilling his wine. He’d spend half his time rescuing her from thugs and footpads in the neighborhoods she likes to frequent in her forays, and when he wasn’t doing that he’d be bored to distraction listening to her catalog of things that need fixing in this country.”

“Thorne,” replied his aunt patiently. “She has been living with us for almost three weeks now. It seems to me we have all enjoyed her company—as well as the, er, malcontents she has chosen to invite here—whose company, by the by, include some of our most prestigious citizens. I have yet to see you racing off to rescue her, nor does she bore you with her views. Indeed, it seems to me that your mental attitude is vastly improved since she came. And, think what she has done for Chloe.”

“As far as I can see, all she’s done is to encourage the little widgeon in precisely the course I have spent months in attempting to eradicate.”

The words sounded pettish in his own ears, and he relented. “All right, I will admit that she is endeavoring to turn Chloe’s mind toward the life I have envisioned for her.

“Although, I must say, the results so far have fallen wide of the mark.”

“On the contrary,” replied Gussie briskly. “I think her strategy an excellent one. Did you see Chloe this evening? She could not take her eyes from John Wery. And he is all she can talk of these days. You mark my words, we will see a betrothal there in less than a month. But, getting back to Hester, I expect you to do everything possible toward getting her together with Mr. Carver. I was thinking of an outing to Vauxhall. There’s to be a gala there two nights hence. You could make up a party with Hester and Robert, and of course, Barbara.”

“Of course,” murmured Thorne resignedly.

“You could hire a boat of flutes and make it a really festive occasion.”

Thorne groaned. His aunt rose from her chair and bade her nephew a cordial good night, and after she had gone, Thorne slumped into the vacated seat and stared into the fire.

Hester—married to Robert Carver. He was surprised to discover that the idea made him faintly sick—and for what reason, he could not discover. It was not as though he had plans of his own for the earnest little gadfly. He wouldn’t at all mind having her in his bed, for he was sure the fire he had detected beneath her somewhat austere exterior would be worth fanning into a blaze of passion. One did not, however, seduce respectable maidens approaching middle age—particularly those that were related to one, no matter how distantly, and even more particularly ones who were under his protection.

That being the case, and looking at the situation objectively, Thorne was bound to admit that Robert Carver seemed the perfect mate for Hester. Assuming, of course, that Hester would so much as consider the possibility of taking a husband, which at this point she seemed strongly disinclined to do. Somehow, that thought comforted him.

Very well then. He would arrange the gala evening at Vauxhall and he would promote a match between Hester and Robert Carver. If she conceived a
tendre
for the fellow, so be it. If not—well, his conscience would be salved, and Miss Blayne could go back to her cottage in Overcross, free to take up the cudgels once more for the liberation of women.

And he could return to his own life. Sobriety and rectitude were all very well in small doses, but enough was enough. It was time to reinstitute his plans for the Earl of Tenby’s toothsome little wife before some other enterprising fellow, Jack Winsham, for example, took steps to mount her. And the girls at Desiree’s would no doubt be missing him.

He stared at the fire for another few minutes, waiting for the sense of anticipation the thought of this program should bring. What he felt, however, was—nothing, merely an odd, forlorn emptiness. He shook himself, finally. If he did not take himself firmly in hand, he told himself, he was in danger of turning into a doddering old fogram, moldering before his hearth. He rose and plodded upstairs to his bedchamber.

Two nights later, a party disembarked on the south bank of the River Thames at the Vauxhall dock. In the boat were Lord Bracken and his lady, the Earl of Bythorne and Lady Barbara Freemantle, and Mr. Robert Carver and Miss Hester Blayne. In another craft, hauling to nearby, several musicians tootled a finish to their concert and bade the merrymakers a very good evening.

It might have been expected that the prospect of an evening in one of England’s premier pleasure spots, with the promise of a concert and fireworks later on, might have evoked expressions of anticipation and merriment among the party, but it was, by and large, a rather somber group that made its way from the water to the establishment’s gate.

“You did not tell me Robert Carver was going to be here tonight,” hissed Lady Barbara to Hester, in much the same tone used by Chloe on the occasion of the meeting of the Friends of Ancient Literature.

Hester had become friendly with Lady Barbara during their short acquaintanceship, and a degree of informality had sprung up between them.

“I did not know,” she now replied petulantly. “It was all Gussie’s doing. Good God, she seems to feel duty-bound to find me a husband, and Robert Carver is apparently the chosen sacrifice. Damn and blast!” she muttered.

“Well, I don’t know why you should be so overset,” responded Barbara, a touch of ice in her voice. “Robert would make any woman a fine husband.”