Lady Olivia To The Rescue (7 page)

She glanced at him and raised her brow. “This is the part where you tell me that I am not at all old, that you are delighted to sit with me instead of joining those annoying children over there who are playing croquet.”

Chuckling, Sheridan said, “And do you always want gentlemen to state the obvious, Miss Hepplewhite?”

“Oh, I knew I would like you. Hand me that plate of macaroons, won’t you? I intend to eat only sweets today. That is my reward for coming outside and sitting in the open all day. I do so hate picnics,” she added.

“Now that I know you feel that way, I think we shall rub along very well together, Miss Hepplewhite.”

“Oh, do call me Amy. Miss Hepplewhite is such a mouthful. And yes, I know it is not at all the thing, but it will do me the world of good to have such a handsome man call me by my given name.”

“Very well. Amy, it shall be, and you shall call me Sheri.”

“How very wicked of us, Sheri,” said the older woman, downing her glass of wine and holding it out for him to fill again. “Only look at that silly Mr. Jenson. A physician, you know, and yet you would never guess the way he is concentrating on that shot he is about to make. There! Muffed it, he did. He always was a bit of a clunch.”

“I have heard of Mr. Jenson. I believe he has an excellent reputation in the medical world.”

“What has that to say to the matter?” she replied, turning and staring at him for a moment. “I ask you, what good is it being such a bright fellow in the medical world if you go and make mice feet of all the rest of your life?”

“Would you like another macaroon, Amy?” he asked, handing the entire platter to her.

She took one, and he looked about him for more food that might appeal to his strange new friend.

Obviously, she was not accustomed to drinking great quantities, and the lack of food coupled with Pendleton’s excellent wine must have made her light-headed. To his surprise, he found her very amusing and didn’t wish for her to say anything she might regret.

“These little meat pasties are wonderful,” he said, handing her two.

She put one in her mouth and smiled at him. After swallowing, she said, “I am not usually so talkative, my lord. And I am not as disguised as you think. I am just in a foul mood, though I have no intention of explaining the why and wherefore. I do apologize, my lord.”

“No apology necessary, Amy. And I thought you were to call me Sheri.”

“Perhaps, when we are not surrounded by the children,” she said with a laugh. “Even my sweet Olivia would not approve of such an arrangement, and she likes everyone and everything.”

“Yes, I had noticed that about her. Does she never frown? Even when I made her mad on the way here, she merely stopped talking. She should have railed at me.”

“She is like that—sweet to the very core.”

“But surely there are things that anger her. One cannot be forever smiling and gay.”

‘The things that upset her are the things of life, and she prefers fixing the ones she can without talking about it.”

Sheridan would have questioned Amy about her cryptic remarks, but just then, they were joined by Mr. Jenson.

“I had to leave the game of croquet to the younger ones,” said Mr. Jenson, sitting down at the table. “My back just won’t permit me to bend in that uncomfortable manner.”

Sheridan wanted to laugh at the frosty reception Mr. Jenson received from Miss Hepplewhite. He put her age at near fifty, but she was twisting the good doctor into knots like the most accomplished coquette.

Taking pity on the man, he said, “I don’t believe we have met formally, Mr. Jenson, though I know your reputation. I am Sheridan.”

“How do you do, my lord? Isn’t it fine weather we are having today? Perfect for a picnic.”

“Splendid weather. Don’t you agree, Amy?” he said, earning a chuckle from the irrepressible Miss Hepplewhite.

“Yes, quite splendid, Sheri,” she replied, touching her gloved hand to his sleeve with a smile.

The doctor’s brows rose, and his chest puffed out. Sheridan would have felt sorry for him, but he was enjoying himself too much to stop. He wasn’t certain why Amy Hepplewhite was torturing Mr. Jenson, but he had no desire to spoil her fun.

The others finished their games of croquet and archery and returned to the tables for refreshments. Richard, with Lady Olivia on his arm, lingered near the archery set, his head close to hers.

