Company Of Rogues: A Shocking Delight Part 8

"Perhaps that's why she didn't."

"Are you seeking n.o.bility in her? Mel might have thought that way, and she'd do what Mel wanted, but she had no motherly feelings at all. Trust me on that."

"She certainly was devoted to him, to follow him to Australia when he was transported and she took the trouble to write to you, telling you the details of her secret marriage, which gave you a claim on the earldom. Why?"

David put down his cup, considering. "I a.s.sume she saw another way to strike back at the Mad Earl, even though he was dead. Or it could simply have been to claim the t.i.tle Countess of Wyvern. Did you hear that she's using the t.i.tle in Sydney at the same time as running a tavern called the Wyvern Arms? With, of course, the arms on the sign."

Van laughed aloud. "A magnificent woman! I wonder how she'll take to becoming the dowager."

After a moment, David shared the laughter. "I wish I could see her face. Suddenly, marriage has some appeal."

Chapter 7.

"The Earl of Wyvern is in Town!" Aunt Mary declared.

Lucy looked up from her needlework, because clearly she was expected to. In her three days in Lanchester Street, she'd learned how to fulfill expectations.

Her cousin Clara exclaimed, "At last!"

Lucy had no idea why the earl's arrival was so exciting, but she soon would. Aunt Mary never left a thought unspoken, and rarely read a word in silence. She'd known her aunt and cousin were chatterers, but not that they never stopped, nor that she'd be expected to be with them all the time.

Most of her time in the house was spent in this elegantly appointed drawing room, which was overly perfumed by potpourri. The windows were never opened. Aunt Mary did not approve of open windows.

She also hadn't realized that her aunt held many firm beliefs that would prove inconvenient. Aunt Mary did not approve of ladies reading newspapers or the more serious magazines. Hence, Lucy was starving for information. Her aunt did not approve of ladies wearing their hair short, for which she cited the Bible as her authority.

She couldn't make Lucy's shoulder-length hair grow, but she tutted at it and urged her to wear it up so that the sin was less apparent. She refused any request from Clara that she have her hair cropped. Given her cousin's frizzy ma.s.s, that was unfortunate.

Aunt Mary did not approve of young, unmarried ladies sleeping alone. That meant Lucy was sharing not just a bedroom but a bed with Clara, when she'd never shared a bed in her life. It made it hard to sleep well, and also meant that even going to bed gave no relief from chatter.

She had no privacy anywhere, for if she went apart for any length of time, one or the other came in search of her. It wasn't badly intended. They seemed to seriously fear that she might be weeping her sorrows or overtaken by some dread disease. Lucy hadn't realized how much she enjoyed solitude and silence until now.

She hadn't dared open her journal. Though she'd experienced interesting things in the past days, she hadn't recorded them, for Clara would be nearby and demand to know every word. Neither Clara nor Aunt Mary had any concept of privacy. They shared every moment, every thought, and expected others to do the same. Lucy suspected that they found her worryingly taciturn.

Three days already felt like three weeks.

If it were possible to run home, she might.

When the footman had entered the drawing room to present a newspaper, Lucy had been astonished, but had hoped that the flow of words might have some substance.

Instead, it had soon become clear that the Weekly Social Enquirer contained nothing but the comings and goings of royalty and aristocracy, and information about upcoming social events.

"Wyvern's residing on Millicent Row with his sister, Lady Amleigh," Aunt Mary said. "I'm surprised Amleigh welcomes him when he s.n.a.t.c.hed the earldom from him."

"Lady Amleigh is Wyvern's sister, Mama," Clara reminded.

"But from the same dubious origins. Most deplorable."

Lucy was intrigued by the story. "Lord Wyvern s.n.a.t.c.hed the earldom from his brother-in-law? That must make the family situation awkward."

"Not just awkward, dear, but scandalous. You probably haven't heard the story."

Lucy dutifully admitted that she hadn't, allowing her aunt to relate the whole.

"The earls of Wyvern have always been odd, but everyone agrees that the sixth earl was entirely deranged. He never married, or so it was thought, and died without legal issue, so the t.i.tle pa.s.sed to a distant Somerford line in Suss.e.x. That is, to Viscount Amleigh, a most excellent young man, much commended in the war. However, later a letter was received from a woman claiming to have been secretly married to the earl, which made her children, a son and a daughter, legitimate."

"Lady Belle!" Clara exclaimed with delight.

"She was t.i.tled?" Lucy asked.

