Steeplechase Page 12

  “Lady Davenham.”

  Absorbed in the vision of her friend taking the floor on the arm of the not-so-Wicked Baron, Sarah was startled to hear her name. Swinging round, she looked up, far up, into the austere countenance of the Duke of Parkington. A tall, lean man, inevitably upright and grave, her sister’s suitor always made Sarah think he was a man born into the wrong era. In spite of his exalted title, Parkington seemed the epitome of one of Cromwell’s Roundheads, lacking only the evangelical fervor of the rebels. With punctilious courtesy he usually danced one set with her at each evening affair, yet she felt she knew him no better than the day they had met.

  Perhaps that was not quite true, Sarah amended, as she moved through the figures of the dance in the more controlled and stately fashion she inevitably used when dancing with Parkington. Occasionally, just occasionally, she thought she caught a flash of something other than bland from the dour duke. There might be substance beneath the façade, but neither country dances nor quadrilles were not the best venue to discover it. If the duke ever smiled, he might even be attractive, Sarah conceded. His rich brown hair was thick and only minimally flecked with gray, his thin face, noble nose, and gray eyes as patrician as one could wish. And the child tucked away in the country was a daughter, not a son. Therefore, Amalie would have the very prestigious position as mother of the heir.

  All in all . . . oh, very well, Parkington was a stick. About as far from Dandy Davenham in charm as the moon was from the earth. But the duke did not gamble, nor drink to excess. There were no rumors of his mistreating his wife, who had died in childbirth. He took his seat in Parliament seriously and ran his estates with a competent hand. Sarah had heard her papa say so.

  She caught Esmerelda’s eye and smiled. The look returned by her new friend was positively glowing. As Sarah reached for Parkington’s arm, for it was their turn to dance down the center of the line, her eyes misted with tears. She’d done it. She might be barely eighteen, but she had succeeded in sponsoring Esmerelda Twitchell into the very heart of the ton.

  “A coup, my lady,” Parkington rumbled, as if he had read her mind. “The daughter of a merchant from Kidderminster. Amazing, truly amazing.”

  Oddly, it was not a criticism. Although his blank facial muscles never moved, His Grace was amused, though how she knew it Sarah could not have said. Perhaps he was not quite such a dullard, after all. Did Amalie have any idea?

  At the end of the set Lady Davenham offered Parkington her most respectful curtsy and allowed him to escort her back to where Esmerelda was already seated. Neither would dance the next set as Miss Twitchell was not yet approved to waltz and Sarah would not take the floor without her. Southwaite and Parkington fell into easy conversation, moving off toward the card room.

  Sarah leaned close to her friend, shielding her lips with her fan. “Southwaite has been most accommodating,” she whispered. “Do you think he has formed a tendre for you?”

  “No.” Esmerelda shook her head. “Why he is being so kind I cannot say, but there is nothing loverlike in his attentions. I believe he is simply fond of you and is being kind to me for your sake. He treats me more as Lord Richard treats you. As an older brother . . . or perhaps an uncle.”

  I fear I did begin early. Much younger than you are now.

  Impossible! A perfectly ridiculous notion. For a moment Sarah felt almost light-headed. The honey blonde hair only a shade darker than Esmerelda’s, the high cheekbones, identical tawny eyes . . . except one set viewed the world with skepticism, the other with eager interest.

  “Essy . . . did Lord Southwaite ever ask you about your parents?”

  “The veriest coincidence,” Miss Twitchell exclaimed. “Lord Southwaite tells me he once spent a summer not far from Kidderminster, visiting a friend from Oxford during the long vacation. He is familiar with many of the sights and places in my neighborhood. Which is a great relief as it makes conversation so much easier.”

  “And does he recall any of the people you know?” Sarah inquired carefully.

  “Oh, yes. It is quite wonderful. He even thinks he may have danced with my mama at an assembly.”

  “I see,” Sarah murmured. And wondered if she did indeed. Amalie, and even her mother, would tell her she was allowing her lively imagination to run away with her again, conjuring mountains from molehills. As she had conjured a husband from the elusive Lord Davenham? Sarah smiled at Esmerelda and squeezed her hand, taking the opportunity to study her friend’s widely spaced amber eyes. When next she danced with Southwaite, she wished to recall every detail.