As they came closer, Sheridan turned to Miss Featherstone’s cousin and said, “Miss Fallon, you must try the meat pasties. Let me serve you.”

She giggled and accepted his offering, gazing up at him with soulful eyes. He knew it was his turn to say something witty, to offer her a compliment, but his momentary lapse of good sense had fled, and he said nothing. A moment later, she turned away.

Hell and blast. Now everyone will think I’m nothing but a tongue-tied youth, moonstruck by her beauty.

“Lord Sheridan, you can give me another one of those,” said Miss Hepplewhite.

“Certainly. Is there anything else you require? Another glass of wine?”

“No, no, I have plenty, thank you. Mr. Pendleton, a perfect setting for a magnificent picnic.”

“First rate, sir,” said Sheridan, raising his glass. “To our host, Mr. Pendleton.”

Everyone toasted the old man, who rose and said a few words of welcome. Sheridan did not bother to listen. His mind was meandering into unfamiliar territory as he watched his friend hook arms with Lady Olivia as they sipped from their glasses. This caused a frenzy of copycats as the younger people did the same. Even the sensible Miss Hepplewhite was persuaded by the good doctor to attempt this feat.

Once again, Sheridan felt the veriest outsider. Not that he minded. He preferred his solitary state. He had never planned to be otherwise.

Still, when Lady Olivia threw back her head and laughed, he felt his stomach twist as a wave of envy for his friend swept over him. Her skin was like porcelain and her cheeks were dusty pink. He had never seen a more beautiful woman.

“Lord Sheridan, you are not drinking?” asked the doctor.

Sheridan started. Glancing at the glass, poised for a drink but forgotten, he drained it and set it on the table. Without a word, he filled his plate and set to eating.

Odd, how Mr Pendleton’s repast suddenly has the consistency of sawdust.

After everyone had had their fill, they drifted back to play croquet or take a walk. Lord Hardcastle and Miss Featherstone took a blanket and wandered away to sit together under an oak tree. Mr. Pendleton had secured Lady Olivia and strolled toward the stream.

Without hurrying, Sheridan followed. He wasn’t eavesdropping, but he could not have ignored Lady Olivia’s quiet gasp of excitement. The thought that the old miser might be asking for her hand sent a cold shiver up his spine, and he walked a little faster.

Mr. Pendleton, flustered by the hug she had bestowed on him, was blushing a fiery red and stammering without saying anything coherent.

“Is everything all right?” asked Sheridan, covering his suspicion with concern.

“No, no, my lord. That is, Lady Olivia is only a little excited by my suggestion.”

“Am I to congratulate you?” he asked faintly.

“Only on Mr. Pendleton’s generous gift,” exclaimed Lady Olivia. “I wanted him to give some money for a charity of mine. Instead, he has offered us land for our school. The land we stand on right now!”

The old man shook his head and said, “It is nothing. Besides, what am I to do with it? As they say, you cannot take it with you—money or land.”

“Still, it is so generous of you. You will not be sorry, sir. And we will call it…Pendleton School.”

“Really, my lady. Quite unnecessary…quite…oh, well, if you insist. I suppose that would be all right.”

“I do insist,” said Lady Olivia, placing a chaste kiss on the man’s wrinkled cheek. His colour deepened, and he excused himself and hurried away, leaving Sheridan alone with Lady Olivia.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said.

“You didn’t, I was just so surprised. Mr. Pendleton is not known for his generosity, but it is such a good cause.”

“Perhaps he is trying to impress you,” said Sheridan, not thinking before speaking.

“I might have known you would question his motives.”

“No, I didn’t mean…that is, I do not think that at all, Lady Olivia. I apologize.” He smiled at her, and she seemed to soften. Taking her arm and strolling away from the others, he said, “Just who will go to this school? Girls from good families, I suppose.”

“No, no, it will be in part an orphanage—a home for children who either have no parents or have parents who have failed them. Right now, the school is in the city—a location that doesn’t allow for the children to play outside like they should.”

“And the other part?” At her puzzled frown, he added, “You said that the school will be an orphanage in part. What is the other part?”