Aunt Mary smirked. "Only in her own mind, dear. In the world's eyes she was, I regret the word, a trollop. Despite having been born into respectable circ.u.mstances, she lived most of her life in an unsanctified relations.h.i.+p with a tavern keeper called Melchisadeck Clyst."

"What a fascinating name," Lucy said, beginning to enjoy this story.

"I do not approve of such names."

"Isn't it from the Bible, Aunt?"

"This one was not," her aunt said, with sublime neglect of logic. "Not only was he a tavern keeper, but he was eventually exposed as a smuggler. Yes, it's true! He was caught and transported more than a year ago, and the shameless hussy followed him."

"She was transported, too? Are you teasing me, Aunt? This sounds all too like a play."

"There's to be a play!" Clara exclaimed. "I can't wait to see it. A wicked lord, a das.h.i.+ng smuggler, and a fair lady much abused."

"Much abused, indeed," said Aunt Mary with a sniff. "She brought all her problems upon herself, including her removal to Botany Bay. It is apparently possible for people to pay their way to the penal colony, but her wis.h.i.+ng to do so says everything about her."

"That she was driven by the truest, deepest love!" Lucy declared, much in Clara's manner, enjoying herself.

"To return to the earldom," Aunt Mary said firmly, "upon receipt of her claim, which I gather was backed with details of the marriage-"

"A clandestine one," Clara interrupted. "On Guernsey. I didn't know people could elope to the Channel Islands as well as Scotland, but it would have been much more convenient from Devon, so the earl wasn't completely insane."

"I do not approve of clandestine marriages," Aunt Mary stated. "But, alas, they are legal for the purpose of a t.i.tle. Viscount Amleigh n.o.bly stepped aside in favor of the earl's estate steward."

Clara clasped her hands in delight. "It's like Cinderella, isn't it?"

Lucy could think of many ways in which it wasn't, but didn't argue. "And now the dubious earl has come to London? Raised in a tavern? He must be sadly ill at ease in society."

"I fear so," Aunt Mary said. "He will be seeking a rich bride, of course. One with impeccable breeding to counteract his own."

"And we will see him at last," Clara said, sounding too much like a huntsman after a deer. "We were sadly out of Town when he appeared to give testimony about the situation last August."

"Everyone is out of Town in August," Aunt Mary said, as if feeling the need to defend against a fault. She turned a page, ending that subject. "Mrs. Colchester has a son. She must be greatly relieved after four girls. And Mrs. s...o...b..ry, also, though I do believe the marriage was in December."

Clearly Aunt Mary did not approve. What a remarkable talent, Lucy thought, to be able to remember the dates of marriages so as to detect sin.

Lucy set another st.i.tch while reviewing the story of the poor Earl of Wyvern. She pitied him, but his arrival might eclipse the scandal that surrounded her own story. At events over the past few days her resemblance to her mother had been noted by some of the older ladies. That had stirred memories of the scandal that had been attached to her own character. People were now seeking both the taint of the City in her and signs of inherited folly.

She'd even overheard a few upsetting remarks about "poor Alice Stanley" as if her mother had ended up in a workhouse. It had been a struggle not to point out that her mother had been happy all her days and had ended up richer than the lot of them rolled into one. She'd managed to keep to Silly Lucinda.

She was trying her hardest to make a success of this exploration of the ton. She hadn't expected it to be so hard.

Her first night had been a quiet one at home, during which her aunt had instructed her on the particular etiquette of the beau monde. That had been interesting, but the subsequent recitations from the poetry of Sebastian Rossiter had been less so. At least if anyone mentioned him, she'd know what they were talking about.

On the next night, the Wednesday, her aunt had taken her to a musical evening while Clara had gone with a party of friends to Almack's. Lucy definitely wanted to attend the holy of holies at least once, so that was added incentive to appear a mindless epitome of propriety.

Last night they had attended two routs and a choral evening hosted by Lady Cholmondely in her grand mansion. It had definitely been glittering. Lucy had enjoyed herself until she'd been pestered by an idiotic gentleman who thought he was a poet and had declaimed some clumsy lines in her honor.

Lord Stevenhope had been only one of a number of suitors, so the word was out about her dowry. She'd also been the victim of unctuous kindness from some ladies clearly wis.h.i.+ng to secure her for an improvident brother or son. She'd managed to retain both feather-wittedness and bland sweetness, but she was surprised not to have chipped her teeth from clenching them.

Tonight was the Countess of Charrington's ball. Lucy had high hopes of her first grand ball, but there'd be even more bothersome gentlemen there and she didn't know how to deal with them without being blunt.