  The opportunity came soon enough as Lord Southwaite claimed her for the next set, to which Sarah agreed when it became obvious Miss Twitchell would have her choice of several candidates for her hand. Almost immediately, Lady Davenham stumbled and nearly measured her length on the highly polished wooden floor as the partners met in the center of the line. Southwaite steadied her. Sarah murmured an apology and strove to regain her breath. Merciful heavens, it was true! Except for their differing outlook on the world, Lord Southwaite and Esmerelda had exactly the same eyes.

  Therefore, it was quite possible . . .

  It was also quite possible Esmerelda had no idea.

  And entirely possible Lady Sarah Davenham was fit only for Bedlam!

  “You have now apologized five times,” Lord Southwaite told Sarah kindly when they met for the last figure. “It truly is not necessary. You may step on my feet at any time. I am always delighted by your company.”

  “I cannot imagine why,” Sarah burst out. “If my husband thinks me an infant, what must you think? Oh! Indeed, I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Yes, you did,” Southwaite laughed. “Your husband is less a decade older than you, while I am twice that. An old man, in fact, which is why you tolerate me, I daresay. You cannot imagine I might have wicked intentions.”

  “I know quite well you are wicked,” Sarah retorted. “That is why I like you. For some reason you are willing to add spice to my admittedly schoolgirl life without demanding anything in return.”

  The set ended, and Lord Southwaite paused at the edge of the dance floor before returning Sarah to her chair. “Your innocence protects you, Sarah. I confine my raking to older women accustomed to playing the game. As I once told you, I view you as a work of art, something fresh and unsullied—a look marriage has not taken from you. And it is possible it never will, for Davenham is a good man, even if he has not, shall we say, quite mastered the art of marriage.”

  “And pray who are you to cast aspersions, my lord,” Sarah responded indignantly, “when you have avoided parson’s mousetrap so assiduously yourself?”

  “Ah, hah! So you do care for him,” Southwaite chortled. “I thought so. Then you must do something about it, my girl.”

  Sarah peeped up at him, her lower lip jutting into a pout. “I am trying,” she asserted, “but I so seldom see him . . .”

  As others were beginning to notice their tête-à-tête, Southwaite guided Sarah in a leisurely walk toward the crowd of young gentlemen surrounding Miss Twitchell. “Then you will have to be more daring, my dear. If you do not mind, I shall put some thought into it.”

  Feeling delightfully mischievous, and more heartened than she had been for some time, Lady Davenham quickly agreed.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I cannot believe it,” Sarah murmured, looking past the baron’s left shoulder. “Are my eyes deceiving me, my lord, or is that my brother who just entered the room?”

  “Lord Richard?” Southwaite raised his quizzing glass. “I do believe you are right,” he drawled. “And ’tis not the first time I have seen him at a ton event this past week. Dear me, is he playing dragon, do you think?”

  Sarah scowled at her brother, who was now bearing down on them with almost unseemly haste. “For all his current direction, my lord, I believe he has other prey in mind,” she responded thoughtfully.

  “Southwaite.” Lord Richard managed an amiable, if not approvin
g, nod to the baron. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on Miss Twitchell, Sal? Pray what have you done with her?

  In the nick of time Sarah restrained herself from making a grandiose gesture toward the bevy of gentlemen obscuring Esmerelda Twitchell. Nursery manners, she chided herself, but that Dickon, who shunned eligible young ladies like the plague, should suddenly give up a portion of his nights on the town to attend ton events . . . Delicious, truly delicious. Holding her folded fan between herself and her brother, Sarah jabbed it no more than a half inch toward the huddle of finely garbed backs hovering around a certain young lady. “You are too late, I think,” she informed her brother. “I am quite certain her every set is promised.”

  “There must a waltz left,” Lord Richard countered with a knowing grin, “for she has not yet been approved, I think.”

