Married to the Viscount (21 page)

“Excuse me, madam,” Mr. McFee said as he poked his head through the open door.

“Mr. McFee, I’m glad you’re here. Do you happen to know what his lordship’s favorite dish is?”

“Shellfish in butter, madam. Which is why we serve it every Friday evening.”

“Of course you do,” she said with a sigh.

“I came to inform you that you have a caller. It’s Lady Clara Blakely. Are you in to callers?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said, bewildered by the question.

His lips twitched. “Yes, of course you are, madam. How unobservant of me.”

She shot him a quizzical look. “Put her in the front drawing room and tell her I’ll be right up.”

“Very good, madam.” McFee vanished like some servant sprite off to do her bidding.

How odd that Mr. McFee never called her “my lady.” But then he probably knew she really wasn’t one.

As did Clara, thank heaven. At least there was
one
person she could be herself with. Whisking off her apron, she paused beside a pier glass to check her hair and attire.

The new gowns wouldn’t be finished for two more days, but the dressmaker had skillfully altered those belonging to Spencer’s stepmother. By attaching an embroidered silk stomacher to cover the original high waist, the dressmaker had turned the outdated gown into a right fashionable one. Marguerite had dressed her hair in her old style, too, so no more droopy ringlets. Now she didn’t look like the pathetic creature Clara had met last night.

Content that her appearance would suffice, she went up to meet her guest. As soon as Abby entered the front drawing room, Clara smiled amiably and rose to hold out her hand. “I would ask how you are, but I can see that you’re well.”

Taking Clara’s hand, Abby pressed it warmly. “I have you to thank for that. I’ll always be grateful for your kindness last night.”

“I’m only glad you didn’t take it all too much to heart.” She searched Abby’s face. “Or am I right in assuming from the absence of trunks in the entrance hall that you’ve decided to remain here a while longer?”

“Yes. Spencer promised not to tell me how to dress or wear my hair, and he apologized very nicely for all his bullying. So I’m giving him another chance.” She could hardly say she’d traded her right to leave for a few stolen moments of scandalously delicious “playing.” Or that she didn’t regret one moment of it. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Have a seat, and we’ll chat.”

As soon as they sat together on the sofa, Clara faced her with curiosity shining in her eyes. “So Lord Ravenswood actually apologized, did he?”

“Better than that—he admitted he’d been wrong.”

“That’s a first.”

“I know—I was too angry to appreciate it at the time, but it really is amazing. Now I almost regret plaguing him about his mistress.”

“You mean Genevieve.”

“Her…and any other mistress he might have.”

“You
discussed
his mistresses?” Clara asked in clear disbelief.

“Of course. I had to know if he had a current one. Just because I’m his pretend wife doesn’t mean I have to put up with being humiliated behind my back. So I asked him if he had one, and he said no.”

“I can’t believe you actually asked him that.” Clara laughed. “I wish I could have seen his face. Lord Ravenswood isn’t used to forthright women who don’t play society games. Did he get all haughty as he usually does when he thinks someone’s impertinent?”

Abby couldn’t prevent a blush from staining her cheeks. “Um…not exactly. He asked me to stay, and then he…kissed me.”

“Oh, better and better!” Clara said, practically beside herself with excitement.

“I’m not sure he thought so. He didn’t
want
to kiss me, and he was annoyed about it afterward.”

“Of course he was. Men always are.” She patted Abby’s arm. “But it’s about time somebody annoyed his lofty lordship. He’s had everything his way for far too long.”

Abby suspected that wasn’t entirely true, but she had no basis for that opinion yet.

Suddenly McFee appeared in the doorway. “Lady Brumley is asking if you are in, madam. What would you have me tell her?”

Abby sighed. The last person she wanted to see was Lady Brumley. But she had to face the woman sooner or later. She might as well do it with a friend at her side. “Have her join us, Mr. McFee, thank you.”

As soon as Mr. McFee was gone, Clara asked, “Quickly, tell me what Lady Brumley was talking about in her column. I’m sure that’s why she’s here.”

“You mean the one she wrote after Spencer’s dinner party?”

“No, no, this morning’s column. She said that the new Lady Ravenswood was keeping a treasure under her hat that would impress all of society once it was unveiled. What the dickens did she mean?”