“We have several children whose parents cannot afford them at this time. Their mothers are alive—some are soldiers’ widows, but they cannot afford to keep their children with them. This home will allow the mothers and children to be together again—I hope. It depends on how much money it will take, but I envision small cottages for the mothers with children and then a larger building, a dormitory, for the orphans and abandoned children. They will be so much happier here!” With a gurgle of laughter, she twirled around in delight, her arms open wide.

Sheridan smiled at her. “I fear I may have misjudged you, Lady Olivia.”

She stopped and stared, a slight frown wrinkling her brow. “In what way, Lord Sheridan?”

“I had no idea you cared about anyone except society and all its frivolity. Again, I apologize.”

“And again, your apology is accepted. Perhaps now you will not think so poorly of us.”

“Is that what you think? You think that I look down on everyone else?”

“Don’t you?”

His expression had lost all trace of lightness as he replied, “I suppose I do, my lady. I have seen little in society that has earned my admiration. Oh, beauty and grace, but with a hollow core. You may not see it. Perhaps one has to have lived away from it for a few years. For me, I married quite young, and the part of society I took to my home, to my bed, was nothing to admire.”

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

“So was I, but I had no one to blame but myself. I was naive. I did not understand society at that time.”

“If you despise society so much, why come to London for the Season?”

His crack of laughter held no mirth, only self-mockery. “I have my daughter to consider. She will be seventeen next year. She will expect her own Season, and I have not the will to deny it to her. I only hope that she will be wiser than I was.”

He turned and walked away. This time, he stopped to bid his host and Miss Hepplewhite goodbye. Then Sheridan mounted his horse and returned to London.

Chapter Five

H
ow her heart ached for him. Olivia had done nothing all evening except worry about the taciturn Lord Sheridan. If he had remained with her another minute, she was certain she would have thrown her arms around him to comfort him—and what a disaster that would have been! It would have convinced the uncompromising man that she really was addlepated.

And that, much to Olivia’s surprise, was not at all what she wanted him to think of her.

On this disturbing reflection, Olivia turned over in her bed and punched the pillow into shape. She flopped over again and tried to settle in for sleep—an impossible undertaking. After several minutes of thinking very diligently about the tasks she had set to accomplish the next day, her mind returned to Lord Sheridan.

He really was a stubborn man!

Very well. She sat up in the bed and lit the candle on the table. She picked up a small notebook and opened it. Taking out the pencil tucked inside, she was ready to begin her list of eligible young ladies, suitable young ladies, young ladies worthy of the Marquess of Sheridan.

Five minutes later, Olivia set the pencil aside, staring in wonder at the words she had doodled while waiting for inspiration to strike.

Olivia, Lady Sheridan.

“I tell you, Fitz, I was fairly thunderstruck when I heard about Lady Olivia Cunningham’s school. There she was, talking about raising funds to build the thing, and I never opened my mouth about helping.”

‘That is not like you, your lordship, ” said his secretary from his station behind the battered desk that had belonged to the old marquess.

At the sideboard in the library, Sheridan poured a large brandy before strolling across the room and sitting down in front of the desk. His secretary closed the ledger he was working on and took out a sheet of paper to receive his instructions for the day.

Sheridan, however, was in a reflective mood and didn’t pay it much attention. After a moment, he said, “No, it is not like me. I made a cake of myself, but I intend to remedy that. I want you to find out all you can about her school—the one she has now is in London—and then I want you to find a way that I may donate to it.”

“Without her knowing?”

“Precisely.”

Fitzsimmons scribbled a few words on the paper and then looked up, waiting for further instructions.

Sheridan sipped his brandy. “Find out about any charities she’s involved with. Go to Bow Street, and get Butters to help. He can go ’round to her house and question the servants. You have the address from when you sent those flowers for me, don’t you?”

Fitzsimmons opened a drawer and pulled out a small sheet of paper. Sheridan took it and read it before handing it back again. “Good, good. Butters can talk to the servants then. They always know more about what is going on than anybody else.”

