Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (3 page)

She smiled when she saw that a few stars were actually visible in the London sky. What with the rain and the fog, that didn't happen very often. Perhaps it was a good sign.

She could hardly believe that Harry was back. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed him. It was as if she saw him on the street and thought, “Oh yes, that's what I've been missing.”

She didn't know why—it couldn't be anything romantic, after all—but he just seemed so much more real, so much more alive than any of the other young men she knew. Maybe it was just that he had gone off and had adventures, wandered around the world and seen all kinds of different people, done all sorts of things. Everyone else she knew had just done all the expected things, turned up at dinners and dances, said all the things they were supposed to say, done the things they were supposed to do.

Just as she had.

Was she bored? She considered that possibility. No, that wasn't it precisely.

She was envious—that's what it was.

Harry had gone to exciting places and met exciting people while she had stayed home and done nothing, nothing more exciting than flirting and dancing. It had been fun, and she had enjoyed it, but it didn't seem to be enough. She wanted more.

Did she seem terribly dull to him? He had probably met sophisticated and glamorous women—and maybe done more than just meet them. After all, he had been gone for four whole years. It would be foolish to assume he had led a monkish existence. Even Pip, stuffy though he might sometimes be, had affairs that she and Mama pretended not to know about.

But that didn't matter now. Harry had come back. He even seemed glad to be back.

She was so glad to have him back.

Rycote was a member of White's. Of course. Tunbury could not keep from grinning. Lord Penworth was a prominent reformer, an outspoken opponent of the Crimean War, a critic of the country's India policy, a proponent of universal education, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Naturally his son was a member of the stuffiest, most conservative club around.

Well, perhaps not completely stuffy. Tunbury caught sight of the famous betting book. This was, after all, the club where Alvanley had once bet £3,000 on the speed of a raindrop. Tunbury left Rycote to order a bottle of wine and strolled over to see what was occupying the minds of the aristocracy these days. One glance was all it took to turn him to stone.

“What's caught your eye?” Rycote looked over his shoulder. “Oh.”

Of course. The thing might as well have been written in scarlet letters ten feet high. “Lord M wagers Lord B that Lady D will change lovers at least twice before Easter.”

He felt his friend's hand on his shoulder. He didn't need the comfort. Not really. But he felt it.

“These fellows don't know what they're talking about most of the time. And there are half a dozen Lady D's.”

Tunbury turned to face his friend. “But we both know they mean my mother, Lady Doncaster.” His mouth twisted. He was trying for a smile but it probably came out a grimace. No matter. “Don't worry. I stopped fighting over remarks about her honor—her lack of honor—years ago.”

Yes, he'd stopped fighting during his second year at Rugby. He'd gone home to Bradenham Abbey before going to Penworth Castle for Christmas. His sisters were babies then—Julia just three and Olivia still an infant—and he'd wanted to see them. But he'd made the mistake of opening the door to his mother's sitting room without knocking and found her copulating with one of the footmen.

He couldn't remember ever loving his mother. She had never been enough a part of his life to prompt any feeling one way or the other. But after that he had been unable to think of her with anything but disgust. Was his father's drinking a response to her behavior? If so, it was a cowardly, contemptible response.

He'd never told anyone about that scene, not even Pip, but thereafter he'd greeted comments on his mother's activities with an indifferent shrug, the same way he treated remarks about his father's drunkenness. As for the whispers about the bad blood of the de Vaux family, he pretended he didn't hear them. What he couldn't do was ignore the fear that those whispers might be true, that he had inherited that bad blood.

Rycote led him to a pair of leather chairs in a corner, leaving the fireplace seats to the elderly members, and began talking about the new orchards he was planting at the estate his father had turned over to him on his twenty-first birthday. He was discussing apple varieties—Foxwhelp, Tremlett's Bitter, Knobbed Russet, Winesap from America, and Muscadet de Dieppe from Normandy.

Tunbury let the names wash over him. It sounded so sane, so clean, rather like the entire Tremaine family. Rycote was doing this deliberately, he knew, trying to distract him. As if he could ever forget what his parents were like. “The Degraded de Vaux” one schoolboy wit had called them, and the fellow's friends had laughed. Harry had to fight that time, and Rycote had joined him. When it was over, he'd thanked Rycote but told him that he shouldn't have bothered. What they said about his parents was perfectly true. All the more reason they shouldn't say it, Rycote had replied.

