How Miss Rutherford Got Her Groove Back (8 page)

“Shall we tell her?” Beatrice asked, eyeing Francis.

“Hmmm, I don’t know if we can trust her,” he said with extreme severity. “What if she gives us away under torture?”

“You’re quite right,” Beatrice said with a slight giggle, her serious expression beginning to slip. “In fact, I
know
she’ll crack under torture.”

“Is that so?” Perhaps we ought to put it to the test.”

Stuck between them, Claire had no time to escape before Francis held her still and Beatrice fell on her, tickling her until she squealed with laughter and was begging them to stop.

From her corner, seated on a toffee-colored velvet sofa, Emily regarded the scene with growing interest. For the five minutes or so that it lasted, it was as if she found herself transported back in time. They were all children again, horsing around the way they had once been so used to. They were happy, devoid of any worries or concerns for the future—content to know that they were well taken care of by their parents, who loved them. It was bliss and it was fun and for just a while, Emily forgot.

The fun drew her in and swallowed her up. She forgot that her parents were dead, that their cousin had taken everything from them, including their mother’s jewelry collection. In short, he had left them with nothing by which to remember their parents. Most importantly, she managed to forget the pain that came from losing both Kate and Adrian.

As the hurt and the anger dwindled with each of Claire’s squeals, Emily found herself truly smiling for the first time since Adrian had told her he would marry Kate. Jumping to her feet, she immediately hurried to join in the fun.

Claire’s eyes grew big when she saw that they were now three against her, except she suddenly heard Beatrice screech. Emily had joined her side, she realized with relief. They were now evenly numbered, though Francis still counted for two in terms of sheer strength.

Beatrice screamed again as Emily squeezed her sides in a rough tickle. Using her as a shield between themselves and Francis, Claire and Emily both half-hid behind their elder sister, holding on to her firmly so she couldn’t attack them. Their breath came raggedly as they peered out to find Francis coming toward them with a vengeful grin painted upon his face.

“We’ll have mercy on you if you join our alliance,” Emily whispered in Beatrice’s ear.

“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll tickle you until you’re blue in the face.”

Beatrice gulped as if truly frightened by the prospect, and then nodded her head definitively. “You have a deal.”

Seeing Beatrice released and the same smug grin on all three faces, Francis halted in his tracks. He began backing away. “Treachery!” he called out as he fled, putting the toffee-colored sofa between them. “Beatrice,” he stammered in an exaggerated tone of disappointment. “How could you? I trusted you!”

“They made me an offer that I simply couldn’t refuse,” she said with a smirk.

As Emily and Claire made their way around each side of the sofa, Beatrice guarded any escape route that Francis might contemplate taking.

“OK,” he said, feigning desperation. “I surrender.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Emily chided him, with a playful twist to her mouth. “You’re not getting off that easily this time.”

“Oh?” He didn’t smile, but his eyes held a warmth that she had long since forgotten he had in him.

And then they were upon him, grabbing him by the arms and tackling him to the floor. He probably could have fought them off easily, had he tried, but why ruin the moment for them?

“Don’t think we don’t remember where your weakness lies, Francis,” Beatrice giggled as she reached for his feet. His eyes grew wary, then truly worried.

Oh no . . . not my feet
.

He tried to kick them away but it was futile. They’d managed to gain the upper hand.

Pinning him down, the sisters wasted no time in removing his shoes. Then, showing no mercy whatsoever, they proceeded to tickle him.

Within seconds Francis was roaring with laughter as tears welled in his eyes. “Do you surrender?” Emily demanded.

Francis coughed, attempting to stifle yet another laugh, and managed a choked “yes.”

Helping him to his feet, they handed him back his shoes. He lowered himself onto the sofa, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand as he straightened his jacket and began putting his shoes back on. “Remind me never to take the three of you on again,” he said. “At least not singlehandedly. You’re stronger than I remember.”

Claire looked most triumphant. “We’re not little girls anymore,” she smirked.

“I know,” he muttered with a frown. And just like that, all the amusement was unwillingly gone. They had gotten carried away and acted completely inappropriately. He was a grown man and they were women to whom he wasn’t even related. What had he been thinking?

When he glanced back up, he caught Emily looking at him with a bemused expression, a trace of mischief still in her eyes. She had seen him let down his guard and show that he was capable of something other than a stern glare. And yet, the very fact that she now appeared to see right through him set his forehead in deep furrows. She looked away, but not before he noticed that the glimmer behind her eyes had dulled. Only a hopeless sadness remained.

