My Lord Winter (20 page)

(What could Edmund possibly admire in two such fubsy-faced girls as Miss Bridges and Miss Josephine? Jane wondered.)

On the whole, Alfred’s warning system worked very well. In two weeks, Jane only once caught an evening glimpse of the earl. As his valet predicted, he dined with the Frogmortons (Lady Anne Frogmorton was lamentably pretty, if one cared for brunettes), but he then unexpectedly accompanied them to the Dales’ musicale. Jane, caught in a flurry of arriving guests, recognized the back of his dark head near the front of the audience.

She managed to step unobserved on her own hem and rip her skirt so thoroughly that no temporary repairs would suffice. Her escort, the elegant, dashing, and enamoured young Viscount Orme, was delighted when the mishap allowed him to escape the caterwauling of the latest fashionable opera diva.

He accompanied Jane and Miss Gracechurch back to St. James’s Place, exacted a promise of a waltz at Almack’s the next evening, and departed for his club.

“A rouleau unrouled,” sighed Jane, sinking into a chair in her sitting-room and gazing regretfully at the torn blue satin. “This is one of my favourite gowns, alas.”

“Perhaps Ella will be able to mend it,” said Gracie. “The damage was no accident, though, was it?”

“No. I saw Lord Wintringham in the audience.”

“As I suspected.”

“How I hate going on like this, spending afternoons with Edmund and evenings avoiding him! Evenings being a demure young lady with people who expect propriety because they know who I am, and afternoons being my outspoken self with someone who does not know who I am. You may well laugh, Gracie, but I am so confused I shall do something shocking one of these days, quite by mistake. And don’t tell me I should confess to Edmund—I dare not.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sword drawn, shield at the ready, clad in a crested helmet and a short tunic, the Roman soldier stood just inside the entrance to Mrs. Salmon’s Waxwork.

Ella stared. “Lor, his knees must’ve froze in winter,” she observed.

Jane and Edmund exchanged a glance and burst into laughter. Silently Jane blessed Ella. Edmund had been sombre when he met them, and her own spirits too low to attempt to cheer him, hardly an auspicious start for an afternoon’s entertainment.

“The Scots have the same problem,” she said, gesturing at a Highlander in kilts, plaid, sporran, and bonnet, armed with a dirk and bagpipes.

“But at least they are accustomed to foul weather,” Edmund pointed out. “The unfortunate Romans came from sunny Italy.”

“They’d’ve done a sight better to stay home and mind their own business,” said Ella sagely.

The first room was devoted to military figures, so they wandered on between knights in armour, Roundheads and Cavaliers, and amazingly lifelike soldiers of Wellington’s and Napoleon’s armies. By the door into the next room, the figure of an old man in the uniform of a Chelsea Pensioner was posed on a bench, leaning against the wall as if dozing. Jane stopped and regarded it with approval. “An aged warrior enjoying his retirement after long years of battle.”

The aged warrior opened watery blue eyes and sat up with a jerk, then clambered rheumatically to his feet, saluting. “Show you the sodgers, yer honour,” he mumbled between toothless gums.

Edmund dismissed him. “Thank you, we have seen them.”

“I knows ’em all, yer honour, like the back o’ me ’and. Tell yer all the regimental ’istory, I can, all the battles, names o’ the...”

“I said, we have seen them,” the earl repeated frigidly. He took Jane’s arm and urged her onward through the doorway.

She looked back and saw the pensioner’s crestfallen face. When Edmund released her arm and turned aside to examine a Chinese mandarin, she found a shilling in her reticule. “Give this to the old man,” she whispered to Ella.

Ella nodded and slipped away.

“This Chinaman reminds me of the chess set at the Abbey,” said Edmund abruptly. He sounded self-conscious. “The one you particularly liked. Do you remember?”

“Yes, very well.” She moved to join him, uncertain of his mood.

He looked down at her. “The old man’s persistence annoyed me, but I ought not to have spoken so harshly to him.”

“It was unnecessary,” she agreed, surprised.

“You are good for me, Jane,” he said with a rueful smile. “You gave him money, did you not? Allow me to repay you.”

“What, so that you can take the credit for my charity?” she quizzed him. “Better to give him something yourself, as we leave. Look, there is an Indian rajah.”

“He brings to mind your efforts to convince my aunt, by chattering of India, that you are a bluestocking.”