How could he have survived without Rycote's steady friendship and loyalty?

What would have become of him without the Tremaines?

A wave of guilt washed over him. For all those years when he was growing up, he had the Tremaines. He could forget that he was the son of the Earl and Countess of Doncaster because he almost never saw them. After a while, it had become possible for him to go for months, even years, without thinking about his family.

To his shame, that meant he had ignored his sisters as well as his parents.

Did his sisters have anyone to help them? They certainly didn't have their brother. He had left them behind when he ran off four years ago, never giving them a thought in his eagerness to escape. Not that he had given them many thoughts before that. If anything, he had simply assumed that they were safe enough in the care of nurses and governesses. As a boy, he had been powerless to do anything for them, so it was easier to not think about them.

Had they been safe? They had no way to get in touch with him. Had they needed him? That was a joke. Why would it even occur to them that he might help them? He never had before. What had he given them? An occasional visit of a few days when he could be sure his parents weren't in residence at the Abbey?

But he was no longer a boy, and his sisters weren't babies anymore. Julia must be…seventeen. Was she making her come-out this year? Good God. The poor girl, to be introduced to society by the most notorious whore in it. There must be something he could do about that. He had no idea what, but there must be something.

He would have to go see them.

“What do you think?”

Tunbury blinked. What did he think about his sisters? But Rycote couldn't know he was thinking about them. “I'm sorry. I was woolgathering.”

“Obviously. I was saying that my father is suddenly looking old. Is he ill, do you think? Or just tired?”

It immediately struck Harry that Rycote was right. The marquess couldn't be more than fifty-five or so by Tunbury's reckoning, but he had looked drawn and haggard. Harry had noticed it when Penworth came in the evening before, but the impression had faded in the pleasure of their talk.

“I don't know,” he said slowly. “Are you worried?”

Rycote shrugged. “Yes, a bit. He spends too much time in the Lords, fighting too many losing battles. I think Mama is worried too.”

Rycote was not one to parade his feelings. That he had even mentioned this meant that he was very worried indeed.

* * *

The next day a footman brought Harry an invitation to join Lady Penworth in her sitting room. A bit surprised, even unnerved, by the formality, Tunbury promptly presented himself at the door of the chamber overlooking the garden. It had not changed much since he first saw it as a boy, and it had been old-fashioned even then. Pale curtains were pulled back to allow as much light as possible to enter through the tall windows. The marquetry table had been there as long as he could remember, always with a vase of flowers on it. Hothouse flowers at this time of year, but still scenting the air.

The upholstery and draperies must have been replaced from time to time, but always in the pale colors of the past, not the deep hues currently in style. Lady Penworth was not one to let the coal dust of London defeat her. Light colors, painted wood, and walls covered with watercolor sketches of her children made the marchioness's room seem full of sunshine even in late January.

Lady Penworth's smile was full of sunshine as well when she looked up to greet him. He could not resist smiling in return. She looked so much like Norrie, though he supposed he ought to say that Norrie looked like her mother. The same dark hair, the same lovely oval face, the same slightly tilted blue eyes. Well, Norrie's eyes had a bit more green than Lady Penworth's did. All in all, it was one more piece of good fortune for the man who married Norrie—his wife would be beautiful all her life.

“Harry, thank you for coming. I need your advice.” She gestured to the chair facing her beside the fire. “I am worried about Penworth.”

Harry halted for a second as he was sitting down, then settled himself carefully and took a long look at Lady Penworth before speaking. She might have been taken for a bonbon, covered as she was in frills and ribbons, but she did actually look worried, and he had a sudden, sinking feeling. “Is Lord Penworth ill?” he asked cautiously.

“No, that is not the problem. At least, it is not the problem yet.”

Harry did not feel comforted. He had started to worry himself, especially after talking to Rycote. If his friend was worried enough to mention it, and if Lady Penworth was worried, something was definitely wrong, and that distressed Harry more than he could say. There was no man he admired—no, loved—more than Lord Penworth.

“He is tired. Far too tired.” Lady Penworth frowned.

