Beloved (15 page)

She pushed him away. “And I get to be a lady.” Turning to Pomeroy’s father, she said, “You’ve been a widower far too long,
my lord. It’s time for you to take a new wife.”

“O
verreaction,” Papa pronounced. “That’s it. Pure and simple. You are both overreacting.”MMM “Struan,” Mama said gently. “I
rather think it may be you who are overreacting. You’ve talked of little else since last night.”

He threw up his arms and paced back and forth across Ella’s little sitting room.

“Where could it have come from?” Ella asked, not for the first time by any means.

Mama smoothed the piece of red chiffon on her knee. “I wanted to believe Devlin’s theory to be true. But no lady would wear
a torn scrap like this in her hair. It is unbound.” She fell back in her chair and stared into the fire. “A cruel jest.”

“A
coincidence,
” Papa thundered. “You aren’t thinking at all. Torn from the hem of a gown, I tell you. Trodden upon by some clumsy oaf and
discarded without its owner even being aware, I’d wager.”

Ella scrubbed at her face. “It appeared, Papa. It simply
appeared.
”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. We would have seen it, just as Devlin did. It is so garish.”

“No one knows about… about what happened,” Mama said, closing the chiffon inside her fist. “Those who did are either gone
from the country or in prison.”

“Or members of this family,” Papa said morosely. “Or in very high or very low places. And there was quite a crush around us
when it happened. Anyone could have dropped it.”

“Or someone who wished to press a point,” Mama said. She frowned at Papa. “Given what passed between you and your visitors
the—”

“No,” Papa said sharply. “Too obvious, my dear.”

“What?” Ella asked.

“What are you talking about? Who?” Mama shrugged and shook her head. “Nothing, Ella. I am simply overprotective of you. And
perhaps overconcerned, too. We must put this behind us.”

Ella caught Papa’s sleeve. “You just said it was all a coincidence.”

“And so it is,” he told her. “I was only referring to those present at the time. Even if some were likely to be among our
acquaintances now—in London—they could not possibly remember you as that child.”

Couldn’t they?
She was dark, the whisperers said. Like a gypsy. The Countess Ballard had remarked upon how unusual she was. Papa might be
right, but he might equally well be wrong. Someone might remember. And someone might have a reason for wanting her to know
they did. To warn her? Because they wanted her to…to go away?

“Ella?” Mama said. “You must not fret so, my dear. This is all supposed to be fun. A wonderful time. And it will be. We must
see about the gown for your ball at Pall Mall.”

“It will
not
be red chiffon,” Ella said. She plucked at her full, leaf-green skirts. “Even the thought of such a thing makes me weak.”

“Of course it shall not be red chiffon,” Papa agreed. “Oh, but of course it most certainly shall.” The fire continued to hold
Mama’s attention, but her fine features tightened with resolve. “Absolutely. Red will become you.”

Ella flung aside the embroidery hoop she’d been carrying. “I detest red. I will always detest red. Have you lost your mind,
Mama?”

“That will do, young lady. Apologize to your mother.”

“No,” Mama said, shaking her head. “She does not have to apologize. I should have explained myself at once. By wearing the
very thing that someone may—please note that I say
may
—wish to use as a threat against you, that threat will become as toothless as an ancient dog—and as dangerous.”

Only the tick of the small ormolu clock on the mantel broke the silence that followed.

“Don’t you agree?” Mama turned her bright amber eyes upon them. “Ella will look lovely and she will toss any ill will back
into the face of its perpetrator?”

The chance to reply was lost in Crabley’s noisy entrance. He coughed and puffed, showing his annoyance at having to climb
the stairs. “Her grace, the Dowager Duchess of Fran-chot, my lord,” he announced to Papa. “I suggested Her Grace might await
you below, but—”

“But I am not so decrepit that I can no longer hobble up a flight of stairs.” Tiny, white-haired, rod-backed, and formidable,
the dowager duchess progressed into the room. Garbed in unrelieved black, she raised her ivory-headed cane and pointed it
at Crabley. “That is more than I can say of you, my man. Never saw a servant take so long to make his way up a few stairs.
Disgrace, that’s what I call it. You’re feeding your flunkies too well, Justine. But what else would I expect. You never had
the sense you were born with.”