  Sarah heard Southwaite’s chuckle, even as she shook her head at her brother’s daring. “If you wish to beard the lionesses in their den, Dickon, I wish you my best. But pray recall we are on somewhat shaky ground here. I wish to do nothing to set up their backs. I had thought we might hope for approval at the next assembly.”

  “Nonsense! They all dote on eligible young gentlemen. Lady Jersey has already greeted me as the prodigal son, and I daresay I can turn the others up sweet as well. “Just watch me.” And off he went toward the row of powerful patronesses who held the destinies of young ladies in their hands by deciding whether or not they would receive vouchers for Almack’s assemblies, even to the extent of whether or not they might dance that naughty new dance, the waltz.

  “An excellent match,” Southwaite murmured.

  Sarah recalled his words only much later, for two more gentlemen had just come through the door. One was Mr. Adrian Chumley; the other, Harlan Dawnay, Lord Davenham. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no! He would see Esmerelda. He would be furious.

  And, to top it all, she was standing in close conversation with Southwaite and being just as inadequate a chaperon as Harlan had thought. “Davenham!” she hissed, laying her gloved fingers on the sleeve of the baron’s evening jacket. “Quickly, back to Miss Twitchell.”

  “Safety in numbers,” Southwaite murmured wickedly. “Poor Sarah, you must learn to care less, you know. Never wear your heart on your sleeve.” He leaned closer, his golden locks touching the white ostrich plume in her hair, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “Use me, my dear. I do not mind, you know. And I promise not to kill him, if it comes to that.”

  Sarah gasped, walking in a daze through the sea of Esmerelda’s admirers that opened as if by magic at the baron’s approach. A duel. He was suggesting it might come to a duel. With Harlan. Never, never, never!

  But there was no time to think about the baron’s words, for Lady Castlereagh and Lord Richard were following them through the gap, with the patroness smiling benignly as she presented the second son of the Marquess of Rotherwick to Miss Twitchell as a suitable partner for the waltz. That young lady’s eyes—the tawny eyes of Geoffrey Hatton, Lord Southwaite—lit with unabashed pleasure. She thanked Lady Castlereagh quite prettily and accepted Lord Richard’s hand while the other gentlemen grumbled and groaned. Sarah was left to suspect that Esmerelda’s glow had been more for her brother than for permission to dance the waltz. Oh, dear, what had she done? She doubted her papa would consider twenty thousand pounds adequate compensation for a daughter-in-law with Prunella Twitchell as an aunt. It was early days yet, of course, but it was now obvious Dickon was enchanted with Esmerelda. When she had determined to sponsor her friend into the ton, she had never thought . . . never intended . . .

  With a single peremptory gesture Lord Davenham waved off claimants for his wife’s hand in the waltz and swept her onto the floor, where Sarah let the music and movement whirl her away to a world where husbands truly cared for their wives and character was the only criterion for entrance into the beau monde. Where a father could acknowledge a child born out of wedlock without fear of repercussion. Where Harlan would love her, cherish her, cleave only to her as long as they both should live.

  Later that night, after she and her husband once again parted company in the entrance hall of the house on Margaret Street, Sarah lay in her lonely bed and thought about the evening just past.

  An excellent match. If she were not mistaken, there had been paternal pride and blessing in Southwaite’s voice when he approved Dickon’s interest in Esmerelda. Was she truly a sprig off the Hatton family tree? It seemed it was possible, but whether that would be a hindrance or a help if it came to Dickon wishing to add her to the Ainsworth family tree, Sarah could not say. Lord Richard might be of age, but Sarah doubted there was anything in the entail guaranteeing a second son’s income if he displeased their father. Perhaps—just perhaps—her papa might approve the match if Mrs. Prunella Twitchell promised to forever remain in Kidderminster.

  Sarah groaned, pounded her pillow, and flopped onto her other side. Harlan was right. Being a chaperon was not easy.

  And then there were her own problems. Lord Southwaite—Geoffrey—had offered himself as a flirt to make Harlan jealous. He had also offered to help her find other ways to attract her husband’s attention. He had even been gracious enough to promise he would not kill him, if it came to a case of grass before breakfast.

