Lady of the Lock Page 17

  “Please, my dear,” said the duchess. “I promise I shall not bite.” Gingerly, Mandy sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “I am told you have been playing billiards, Miss Merriwether. Do you enjoy it?”

  Billiards. Were billiards socially acceptable? Christabel and Olympia played . . . “Lord Jeremy is most adept, Your Grace. He trounced me quite handily.”

  “Ah. And did you play with Montsale?”

  “No, ma’am–Your Grace. He partnered Lady Christabel.”

  “I see.” For a moment the duchess’s gaze dropped to her lap. She was still a highly attractive woman, Mandy noted, her classic peaches and cream coloring, her elegant coiffeur, and exquisitely designed day gown of pale green silk making even Lady Drucilla look dowdy in comparison. In this setting, in spite of a gown of primrose sprigged muslin, Mandy felt rather like an ugly black ant intruding on the pristine petal of a peony.

  “I believe you have known my eldest son for some time,” the duchess continued, her sharp blue eyes fixed on Mandy’s face.

  “Indeed, Your Grace, we met at an early age, but as adversaries, each of us echoing our fathers’ positions on the matter of the tunnel.”

  “You gave as good as you got,” the duchess suggested.

  “I fear so, Your Grace.” Mandy bowed her head. “I am sorry to say I was quite outspoken as a child.”

  “And now?”

  The duchess had declared she would not bite, but what then was this? Mandy chose her words with care. “I have spent my life surrounded by men, Your Grace, one of them an indulgent father. Therefore, I fear I have never learned to believe my thoughts of no importance or to hold my tongue in the presence of gentlemen. I am, perhaps, a disgrace to our gender. Surely there are some who think so.” Mandy paused a moment, making a conscious decision to be blunt. “But the way I live, if I did not stand up for myself, I would be trampled beneath male feet, a doormat, a slave. And, I assure you, that I am not.”

  Silence as the duchess stared at her, her eyes revealing little beyond the fact she was considering Mandy’s words. “I suspect that is why he likes you,” she said at last. “Other females fawn over him, agree with every word from his mouth. They chase him down, envelop him in their sweet nothings, like a blanket of honey cutting off his breath. They insinuate themselves into his life. They pounce, they giggle, and all the time they are plotting how to become his marchioness.”

  The duchess looked away suddenly, as if distracted by a gust of wind driving the rain onto the windowpane. Mandy, doubting the duchess expected a reply, remained silent.

  “Neither you nor your father are toadeaters, Miss Merriwether,” the duchess declared at last. “You have no idea how refreshing that is. Such a coil, my child, for ’tis clear Montsale is taken with you, and after these few days in your company I can see why. You are good for him, just what he needs . . . and yet the whole thing is quite, quite impossible.”

  For a moment, a very fleeting moment, Mandy had thought . . . Well, no matter what she thought, for the duchess had finally made herself clear. Amanda Merriwether was a delightful girl, the perfect compliment to her precious son, but clearly such an association could not be tolerated.

  “Do you wish us to leave, Your Grace?”

  The poor woman looked positively shocked, though why Mandy could not fathom. Any manufactured excuse would do. They could be gone from this place in an hour.

  “No, no, my dear, not at all.” The duchess had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I simply wished to be certain you understood that even though you could pass for a lady anywhere and we are delighted to have you visit us, an alliance with our family is quite impossible.”

  Perhaps Mandy could blame her reaction on her alleged grandfather, the duke, but her short grasp on her temper snapped. Civility be damned! She stood. “Your Grace, I believe this is a conversation you should be having with your son, not with me. Good day!”

  She stalked out, taking care not to slam the door behind her.

  It took every ounce of courage Mandy could summon to get out of bed the next morning. The duchess’s words slithered through her head all night with the calamitous venom of Eve’s snake. She would beg Papa to take them home, except running away would bring even greater humiliation than enduring the final three days of their visit to Carewe Castle. Beyond a cup of tea with honey, she could not eat. After donning the plainest gown she had brought with her, one she deemed suitable for sketching and a picnic, Mandy descended the staircase and followed a footman to her designated place in the impressive parade of vehicles drawn up in the castle courtyard.

  Yet another twitch of protest from her sadly bruised pride as she saw the other occupants of the open landau. Mr. and Mrs. Fawley, Isabel, and Lady Drucilla, with Mr. Carlisle and her papa on horseback, riding escort on each side. But of course the cits must stick together. How condescending of Lady Drucilla to join them. But when Mandy caught the look exchanged between the widow and her father, she blinked and turned her head away. Quite clearly, the lady did not mind her lowly company.

  After a considerable amount of dither, marked by stomping hooves, clanking harnesses, and footmen running from the duchess’s barouche with a succession of orders, their grand cavalcade finally began to move. Three carriages carried the duchess and her guests, with John Merriwether and the four younger gentlemen on horseback. At the rear were two wagons loaded with easels, sketchpads, food, and all the necessary accouterments for a picnic, as well as footmen and maids to set up and serve. Only the duke, his son-in-law Lord Eagleton, and his cronies, Lords Pontesbury and Silverdale, failed to join the outing.

  It seemed as if the storm of the day before had swept every cloud with it, leaving as fine a late summer day as anyone might wish. Mandy’s spirits, rolled flat by the duchess’s words, began to revive. It was a beautiful day, she loved the outdoors, she loved to sketch . . .

  And Montsale had just ridden up. He tipped his hat to the occupants of the coach, his gaze lingering for a moment on Mandy, before he trotted off to lead their parade of vehicles to whatever destination the duchess had chosen.