“Good afternoon, Grandmama.”

The dowager peered at Mama and repeated, “Good afternoon, Grandmama,” in a parody of her granddaughter’s voice. “Is that the
best you can do, girl? I’m probably a hair away from me coffin and you can’t as much as kiss me? Hmph.” She waved Crabley
from the room. “Fetch tea. And tell my companion to remain downstairs. Take her refreshment there. We won’t be remaining long.
I have a great deal to do at Pall Mall.”

Mama got to her feet and placed an arm around her grand-mother’s rigidly held shoulders. She bent to kiss a papery cheek.
“You will put each of us in a coffin, Grandmama,” she said, not quite suppressing a smile. “You are indefatigable. Sit in
my chair.”

“Nonsense,” the dowager said, glaring. “You sit in your chair, madam. You are the cripple.”

Ella did not dare look at Papa, who didn’t allow an instant to pass before saying, sharply, “Kindly do not refer to Justine
as a cripple, Your Grace. You know it is not true, and it offends us all.”

“Piffle.” The dowager turned her sharp scrutiny upon Ella. “Well. Met someone yet, have you?”

“Someone?”

“Don’t shilly-shally with me, my girl. You’re here to find a husband. The sooner that’s accomplished, the better. The longer
you wait, the narrower the field, and the better the chance of falling into a bounder’s bed.”

“Grandmama!”

“Silence, Justine,” the dowager ordered. “We are all grown up, here. You, of all people, should be comfortable with anything
I may decide to say. You and your wretched
book
. I never thought to see the day when a granddaughter of mine would
publish a book
. The shame. It’s a wonder I’m still breathing. And a book on
that
subject! Oh, the shame.” She shook her head, and flames in the fireplace shone on jet beads beneath her bonnet brim.

“Ella has attended a single event,” Papa told the old lady, “We have in fact received one offer for her hand.”

Ella’s lips parted in horror. “We have?” The dowager proceeded to a straight-backed chair and perched on the edge of its Aubusson
tapestry seat. “This is most encouraging.”

“It is not encouraging at all!” Ella burst out. “Pomeroy Wokingham is hardly—”

“Pomeroy Wokingham?” The stick rose in Papa’s direction. “Make certain I do not hear that name again. A prancing popinjay.
Like his father. Despicable man.”

“I didn’t say we were considering the proposal,” Papa said sheepishly. “I merely wanted to keep you apprised of events, as
it were.”

“I wish to return to Scotland,” Ella said.

An awful hush fell.

Ella pointed her nose in the direction of the molded, pale pink ceiling. “In fact, I think we should all go home—to our various
homes—forthwith. Before any more time is wasted on this pointless undertaking.”

“What is she saying?” the dowager whispered, as if Ella were demented and likely to turn into a wild thing at any moment.
“Has something happened that you’re not telling me about? Has some male person offended her—
forced
himself upon her?”

“Oh, fie! Not nearly enough.” The words were out before Ella could contain them.

Another cavernous silence followed. Then Mama’s grand- parent pounded the carpet with her cane. “I might have known it,” she
said. “Like mother, like daughter. And like father, like daughter. She’s as impulsive as both of you.” She looked from Papa
to Mama. “Who is the man who has compromised her? Compromised and abandoned her?”

“No man!” Ella’s parents said in unison.

The dowager eyed Ella. “Is that what you say, gel?”

For the briefest of instants Ella considered telling the truth, that she loved a man and could never love another. “There
is no man who has compromised me.” To admit the truth would accomplish nothing, other than trouble for Saber.

Crabley reentered the room, a heavy silver tray in his hands and Rose, Ella’s maid, at his elbow. Rose, as small and quick
of movement as the dowager, busied herself with the tea things.