Aunt Mary put aside the newssheet. "Nothing else of interest. Let's consider the new invitations, Clara."

Clara eagerly went for them and she and her mother sat side by side on the sofa, absorbed in weighing the appeal of b.a.l.l.s, dance parties, musical evenings, lectures, Venetian breakfasts and charitable benefits. Aunt Mary recorded their choices in her book, which made Lucy think of her pink journal, as yet without a word in it.

This business of the invitations was a daily ritual and she thought she now had the measure of it. She rose and excused herself, and received only a murmur in response. With any luck, they might not notice her absence for as much as a half hour. She went quickly upstairs to her bedroom and soon inhaled the tranquility of solitude.

Truly, if returning home was a bearable possibility, she would admit defeat. Her aunt and cousin could drive her mad inside the house, and her suitors were spoiling her pleasure when she went out. She had always detested insincere flattery, and she felt sure most were inspired only by her wealth, but sincere admiration was even worse when she had no plans to wed.

She'd already had to reject one offer of marriage. Sir Mallory Outram was only a little older than herself, and both sensitive and overblown. She'd met him on Wednesday, and on Thursday he'd declared his love. She thought he believed it at that moment. When she'd gently said they would not suit he'd claimed she'd broken his heart.

She'd protested, as sweetly as she could, that no one's heart was endangered in a day. He'd cited her parents' marriage, the wretch, and insisted she must share their natures. He'd even offered to elope, if that was to her taste.

Oh, she'd wanted to shake him!

She still did.

Then she remembered her journal. She finally had the opportunity to record some of the idiocies and irritations.

She opened the door and listened. Her aunt and cousin were still happily a.s.sessing one event against another. She closed the door again, took a key from her trinket box, and unlocked her small desk. She took out the pink book and a pencil, sat, and opened it to the first page.

She recorded her arrival and her surprise at having to share a room. How much she disliked it. How absurd were her aunt's edicts. She wrote of drinking tea in fine company where people rarely had anything sensible to say, and of a drive in the park where the beau monde thronged to see and to be seen. She recorded the folly of the gentlemen she'd encountered thus far, such as Outram and Stevenhope.

She turned the page.

Could she recall any of Stevenhope's lines?

Plump cherries set in marble skin With pearly teeth lodged shyly deep within . . .

"Are you all right, Lucinda?"

Lucy started and covered the page with a hand. "Yes, of course!"

"What's that? A journal? How interesting." But then Clara stared. "Lucy, is that poetry?"

She'd not covered Stevenhope's lines quickly enough. What could she say? How to explain writing them down?

"Never say you're a poetess, cousin?"

Clearly it was appalling, but better to confess that than to recording the folly of others. "I admit it. But a very bad one. Please don't ask me to share any of it yet."

It seemed a babble of nonsense to her, but Clara said, "Of course not! Mama and I understand the requirements of the muse."

"You do?"

"Sebastian Rossiter," Clara reminded her.

"Ah, yes," said Lucy, mystified.

"He lived not far from us in Surrey. He lived quietly with his beloved family, but occasionally he would attend a social event and honor those present with a reading. He often said how important tranquility was for his muse."

Lucy circled this, seeking a trap, but didn't find one. Frightened of shattering the precious opportunity, she plaintively said, "It is, it is. . . ."

Clara backed away, whispering, "I will leave you in tranquility, cousin. . . ."

A moment later Lucy heard her running along the corridor crying, "Mama! Mama! Lucinda is a poetess!"

Lucy sank her head in her hands, shaking with laughter. What had she done now?

When she'd overcome hilarity and wiped her eyes, she began to hope. As a poetess, would she be allowed time alone rather than being invaded by people concerned that she was at death's door?

She opened the book again, but then realized that the merest glance at the first page would see prose. How was she going to keep up the pretense when she could be interrupted at any moment?

Could she write her observations and thoughts in the appearance of verse? That merely meant in shorter lines.

As an experiment she transcribed some of what she'd written onto a new page.

There is a spare bedroom here, So it's most unfair.

I can't imagine what evil might arise From solitary sleeping, But if there is any, Cousin Jeremy is exposed to it.

It was working!

Cousin Jeremy is as much a chatterer As Aunt Mary and Clara, but less often home, Being out in a striped waistcoat And monstrous cravat, doing foolish things.

Aunt Mary enjoys scandals, Perhaps because they allow her to show superiority Through disapproval, and that's because Lord Caldross is not quite as he should be.

What a lot one learns When living under the same roof as others.

Now, could she write original thoughts in the form?