“Ably aided and abetted by her nephew!”

He grinned. Harmony restored, they continued among waxen Africans, Red Indians, Aztecs, and Fijians, not to mention a number of rather more lively Londoners and country folk. Several apprentices on holiday had gathered round a display of a Turkish pasha and his scantily clad harem. Blushing at their ribald comments, Jane hurried Edmund past them.

The next room presented incidents from English history, beginning with Queen Boadicea and her daughters bearing down in their scythe-wheeled chariot on a terrified Roman.

“The poor fellow has cold knees,” Edmund remarked, excusing him.

Laughing, Jane looked round for Ella. She must be still gaping at the world’s strange peoples, for she had not followed them into the room.

They went on, past Harold with an arrow in his eye, Richard III smothering the princes in the Tower, Sir Walter Raleigh laying down his cloak for Queen Elizabeth to step on. Edmund paused to peer over Shakespeare’s shoulder at the manuscript he was writing. Jane went on to look at the Gunpowder Plot.

The cape-swathed figures huddled around a pile of barrels were marvellously sinister, their grim, ruthless faces murderous beneath their broad-brimmed hats. Shuddering, she turned back to see if Edmund was coming.

Something brushed against her back. With a squeal she ran forward. By the time she realized it was not Guy Fawkes bent on mayhem but a small boy dodging past her, she was safely enfolded in Edmund’s arms.

“I hope you will not suffer from nightmares after this!” His eyes laughed down at her.

Then mirth faded, to be replaced by a warm tenderness that quickly flamed into ardour. His arms tightened about her. Jane lost herself in his passionate gaze, feeling his need, her lips parting as he bent his head. Her pulse raced to keep time with the thunder of his heart against her breast. Instinctively her hand rose to caress...

“’Ere, this is a good un,” sniggered a youthful voice.

“‘Tain’t zackly ’istorical, though, is it, mate,” another chimed in. “’Is nibs’s coat’s cut by Weston if I’m not mistook.”

Jane and Edmund sprang apart. Her cheeks burned. Glaring at the blameless Bard of Avon, she asked shakily, “Which play is he writing?”

The earl’s response was none too steady:
“Much Ado About Nothing.”

She sneaked a peek at him. Like her he was staring at William Shakespeare and his cheeks were as fiery as hers felt. The corner of his mouth twitched, whether with anger or amusement she could not guess.

“Much Ado About Nothing!”
She bit her lip but a slightly hysterical giggle escaped. “How...how very appropriate.”

“Is it not? What was it that startled you so?” His colour was ebbing, his tone expressive of polite interest.

Jane admired his self-control and endeavoured to match it as she explained her momentary fright. To her relief, the jeering apprentices had discreetly disappeared. She showed Edmund the malignant plotters, who looked harmlessly inanimate now that he was at her side.

As they walked on through the next two centuries, Jane found Edmund’s courteous but constrained manner more difficult to deal with than the occasional arrogance she was accustomed to. She felt herself turning into the demure, conventional young lady she despised. When they stopped before a splendid scene of the Battle of Trafalgar, she searched for a comment to lighten the atmosphere. Nothing came to mind.

They turned to the last tableau, the marriage of Princess Charlotte to Prince Leopold. A couple in the dress of prosperous yeoman farmers were there before them. They were not, however, admiring the plump princess’s elaborate gown. They stared in puzzlement at a young woman in a plain grey dress and lace-edged white cap, seated on a bench close to the bride. In her hand she held a tatting shuttle from which depended a strip of lace.

“What’s this un s’posed to be?” grunted the farmer.

Ella! She held herself perfectly still, even her breathing imperceptible. Jane touched Edmund’s arm and pointed. The movement caught Ella’s eye. She couldn’t repress a broad, jaunty smile.

The farmer’s wife jumped back with a squeak. Jane chuckled, Edmund grinned, and Ella bent double with laughter. Embarrassed, the couple hurried off.

“Them’s not the first as took me for a waxwork,” Ella gasped, rising to bob a curtsy. “I lost sight o’ you, Miss Jane, so I just sat me down to wait.”

“How consoling to know that I am not the only one so easily gulled!” said Jane. “I have been thinking myself the veriest widgeon.”

“You cannot be both gull and widgeon,” teased Edmund, formality forgotten.