She began to pour milk into Sevres cups. “Ella can do that,” the dowager said, gesturing for the fair-haired girl to leave.

Rose glanced at Ella, saw her encouraging smile, and quickly lowered her eyes. Crabley had already departed. Rose withdrew,
almost colliding with Saber in the process.

He carried his hat and still wore a long, caped overcoat. If he saw his grandmother, he gave no sign. Saber looked piercingly
at Ella. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said. His long dark hair brushed the collar of the black coat. “I promised I’d come,
but I don’t believe we discussed the time?”

He had promised no such thing. He’d walked away from her on the previous evening as if he’d forgotten she existed at all.

“You aren’t intruding,” she told him, scarcely able to breathe. “How could you?”

It was the first time in four years that she had seen him in daylight. His stark countenance dominated the room. White linen
gleamed against the black overcoat and the dark clothing he wore beneath. There was about his features a saturnine slant,
a hollowness cast beneath his full bottom lip, his high cheekbones. The scars, partially hidden by his hair, were an insult
upon so compelling a face.

“Well,” the dowager said. “My grandson, Saber. Returned from the grave, or so it seems.”

He turned to her, obviously noting her presence for the first time, and bowed slightly. “Grandmama. You look well.”

“I am. And you look as handsome as the devil—more so. Pity about the wounds. Why wasn’t I told?”

“Because none of us knew,” Papa said shortly. “Take your coat off, man. I’ll ring for another cup.”

Ella looked into Saber’s green eyes.

He stared back—and made no attempt to remove his coat. Papa cleared his throat.

Mama got up and began pouring tea. “You still take it as you did, Grandmama? With—”

“Oh, don’t chatter, Justine. A woman as old as I doesn’t suddenly decide to take her tea differently. The very idea. Saber,
you must know all the eligible men in London.”

With evident reluctance, he turned from Ella. “I used to know them, Grandmama,” he said.

“Just like your father,” she told him. “He was deliberately evasive, too.”

Saber’s father had married Justine and Calum’s aunt. Both had died at an early age and had apparently not been among the dowager’s
favorites. Not that the dowager admitted to having favorites at all.

“You do know these men,” she persisted. “Of course you do. Or you know
of
them. Their identities, at least. Their pedigrees. Their holdings. The type of thing we have to know in order to decide if
they’re worth bothering with.”

Saber’s high brow furrowed. “Exactly why do we want to know?”

“I am surrounded by idiots! Because we have to select a husband for Ella, of course. Why else would we wish to know?”

Ella studied Saber closely. The only sign of emotion was a clenching of his fingers on the brim of his hat.

“Of course you understand what I mean, Saber. That’s settled, then.” The dowager duchess accepted tea from Justine. “You will
start tomorrow.”

Saber set the hat down carefully on an inlaid marquetry table. “I’m sure you intend to explain the nature of my duties, Grandmama.”

“Ella is a prize,” the old lady announced in ringing tones. “She is very much like myself at her age. Strong. Determined.
A backbone to be contended with. And she’s beautiful, to boot.”

Stunned, Ella could only gape. “Close your mouth,” the dowager ordered.

Ella did so with a snap.

“Any man who gains her as his wife will be more fortunate than he deserves. Our job is to ensure that the least undeserving
candidate wins the prize.”

Ella raised her eyes to Saber’s face. He looked steadily back.

“Which is exactly where you come in, young Avenall.”

“Yes, Grandmama,” he said, still holding Ella’s eyes with his own.

“I do not want Ella to go into marriage as I did—without the benefit of choice.”

Mama made a noise. “Speak up, Justine,” the dowager demanded. “Don’t snuffle, girl. Speak your mind.”

“Oh, no,” Mama said. “It wasn’t…Yes, it
was
. What I wished to say was important. I don’t seem to recall your being concerned about my choices before I was married. Except
that you did not think I should marry at all.”

“That is all in the past,” the dowager duchess said shortly. “These are more modern days.”