Anne Barbour (6 page)

“Oh, Alison,” she cried, craning her neck to look after him, “isn’t he wonderful? And did you see the way he looked at me? I know he feels the attraction between us. I wonder if he will come to call?”

“I think that extremely doubtful, my dear,” replied Alison carefully. “He has a position to maintain, after all. It would be considered the height of impropriety for him to appear to be making advances.”

“What fustian!” retorted Meg. “He cares no more for the opinion of others than I, and—”

“In addition, the man is so much older than you. He must be almost thirty.”

“I care nothing for that!” By now, Meg’s voice had begun to tremble, and angry tears sparkled in her eyes. “Alison, I thought you would understand!”

“Oh, believe me I do, my dear. I do admit he is splendid, and I certainly do not blame you for being in alt over him.” She forbore to remark that the foppish Mr. Renfrew did not appear to be overcome with feeling for his erstwhile pupil. She wondered bemusedly if there were some unwritten universal law that first love must always be painful.

The two had by now reached the east entrance to the Pump Room, and they hurried inside to find Lady Edith and her nephew.

Almost at once they spied her seated on one of the benches sprinkled along the edges of the room, deep in conversation with a large lady whose feathered bonnet fluttered in such turmoil that it appeared ready to take flight. Alison glanced about and discovered Lord Marchford standing at the far end of the chamber, talking easily with a group of older gentlemen.

Seeing Meg and Alison, Lady Edith waved them to her side and directed her maid to have their parcels carried home.

“Good afternoon, Lady Wilbraham,” Alison said with a smile, trying very hard not to stare at the matron’s absurd hat. Meg followed suit, bobbing a careless curtsy to the woman she had known since she was in leading strings.

“Lady Wilbraham and I were just discussing your come-out, Meggie,” said Lady Edith. “We—”

“Your sister will have the dressing of you in London, I presume,” Lady Wilbraham interrupted with a glance of disapproval at Meg. “Good. Tell her to try Madame Olivette. She’s new in London and prodigiously talented. I have decided to let her do my Clarice.”

Clarice was known to both Meg and Alison, as well as to Lady Edith, and the latter sent a quelling glance toward Meg, whose eyes were already glinting mischievously.

“Why thank you, Horatia,” said Lady Edith mildly. “I shall certainly forward your recommendation to Eleanor. Clarice always dresses with a great deal of, er, élan.”

Alison admired Lady Edith’s diplomacy, particularly since Clarice, who possessed the same shape and general appeal of a bag pudding, had an unfortunate tendency to appear at every occasion in a full complement of ruffles, ribbons, laces, jewelry, and every other form of adornment she could affix to her plump person. Lady Edith’s expression, however, indicated nothing beyond a courteous attention. Lady Wilbraham heaved herself to her feet.

“I see Mary Glenham over there, boring the ears off poor Reverend Rayburn. I must be off to rescue him.”

She had barely begun to make her ponderous way across the polished wooden floor of the room when Meg fairly exploded with the giggle she had been stilling for the past several minutes.

“Meg!” rapped Lady Edith. “That will be quite enough.”

“Oh, but, aunt,” gasped her niece. “We must send a card of thanks to Lady W. for telling us which of all the modistes in London is to be avoided at all costs.”

Lady Edith’s tips twitched, but her stare was minatory and Meg soon subsided. Alison took pains to hide the smile that curved her own lips.

Across the room, March watched Miss Fox’s efforts. He was forced to acknowledge that in her quiet loveliness, she was one of the most provocative females he had ever met. Her austere walking dress of Cheshire brown twilled silk should have obliterated the lush body hidden beneath its stiff folds; instead, it merely created in him an uncomfortable desire to push the folds aside to discover the beauty that lay beneath them.

He excused himself from the group with whom he had been conversing and made his way to where the ladies sat before one of the long windows that overlooked the King’s bath.

“March,” cried Meg, “have you spent all this time here? You must be ready to expire from boredom!”

“On the contrary, infant,” he returned, an amused twinkle in his eye. “I have spent a pleasant afternoon renewing old acquaintances. Unlike you, my pleasure does not hang on how many fripperies I can purchase in a given amount of time. May I assume,” he continued, “from the astonishing number of parcels under whose weight you staggered in, that you were successful in the Great Bonnet Quest?”