“I have no idea.” Abby jerked up in her seat, alarm gripping her. “Oh, no, what else did she say? Did she talk about my pitiful showing last night?”

Clara had no time to answer, for Mr. McFee appeared in the doorway to announce Lady Brumley. Abby rose to greet the new arrival with a sense of impending dread.

Lady Brumley breezed in like a ship in full sail. “I’m delighted to see that you are sans husband. Perhaps we shall finally have a chance to talk.”

“Good afternoon.” Abby tried not to show her anxiety. “You know Lady Clara Blakely, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Without waiting for an invitation, Lady Brumley headed over to Clara’s side. “I’m glad you’re here, too. You can help me convince Lady Ravenswood.”

“Convince me of what?” Abby asked.

McFee cleared his throat, and she glanced up.

“Will that be all, my lady?” the butler asked.

She blinked. He’d called her “my lady.” How very odd. And something in his expression said that he expected more than a cursory reply. When she hesitated, he mouthed a word that looked like “tea,” and she started, mortified that she hadn’t thought of it herself. But then she and Papa had rarely had callers in recent years.

“Uh, Mr. McFee? Would you please have some tea brought in?”

“Certainly, my lady,” he said with an approving nod.

As soon as he’d disappeared, Abby turned to find Lady Brumley scowling.

“Come sit down, dear girl,” the older woman said as she perched herself atop the velvet-upholstered sofa, and Clara followed suit. “You and I must talk about the behavior expected of a viscountess.”

Abby’s heart sank. The last thing she needed was a lecture from Lady Brumley about her mistakes at the ball.

“I’m sure she’ll learn it all in time,” Clara put in, attempting to intervene.

“She’d better learn it quickly, if she intends to keep a man like Ravenswood toeing the line,” Lady Brumley retorted.

“There’s no need to point out all my errors last night.” Abby sank into an armchair across from the woman. “I know my dancing was disastrous and—”

“Oh, pish, who cares about dancing? You can learn the steps in an afternoon. No, I’m speaking of more important things—like how you address your servants.”

“My servants?” Had she somehow managed to insult the unflappable McFee?

“A viscountess does not ask her butler to have tea brought. She commands it.”

The very idea appalled Abby. In America, even the finest families had few servants, and those they did have tended to be resentful of authoritarian commands. Here in England, the servants seemed to accept their lot without question, which she found very peculiar. “But that’s so…so…”

“Overbearing?” Lady Brumley finished.

“Yes,” she said weakly.

“I should hope so,” Lady Brumley answered. “How else can you show your servants that you’re in charge of your own household? If you don’t, they’ll run roughshod over you and then gossip to their fellow servants about how ‘common’ their mistress is. Before you know it, the whole city will be talking about it.”

“After last night, the whole city is already talking about how common I am,” Abby said dryly.

“What fustian. Granted, they may be discussing how clumsy you are or how unfashionably you dress or even how American you are. But they haven’t got round to ‘common’ yet, and you must make sure that they don’t.”

When Abby paled, Clara rose to her defense. “Really, Lady Brumley, I don’t think you’re helping—”

“Of course I am. The girl was clever enough to snag Ravenswood, wasn’t she? No matter how she managed it, she can’t rest on her laurels now. She must learn all she can about how a woman in her position behaves.” She leveled a piercing glance on Clara. “And you must teach her. Your father gained his title late in your life, so you know how difficult it can be to learn all the niceties. Take her in hand, and I’m sure she will be socially presentable in no time.”

“Given how freely you’ve expressed your opinions about a woman you barely know,” Clara said icily, “I assumed
you
wanted to take on the task.”

“Lord, no. I’m here about another matter entirely.” Lady Brumley opened her reticule and drew out the vial of Mead she’d stolen, then brandished it at Abby. “This concoction of yours is marvelous. You hold a treasure in your hand, young lady.”

Abby brightened. “So it finally did work on your indigestion.”

“Indigestion? Oh no, I’m speaking of perfumes.” She shook the bottle. “This is the finest fragrance I’ve come across in years. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a decent perfume these days? One that is delicate, yet lasts?” She thrust the vial at Clara. “Smell this, and tell me if that isn’t the most delicious scent ever to tickle your nose.”