“So?” He heard a voice ask. It was Claire. “What’s the big secret?”

“What big secret?” Francis asked with a grin.

Claire rolled her eyes as she sighed with exasperation. “Do I need to tickle you again, Francis? Or is it enough if I remind you that you lost. I think I’ve earned the right to know.”

“Let the poor girl out of her misery, Francis,” Beatrice declared. “Unless of course you want me to tell her.”

“I suppose you’re right. Go ahead then, tell her.”

“Very well,” Beatrice said as she straightened her back. “Francis has graciously given us the opportunity to attend the most important balls of the season.” Claire let out a squeal of delight, which Beatrice silenced by raising her hand. “In order for us to do so, however, we must dress appropriately. Francis has generously offered to cover all costs, and I have accepted. So, both you, Claire, and you, Emily, will be making your debuts this season amongst the very elite that society has to offer. It’s a gift that mustn’t be passed up.”

Her last words were stern, taking on a demanding tone. She held Emily’s gaze as she spoke them, for she knew that her sister would protest with every fiber of her being. Emily was suffering and she wanted space and time in which to do so. She didn’t want to accept what she would surely term “charity” from anyone, least of all from Francis.

Beatrice understood her sister’s reasoning, of course. But Francis was right. Beatrice had no idea why he was being so helpful and so kind, but she knew that the chance was unlikely to present itself twice. She would have to be firm, she realized, but she was confident that Emily would eventually do as she was asked. She would simply have to tell her younger sister how much this might affect all of them and that she mustn’t say no—if not for her own sake, then for Claire’s.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

A
ttempting to hide his surprise to the best of his abilities, Jonathan regarded his friend and employer hesitantly. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort will be involved? Not to mention the expense . . .” He let out a sigh as he shook his head in bewilderment. “What were you thinking, Francis? Taking three grown women under your wing like that . . . it’s completely out of character.”

Francis eyed Jonathan suspiciously. “What are you saying? That I’m not capable of being charitable and kind?”

“I merely . . .”

“I know what everyone thinks of me, Jonathan,” Francis said, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare try and sugar it over for me. Not you, of all people. It’s what I value most about your friendship—your unfailing honesty and your loyalty. You’re never afraid of saying it as it is . . . I wish more people would be that way.”

“Very well then,” Jonathan told him firmly. “No, I don’t think you’re capable of being that charitable or kind, unless there’s some reason behind it that I’m unaware of. So . . . what’s your angle, old friend?”

Slumping down into a brown leather armchair, Francis’s hand caught his chin as he rested his elbow against one of the fat side arms. He let out an exhausted sigh. “I don’t know,” he muttered, glancing across at Jonathan as he spoke.

Jonathan echoed his sigh and rubbed the brim of his nose between his thumb and his index finger. “Have you had any thoughts as to who might be able, and, more importantly, willing to sponsor them for the duration of the season? Your aunt won’t do—she’s much too old to take on such a strenuous task.”

“I didn’t think . . .”

“Clearly!” Jonathan remarked as he let out another exasperated sigh, shaking his head in frustration. It was fortuitous that he and Francis had known each other for as long as they had, or he might have been looking for a new job that very instant. But that wasn’t the case. They were like brothers, so when Jonathan occasionally happened to give Francis hell, it never amounted to anything more than friendly banter.

“Just for the sake of asking,” Jonathan continued with a sudden look of hope upon his face, “is there any chance at all that you might be tempted to tell these women that you’ve had a change of heart?”

Francis’s expression grew dark. He was a man of his word and he intended to keep it. “None,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t think so.” Jonathan paused for a moment. Resting his elbows on the armrests of his chair, he arched his fingers below his chin. “So who could sponsor them? Doing it yourself is completely out of the question—I hope I don’t have to explain that much to you.”

Francis frowned as he ran his fingers over the brim of his glass. Jonathan was right. It would be most unseemly for a gentleman to escort unmarried women about town when he wasn’t even related to them. And while Genevieve would ensure that nobody would frown at the fact that they were his houseguests, Jonathan did make a valid point—he couldn’t expect her to stay out until the early hours of the morning, when even he considered this to be somewhat grueling. But if not her, then who? For Claire and Emily, it would be their coming-out balls. They would need a woman of some degree of social standing to take them under her wing. He had given it some serious thought, and had decided that he had just the right person in mind. He turned his eyes on Jonathan. “Baroness Giddington,” he said.