“If I must be a bird, I should choose to be a swan.”

“I picture you rather as a pert, friendly, cheerful robin, who brightens the dullest day.” His voice was warm, but he continued hurriedly, as if embarrassed by his flight of fancy, “Enough of birds. We have reached the end of the exhibition and Mr. Selwyn is expecting us for tea.”

They strolled back towards the entrance, past the succession of historical costumes.

“This reminds me of the portrait gallery at Wintringham Abbey,” Jane remarked. “Miss Neville showed it to me. I hope she is happy at her brother’s house. Have you heard from her since she removed thither, sir?”

“Yes, and she sounds both busy and contented.”

“I am glad. And what of your sister, Mrs. Parmenter?” The moment the words left her mouth, Jane could have bitten her tongue out. She and Edmund had vigorously disagreed about his treatment of Mrs. Parmenter. She had no wish to revive the argument, and her enquiry was ill-bred since, as he must guess, her interest was not in the lady’s health but in her financial situation.

The damage was done. His brows drew together in a frown, his nostrils flared, and he said frostily, “I believe my sister is well.”

Jane wanted to curl up and die. After his charming, heart-warming compliment comparing her to a robin, how could she have been so gauche as to make him withdraw again into the bleak vaults of family pride? Yet she had her own pride. She had never let him daunt her, and her realization that she loved him must not be allowed to make her timid.

“And Lady Wintringham?” she asked, as casually as she could manage.

“Well, as always.” He looked down at her, his face grim but the unmistakable beginning of a twinkle in his eyes. “It is beneath my aunt’s dignity to permit a mere illness to encroach upon her.”

“Of course, I should have known.” She smiled at him, while inside she uttered a silent crow of triumph. Bold defiance of his haughtiness was the only way to extricate him from that unhappy mood. To truckle to it, or to whine, as his sister had, merely reinforced his contempt.

She was gratified when, though his good humour was not entirely restored, he remembered to tip the Chelsea Pensioner on the way out.

It was raining heavily, and she was glad to be able to accept a ride in his carriage for once, since they were going to Mr. Selwyn’s. His footman sheltering them with an umbrella, he handed her in, then Ella, then joined them.

As he sat down beside Jane, he spoke softly so as not to be heard by the maid on the opposite seat. “I have not heard from Judith since she left the Abbey, so I assume Parmenter has not been arrested for debt. I told you she was cozening me, did I not?”

She recalled all too well his harsh condemnation: “I cannot abide deceit.” Her self-satisfaction fled.

Miss Gracechurch was already at Mr. Selwyn’s when they arrived. Jane did not draw aside with Edmund, as had become their habit, but sat quietly next to her chaperon. She tried to listen to the conversation but those four words from the past haunted her. He had turned his coldness on her for simply asking about his sister. If—no,
when;
sooner or later the truth was bound to be discovered—
when
he learned of her deception, he would loathe her.

He would loathe her, though he had laughed with her, had called her a robin who brightened his day, had so nearly kissed her. That memory made her heart lurch and her whole body tingle. As if she feared he might read her mind, her gaze flew to his face, but he was answering some query of Mr. Selwyn’s, not even looking her way.

She concentrated on his intelligence, his sense of humour, his willingness to credit her intelligence, his kindness—when he forgot his frigid arrogance. Edmund might forgive her imposture. My Lord Winter never would.

If only she were not Lady Jane, daughter of the Marquis of Hornby!

Yet that was no solution. Plain Miss Jane Brooke was his friend but could never aspire to a closer relationship. He was ashamed to be seen with her, or why did he never invite her...

“Jane, it is time we were going,” said Gracie. “You are in a brown study this afternoon!”

She realized that Edmund was watching her with evident anxiety. When she took her leave of him, he said in a low voice, “You have been very quiet. Have I offended you. Miss Jane?”

“No, not at all.” She made a feeble attempt at drollery. “I am a little tired after being frightened half out of my wits by Guy Fawkes.”

Though he smiled, the concern in his eyes was unabated. “I must leave Town on Friday for a few days,” he said. “There are one or two problems at my Dorset manor that I must deal with in person. I trust you will have recovered from your fright before I go. Let us make an appointment to visit Burford’s Panorama on Thursday, unless you would prefer to investigate the booksellers of Paternoster Row?”

“Either will be delightful, sir,” she murmured listlessly.