“I’ll contact him immediately, my lord.”

“Good.” Seeing the look of bewilderment in his secretary’s eyes, Sheridan said gruffly, “lf I have misjudged the lady, then she probably has other causes she could use help with, though the school is the main one I am interested in. Helping orphans and abandoned children. And the widows of our soldiers, too. Now that is something I admire.”

The secretary let his pencil fall as the marquess rose, tossed off the contents of his glass, and then strolled through the door.

Sheridan picked up his hat and gloves from the table in the hall and went out. He ambled along the pavement, not caring which direction he took as his mind worked on various problems—mostly those related to Lady Olivia Cunningham.

It was her charity work that interested him, of course. Whereas he contributed to a number of charities around his estate at home, she worked here, in London. He had written off this particular portion of the country years earlier. There had seemed no hope for helping London’s poor and misfortunate. It was a job too overwhelming to succeed. To his way of thinking, no amount of money would have helped, but Lady Olivia was making it work, evidently. On the one hand, he admired her for it. On the other, there was a callous part of him that wanted to deride her efforts as foolish and impotent. It was this part that ruled his life when he was in London, and he found it difficult to check.

To be thought a fool was the worst sort of insult—an insult his young wife had hurled at his head every time he had tried to fix the problems that plagued their marriage. Now that had been an impossible task!

No, he prided himself on always being rational.

He avoided not only doing foolish things but also foolish people. To think he might be playing a fool now was completely unacceptable. He would have to be cautious. If Lady Olivia’s ventures were foolish, then he wanted no part of them. If not, then he would support her completely—if anonymously.

You’re a coward. You want to help, but only if it suits your rigid code of behaviour. What does it matter if she fails? At least she is trying.

Sheridan glanced around, getting his bearings. He had wandered away from his usual neighbourhood, and now he was in a street off Grosvenor Square. The houses were large and set back from the street enough to have narrow flowerbeds along the pavement.

He read the number of the house in front of him. Number eight. Something, some inner devil, had brought him to her house. He almost turned to flee.

A carriage pulling up behind him prevented his departure. The door opened, and Amy Hepplewhite descended.

“Is that you, Lord Sheridan? Have you come to call? I do hope so.” She took his arm and said, “I have just left Maria Sefton, and she is under the weather. Most distressing, I can tell you. I need a handsome gentleman to take my mind off her. Do come into the drawing room and wait for me while I take off this bonnet and coat.”

The room was definitely feminine. The carpets were a riot of pink and cream-colored roses. The paper on the walls was a striped pink and cream.

The furnishings were in various shades of rose and green and were delicately carved. Still, it was a comfortable room. A basket by the sofa held a stack of mending. On the table at the other end of the sofa was a small stand with an unfinished needlework project. A sheet of music lay on the bench by a well-used pianoforte. Sheridan crossed the room and picked out the melody—a ballad about love lost.

“Good afternoon, your lordship. Miss Hepplewhite thought you might be hungry so I have brought the tea tray in for you. If you prefer a glass of ale, I have some very good stock in the library.”

‘Tea will be fine. Thank you, uh…”

“Witchell, my lord.” The butler poured the cup of tea and then straightened. “Will there be anything else, your lordship?”

“No, that will be all.” The butler retreated but turned when Sheridan asked, “Is Lady Olivia at home?”

“No, my lord. She has gone out for the day.”

“I see.”

He sat down to his tea, helping himself to a small cake and placing it on a dainty porcelain plate. He had finished one portion and was considering a second when a breathless Amy sailed into the room. Sheridan half rose, but she shooed him back into his seat.

“What has Witchell managed for us this afternoon? Ah, some macaroons. I could eat my weight in them every day.”

“A small portion, to be sure,” said Sheridan, placing two on her plate.

She grinned at him and said, “I never knew what a complete hand you were, Lord Sheridan.”

“Sheri, remember?”

“Yes, yes. It is Sheri, when we are private.”

“And in public, you must call me Sheridan. All my best friends do so.”

“Then so shall I. Let’s see. That makes three of us here in London, does it not?”

