The Bewitching Hour (2 page)

Priscilla dug through her basket of silks, searching for the pale blue threads she had seen last week. They seemed to have disappeared. Normally, she was quite organized. Where had her mind gone to?
      After a few more moments of thought, she decided she was too tired to care and set the basket aside. The Harrison’s rout had lasted until the early hours of the morning and it had been close to three before she had fallen asleep. She leaned back against the blue and cream printed settee, shut her eyes and was drifting towards sleep when a knock came at the door.
      Instantly, her lids flew open. The knock came again. Normally, no one bothered her when she in her parlor. Not unless it was an emergency. “Yes?” she called out.
      Sally opened the door and curtsied. “Miss, Beldon asked me to inform you that Miss Dearborn ‘as come to call. He took the liberty of seating ‘er in the downstairs parlor.”
      “Why can’t she send a note before she comes to call like everyone else?” Priscilla grumbled. “Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.”
      Priscilla rose and walked to the mirror over the mantle and scrutinized her appearance. Aside from feigning illness or outright rudeness, neither of which she found acceptable, there was nothing she could do to avoid having tea with her cousin. She smoothed her skirt, patted her hair and taking in a deep breath, went downstairs.
      Mary sat by the window, her small hands plucking nervously at a white lace handkerchief. Her brown hair curled neatly about her face but the large brown eyes were red-rimmed as if she had been crying. Normally, she possessed a vibrant cherubic prettiness, but today her cheeks were pale and she looked as if she had lost weight. She wore a yellow gown, the one color guaranteed to make her look sallow and ill. Priscilla knew a grand performance was about to take place. Mary jumped up, rushed over and threw her arms around her. “Oh Priscilla,” she said. “I need your help. Please, say you’ll help me."
      
What now? A hunger strike unless Uncle Jack agrees to increase her allowance?
Priscilla untangled herself from her cousin’s arms. “Goodness Mary, give me a chance to catch my breath. I can’t talk with your arms wrapped around my neck.” She took Mary’s arm and led her over to the couch. “Tea should be ready any minute now. Once it’s arrived, we can chat. That will give you a few moments to compose.”
      Mary sat beside her, fat new tears welling in her eyes.
      
If she’s going to cry, I may as well go ahead and ask.
She took in a fortifying breath. “What has distressed you?”
      Tears spilled down Mary's cheeks. “I’ve done something awful and if it’s made known, it’s going to ruin me.”
      The butler knocked lightly at the door. Grateful for the distraction, Priscilla turned and watched as he brought in a silver tea service with their tea, plates of tiny sandwiches and a variety of small cakes. Priscilla noticed that he had placed a bottle of smelling salts next to the tea cups. Beldon had been with them for years and was as accustomed to Mary’s outbursts as the rest of her family.
      “Would you like me to pour, Miss?” He raised his voice just enough to be heard over Mary’s sobbing.
      “Please.” She watched as he deftly picked up the tea pot and poured.
      “Sugar and milk, Miss Dearborn?”
      Mary nodded her head and hiccupped.
      Belton set the delicate china cup on the table beside her. “Would you care for anything else, Miss?”
      Mary shook her head.
      He poured another cup, added a touch of milk and sugar and handed it to Priscilla.
      “Would you care for anything else?” he asked her.
      “Arsenic,” she muttered beneath her breath.
      He raised a brow and almost smiled. “I beg your pardon?”
      “No, thank you, Beldon.”
      He bowed and left the room.
      With reluctance, she turned to her cousin. “Now, what could you possibly have done that would ruin you?”
      Lips trembling, Mary looked up at her. “I wrote several letters to a gentleman three years ago. Improper letters.”
      Priscilla drew her brows together. “Improper letters? Mary, you’ve just turned eighteen. What could you have composed at age fifteen that would have been improper?”
      “I thought I was in love. The letters were filled with passion. I’m capable of deep feelings, and I dared to express them on paper. If they surface, I’m ruined." She hauled in a shuddering breath. "Completely ruined.”
      “But why would they surface now?”
      “The man I wrote them to has returned for the season for the first time in three years. Even if he hasn’t shown them to anyone, the fact that I wrote them could slip out. Men so love to brag. This is the only thing I’ve done in my entire life that was wrong. If Bertie’s mama finds out, she’ll never let us marry.” A new crop of tears ran down her cheeks.
      As Priscilla sipped her tea, she tried to find an iota of logic in Mary's fears. Finding none, she asked, “Have you finished weeping for the moment?”
      Mary blew her nose loudly on her handkerchief and nodded.
      “I can’t see where this is a problem. You were very young and I doubt whoever you wrote to will speak of it.
