Suzanne Robinson (7 page)

The countess, Rose Marie Seton, lived in a grand house built in the new fashion. It was a hodgepodge of Renaissance, medieval, and classic features—turrets, friezes, frescoes, towers, and stained glass. The indiscriminate clash of styles bothered Cheyne, but he felt nothing but pity for the countess.

The lovely Rose Marie had been, before her marriage, Rosie Leech, a music-hall entertainer. She’d fascinated Guy Seton, and the old buster had married her, to the horror of his family and all Society. Rosie had tried hard to remake herself into a lady. For years she worked on improving her speech, her manners, her education. Yet it was her humor and generosity that had won over the men of rank and position; twenty years after her marriage, neither had won over the women.

Poor Rosie was still ignored by the leaders of Society.
Seldom did she receive an invitation to the most select gatherings such as Lady Lutterworth’s ball, which the Prince and Princess of Wales attended every year. Ever cheerful, Rosie hovered about the edges of select groups at Public gatherings. She attended the opera, the theater, and the ballet. She entertained lavishly those who were kind enough or brave enough to accept her invitations, and she hoped.

Cheyne would have given up long ago, having less patience than the countess. His estimation often plummeted upon learning that a friend had refused to call on Rosie. A man who couldn’t brave the disapproval of people like his mother wasn’t a man.

The countess’s butler reappeared to escort him across a long hall decorated with medieval fan vaulting. He mounted the stairs as two ladies came down, and at the turn in the staircase he found himself looking up at Miss Matilda Bright. Everyone stopped. The butler, several steps ahead, paused silently.

“Miss Bright, how lovely to see you.” Cheyne bowed and heard one of the ladies snigger. He straightened to cast an delectric stare at the two.

Miss Bright met his challenge with a tranquil smile, a quite appropriate, refined smile such as one mastered and employed when making calls. It was a smile with no sincerity, no meaning, no depth, but Miss Bright’s eyes snapped with merriment.

Cheyne might have countered with a sneer, but he was distracted by his own senses. They seemed to be befuddled by a cloud of lavender. Not the scent,
but Miss Bright. She was lavender. Her visiting gown, her wide, graceful hat shrouded in netting and her gloves were lavender.

Most women would have faded beneath the dramatic effect. Miss Bright dominated it. Cheyne heard the whisper of kid gloves against her gown. That delicate sound stabbed through him. Clamping his teeth, he fought a wave of craving mixed with anger. Appetite won, for the moment, but Miss Bright saved him embarrassment by nodding to him and sailing down the stairs.

Gritting his teeth, he took a step, and the butler went on. Before he reached the landing, Cheyne heard the other young lady speak to Miss Bright.

“Your mother will be furious if she finds out you called on the countess.”

“Narcissa, Rosie’s the only interesting person I’ve met in London. Mama will have to get over it.”

Cheyne heard Narcissa giggle. “Who would have thought we’d see your Lord Geoffrey?”

“Dang,” Miss Bright said with amusement suffusing her tone, “he turned as pink as that pie he sat in.” Then there was a chuckle. “I reckon he won’t go around acting like he’s the biggest toad in the puddle for awhile.”

Cheyne’s hearing failed as blood rushed to his head. He followed the butler across the landing and out of earshot of the abominable Miss Bright.

The dowager Countess of Ixworth crossed the morning room to meet him, her copper-gold hair a
fiery halo in the sunlight that lit the chamber. His friend Lance Gordon was there, as well.

“My dear Cheyne, what’s this I hear of your coming to your senses and going about in Society again?” The countess offered her hand.

“It’s true, Rose Marie.” Cheyne kissed the lady’s hand and addressed Lance. “Hello, old chap.”

Lance, who resembled a confused and starving trout, didn’t wait for Cheyne to elaborate. “I say, Cheyne, I must tell you about this absolute stunner I met last week. I was in the Strand looking for a present for my cousin for her birthday when I tripped over a young woman selling oranges. She was the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

“Lance, only a month ago you told me you were in love with a girl you’d met in Whitechapel. A young person who, if I recall, was more interested in gin than you.”

