Evelyn Richardson (15 page)

Silently Arabella rose and walked slowly toward the door. As she was about to close it behind her, she turned to smile half-shyly, half-apologetically. “I will think about it in the morning as you suggest…and, thank you.”

The door closed gently behind her and Catherine was left to gaze thoughtfully into the fire. She had done all that she could think of to avert what was clearly a disastrous relationship. Was it enough? Would Arabella see that the graceless young man would make a selfish, brutish sort of husband whose lack of consideration for his wife would make her life miserable? Or was that only a conclusion that could be reached by an objective observer whose judgment was unclouded by the rosy glow of youth and love? Was it enough simply to voice her concerns to Arabella to keep her from taking any rash steps, or should she inform Arabella’s uncle of her suspicions?

The idea of writing to the Marquess of Charlmont was distasteful to Catherine for a number of reasons. First and foremost, a letter informing him of his niece’s clandestine affair was tantamount to admitting failure on the part of Catherine and her establishment. Any academy that could not protect its students from the enticements of importunate young men was not fulfilling its goals in a number of ways, from instilling the proper values in its pupils, to occupying their time so effectively that there was no room for thoughts of importunate young men, to protecting their persons from the advances, welcome or unwelcome, of these importunate young men.

Second, it would be a betrayal of Arabella’s confidence if Catherine wrote to her uncle. Even though the young woman had not asked Catherine to keep the incident a secret from either her uncle or her mother, the understanding had been implicit in their discussion, and Catherine knew that Arabella would have been far less forthcoming if she had not somehow felt that Catherine would keep their discussion a private matter between the two of them. Catherine knew very well that any influence that she might be able to exert over Arabella, any credibility that she had managed to establish with that lively young woman, would be instantly destroyed if Catherine were to divulge it all to the girl’s mother or her uncle.

Catherine did, however, keep a very close watch on all her charges for the next several days, but not one exhibited the least sign of any untoward excitement or the slightest indication that she was privy to any romantic secret. There were no unexpected trips to Milsom Street or walks in Sydney Gardens. No notes were suddenly thrust into pockets or passed from hand to hand, and no one lingered in the garden after everyone else had gone inside.

Arabella herself seemed rather subdued and thoughtful. The intense gaiety, the air of suppressed excitement that had previously clung to her had vanished entirely, and Catherine did not think she was dissembling. Whenever she encountered Arabella, the girl exhibited none of the awkwardness of someone conspiring to run away or carry on a secret correspondence. Her gaze was direct, her manner friendly, and though Catherine was willing to give her credit for a great deal of resourcefulness, she did not believe that someone as young and unsophisticated as Arabella could be so skilled at deception as to fool Catherine completely.

It was too soon to congratulate herself on having successfully thwarted a disastrous misalliance, but Catherine did allow herself to hope that the most dangerous moment had passed and that further reflection on Arabella’s part would only serve to convince the girl that Tom Foxworthy was a most unsuitable and unworthy object of her affections.

Chapter Sixteen

If relative calm appeared to have descended in the Royal Crescent, it had utterly vanished from Charlmont. The day before Tom Foxworthy had appeared at the garden gate of Lady Catherine Granville’s Select Academy the peace that hung over Charlmont had been shattered by the clatter of horse’s hooves as Squire Foxworthy, riding at breakneck speed, tore up the drive, flung himself off his horse, tossed his reins to the boy who came hurrying from the stables, and strode up the marble staircase two steps at a time.

“The marchioness,” he barked at the goggling footman who opened the door.

Arabella’s mother, who was unused to interruptions of any kind, particularly from men who were clearly in a rage, regarded the squire with misgiving as she laid down her book and pulled her cashmere shawl more closely around her. “Is something amiss, Squire Foxworthy?”

“Amiss? Amiss? Your daughter runs off with my son and you ask me if something is amiss?” He roared.

The marchioness shuddered. “Do sit down and let me send for some refreshment.” She nodded significantly at the hovering footman. “I am sure this misunderstanding will soon be sorted out. Arabella cannot have run off with your son, sir. She is away at school in Bath.”