“He does seem tired, a bit depressed,” he agreed carefully. It would have been overly blunt to say that Penworth looked terrible, but tired was a good deal better than truly ill. Could weariness be all there was to the problem?

“Depressed,” she said slowly. “Yes, I suppose that is a good description. He has always been conscientious to a fault, but this recent war with Russia has worn on him. He was unable to prevent it; he was unable to convince anyone of the dangers of giving command to fools like Cardigan. And now he is worried that the army is going to create another disaster in India.”

Harry acknowledged that with a grimace. “I spent some time in India. I wish I could say that his fears are groundless.”

“What are your plans for the next few months, Harry?”

The abrupt change of subject startled him. “Well, I can't say that I have any specific plans. After talking to Lord Penworth these past few days, I have begun to think I might try for a seat in Parliament.”

“That would make Penworth very happy.”

Her approving smile made Harry flush. “It was just a thought,” he mumbled.

“Is there anything urgent about it? I don't think any elections are coming up at the moment.”

“No, not at all. Just a thought.”

“Then perhaps you would be able to help me.”

“Anything, my lady.”

She smiled at him again. “Well, Penworth needs a distraction, something that will absorb him enough to take his mind off the iniquities of the British Army. He needs something he can sink his mental teeth into, something that he can enjoy with no feelings of guilt. Something scholarly. I think I know what will do it. You were in Italy for a while, were you not?”

“For more than a year.”

“Then you speak Italian?”

“Yes, somewhat.” He was confused. Could she want him to teach Lord Penworth Italian? His own knowledge of the language was thoroughly vernacular, not intended for reading Dante or Petrarch, or even for diplomatic correspondence. More for dealing with officials and getting in and out of gambling casinos with his skin intact.

“Wonderful.” Lady Penworth beamed at him. “Now, I don't know if you have read Mr. Dennis's book on Etruscan antiquities.”

He shook his head. “The Etruscans? Are they the ones with all the tombs, and the statues with the funny little smiles?”

“Yes, that's them. They seem to have been such a cheerful people. But you haven't read Dennis?”

He shook his head again.

“No matter,” she continued. “I have and so has Penworth. We both found it fascinating and talked about someday going to Italy to see the ruins for ourselves. Now would be the perfect time.”

By now Harry had a sinking feeling. If Lady Penworth was being this indirect, he suspected it was because she thought he would not want to do whatever she was proposing. And since he owed her and her entire family far too much to be able to refuse anything she asked, he was growing increasingly nervous.

“Do you wish me to help you plan a trip?” he asked hopefully.

“Nothing so simple, I'm afraid.” She gave him a rueful smile. “What I really want is for you to accompany us.”

“You and Lord Penworth?”

“And Rycote and Elinor. I thought to leave soon, while the younger ones are still in school.”

The sinking feeling was replaced by panic. No. He could not possibly do this. “A family voyage? But surely you will not need me when you have Rycote and Lord Penworth.”

“Oh, but I do! Lord Penworth knows almost no Italian, and I really do not want to burden him with the cares of dealing with officialdom. You know that Rycote is truly hopeless with languages, and his way of dealing with officials whose rules make no sense to him is to lose his temper and shout.”

Harry bit back a smile at the memory of Pip at school battling what he saw as an usher's abuse of authority. Pip could never tolerate bullies.

“Elinor speaks French and Italian, of course,” Lady Penworth continued blithely, “but it would be difficult if not impossible to get officials to take her seriously. The French and Italians seem unable to treat women as anything other than decorative ninnies. They are quite as bad as Englishmen, possibly worse. No, Harry, Penworth needs to relax. That will only happen if you are there to take care of things. He trusts you.”

She looked at him seriously. “I know this is a great deal to ask, months of your life when you may have all sorts of things planned”—she smiled impishly—“things you might not want to tell me about, and you need not. You must just say so if I am asking too much.”

Too much? Of course it was too much. How could he possibly set off on a trip where he would be with Norrie for months? There must be some reason why he had to stay in England. There must be responsibilities involving his father's—the Earl of Doncaster's—estates. He was the heir, after all, and it was unlikely that either the earl or the countess had been attending to things. They never had before.

He opened his mouth to say “No, I couldn't possibly,” but what came out was “I would be honored.”