His Lady Mistress (27 page)

What else was she supposed to do with it? When she attempted to pay modistes and milliners, she discovered that Lord Blakehurst had given instructions that the bills be sent to him! No doubt he was checking to see that his bride created the right impression in fashionable circles.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Then she glared.
She was turning into a complete and utter watering pot. The sort of feeble, moaning creature she despised. She had come to London with a plan. And judging by the reactions of all the component parts of society to the scandalous new Lady Blakehurst, she ought not to have the least difficulty in implementing it. She was finished with weeping.

Her reflection glared back, clad in a chemise, petticoat and peignoir. She had yet to decide what she was going to wear. And what she was going to do. She could, of course, simply retire to the drawing room and read. One or two people might call, but she could almost guarantee that otherwise she would spend a peaceful day. Except…something stirred in her mind. Oh, drat! That wretched luncheon that Aunt Almeria wanted her to attend. Followed by an At Home.

Almeria intended to call for her. Verity thought carefully. She could send a note around, saying that she was indisposed. No. Almeria would ignore a note. And she’d walk straight past Clipstone if he tried to deny her.

She could go to the Green Park, a thoroughly rustic, and blessedly unfashionable, destination. The air smelled less like cabbage water there and although the cows might not be the most chatty of companions, they were at least accepting. And they did something useful, which was more than she could say of most of the London ladies she had met.

‘A walking dress, please, Cooper,’ she told her prim London dresser.

‘Yes, my lady. Which one would you like?’

Did it really matter? Apparently it did. Which one had she not worn for several days? ‘The blue one with the flounce, please.’

Fifteen minutes later she walked into the drawing room. ‘Richard!’ She stared in disbelief at her brother-in-law sitting by the window, his bad leg stretched out before him. ‘Whatever are you doing here? I thought you hated London.’

He looked up with a smile. ‘Good morning, Verity. I won
dered when you’d be down. How do you do? Setting London by the ears?’

Forcing a smile, she asked, ‘When did you arrive? Does Ma—His lor—Your brother know that you are here?’

He cocked his head on one side. ‘I arrived last night. Max asked me to come up. I saw him at breakfast. Didn’t he mention it?’

She came further into the room. ‘Oh. Well, it’s lovely to see you. Are you staying for long?’

‘Max didn’t say?’

She gave up trying to avoid the subject. ‘I saw Ma—your brother very briefly in Bond Street yesterday and, no, he didn’t mention it. What are you doing? More carving?’

He nodded and sat back in his chair, picking up a chunk of wood and a small sharp knife. ‘It’s one of my hobbies,’ he said. ‘I learnt how after my accident. There was a lot of time on my hands.’

Verity nodded as she sat down at the secretaire and opened it. She could understand that problem. ‘How old were you?’

‘Twelve. They thought I might not walk again, but Max and I proved them wrong. I probably wouldn’t have without his help.’

Shocked, Verity put her pen down and turned to look at him. ‘What happened?’ Twelve. And he’d thought he might never walk again.

He shrugged. ‘I fell off one of our father’s hunters. Well, to be accurate, I didn’t fall off. That was the problem. He fell on me. I was lucky not to lose the leg.’ He smiled at her shocked face. ‘Verity, it was a long time ago. And it was entirely my fault. We had been forbidden to ride Papa’s hunters ever since Max fell off one.’ He grinned. ‘We were forbidden before that. All that changed was we got caught. But you know what boys are. Immortal. It can’t happen to me. Don’t waste any pity on me. I had enough of that from our mother.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice came out stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to give offence.’

‘None taken,’ he assured her. ‘Mama just never let go of the subject, or ceased to blame poor Max. Sometimes I think the idiot wished
he’d
been the one with a smashed leg. I got the sympathy. He got the blame.’ He changed the subject. ‘Where are the idiots Taff and Gus? Out with my equally idiotic twin?’

‘They’re not idiots!’ said Verity indignantly, ignoring the reference to her husband. ‘You like them!’

He smiled. ‘Of course I like them. Doesn’t detract from the fact that they’re idiots. They’re both incurably gun shy and they still haven’t worked out that slippers are not usually considered suitable as a meal. Are you busy this morning?’

