Anne Barbour (5 page)

She gazed directly into his eyes for some moments, and when he made no reply, she rose, and with a brisk twitch of her skirts walked away from him.

March stared after her, stunned. The interview had not gone at all as he had envisioned. The woman had turned down a munificent offer, and had had the poor taste to leave before he could forward negotiations by upping the ante.

But worst of all, he thought with a sinking sensation, he had, for a brief instant, believed her to be sincere. He knew this could not be. He was wise in the way of the world and his experience had taught him that penniless young women did not make themselves pleasant to rich old ladies out of the goodness of their hearts. Loved her like a daughter, indeed. What kind of fool did she take him for? He sighed deeply. Just your average, everyday fool, of course, who could be swept into a pair of deep blue eyes an angel would envy. He rose and with lagging steps headed in the direction of Royal Crescent.

Good God, was he about to be bested by a vicar’s daughter who seemingly exuded truth and innocence from every pore? It seemed impossible that she could be so skilled an actress.

And he wished he did not want so badly to believe her.

Chapter 4

March was met at the front door of his aunt’s house by a small whirlwind composed of pink muslin and golden curls.

“March! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” The young girl’s words cascaded from sweetly shaped pink lips and her brown eyes sparkled with the joyful abandon of youth. “Did you come just to see me installed in Aunt Edith’s home? Can you believe I have finally shaken the dust of that horrid school from my shoes? Oh, March! By this time next year I will have had my Season, and I’ll be counting the offers for my hand!”

With some difficulty, March unwrapped himself from his little sister’s tempestuous embrace and laughed affectionately.

“Hold, you little hoyden! Obviously, you haven’t learned any manners at that horrid school, so perhaps we should send you back for a refresher course!”

Since his words were accompanied by a hearty embrace and a noisy kiss on her cheek, Lady Margaret Brent might be forgiven for ignoring this threat. Watching from the doorway, Alison was astonished at the difference a warm smile made on the normally chilly set of his lordship’s features. The man who smiled so engagingly at those he loved, she mused a little sadly, was a wholly different person from the one who bent frigid stares on those for whom he felt only contempt.

Lady Edith had by now joined the group on her front steps, and, clucking impatiently, she led them into the house. Over tea in the library, Meg further proclaimed her relief at having at last escaped the confines of the schoolroom, and could not stop talking about her exciting plans for her Season.

“Oh, Alison,” she cried, clapping her hands, “you will never believe! Sally Pargeter and I found the most ravishing bonnet in Milsom Street yesterday. At least,
I
thought it was ravishing. Sally says it’s fussy. Do come with me this afternoon to look at it again so you can give me your opinion.”

March observed this exchange with some astonishment. It had not occurred to him that Meg would have fallen in with the ranks of Miss Fox’s well-wishers, yet they seemed to be on extraordinarily good terms. Indeed, an outsider might consider them a charming pair—Meg with her tumbled golden curls bent close to Miss Fox’s sleek, dark head. March pursed his lips thoughtfully as he considered the effect Meg’s disastrous friendship with a fortune hunter might have upon his negotiations with same.

What negotiations? The crafty witch had turned him off like a spigot, and had left him feeling oddly guilty in the process— which was patently absurd, of course. He had not been born yesterday, after all. He must assume that her earnest, dewy-eyed protestations of sincerity were merely a ploy to wring a higher price from him.

He wrenched himself back to the scene in progress and discovered to his dismay that Miss Fox and Meg were deep in plans for an afternoon shopping excursion that included an inspection of the bonnet, as well as a search for a ribbon of a particular shade of green.

“It is all the crack, you know,” Meg assured her aunt and Miss Fox. “And that wretchedly insipid white muslin we purchased last week simply cries for some sort of adornment.”

Miss Fox nodded her head in grave agreement with this assessment while Lady Edith looked on with a fond smile.

“It sounds an excellent plan to me,” the older woman pronounced.

“But, since you will not be going to the Pump Room this morning, will you not wish to go this afternoon?” asked Alison.

“Yes, and I would be delighted if you would accompany me, but once there you may leave me to my gossiping and simply collect me when you are ready to come home.”