By unspoken consent the group rose to depart, and on the way home, Meg regaled them with the details of the shopping expedition.

“A zephyr scarf?” asked Lady Edith of Alison. “It sounds perfect for the cerulean satin we had made up for the Budwell soiree.”

“Yes, so I thought, my lady. Although, I am still not wholly reconciled to attending Mrs. Budwell’s party.”

“Why not, for heaven’s sake? It will be one of the grandest events of the season.”

“That’s just it.” Alison glanced surreptitiously at Lord Marchford. “It will be thought coming of me to attend such a function. There will be dancing, and..”

“Of course there will be,” interjected Lady Edith impatiently. “And you will not lack for partners. Now see here, Alison, I will not countenance any longer this—this obsession you have with fading into invisibility. One would think you were some jumped-up little mushroom instead of the granddaughter of the Earl of Trawbridge.”

March’s eyes widened. He had not known this. How was it that the granddaughter of an earl was reduced to earning her bread in service as companion to a septuagenarian? Was it the oft-told tale of an enraged peer whose daughter married beneath her? Had the earl severed the connection, leaving his impoverished descendant to make her own way in the world? Such was the stuff of high drama, he concluded briskly. If this was the case, the offspring in question had certainly landed on her feet. Good God, his besotted aunt was indeed treating the woman like a beloved daughter. Cerulean satin and fashionable soirees, indeed.

When the party reached Royal Crescent, the earl declined to enter, but bade the ladies farewell on the doorstep, claiming a prior engagement. It was in a thoughtful mood that he strode down George Street en route to his temporary abode in the Royal York Hotel. To his surprise, he was informed on entering that elegant hostelry that a visitor awaited him in a private parlor just off the coffee room.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” said the man who leapt to his feet at the earl’s entrance. He was slight of build and dressed in somber garb. His features were small and pointed, but kindly in their way, so that he looked rather like a benevolent rodent.

“Ah, Mr. Pilcher,” said the earl, closing the door behind him. “I presume you have come with news of Miss Reynard.”

Chapter 5

“Well, as to that, my lord”—the little man sank nervously into a chair at the earl’s gesture of permission—”I fear my news is no better than before. Lissa Reynard has disappeared from sight as though she’d never been. Which, I should imagine, is very much the case.”

March’s brows snapped together. How could one female be so impossible to locate? Upon his return to England and the discovery of the tragic deaths of William and Susannah, he had begun an immediate search for the mysterious Miss Reynard. His first move was to question Lady Callander concerning the viper she had nourished in her bosom. The woman had declared herself unable to help him. She really hadn’t known Miss Reynard all that well, she explained with sympathetic regret. They had become chance acquaintances in Brighton and Lady Callander had invited her to visit on a whim, never really dreaming she’d accept. No, she did not know where Miss Reynard had gone upon leaving London, but if she were to hear anything she would assuredly let his lordship know at the earliest opportunity. Apparently, the viscountess had not heard anything, for March received no more information from her.

He growled aloud. “We had already surmised that the woman was using a pseudonym, Pilcher. Still, she cannot have simply vanished.”

“I recently paid another visit to the Lady Callander, my lord, with no more success than on my previous efforts. She insists she has no knowledge of Miss Reynard’s whereabouts, and further contends she really didn’t know her very well to begin with.”

“In short, you learned nothing from her that she had not already told me on the occasion when I went to see her. Do you believe her?”

“As to that,” replied Mr. Pilcher, chewing on his lip, “I could not say. She seems sincere in her embarrassment at being so easily taken in by a woman of that sort—she seems precisely the flighty type of woman who could easily be gulled. To a woman like Lissa Reynard, she must have seemed the perfect tool with which to wangle an introduction to the beau monde.”

“At any rate,” continued the earl, “it sounds as though we will get no more information from her.”

Mr. Pilcher smiled mirthlessly. “Indeed, my lord, she was quite short with me on my last visit, and as much as told me she was tired of seeing my face. I shan’t be welcome there again, I think.”

“And nothing new from your sources in Brighton?”