Jonathan gave Francis an immediate smile of approval, though it was tinged with a mischievous smirk. “You don’t think she’ll plow them into obscurity? The woman has a lot of presence.”

“I know what you’re getting at, Jon, and I must admit that I did think about that possibility quite a bit myself.”

“And?”

“And I’ve decided that she’s still the best option. She’s a close friend of mine—with no children of her own—who loves to shop. She would jump at the opportunity, turning this into her very own pet project, I can assure you.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you for a minute, old friend. The woman takes great pride in being one of the most talked-about socialites in London. She attends every ball there is, never wearing the same gown more than once. One is truly inclined to pity her poor husband.”

“Why? Lord Giddington is quite content with having a wife as lovely and charming as Veronica. And besides, she does her part, too, in order to finance all of those lovely gowns of hers. If it weren’t for her and her natural ability to connect with people, I’m quite certain that Giddington’s ventures wouldn’t thrive as well as they do.”

Jonathan tilted his head to the side as he scrunched up his mouth, raising an eyebrow as if attempting to visualize Baroness Giddington escorting Beatrice, Emily, and Claire about town. “All right. Baroness Giddington it is,” he said firmly. “You ought to call on her as soon as possible to discuss the situation with her. What if she refuses?”

Francis ignored the question as he picked up a random leather-bound book from the bookshelf and began leafing through it. “Why don’t you stop by her house tomorrow and invite her to join us for tea? The sooner we get started on this, the better.”

“Y
ou look nervous,” Francis said as he took in the scene. He had just come into the parlor to find the three sisters sitting stiffly, side by side on a scarlet chaise longue. “She doesn’t bite, you know.”

“It’s Baroness Giddington,” Beatrice barely managed to get out. “Everyone has heard of her, even we who have been secluded in the countryside for the past six years. Of course we’re nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he told them. “She’s a lovely lady and I’m sure she’ll be quite fond of you. However, you do conjure up the image of disobedient schoolgirls unhappily waiting to be scolded.” His attempt at lighthearted humor wasn’t lost on Emily, as she looked up at him with growing curiosity.

Pretending not to notice, he rested his hand gently against the back of a cream dupioni silk chair. “Beatrice. Would you please come and sit over here? And Claire, why don’t you pick up your needlework from the basket over there. It will give your hands something to do besides twisting at the fabric of your dress.”

As they rearranged themselves in an attempt not to appear affected by the Baroness’s visit, the sound of the doorbell chiming suddenly froze them all in place. “It appears her ladyship has arrived,” Francis remarked, breaking the strained silence. He cast a quick glance about the room. “Take a deep breath, ladies, and just relax. Oh, and Emily, do try to smile a little. You look positively glum.”

The remark had no other effect than to aggravate Emily even further. Following her conversation with Beatrice, she had finally agreed to join her sisters at least once during the upcoming season. Not for her own sake, but for that of Beatrice and Claire, who had stubbornly refused to go without her. She had very rationally concluded that, since she had no intention of securing a husband for herself, all the money spent on gowns for her would be a ridiculous waste.

Now, Emily suddenly had the urge to leap from her seat, run upstairs, and lock herself in her room. Her eyes were already navigating around the furniture in search of the fastest escape route when a shrill voice interrupted her train of thought.

“Francis!” Veronica made her appearance with outstretched arms in a dress and bonnet that Emily wasn’t likely to forget, ever. It was bright blue in color, trimmed with scarlet ribbons. Over it she wore a Spencer jacket in a deep shade of green. Her bonnet was dressed with matching ribbons and feathers so fluffy that Emily immediately likened her to a peacock. Even her cheerful greeting sounded like a squawk, now that she thought about it.

“Let me introduce you to the three Rutherford sisters,” Emily heard Francis say.

A pained expression passed over Veronica’s face as she held out her hand toward Beatrice. “I knew your parents quite well . . . quite well, indeed,” she said. “What a tragedy.”

“You are most kind, my lady,” Beatrice replied as she gave her a polite nod.

Stillness followed as a heavy blanket of silence settled over them, each of them thinking—with the appropriate amount of respect—just how tragic the loss of Lord and Lady Hillsbury had been. But something about Lady Giddington’s attire and voice—coupled with her solemn demeanor—just looked too much like a parody for Emily to take seriously. She couldn’t help but find herself biting down on her lower lip in an attempt not to laugh.