  A duel was, of course, absolutely absurd, as well as illegal. But faro, hazard, E.O., and many other games of chance were illegal, and they were played night after night in London’s clubs and gaming hells. So it was possible . . .

  Pah! If Harlan challenged the baron, it would only be for pride. Not passion.

  Never for passion. Sarah bit her lip, scowling into the darkness. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to do exactly as Geoffrey suggested. She had an ally. She would use him.

  “My lord, my lord!”

  Harlan drew the coverlet over his head and burrowed into his pillow.

  “My lord, you must get up at once! It is an emergency.”

  After enduring the previous evening at the come-out of yet another simpering maiden, where he had been forced to observe his wife and her Cit companion being besieged by the cream of the ton, Lord Davenham had taken himself off to his much-neglected mistress. There he had attempted to find the solace he needed in arms grown just a trifle stiff, and in far too many snifters of brandy. Why, why, why could he no longer find perfect comfort with Amaryllis LeFay? He adored Ryl, every luscious inch of her, and yet . . .

  Quite incredibly, the delectable Amaryllis had seemed more annoyed with him for neglecting his wife—as she had heard from a number of reliable sources—than she was because he had failed in his promise that their own relationship would continue without a hitch.

  “My lord!” Harlan’s head screamed in protest as his valet shook him by the shoulder.

  “Morgan, you bastard, I’ll— Oww!” After rearing partway off the bed, Harlan fell back with a moan. He waved one feeble hand. “I’m awake, dammit, though I may dock your wages this month. What could possibly be so important—”

  “Her ladyship, my lord. A boy has just come from the park. Sent by Jenks—her ladyship’s groom, my lord—”

  “What time is it?” Harlan growled.

  “A few minutes past eight, my lord.”

  Lord Davenham responded very slowly, as if he could not convince himself that his brain had drawn the correct conclusion. “Are you saying my wife is in the park at eight in the morning?”

  “Yes, my lord, it would seem so, and . . .” Morgan gulped , trailing to a halt.

  “Well, out with it! Harlan drew himself up to a sitting position, ran agitated fingers through his dark hair. “Good God, man, has there been an accident?”

  “Nothing serious, my lord,” Morgan assured him. “It seems her ladyship wished to stop for a glass of milk and somehow came too close to one of the pails. Only one pail was spilled, but in attempting to back away, my lady knocked over the table holding the mugs, and then one of the cows took exception to all the fuss and ran off through the park with a pack of
dogs in full cry. Some gentlemen galloped in from Rotten Row, drove off the dogs, and captured the beast, but it is alleged that the terrified animal will not give proper milk for days to come. Of that, I have my suspicions, my lord,” Morgan confided, “but that is the tale brought by the lad.”

  “Fiery hell,” Davenham muttered.

  “Indeed, sir. Naturally, the milk maids are demanding compensation, and my lady has not so much as a shilling by her. Therefore, she is captive in the park until someone comes to rescue her.” Morgan stiffened to attention. “That, my lord, is the full gist of the message.”

  Harlan could not even find an outlet in profanity—it took all his energy to get out of bed. “Call for my horse, Morgan,” he ordered with a certain resignation, “and get me dressed.”

  A scant forty minutes later, Lord Davenham returned home. On this occasion he did not part company from his wife in the entrance hall, but motioned for her to precede him into the drawing room. He shut the door. “And just what in the bloody hell did you think you were doing sneaking out of the house in the wee hours for a drive in Hyde Park? Hyde Park. Where we had expressly agreed you were not to drive!”

  Sarah seated herself on the scarlet silk brocade sofa where her royal blue driving gown made a rather patriotic picture, somewhat marred by the ferocity of the sofa’s crocodile feet. With seeming great interest she studied the jewel tones of the Persian carpet beneath her half-boots. “I thought there would be no one about,” she said in a very small voice. “It seemed the perfect time to practice there—I so long to be seen driving through the park at the fashionable hour.”

  “If you want to drive through the park, I will take you!” Harlan roared. “You are never to go near the place on your own again. Do I make myself clear?”