“Well,” began Alison, “if you—”

“I am sure,” interjected the earl, “that you would not wish to leave my aunt unaccompanied for so long just to indulge in an hour or two of frippery shopping.” His expression indicated that such a program would be akin to abandoning her ladyship in a bawdy house.

“What nonsense!” cried Lady Edith before Alison could respond. “Alison, after all the hours you have endured listening to me hash over the doings of a parcel of idiots you neither know or care about, you have earned a few hours respite in Milsom Street.”

March could find no reasonable response to that and so offered to escort Lady Edith to the Pump Room himself.

“Good,” she replied promptly. “Perhaps a dose of the waters will improve your disposition.”

March had the grace to flush.

Such was Meg’s excitement over the bonnet in Milsom Street, that the group found themselves rushing through an early luncheon. Not an hour later, Alison and Meg were strolling along Milsom Street, having just purchased the desired length of green ribbon from a mercier in Bath Street.

“There, Alison, in that window!” cried Meg, grasping Alison’s arm and pulling her toward the milliner’s shop. “That charming villager hat. Is it not precious?”

Alison peered at the astonishing creation displayed with such hopeful prominence. It could, she supposed, be called a villager, for it had a wide brim, but on the whole it looked more like a coal scuttle, featuring a towering crown surmounted by feathers. A profusion of rosebuds decorated the brim, the whole being anchored to the wearer’s chin by several yards of wide, very bright pink ribbon.

After a moment’s reflection, Alison said hesitantly. “It’s quite, er ... tall, is it not?”

“Yes,” replied Meg gleefully. “That is
precisely
what makes it so dashing. Come, let me try it on for your inspection.”

Dragging Alison bodily inside the shop, Meg motioned to a salesclerk, who brought the desired article to her. Tying the ribbon at a rakish angle beneath one ear, she cocked her head.

“Well, what do you think?”

The kindest word to describe it, thought Alison, was bizarre.

“It is indeed most—uh—most unusual.”

Meg turned to the mirror, examining herself critically from every angle.

“Shall I purchase it?”

“You must do what you want, of course, Meg, but—I wonder ...”

Meg swung around, wide-eyed.

“You wonder what? Oh, Alison, never tell me you think it’s too sophisticated.
Everyone
says that to me all the time, but I was sure you would not.”

“That’s just it, my dear. There is something about it—perhaps all those rosebuds, that makes you appear absurdly youthful. One would not take you for more than fifteen in it.”

Meg whirled to the mirror with a gasp.

“Oh! Oh, dear, I believe you are right,” she concluded after a moment’s perusal of her appearance. She sighed. “And I think those ribbons make me look sallow, in addition. How very lowering.”

“But look over there at that rakish little capote,” said Alison diplomatically. “I fear Lady Edith will think it quite daring, but I do believe it would suit you.”

Meg raced to try on the capote, and as Alison had hoped, she declared it “bang up to the echo.” The price was so reasonable that Meg felt almost obliged to purchase a silk bandeau embroidered with acorns as well.

Since Meg had airily dispensed with the services of a maid, she carried the bandbox containing her new purchases herself, and swinging it gaily over one arm, proceeded with Alison down Milsom Street. When they reached the ill-named Quiet Street, Meg bethought herself of a shop that carried yet another essential, a supply of reticules and scarves.

“For I still have enough left from my allowance for another Norwich silk, you know,” she advised Alison, who nodded in complete understanding. Inside the shop, as Meg rummaged through a display of luxurious silk accessories, Alison found herself unable to resist a zephyr scarf shot with silver, and when they again emerged onto the street, the ladies found themselves so burdened with their purchases that they elected to return to the Pump Room immediately.

Moving through the narrow passageway of Bridewell Lane, Meg turned again to her friend.

“Tell me what you think of March,” she said. “Isn’t he wonderful? I am
so
lucky to have him for a brother.

Alison searched her mind for a suitable response. “He—he seems quite devoted to his family.”

“Oh, yes. He used to be somewhat of a scapegrace. Indeed,” she continued, observing Alison’s expression of disbelief, “before he went to the Continent, he was quite the man about town—always playing least-in-sight when it came to performing his “peerage duties,” as he called them. Papa was always at him to mend his ways. When he accepted the diplomatic assignment—March all but admitted at the time that he took it just to escape his responsibilities—Papa was beside himself. He begged March not to go.”