Clara’s face clouded with surprise as she took the bottle, opened it, and sniffed.

“Pay her no mind,” Abby put in. “Yes, I suppose the Mead does smell nice, but it’s meant to be a cure—”

“Never mind what it’s meant to be,” Clara broke in. “I seldom agree with Lady Brumley, but in this case she’s right. This is marvelous. Quite the loveliest scent ever.”

“You see?” Lady Brumley straightened her current headdress, a bizarre turban of twisted silk and ribbon that featured a circlet of gold anchors. “Follow the lead of those fellows who created Eau de Cologne. They meant their elixir to be a cure, too—I heard that Boney himself drank bottles of it. Tried it once myself—nasty stuff. But as a scent, it became all the crack.” Her eyes gleamed. “Until this, that is. Yours is twice as fine.”

Abby glanced from Lady Brumley to Clara, who nodded her agreement. Just then, the maid brought in the tea. Mechanically Abby went through her duty as hostess by pouring it, but her mind was on Lady Brumley’s startling assertions.

She’d always known the Mead had a lovely aroma, but she’d figured it was only her keen nose that made her notice it. She did use it to sweeten her breath, which wasn’t unusual since plenty of medicines also worked as breath sweeteners.

But perfume? She’d never considered it a perfume. Then again, she didn’t use perfume—Mama had always said that soap and water were all the perfume any woman needed. It had also seemed somehow unnatural to add a scent to one’s skin.

“Why are you telling me this about the Mead?” Abby asked Lady Brumley.

“Because you should take advantage of it. I understand that his lordship has invested in your father’s company and his brother is a partner, so if you can persuade them to produce the Mead as a perfume, it might become a resounding success.”

Lady Brumley flashed her a calculating smile over the brim of her teacup. “Of course, I’d be happy to lend my as
sistance. A few hints in my column will have my readers clamoring for information about this new find. And with you and me both wearing it in public—and you, too, Lady Clara, if you wish—people will begin to ask about it. Then voilà, I’ll reveal that it’s all the rage and your husband’s family will reap the financial benefits.”

Lady Brumley added with a sly wink, “Your husband will be most grateful, I’m sure. His brother’s injury makes the man unable to pursue the matter at present. But if you take matters in hand, the company will already be on a sound footing by the time Mr. Law is up and about again. Customers will be lined up to buy the Mead. That would increase your husband’s investment and raise your usefulness to him. Men always like women who bring something other than their pretty selves to the marriage.”

Abby hadn’t considered that. Spencer owned half the company at present, and he’d always been concerned about his brother’s future. If she could make keeping her a financial and familial asset…

Clara eyed the older woman with suspicion. “Why on earth are you interested in promoting this enterprise? What is it to you?”

Good question, Abby thought.

“Ah, you know me so well. And I do have an ulterior motive. For one thing, I want an endless supply of this fabulous elixir.” She held the bottle up to the light. “What Lady Ravenswood gave me is already half gone.”

“I didn’t give it—” Abby began.

“Secondly, I expect a certain percentage of the profits in exchange for my help.” She patted her elaborate turban. “My tastes are expensive, you see, and my dear departed husband didn’t leave me quite as well off as I would like.”

“That certainly explains your interest,” Clara remarked. “But you’re taking a risk, you know. What if Mr. Law never recovers from his wounds?”

Clara exchanged a glance with Abby. Yes, Spencer’s brother might indeed never be found. But they could hardly tell Lady Brumley that.

“Pish, who needs a man for this?” Lady Brumley said. “Lady Ravenswood is the one who concocts the stuff. As long as she can provide the bottles and her husband approves—”

“Are you sure that he will?” Abby asked.

“Why wouldn’t he want everyone talking about his wife and her fabulous perfume?” Lady Brumley asked.

“But I’d always heard that the English consider it crass for those of rank to be involved in trade.”

“It is, but you’re the inventor, my dear, and that’s quite another thing. It’s rather exotic for a lady to invent something. As long as no one knows you are participating in the actual business of it, it will only enhance your reputation.”

“Lady Brumley has a point,” Clara put in. “And it never hurts a woman to have something of her own. So that rather than being known as his lordship’s wife, you’d be known as the lady who created the scent.” She stared hard at Abby. “You see what I mean?”