“No, and that’s another odd thing. My acquaintances there do not mingle with the
ton,
but they do, er, keep abreast. My sources indicate that Lady Callander was indeed a visitor in Brighton not long before Miss Reynard made her appearance in London, but no one remembers hearing that name in Brighton.”

“Odd.” March drummed his fingers on the table at which he had taken a chair, then poured a glass of wine from the decanter that had been set unobtrusively at his side by the inn’s host. He offered it to the little detective and filled one for himself.

Mr. Pilcher drew a long breath. “My lord, I am at the end of my resources. I have meticulously checked out the possibilities, from searching out descriptions of female coach passengers leaving the city to interviews with modistes and shopkeepers who were patronized by Miss Reynard. I shall, of course, continue my efforts if you wish, but it has been four years now. The trail is cold as ashes, and I must tell you in all conscience that I believe I can no longer be of help to you. I am sorry.” Mr. Pilcher seemed to truly regret his failure, and his expression resembled that of an unhappy marmoset.

March’s fingers tightened around his glass. Had it come to this, then? The rage that had boiled within him for so long would be allowed to trickle away in defeat, and the grief that still consumed him would harden and continue its acid destruction of his soul. Behind it all lay an inescapable sense of guilt that in his desire to avoid responsibility, he had been absent during the whole fiasco.
Dammit,
he should have been able to prevent the tragedy that had befallen his family. The knowledge that such a feeling was irrational did nothing to relieve him.

He rose wearily. “I am sorry, too, Mr. Pilcher. I know you did your best. I shall continue the search on my own, for I cannot bring myself to abandon it.”

“I understand, my lord.” He turned to leave.

“One moment, please, Mr. Pilcher.” The little man halted in his exit and swung to face the earl.

“I have another, smaller commission for you. I would like you to look into the background of one Alison Fox. She claims to be the daughter of the deceased vicar of Ridstowe in Hertfordshire. I merely wish to ascertain the truth of this statement.”

“Of course, my lord. It sounds quite straightforward—I should have a report for you within the week.”

The earl nodded, and, bowing once more, Mr. Pilcher departed the room, leaving the earl to stare into the flames of the fire that crackled with vexing cheerfulness in the grate.

“Lissa Reynard.” March whispered the words, almost savoring the bitterness they left on his tongue. She must be out there somewhere, and someday, by God, he would find her. When he did, he would ruin her. Destroy her—and make her rue the day she had chosen Susannah for the target of her greed.

He rose to repair to his room. He was promised again to dinner with his aunt, and planned to take the opportunity to draw the redoubtable Miss Fox aside for further conversation.

When he arrived in Royal Crescent, however, he found his aunt. Miss Fox, and Meggie in the library, immersed in a spirited discussion concerning the propriety of attending a masquerade ball in the Upper Rooms before one was officially out.

“But this is Bath!” Meggie spoke in impassioned tones.

“The only people we’ll see are the same ones we invite to our own parties, and you know we have dancing then.”

“That is quite different, Meg,” replied Lady Edith sternly. “There will be persons of many stations at the masquerade ball, as well as some of the high sticklers who would rend you limb from limb once they returned to town. You would not have a shred of reputation left.”

“Why do you wish to go to an assembly, Meg?” interjected Alison. “You have frequent opportunities to dance with all the young men of your acquaintance either in your own home or that of your friends. Just last week, the Brintons held an impromptu hop that lasted until well after midnight. You said you had a lovely time.”

“I don’t
want
to dance with the young men of my acquaintance, I want to dance with—” Meg caught herself. “That is, I’m tired of the same old faces all the time. And a masquerade would be such fun!” She pointedly turned her back on the company and flung herself into a damask-covered armchair.

March, moving into the room, felt a stirring of sympathy for the young girl, but spoke calmly. “Meg, your behavior reveals just how far from ready you are to take your place in adult society.”

Meg whirled about in her chair. “March!” She leapt to her feet and ran to his side. Lifting her face, she pouted prettily at him. “I can surely be forgiven for flying into the boughs—or, at least into the lower branches. I am surrounded by people who are forever denying that I am a young woman now, and not a child. There is to be a masked ball at the Upper Rooms the evening after next, and I do so want to go!”