      Mary’s lower lip began to tremble.
      “Listen to me, Mary. If you want my help, you must stop sobbing. Do you understand me?”
      “Yes.” She dashed away her tears with her fingertips.
      “That's better." Priscilla tried to smile. "Now, tell me who you wrote these letters to.”
      “Lord Stratton.”
      A groan escaped Priscilla's lips.
Lord Stratton! Blast and double blast. Why does it have to be him?
“Perhaps he didn’t receive them,” she said hopefully.
      Mary pursed her lips. “I know that he did. I sent them with a trusted messenger. And they were such that he could not forget. If this gets out, I’ll just die. Lady Bertram has said that if there is anything in my past--anything at all that would reflect poorly on the family she won’t allow the engagement. She’ll never let Bertie marry me if she finds out I wrote those letters.” Mary hiccupped. “She doesn’t like me at all. According to her, my family isn't good enough; I’m too emotional, too childish, too selfish, too everything to be a good viscountess. Why Papa had to increase my dowry to get her to even consider giving her permission for me to marry Bertie. And she treats Bertie as if he were twelve years old instead of a grown man.”
      Priscilla found herself nodding sympathetically. Lady Bertram was both domineering and mean spirited. She couldn’t imagine a worse mother-in-law. But Mary was determined to marry Bertie and Bertie seemed just as determined to marry her.
      “She can be very difficult,” she agreed.
      “You must help me.”
      Priscilla’s patience was wearing thin. “As you just said, Bertie’s a grown man. If he wishes to marry you, I don’t see how she could stop him.”
      “Mama’s taking me to Bath,” Mary continued as if she hadn't heard her. “We leave in a few days. I’ve been terribly despondent and she feels that the healing waters may be beneficial. I don't wish to go but I simply can't stay here." She sniffed. "She assumes my nerves are due to the engagement. I’ve developed spots. I certainly can’t have spots when our engagement is formally announced.”
      Priscilla narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized Mary’s complexion. It was somewhat blotchy from crying, but there were no imperfections. “I don’t see any spots.”
      “I believe you must need spectacles." Mary's lower lip edged out slightly. "I counted six this morning”
      “How long will you and Aunt Collette stay in Bath?”
      “I don’t know. Mama says we’re staying until I’m better. I feel quite hideous.” She stopped, obviously waiting for her cousin to disagree.
      Priscilla pasted on a brittle smile and stared silently.
      “I’m afraid I’ve done something else very foolish,” Mary said.
      The smile disappeared.
      “I let something slip. To Bertie.”
      Priscilla shut her eyes and groaned. “Did you tell him about the letters?”
      “Of course not.” Mary looked at her as if she were completely dense. “I’m not that foolish!”
      “Forgive me,” Priscilla said in a dry tone. “I should have realized that.”
      “I told him Mama was taking me to Bath for my nerves. He didn’t understand why I’ve been so upset. I mentioned Lord Stratton’s name. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. I wouldn’t tell him anymore than that and he’s determined to find out what this is about. I’m afraid he’s going approach Lord Stratton and that would be perfectly awful.”
      It took a great deal of effort for Priscilla not to box her cousin's ears.
      “But I think that a month will be long enough,” Mary continued. “I can’t imagine that it should take any longer.”
      Priscilla decided to take the risk and ventured cautiously, “Longer for what? To get rid of your imaginary spots?
      “No. For pity’s sake, do listen. A month should be long enough for you to make Bertie understand he mustn’t speak to Lord Stratton. And for you to make Lord Stratton understand that he must give you the letters I wrote." Mary stopped to catch her breath. "Once that’s done, I’m certain I’ll begin to feel better and then mama and I can return. I would hate to miss the entire season and Bath has grown so stodgy and dull.”
      “And how," Priscilla said between clenched teeth, "do you propose I accomplish this?”
      Mary blinked. “I don’t know, but I’m quite sure you’ll think of something. You’re very clever.”
      Priscilla set her teacup down hard enough to slosh tea over the sides. “You’ve complicated things further by talking to Bertie. And as far as Lord Stratton is concerned, I don’t understand what I can possibly do about that. You can’t expect someone else to solve all your problems for you.”
      Mary recoiled as if she had been slapped. “Please, don’t be angry with me. I’ve made a mess of things and don’t know who else to turn to. I can’t possibly tell Mama. She would be horrified by what I’ve done.” She stopped and tried to wipe her face with her already sodden lace handkerchief. Priscilla reached into her own pocket, pulled out a sensible cotton handkerchief and handed it to her cousin.