But then suddenly it happened all the same, in spite of her efforts.

It began with the twitch of her lower lip as it took on a life of its own, rippling outward to the corners of her mouth and forcing them upward into a helpless smile. She instantly clasped one hand over her mouth in a frantic attempt to silence the sound that was coming from her throat. The result was that she half-spluttered, half-coughed, her eyes painfully wide as she desperately wished a hole would emerge in the oriental carpet and mercifully swallow her up.

Fortunately, she had appeared to be choking rather than concealing an onset of laughter, thus supplying a very fortuitous excuse.

“Are you quite all right?” Veronica asked, turning her attention on Emily.

“Yes, quite,” Emily managed, adding a cough in order to prevent the urge to smile. “Please excuse me. I believe I must have gotten a speck of dust caught in my throat—it happens sometimes.”

Thankfully her eyes had also begun to water, adding to the plausibility of her lie, but as she looked about, she caught Francis giving her a stern stare. It was as if he’d caught her in a terrible act and was silently admonishing her for it. Embarrassed, she quickly averted her eyes to look at a potted plant in the corner of the room.

How was it possible for him to make her feel so rotten about herself? She had never cared about his opinion in the past. Yet at that very moment, the look that he had given her had made her feel so very small.

Of course it wasn’t that she thought there was anything the least bit humorous about her parents’ deaths. She loved her parents and had spent two years in full mourning as opposed to the standard one. Not a day passed without her thinking of them, yet there had been something very comical about the way in which Baroness Giddington (or Mrs. Peacock, as Emily presently thought of her) had looked as she raised her eyes toward heaven and let out a small sigh. One might even be tempted to think that she had rehearsed the scene at home in front of a mirror and was now merely acting it out. Emily’s mouth twitched again at the idea.

How strange to have that sudden urge to laugh again, Emily thought. She hadn’t laughed in a whole week, which was so very unlike her. It felt good, though—like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders and she was finally able to relax. Oh, but she mustn’t laugh now, not again. Out came yet another croak.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Veronica exclaimed. “Would somebody please get this poor woman some water?”

Francis quickly poured a glass from the decanter sitting on the table. Some of it missed, splashing onto the polished wooden surface. He quickly brushed it away with the palm of his hand to prevent it from leaving a permanent mark—something that his mother had always made a point of.

Thrusting it forward, the water sloshed from side to side, almost spilling onto the top of Emily’s dress as she reached for the glass and steadied it. “Thank you,” she muttered, looking everywhere but at Francis, who she knew would be regarding her disapprovingly.

“This is Emily,” Francis said as he addressed Veronica with a tight smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. “She’s the middle sister, Beatrice being the eldest and Claire the youngest.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Beatrice told Lady Giddington kindly.

Thank God for Beatrice, Emily thought as she worked on mastering some form of self-control. It was proving difficult, but not impossible, even though Francis seemed to be in an increasingly bad mood. Emily didn’t doubt for a minute that it was because of her. She closed her eyes briefly in order to rid herself of “the giggles,” as she termed it—likening her fits of laughter to a disease of sorts. She then took a deep breath, opened her eyes again, and managed a brilliant smile that didn’t appear to be nearly as fake as it felt.

“Well, I daresay,” Veronica remarked as she loosened the ribbons of her bonnet and removed it. “You are all as lovely as Francis told me you would be. This shan’t be difficult at all!”

“Liar!” Emily wanted to yell. If there was one thing that she was sure of, it was that Francis had never used the word “lovely” to describe her or her sisters in his life. She was willing to bet her life on it if she had to. But she kept her smile steady, appearing at least outwardly to be having a jolly good time indeed. The truth, however, was that she had no desire to be there at all. She would so much rather be shoveling manure in Mr. Hughes’s pig sty back in Hardington, but refused to think of it lest she suffer yet another onset of “the giggles.”

As it turned out, Baroness Giddington wasn’t nearly as pretentious as Emily had first thought. In fact, the rest of the afternoon passed surprisingly well with a large degree of amicable conversation. And yet, as Emily had recently come to discover, things were more often than not too good to be true.

“Did you happen to hear that Mr. Adrian Fairchild is in town?” Veronica asked as she raised a smug eyebrow. She was certain that she would be the first to deliver the news, for she had just happened to pass Lady Carroway in the street that very morning. “He is a friend of yours, is he not?”