She hesitated. ‘Yes. I was just going to send a note around to Lady Arnsworth and then go out.’ Her heart ached for someone to talk to. Someone to relax with. But if she stayed and Max came back…Better to leave now. Besides, she didn’t want Almeria to call and find her there.

Richard cocked his head to one side. ‘No time for a poor cripple?’

‘I…I…Oh!’ Bursting into laughter, she picked up her pen. ‘Richard, that’s dreadful! For a moment I thought you meant it!’

‘Not so dreadful,’ he said comfortably. ‘Not if it made you laugh.’

Glancing at the clock, she said, ‘I could stay for a little while.’

Max paused outside the drawing room door as he heard a shout of laughter. Good lord. That sounded like Richard. But what was he doing in there and who on earth was with him? It sounded for all the world as though someone had just told him a bawdy after-dinner story. Gus and Taffy leapt at the door, scrabbling furiously.

He opened the door, fully expecting to find one of their
more unregenerate friends with his brother. Richard sat in a chair by the window, and seated on the other side of the embrasure was Verity. But not the same Verity of the past two weeks. His heart leapt to see again the laughing, engaging sprite of that week at Blakeney, before he ruined everything.

Richard was lying back in his chair, nearly weeping with laughter. Wiping his eyes, he gasped, ‘Oh, God, Verity! She must have been beside herself! What did she say?’

But Verity did not answer. It was as if by opening the door Max had either broken a spell or cast one. All the laughter and animation died out of her vivid face, leaving her blanched and lifeless the moment she saw him. His heart gave a sickening lurch and the urge to go to her, to sweep her out of the chair and into his arms, ripped through him.

And if he did? Painfully he reminded himself that she could scarcely bear to be in the same room as him. That she loathed the sight of him. And that she had every right to do so.

‘Oh, hullo, Max.’ Richard’s grin drew a reluctant response from him. ‘Verity was just telling me that she got so annoyed with the insufferable Celia, that she actually cut a great chunk out of her hair! Get off, dog!’ He fended off Gus, who bounded off his lap again with no hint of offence. He leapt up at Verity instead.

Max blinked. Good lord! Was that what all the brouhaha had been over that last night at the Faringdons’?

‘You cut off her hair?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Is that why she didn’t appear at dinner that night?’

Verity nodded.

Max held his breath. Would she…?

A brief smile flickered. Directed at Richard. ‘I’ll leave you now. You’ll be wanting to talk. Good morning, my lord.’ She walked out and all Max could do was open the door and let her go.

Nothing had changed. Verity still held him at bay, beyond
a wall of ice. Nothing had ever hurt as much. Because he knew now that the laughing girl he had fallen in love with was still there, hiding from him in case he hurt her again.

He turned to his brother and said, ‘Wimbourne sent around a note. The meeting with Faringdon is set for this afternoon at Lincoln’s Inn.’

If nothing else, at least he could attempt to restore her inheritance.

Verity kept her head high as she left the drawing room; it was definitely time to escape to the Green Park. Lady Arnsworth might think she should spend her time paying calls, but Verity had noticed that unless she paid calls in the company of Lady Arnsworth, people seemed never to be At Home. So many butlers favoured her with an unctuous smile while informing her,
‘I regret madam is not At Home’
, that she heard the words in her dreams.

It didn’t matter if they despised her. The gossip would reach Max all the faster, which was a good thing. She told herself that all the way up to fetch her pelisse and a book. And back down to the hall.

Just as she opened the front door, a shocked voice spoke from behind her. ‘Where the deuce are you off to?’

Mentally arming herself, she turned to face her husband. ‘A walk,’ she said, ‘in the Green Park.’ Perhaps he’d think she had an assignation.

He blinked. ‘The
Green
Park? Why there? It’s not very fashion-able.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not, but the cows there are much nicer.’ Without waiting for him to work that one out, she slipped through the door and shut it.

Max stared at the closed door for a full minute, unable to believe that she had meant what
he
would have meant by a remark like that. The cows there were much nicer than…what? He grinned. The cows in Hyde Park? The only
cows in Hyde Park had reticules and parasols in place of horns and tails. And she
couldn’t
have meant that! Could she?

He frowned. She should take her maid, but he hated to force that on her. She couldn’t come to any harm in the Green Park. The only dangerous cows in London wouldn’t be seen dead in the Green Park.