      “You always seem to know what to do. Papa’s forever telling me I should endeavor to be more like you.” Mary drew in a ragged breath. “Please say you’ll help.”
      Priscilla let out a slow breath as she thought of her encounter with Stratton. He was an incorrigible flirt and she had no desire to come within fifty feet of him, much less ask him a favor. Yet, Mary’s continued histrionics were more than she could bear. “All right, Mary, I’ll try to figure something out, but I won’t make any promises. And you must eat something. You’re beginning to look like a scarecrow.”
      Mary smiled with trembling lips. “I knew you would help me, Priscilla. You always do.” She smoothed out her skirts, picked up a sandwich and took a bite. “Could I have the strawberry preserves, please?”

S
tratton absently stared at the brandy he was swirling in his glass, the low din of conversation around him barely reaching his consciousness. He set it down without taking a drink. It was excellent brandy. White’s always served excellent brandy, but he was distracted. That white, beautifully round bosom he had gazed upon several days ago, had inspired a great deal of lust and he couldn’t seem to remove the young lady who possessed it from his mind. That within itself wasn't odd, but in addition to a painful amount of sexual attraction he couldn’t help but wonder what the lady was like when she wasn’t in the midst of flailing him with her tongue. That wasn't like him at all. Years ago, he had decided that only confusion and exasperation could be gained by trying to understand the feminine mind. Now he was curious and he hadn’t the foggiest idea why.
      “You look as if you’re a million miles away. Are you missing your country home to distraction? Or is it the milk maid you’re missing?”
      Stratton looked up at the intruder, a tall, sandy-haired man elegantly dressed in dove gray trousers, blue waist coat and jacket, a carefully tied white linen cravat and polished black Hessians. Rand was always the height of fashion without resorting to the garish colors of the young dandies. As he regarded Stratton, his hazel eyes crinkled with amusement. Stratton attempted to scowl but after seven days of dealing with his sister and Aunt Mirabella, he was too pleased to see his friend to do anything but grin.
      “Is that all you have to say to me? You haven’t seen your old chum in months and all you can do is accuse me of dallying with the help. Unlike you, I refrain from such activities.”
      “Unfair! She wasn’t a servant in our employ.” The handsome Thomas Sebastian Randolph Danfield, known to his friends as Rand, dropped into the chair across the table from Stratton. “In addition, the chit stuck her nether regions in my face. What was I to do? When I’m ninety years old and too feeble to tumble the ladies, I can exist on the memory of that single incident. It was a glorious experience for a thirteen year old boy and well worth the gossip I suffered.”
      “You were fifteen. And I believe the retelling of your experience has been greatly exaggerated through the years.”
      Rand grinned back at him. “Oh, I hope so. Have you heard the latest?”
      “I’ve only been in town a week and most of that time has been spent fending off my Aunt Mirabella and her pack of bloody dogs. This is my first taste of freedom. What sort of adventure have you indulged in this time?”
      “A two day tryst with three young women, during a house party at Lord Billings country estate, no less.” He smiled smugly as he made a point of shining his fingernails on his jacket. “I was amazingly virile. I evidently went on for hours. The women were quite impressed by my performance.”
      Stratton knew the story was likely bunk, but played along anyway. “Amazing. Did you stop for sleep or was this a true marathon?”
         Rand shrugged. “Haven’t the vaguest idea. I was in Berkshire visiting my sister at the time. Her latest brat was christened and I couldn’t get out of it. I’m dying to find out what else I did. If you hear anything about it, please tell me.”
      “Of course." Stratton's shoulders shook with quiet laughter as he picked up his glass. "Where did the story come from?”
      "I can assure you, it wasn’t me. I never would have picked Billings’ estate for a tryst. I’ve heard he’s installed peepholes and is quite the voyeur.” Rand shuddered. “Real or imagined, I’d prefer to conduct my trysts in private.” He accepted a snifter of French brandy from a black and gold liveried footman. “Are you really here for the duration of the season? I can’t imagine you staying in London for more than a week or two.”
      Stratton sipped at his brandy. “Unfortunately, yes. Cecelia is coming out this year and with Mother and Father in France, I have no choice but to be her escort.”
      Rand's eyes went round with astonishment. “Little Cecelia is coming out? Surely not. She’s still an
enfant,
for God’s sake.”
      “She’s turning eighteen next month and Mother doesn’t feel she should wait another year. That’s why Aunt Mirabella is here.” Stratton grimaced. “The woman is fit for Bedlam and between her and her dogs, I may not be far behind.” He gave his brandy another swirl. “Every time I turn around, she’s harping at me about one thing or another. Primarily, about Cecelia. She and my sister can’t reach an agreement on anything. They are constantly bickering and I find myself in the unenviable position of mediator.