The squire snorted derisively at this obvious piece of stupidity. “And where do you think it is that my son has gone. Madam?”

“Oh, no!” The marchioness turned pale and clutched her shawl even closer.

He nodded grimly. “Had it from one of the lads at the stable, I did. The designing minx has been after my son this past six months or more and I won’t have it, I tell you. I won’t have it! The Foxworthys are honest folk, good squires as far back as anyone can remember, and I won’t have my son throwing himself away on some young woman who does not know her proper station.”

“Oh, no,” the marchioness reiterated faintly. “Arabella is a most biddable girl. She would never…”

“Would she not?” The squire interrupted fiercely. “Aye, I thought as much. She has been setting her cap at my son. Well, I won’t have it. I am going after them.”

“No! Wait.” The marchioness finally roused herself. “I shall send for her uncle. He will have far more success with both Arabella and your son than either you or I. Think of it,” she pleaded. “You and I are both too old to go chasing around the countryside after them. Lucian is accustomed to traveling fast, and he is far more familiar with the roads and the inns than most people.”

“Think, Madam. By the time you have sent to London for the marquess, and he has journeyed to Charlmont, three days will have been lost at the very least, three days that I can put to good use searching for the wretched pair.”

“My dear sir, if you would just be reasonable for a moment. Luc—er, the Marquess of Charlmont is a man of vast worldly experience, accustomed to handling these sorts of things. This is a very delicate matter, after all. Come,” she summoned up a placating smile. “Admit that someone who has led the quiet, honorable existence of a country squire knows very little of such affairs. I am sure it will be a vastly uncomfortable journey, and I am also sure that your wife is greatly in need of your support at such a trying time.”

The squire, who already begun to wonder just how exactly he was to begin tracking down the fugitives, paused to consider. He was not a man who willingly deserted his own fireside, even if it was to make a short journey to a nearby race meeting, and the certain unpleasantness to be encountered at the end of his proposed quest was rapidly losing the very small appeal it had held in the first place.

“If you think that the girl’s uncle is likely to be more effective, then I suppose he could be sent for. But it is a tricky business, a very tricky business, indeed. Certainly this sort of escapade is nothing that my son would have indulged in on his own. Why—”

“Then I shall send word to London immediately.” The marchioness rarely, if ever, resolved anything for herself, but when it was a question of ridding her drawing room of a large angry man, she was capable of more decisiveness than one might have supposed. “And the minute I hear anything or receive any news, I shall send word to Foxworth Hall immediately.”

“If he does not find them soon, then… Oh, very well,” the squire muttered as, favoring the marchioness with a curt nod, he stomped out of the room.

Fortunately for the marchioness’s nerves, which were never in a very good state, Lucian was all that she had claimed him to be—as swift at formulating a plan and making arrangements as he was at responding to her initial summons. Two days after the marchioness had dispatched a footman to Mount Street with a frantic but garbled message concerning her daughter’s whereabouts, he strode into the drawing room at Charlmont.

“What is all this, Louisa?” Lucian waved the hastily scrawled missive at his sister-in-law.

“Thank heavens you have come! They are gone, and Foxworthy is positively furious over it. He even has the temerity to tell me that it is all Arabella’s fault, if you can credit such a thing.”

“I can.” He responded grimly. “From the looks of it, I would venture to say that she possesses twice the intelligence and three times the daring of young Foxworthy.”

“Oh, surely not. Why, she can be the sweetest, most obliging—”

“When she sees some advantage in it for herself. Now, cut line, Louisa; this is not the time for dithering. When did you learn of her disappearance?”

“Never.”

“What?”

“I mean, it was Squire Foxworthy’s claim that his son was gone that occasioned my note to you.”

“And no one ever thought to check if Arabella had disappeared as well?”

“No. I mean, it was the natural conclusion. That is, I believe the squire said his son had gone to Bath, which would of course lead one to think that…Lucian, you must understand, I had no choice but to summon you. If I had not, Squire Foxworthy was going to go after the pair himself!” The marchioness wrung her hands as she gazed piteously at her brother-in-law.