Walking back into the library, he fended off the spaniels and sat down at the desk to stare uselessly at the sworn copies of all the documents Wimbourne had provided in preparation for their meeting. Visions of shadowed grey eyes haunted him, and a broken voice crying,
Don’t touch me!
If he reclaimed her inheritance for her, would he lose her completely?
Could
he lose her any more completely than he had already?

By the time Verity reached the Green Park she knew she must speed up the execution of her plan, before Max’s gentleness undermined her resolve. Sitting in the shade of a tree, she considered how to go about it. How did one create a scandal bad enough for one’s husband to disown one, without actually…?

She let her book fall and shivered slightly. Of all the men she had met since coming to London, she thought Lord Braybrook might best suit her needs. His reputation was appalling, but when they danced he behaved like a gentleman. Which was more than she could say for some of the men who danced with her. Their hands seemed incapable of remaining where they were meant to be during a waltz.

Braybrook did nothing so vulgar as fondle her during their dances, but she had seen the raised brows and knowing smiles as Braybrook danced with her last night. Lady Arnsworth had waxed lyrical over it in the carriage later. How long would it be before she carried the news to Max?

And how far would
she
have to go to convince Max that Almeria’s tales were the truth? An impression was one thing.
All she needed was for Max to
believe
she was having an affair. But what if Braybrook called her bluff?

Her mind sheered away from that and she picked up her book again. She would just have to be careful—‘Oof!’ Something thumped into her midriff. Dropping the book, she doubled over, gasping for breath.

‘Oh, I say! Are you all right, ma’am? George! You great looby! You hit her!’

Another boy ran up to join the freckled urchin bending over her.

‘It wasn’t my fault!
You
were supposed to be fielding. Why didn’t you catch the jolly thing?’ Prudently George bent down and retrieved the cricket ball from her lap. ‘I’ll get this out of your way, shall I?’

With speech still an impossibility, Verity found the laughter bubbling up inside her painful to say the least. Feebly she waved one hand in assent.

‘Should you like some lemonade, ma’am?’ asked the first boy anxiously. ‘We’ve got plenty. And plum cake and apples.’

From somewhere in the vicinity of her bruised midriff a warm glow spread. ‘I’d love some lemonade, if you have enough,’ she said smiling. ‘And it’s Verity, Verity…Blakehurst, not
ma’am
.’ Plum cake and apples sounded like a feast after a breakfast of dry toast, which was about all she could stand in the mornings.

Both boys grinned back at her. George spoke up. ‘I’m George Cranmore and this is my brother, Ben. I’m awfully sorry I hit you. Are you quite sure you’re all right?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Verity, resisting the urge to rub what would doubtless be an impressive bruise.

‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, playing with only two,’ confided Ben. ‘One of us has to bowl and one has to bat, so there’s no one to field. And that was a capital stroke of George’s. Except for hitting you in the bread basket. Still, I dare say you would rather that than your nose or teeth.’

‘Much rather,’ agreed Verity with alacrity. Not even Max would believe that Braybrook, or anyone else, was having an affair with a woman minus her front teeth.

‘Do stop rattling on, Ben, and fetch the lemonade,’ commanded George. ‘And bring the lot over here. I’m starving anyway so we may as well have our elevenses now.’

By the time some excellent lemonade had washed down plum cake and apples, which the boys insisted on sharing out scrupulously, Verity knew that their father was a physician with a practice in Harley Street, that they had a little brother and a baby sister and that their mother had chased them out of the house that morning with ‘…enough food for an army, do have some more cake…’ and instructions not to come back until they were either hungry or tired enough to go to bed. ‘We kept on waking the baby, you see. Playing cricket in the corridor. And Mama gets very cross about that.’

Charmed by their friendly exuberance, Verity found herself volunteering to field for them. They stared.

George gulped. ‘Are you…are you sure? I mean, girls don’t usually play cricket…’

‘Mama does,’ argued Ben. ‘Until Baby was coming. Then she said she didn’t want any more cricket balls in the tummy. Papa forbade it anyway.’ He turned to Verity. ‘You aren’t having a baby, are you?’ His air of innocent concern robbed the question of all possible offence.