      “And those damned dogs lift their legs on anything that doesn’t move. One of them lifted a leg on a footman during supper, yesterday. I thought Reeds would keel over with apoplexy.” A long sigh escaped him. “They’ve chewed up my boots, eaten one of Cecelia’s bonnets, pissed on the carpets and mangled the legs on the desk and chairs in my study. I’m ready to toss the lot of them out on the street in heavy traffic.”
      He grinned suddenly. “In fact, one of them was running loose on the street the other day. A beautiful, young lady rescued him. She gave me a spirited tongue lashing for letting my dog run loose. I teased her a bit and I don’t think she appreciated my humor. I’m trying to discover who she is.”
      “To apologize?”
      “On bended knee.”
      “What does she look like?”
      “Blond, petite, blue eyes and the most remarkable bosom I’ve seen in years.”
      “Ah, then it has to be Miss Priscilla Hawthorn," Rand murmured in a wistful tone. "Lovely face and I can’t think of a nicer bosom. In fact, I’ve had dreams about that bosom.”
      Stratton felt an unexpected jolt of hostility and his hand actually curled into a fist. “Shut up, Rand.”
      “Forgive me, Lord Stratton.” He bowed his head in mock subservience.
      Stratton forced his fist open. “What do you know about her?”
      Rand shrugged. “We’ve met a time or two, conversed a little. She’s very charming. Dances beautifully. She was engaged a few years ago to some chap who was killed at Albuera.” He shook his head sadly. “What a nasty business that was. Not long after, she went to Vienna with her mother and step-father. Came back about six or seven months ago. Lots of young as well as not so young men hanging about. Mallory’s always sniffing at her heels, but I’ve haven’t heard her seriously linked with anyone." He stopped long enough to take another drink. "Let's see. Her father died in an accident sometime back. He had been a diplomat. The youngest son of a baron, I believe. A few years later, her mother married another man who worked in the diplomatic arena as well. She and her husband are still in Vienna. A distant cousin lives with Miss Hawthorn now. Somewhere around Berkeley Square, I think.”
      He looked at Stratton’s startled expression and explained. “My wealth of knowledge stems from the fact that Miss Hawthorn is high on my mother’s list of eligible brides and you know how thorough she is.”
      “I'll need an introduction. Would you find out if she's been invited to the ball your mother is giving next week?”
      “Have you forgotten I stay as far away from Mother as I possibly can during the season? She’s determined to see me leg-shackled and the season always supplies her with a new crop of young women to throw at me. If I ask her about anyone specifically, it will only encourage her. I’m not going to risk even talking to her until the evening of the ball." The corners of his mouth dropped into a scowl. "It’s bad enough that I have to attend the bloody thing.”
      “But you owe me,” Stratton pointed out. “I’ve saved your life. Twice! You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me. All I’m asking is that you make certain she has an invitation if she hasn’t received one already.”
      “You always have to bring that up when you want something.”
      Stratton grinned. “And it always works, doesn’t it?”
      “Like a charm,” Rand said cheerfully. “I would imagine she has been invited as I doubt that Mother has given up on her as a future Mrs. Danfield, but I will make certain of it.”
      “I do appreciate it. Now, what have you really been up to in my absence? Give me all the sordid details.”
      Rand laughed and the two men spent the next hour enjoying their brandy and conversation over a light supper of beef steak and squab. As they waited out front for Rand’s Phaeton to be brought around, they were debating on whether to spend the evening at the tables or watching a few bouts at Jackson’s.
      “Lord Stratton?”
      Both men turned and looked at the tall, gangly, baby-faced, blond gentleman who had approached them. His attire was befitting a young dandy, with blue breeches, a green silk waistcoat, gold jacket and collar points so high he could scarcely turn his head. He seemed ill at ease.
      “Would it be possible to have a word with you in private, Lord Stratton?”
      Stratton paused, trying to determine who the young man might be, but no one came to mind. “I have no secrets from Mr. Danfield.”
      “He doesn’t,” Rand said. “I’m very discrete. And if it’s not too much trouble, could you possibly introduce yourself?”
      The young man's pale skin turned pink.“I beg your pardon. It’s just that I’ve never done this before and I’m not certain of the decorum. I thought it might be best if I appeared unfriendly. I am Nigel Munthorpe, Lord Bertram.”
      Stratton’s curiosity got the better of him. “What is your business with me, Lord Bertram?”
      “Lord Stratton, I believe you are acquainted with a certain young lady. You have managed to upset her greatly.” He stopped and took in a breath. “Forgive me if I am somewhat rattled.”