Meg laughed a little self-consciously. “Goodness, I am making him out to be a regular care-for-nobody. Truly, he has always been there for all of us ever since I can remember. Mama died when I was about twelve, and Papa—well, Papa was a lovely man, but sometimes rather difficult. When Papa died—oh, Alison, what a dreadful time that was for us.”

Before Alison could utter a word, Meg continued in a rush. “My sister-in-law became involved with a perfectly horrid woman some years ago. The female cheated her of a great deal of money and poor dear Susannah became so despondent—”

“Yes,” gasped Alison. “I am aware of—”

“I suppose Aunt Edith told you about it,” continued Meg. “Anyway, poor March did not learn of the deaths of William and Susannah until he returned to England a few weeks later.” Meg’s vivid little face crumpled in distress. “For a while, we thought March would go mad. He was much closer to William than I was, being more of an age. For that matter, he was closer to Papa, too. March changed then. In just a few weeks he lost all his joy in life and became weighed down with duty and responsibility—as he is to this day. I think he felt somehow to blame for all that happened. He vowed to bring—Miss Reynard, her name was—to justice. Well, more than that. He wanted to make her pay for what she did, although I’m not sure how he planned to bring that about. I know he would have thought of something,” she added, and Alison fought the panic rising within her. “March searched and searched for Miss Reynard, but she had vanished into thin air, just like the witch we all knew her to be. He’s still got detectives on her trail, but we have pretty much given up hope of ever finding her.”

Hating herself for uttering the words, Alison spoke in a strained whisper. “But—destroying this Miss Reynard would not bring Susannah or William or even your father back.”

“That’s just what I said to March,” declared Meg. “I told him that if anyone was being destroyed over this it was him.” Alison glanced at Meg, surprised at this unexpected evidence of maturity in the youthful sprite beside her. “But,” the girl said with a sigh, “once my brother sets out on a course there is no dissuading him. He is all duty and practicality now.”

“Perhaps when he marries,” ventured Alison, “his wife will move his thoughts in another direction.’’

Meg snorted. “Miss Prunes and Prisms? Honestly, Alison, I cannot imagine what March sees in that insipid monument to propriety. I think it’s just another manifestation of his absurd dedication to duty. Why did you know—?” But whatever revelation Meg had been about to make was abruptly interrupted as the girl halted suddenly. “Oh, look! There is Mr. Renfrew!” Meg’s gaze was focused on a spot in the near distance before them, her expression beatific.

“Mr. Renfrew?” echoed Alison.

“Yes,” Meg breathed, not removing her gaze from the object of her adoration. “Do you not remember? I told you all about him. He’s the drawing master at Miss Crumshaw’s.”

“Oh yes,” sighed Alison wearily. Meg’s conversation for the last month had been distressingly full of Mr. Renfrew’s manly attributes. Following Meg’s worshipful stare, she gazed with some interest at the slender young man moving down the street toward them. Though the possessor of a lovingly curled, golden mane, he was by no means the Adonis described by Meg. Alison rather thought Adonis might have had somewhat better taste in clothes, and would no doubt have declined the intricately embroidered waistcoat, bright yellow coat, and razor sharp collar points favored by Mr. Renfrew.

As the drawing master approached, his eyes lit in recognition, and he lifted his modish hat with a flourish. “Why, it’s Lady Margaret,” he said in mellifluous tones. “I see you have not yet quitted Bath.”

Meg’s eyelashes fluttered and she bestowed upon the gentleman a besotted smile. “Oh, no indeed. I shall be staying with my aunt, Lady Edith Brent, in Royal Crescent for some weeks before leaving for home. Oh,” she added as an afterthought, “may I present Miss Fox, who lives with my aunt.”

Mr. Renfrew expressed his pleasure in meeting Miss Fox, then nodded at Meg. “Perhaps we will see each other again before you leave.”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Meg. “I hope so.”

Mr. Renfrew made no response, and with another smile and a tip of his hat, he bade both ladies good afternoon and continued on his way. Meg stared after him in a blissful reverie until Alison’s gentle tug at her elbow recalled her to her surroundings.