He frowned at the impertinence, but she was still favouring him with a warm smile, and he nodded. “Yes, a total of three—unless my mother should venture to town. An unlikely event, I can tell you.”

“The dowager prefers the country?”

“Yes, as far from any other people as she can get. My mother has turned into a bit of a hermit.”

“She was never very social, as I recall,” said Amy, stirring her tea thoughtfully.

“You knew my mother when she was younger?”

“Yes, we met on occasion. You are very like her.”

“Hardly,” said Sheridan. “She is fair and was blonde, before her hair turned grey.”

“No, not your looks. I meant your personality. The dowager marchioness didn’t seem to enjoy being in London very much either.”

Sheridan frowned. This conversation was becoming much too personal. It was time he put paid to Amy Hepplewhite’s impertinence.

Lifting his quizzing glass, he stared at her a moment and then said, “Sometimes, there is very little to enjoy here in London.”

She laughed, a tinkling sound that was quite as infectious as her smile. She put a hand on his sleeve and leaned closer. “Oh, that is very good! I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone use a quizzing glass to such advantage. Were I a mushroom, I would be quaking in my boots!”

Drew smiled and shook his head. “You are an extraordinary woman, Miss Hepplewhite.”

“Amy,” she said.

“Amy. That look is guaranteed to depress the intentions of the most encroaching toady. But as you say, as you are not one…”

“Well, among friends, one can say what one pleases. I am all for the rules our society has set out for us, but I am not going to follow them in my own home. Well, Olivia’s home.”

Sheridan looked about him as if expecting Olivia to materialize. “Are you expecting Lady Olivia soon?”

“Goodness, no. She and that gorilla of hers have gone out to…to check on certain business concerns.”

He could tell she was hedging her bets, but he didn’t wish to be too openly interested, so he changed his tact and asked, “Gorilla?”

“Her servant. A former prizefighter. He is a decent man and a loyal servant, but he does nothing for her.”

“In what way?”

“You know. The way she appears—to others.”

“Something that does not matter very much to me,” he replied.

“Of course it does,” said the older woman, her frustration showing on her face. “You care very much about it. For instance, why do you carry that quizzing glass? And the cane you take everywhere? What purpose does it serve? You are certainly not lame, Sheri.”

“No, I am not,” he replied, his words clipped.

This conversation was getting out of hand.

She heaved a sigh and sat back, relaxing against the back of the sofa as no proper lady would do. Amy Hepplewhite felt very comfortable with him indeed, and this went far to erase his irritation. He waited for her next salvo. It didn’t take long.

Leaning forward again, she said, “You carry the quizzing glass—a little out-dated, perhaps, but you do it so well—and the cane because you are trying to present a certain image of yourself. For you to suddenly appear without them would be like a knight of old appearing without his armour on. It simply isn’t done. The world, as we know it, would collapse if the Marquess of Sheridan came to a ball,
sans
cane, and actually danced!”

She heaved a sigh and relaxed against the green velvet cushions once again. Sheridan smiled. Then he chuckled. And finally, he laughed—a sound that filled the room. Rising, he swept her a deep bow.

“If I had my hat on, I would doff it to you, my dear Miss Hepplewhite—Amy. For someone who has only recently come within my sphere of influence, you have read my character remarkably well. Bravo!”

He sat down, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. At that moment, the door opened and the butler announced Mr. Jenson.

The doctor hesitated before entering. Then he said, “Good morning, Lord Sheridan, Miss Hepplewhite.” Crossing the room, he bowed before them.

“Good morning, Mr. Jenson,” said Sheridan.

“Are you here to see Pansy again?” asked Amy.

“What? No, that is, yes. I…I thought I would just check on my patient.”

“She is probably in Olivia’s room. Have Witchell take you to her.”

The man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and shuffled out the door. When it closed, Sheridan said, “Why do you torture that poor fellow so?”

“It is nothing more than he deserves,” she replied. Then she clamped her lips tightly together to indicate that that was all she had to say on the subject.