      “You want something from Stratton?” Rand asked.
      “I do.” Bertram nodded vigorously.
      “What? An apology? Retribution?” Rand ignored Stratton’s glare.
      “Yes. Exactly that.”
      “Which?”
      >The young man’s forehead creased as he considered this. “An apology, I suppose.”
      “Interesting,” Rand murmured. The Phaeton pulled round and he motioned for Bertram to take a seat on the high perch. “Please, my lord. As we don’t wish to be overheard, let’s continue this discussion while we travel along to our next destination.”
      Bertram eyed the high perch warily. “Wouldn’t we be terribly crowded?”
      Rand clapped him on the back. “Nonsense. There’s plenty of room. You’re skinny enough to fit. You can sit between us. Unless, of course, you are afraid of heights.”
      Bertram threw his narrow shoulders back and bristled. “Certainly not.”
      Once they were seated, Rand took the reins, flipped a coin to the lad who released the horse’s head and they were on their way. A few moments later Rand leaned toward Bertram. “I’m most anxious to know my friend’s misdeed. It must be truly spectacular to warrant such a response.”
      “I can’t divulge his misdeed, sir.”
      Stratton pulled a silver flask from his jacket and did a good imitation of taking a long drink. “Lord Bertram, I can’t think of anything I’ve done in recent memory that would distress a young lady.”
      The young man shot him a look of disbelief. “She claims otherwise, my lord.”
      Stratton shrugged then took another long swallow.
      Rand skillfully guided the Phaeton around a pile of debris in the midst of the cobblestone street. “You must tell us what Lord Stratton has done to distress this young lady so. We’re completely in the dark.”
      Bertram frowned. “That would be rather difficult as she wouldn’t tell me, but given her hysteria, it was quite serious. He must apologize.”
      “But for what?” Rand asked.
      “Whatever it was that he did.”
      “I don’t know what I did,” Stratton said. “Should I make something up?”
      Bertram clenched his jaw as he glared. “I fail to see the humor in this situation.”
      Stratton attempted to stand then fell back into his seat as the Phaeton wobbled. “Where is she? I’ll go apologize right now. I just won’t be specific. By the way, who is she?”
      Bertram colored. “There’s no need to give you her name as I’m disinclined to believe you don’t know whom I’m speaking of.”
      “Oh, hell.” Stratton muttered as he tipped his flask and watched the last drop fall to the floorboard. “Rand, give me your flask. I’m out.”
      Rand reached into his jacket and handed Stratton his flask.
      Stratton stuck the flask in Bertram’s face. “Care for a drink, my lord?”
      The young man grimaced as he pushed it away. “No, thank you.”
      Rand continued with his interrogation. “Since at present, an apology is fairly difficult, might we consider this matter closed? Given that we don’t know the lady’s name or the nature of the insult, you must understand that we’re finding all this very confusing.”
      “Without an apology, I have no choice. Her honor must be avenged.”
      Stratton took another drink. “I’m definitely getting foxed. I’ll stay at your place tonight if you don’t mind, Rand. Don’t want to listen to Aunt Mirabella or her damned dogs first thing in the morning. My head is sure to be pounding. As a matter of fact, it’s pounding already.”
      “Sound thinking. I don’t mind at all,” Rand said cheerfully. “I would, however, appreciate it if you didn’t empty the contents of your stomach on my rug. Last time you stayed with me, I had to spend a bloody fortune replacing the carpet.”
      “That could have been avoided, had you provided a proper receptacle. I was in no shape to look for one.”
      “Are you implying that it was my fault? Stratton, that’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
      Bertram sat there for a moment with his mouth open. “Lord Stratton!” he practically bellowed. Surprised, both men looked at him.
      “I mean to call you out,” he said between his teeth. “It’s a fair warning.”
      Rand stared at Bertram. “Wait a minute. Did you say you mean to challenge Lord Stratton to a duel?”
      “Yes, sir.” He nodded. “That’s exactly what I said.”
      Rand shook his head with obvious impatience. “What do they teach at university these days? Are manners no longer a consideration? There is a proper way to go about this, my lord. The first rule is that one never issues a challenge when one of the parties is foxed. And I would most decidedly consider my friend here, to be foxed.”
      He looked over at Stratton who was nodding his head. “Most decidedly.”
      Bertram chewed on the side of his mouth as if not certain what to do next. “Are you quite certain of this? I’ve heard otherwise.”
      “It’s beyond the pale, my lord. Some don’t care, but I would think that a gentleman such as yourself would want to follow proper etiquette.”