“Foxworthy go after them? Ha! No doubt Lady Catherine Granville as well, hoping to avert a scandal of ruinous proportions, has sent some representative of her own after them in the hope that her pupil can be safely retrieved before anyone is the wiser. I told you, Madam, that it was a most disastrous connection.”

“But it was you yourself who said that we should send her away to school, away from his influence, so as to avoid this very situation,” the marchioness wailed at his retreating back.

Lucian paused in the doorway. “Have no fear. I will find her, I will get her back, and there will be no scandal.”

The door shut behind him, and a few minutes later, the marchioness heard the crunch of carriage wheels on the gravel drive. Sighing gustily, she took a restorative whiff of her vinaigrette and picked up the novel by Mrs. Inchbald that she had been perusing before her brother-in-law stormed into her drawing room.

With Lucian hot on the trail of the fugitives there was little else she could do beyond keeping her worries at bay with whatever distractions were at hand.

Chapter Seventeen

While the marchioness was doing her best to put all distressing thoughts and speculations from her mind, Lucian was entertaining one after another, each more infuriating than the last. Chief among them was the unsettling question of why it was the Marchioness of Charlmont rather than the proprietress of Lady Catherine’s Select Academy who had been the one to write the letter informing him of his niece’s disappearance.

What was wrong with him? Did Catherine not trust him to behave responsibly? Did she have so little confidence in him that she would prefer to solve a problem on her own rather than turn to him for assistance and advice, even though it was a question of his own niece?

Lucian ground his teeth as he flicked his whip over his team’s heads. Undoubtedly she had been so intent on solving the problem as quickly and quietly as possible that it had never occurred to her to ask for help from anyone. Yes, that was it. It was not that she lacked faith in him, she had simply not thought of him. But why not? You know why, a cruelly honest voice inside his head told him. Yes, he did know why. Years ago she had trusted him, had had faith in him despite his reputation, and he had betrayed that faith.

Lucian smiled bitterly as he swept past a mail coach. The question was not why had she not come to him, but why should she? Because he wanted her to. Because he wanted to help her. He wanted her to rely on him, and he wanted to be all the things to her that he had failed to be before.

By the time he reached Bath, Lucian had had time to torture himself with thoughts of trust and betrayal. Despite the distraction of heavy traffic, he had agonized over her lack of trust in him, and then he had begun debating with himself endlessly as to whether her behavior showed lack of trust in him or duplicity on her part. In the end, as he stopped a moment at the top of Kingsdown to see all of Bath laid out before him, he decided that he would prefer to believe that it was her lack of trust in him rather than duplicity, anything to keep believing in her honesty and integrity. For if Lady Catherine could not be trusted to act honorably, who could?

This conclusion, however, did not keep him from fuming bitterly as he pulled up in front of number 16, the Royal Crescent and tossed the reins to an eager boy who hurried forward, or from snapping, “Lady Catherine, immediately!” at the butler who cautiously opened the door to him.

By the time Biddle had conducted him to Catherine’s office, Lucian was seething with an angry frustration so overwhelming that it took every ounce of his self-control to hold it in check.

Catherine looked up in surprise as the door opened. The welcoming smile died at the sight of his compressed lips and the dark angry line of his lowered eyebrows. “My lord, whatever is amiss?”

“Where is she?” Lucian strode over to the desk and stood, arms crossed glaring down at her.

“I presume that you are referring to your niece?” Refusing to be intimidated, Catherine rose calmly and reached for the bell. “I shall send for her, though I suggest that you compose yourself. She is bound to be somewhat alarmed at your ferocious expression.

Catherine waved to one of the chairs in front of her and took her seat again behind her desk.

Grinding his teeth Lucian took the chair indicated, trying his best to match her air of cool deliberateness.

“The Marquess of Charlmont is here to see his niece. Please inform Lady Arabella that he is here.” Catherine nodded to the footman who had materialized in response to her summons and then turned back to her visitor. “I trust that all is well at Charlmont?”