A look of vacant adoration overcame Lance. “She was nothing compared to my darling, exquisite Bertha.”

The countess and Cheyne exchanged glances and said together, “Bertha?”

“Yes, Bertha.” Lance nearly danced on his tiptoes in ecstasy. “Isn’t that a lovely name? Bertha Snaith. It just rolls off the tongue, like pure, sweet wine.”

The countess smoothly changed the subject, inviting her guests to be seated. “I’ve rung for tea. Now tell me, dear Cheyne, what has brought about your change of heart?”

“I supposed it’s my age. It’s time I settled down, became respectable. After all, I am thirty, you know. An age at which one should acquire the trappings of a noble life.”

Rose Marie stared at him, and Lance shook his head. “Impossible. Not after the things you’ve said about Society. If I remember correctly, you once scoffed that no one with brains could remain in Society without risking their atrophy.”

“But age gives one a certain moderation. I’ve become more tolerant of the idiosyncrasies of others.”

“Does that include the delightful Miss Bright?” the countess asked with a slight smile.

Cheyne frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s rumored that you insulted her over some little contretemps having to do with a motorcar. Did you see her as you came up?”

“I did,” Cheyne snapped. He noticed the interest his reaction caused and lightened his tone. “A trivial incident not worth discussing. Dear Rose Marie, are you going to the opera tonight?”

“Of course, one always goes to
Aida
. And speaking of the opera, do you know who I saw there last month? Sir Archibald Preston. So distressingly upright and stiff until one gets to know him. Then he’s an absolute dear.”

Lance abandoned his goggle-eyed trance over the divine Bertha. “By Jove, I knew there was something I wanted to tell you.”

Rose Marie clapped her hands and scooted forward
in her chair. “Oh, good. I do so look forward to your delicious stories.”

“Well, a little bird told me that the upright and proper Sir Archibald isn’t quite so proper anymore.” Lance lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Ihave it on good account that old Archie has become something of a roue.”

Cheyne watched his two friends put their heads together like conspirators in a play. This was what he had come for.

“Not in love with his wife, I take it,” said the countess.

“You’ll never guess,” replied Lance. “His carriage has been seen drawn up at the woman’s house at an hour when the lady’s husband is at his club.”

“Who is it?” the countess asked. “Do tell, darling. I’m simply atwitter.”

“Florence Drummond!”

Rose Marie covered her mouth with her hands and giggled. “Delicious.”

Cheyne remained silent. Rose Marie was amused because Lady Drummond had had more lovers than people cared to remember, while Archie Preston was a dedicated prude. Cheyne noticed that the countess’s mood shifted suddenly.

“It’s really too bad,” she said. “I never behaved in such a manner when I was on the stage, and yet I’m excluded from gatherings while Florence Drummond goes everywhere.” Her hazel eyes grew glassy, and her lower lip trembled.

Rising, Cheyne distracted her. “Why do you think I’m so cynical, dear Lady Ixworth? It’s because I found out long ago that the motto of Society is, ‘Thou shalt not be found out.’ One can do as one likes as long as one’s indiscretions don’t appear in the papers, or the courts, or come to the attention in the lower orders.”

“But we must set an example for them,” Lance said.

“That’s just it, old fellow. We don’t.”

“Exactly,” chimed in Rose Marie. “I abhor that kind of hypocrisy. My poor Lord Ixworth would spin in his grave if he were to witness the kind of behavior that goes on in good Society. I know I’ve never even considered such behavior. It would demean my dear husband’s memory.”

Lance changed the subject again. Allowing the countess to alight upon the topic of her sainted husband was a mistake, for she would detail his virtues for half an hour without stopping. Seton had been dead for six years, but Rose Marie still wore black. Of course, black suited her coloring, setting off her hair and fair skin. But she would have worn it had it made her look like a Tower raven.

“I say, Cheyne, old man, Miss Bright seemed quite interested in you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“True, Lance,” said the countess. “When she was here she asked all sorts of questions. The poor girl has no idea how to behave properly on a call. It just isn’t done to ask so many personal questions about an acquaintance, especially a gentleman.”

Cheyne raised his brows. “Do you mean she fails to confine her conversation to the fascinating topics of weather, balls, and sport? What did she want to know?”

“Oh, why you’ve dropped your family name on your cards, what you are like, why you behave like an arrogant—what was the word she used?—ah, yes, skunk,” Lance grinned.

“I hope you took the opportunity to enlighten her as to my fine qualities.”

Rose Marie laughed. “He did. Lance said you were a gentleman of infinite wit.”

“And intelligence,” said Lance.

“To which the lady replied that she doubted poor Lance’s veracity. She said that in her experience you behaved like a—how did she put it?—a no-account, stinking rotten dog.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Cheyne rocked back and forth on his heels. “Miss Bright should learn to keep her uncivil thoughts to herself.”

“But Cheyne, dear, she was most specific in her account of your rudenss to her at the unveiling of your mother’s portrait.”

“That was a mistake. And anyway, did she also tell you about that so-called little incident with the motorcar? She almost ran over me and my horse with her infernal machine, and then she played a damned trick on me!”

They were staring at him, eyes wide.

“I say, old boy. Do you know you’re almost shouting?”

Cheyne looked away from them. “I beg your pardon.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should his throat. “Perhaps I should take my leave.” He bowed to the countess. “With your permission, I’ll call when I’m better able to contribute to the delightful conversation that’s always to be had in your company, dear Lady Ixworth.”

Fuming, Cheyne left the house and jumped into his barouche. On the drive home he lectured himself. There was no reason for the annoying Miss Bright to dominate his emotions and make him lose his temper. He’d gained valuable information about Archie Preston and would have gotten more, no doubt, had he not made an ass of himself.

He had several more calls to make on his collection of gossipy acquaintances. His vulnerability to Miss Bright’s insulting remarks must vanish. No brazen colonial was going to impair his ability to deal with a dangerous criminal.

But what was the remedy for Miss Bright? Cheyne’s disgruntled mood lightened. Of course. Once he’d gotten back at her, the insulting remarks would cease. After Lady Lutterworth’s ball tomorrow night, Miss Matilda Bright would be in no position to poke fun at anyone.

 
5
 

Mattie limped down one side of the double staircase at Lutterworth House to the tune of a waltz. Her last partner had stepped on her toes so many times that she feared her feet would swell and become too large for her slippers. She had excused herself and sat out two dances. Mama would be wondering where she was.

The next dance was taken by yet another titled young man, one of several new to her who had sought an introduction tonight and begged the honor of a dance. Mama was so pleased she nearly vibrated with glee, for each came from a family of ancient lineage and no financial embarrassment that would force him to seek an upstart American heiress as a bride. So far Mattie’s suitors had been driven by inspirations other than her charm.

Holding on to the mahogany, Mattie stopped
halfway down the stairs to admire the gilt bronze balustrade embellished with Grecian foliage. The two wings of the Carrara marble staircase met on a landing and continued down to another floor. Beyond the landing Mattie saw the foot-stomper headed her way.

“Land sakes,” she muttered and skittered down to the lower floor, ducking into a white marble hall that had been the main room of the house in the eighteenth century.

At the end of the hall opposite the grand staircase was an ornate chimneypiece. Along the walls were arranged niches with rounded arches in which rested modern copies of Greek and Roman statuary. Beside the niches stood various works of art, including several gilded ceramic pedestal clocks as tall as Mattie was. She limped to the carpeted steps in front of the chimneypiece and sat down.

At least she hadn’t encountered Lord Geoffrey, Mr. Tennant, or whatever he called himself. No one had been able to give her a satisfactory reason why he insisted upon not using his title. She had caught sight of her nemesis across the ballroom at various times during the evening, always in conversation with people Mattie knew to be great talkers.