  Lady Drucilla, who was squeezed in beside her, leaned close to Mandy’s ear. “My compliments, Miss Merriwether. “I have never before seen a female who could capture Montsale’s attention for this length of time.”

  “A few days only, my lady.”

  “Nonsense, my girl. The on dits about the two of you have been rampant for years.” Mandy gasped. “Oh, they die down for months at a time, but they always seem to resurface, particularly when Montsale shows no interest in any other female.”

  “Truly you are mistaken, my lady,” Mandy protested.

  “Then why else are you here?” Lady Drucilla’s limpid brown eyes gazed into Mandy’s own, her question twisting like a knife.

  Mandy’s temper flared, as yet another titled lady attempted to interfere in her life. “I fear you are unaware of the verdict, my lady. I am considered a perfect companion for his lordship but totally unsuitable for marriage.”

  Lady Drucilla let out a most unladylike word, straightened abruptly, and gazed straight ahead. Beside her, Mandy quivered, wishing she had not said it. Lady Drucilla could well broadcast her misery to the world.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Mrs. Fawley inquired. “You look quite pale.”

  “Yes, quite all right,” Lady Drucilla replied. “I merely thought of a something I should have done before we left the castle.”

  Liar.

  Once again Lady Drucilla turned to Mandy, speaking softly. “Forgive me, Miss Merriwether, for reacting so badly, but your words were not at all what I expected to hear. Nor can I find the duchess’s words anything but shocking. Does your father know?”

  “Oh no, and please don’t say a word, I could not bear it. And please forgive me for words that should never have become your burden.”

  “Your father is a good man, Miss Merriwether. I like him. If there is any way I can help, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  At
that moment the carriages slowed in a flurry of shouts and maneuvering until all were stopped in their proper places, and there was Montsale, holding out his hand to help the ladies down. Another whisper from Lady Drucilla. “Clearly, Montsale has not heard his mama’s edict.”

  A surge of warmth at her words. Mandy was beginning to like the widow. And then her hands were in Bourne’s and for a few moments the sun exploded into un-English brilliance, drowning all her sorrows. This would be a good day, she knew it.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ignoring the dagger looks he could feel directed at his back, Bourne continued to hold Miss Merriwether’s hand as they stepped away from the carriage. “You are sketching today?” he inquired.

  “I intend to try,” she admitted as she attempted to pull her hand from his.

  “Then let us find the perfect prospect.” He turned toward a modest hill that rose above the area where the carriages had stopped, sweeping her with him.

  “My lord!” His arm jerked as she balked, digging the heels of her half boots firmly into the ground. “You do me too much honor. The duchess can scarce be pleased by your singling me out.”

  He paused but refused to give up her hand. “Maman? What has she to say about whom I choose for a companion?” When she returned a look that clearly said, Are you mad? he closed the gap between their outstretched arms. “Miss Merriwether? Amanda? Come now, it is not like you to hold your tongue.”

  “Let go my hand, Montsale,” she hissed. “All eyes are on us.”

  A swift glance around proved her right; even a few of the maids and footmen had stopped to stare. Silently, he swore. Matters had been so much easier on the banks of the Avon.

  “They may think what they like,” he informed her, still clinging to her hand.. “If I choose to walk with you, it is no one’s concern but mine. And while we walk, you may tell me what my mother has said to you to make you cry craven.”

  But she said not a word as they climbed the hill. Not until they reached the top and Bourne took her by the shoulders, turning her to see the view.

  “O-oh! It’s magnificent,” Mandy cried, her anger evidently lost in the beauty of the prospect. Before them was a sweep of lush green meadowland, dotted with sheep and framed by forest on each side. The meadow ran straight as an arrow to the blue of the moat, with Castle Carewe rising behind it in all the glory of its sun-kissed towers and crenelations.

  “It is rather grand,” Bourne agreed with a nonchalance that failed to mask his pride. “Which is why, of course, Maman chose this site for the sketching party. And speaking of Maman . . .”

  “We shall not speak of the duchess,” Miss Merriwether returned in a tone that brooked no argument. “Would you be so kind as to call for an easel and sketch pad, my lord? This spot will do nicely, I believe.”

  When everything was arranged to her satisfaction, the little witch dismissed him on the spot, informing him he should be of service to the other ladies. And when he pointed out each lady had a cavalier at their beck and call, she reminded him of the ladies whose husbands had deserted them for the lure of shooting, billiards, and very likely too many glasses of madeira. Besides, she could not possibly sketch with him hanging over her shoulder.

  Bourne stalked off in high dudgeon, his temper cooling only when he recalled that one of the ladies who might need his services was his mother. Oh yes, he definitely needed to find the duchess. But all a glowering look at his mother gained him was an endless series of orders. All guests must be comfortably seated. All those who wished to sketch must have easels, sketch pads, and a stool. The picnic should be laid out near the copper beech . . . no, away from the trees for more sun . . . but not there, it was not flat enough. He must be sure there was enough wine . . . if not, he must send back to the castle for more.

  When Bourne finally raised his head from supervising the setting out of the last blanket, the duchess was fully engaged in conversation with that dreadful duo, Lady Pontesbury and Lady Silverdale, with poor Mrs. Fawley looking on, mumchance, beside them. Having lost his opportunity for private conversation, he swore softly and headed back up the hill, for the first time noticing how many were actually sketching. John Merriwether had set up an easel not far from his daughter, with Lady Drucilla similarly occupied beside him. Chet was sketching within arm’s reach of Miss Fawley, while Jer and Giles were standing behind Lady Christabel and Lady Olympia, proffering encouragement as the young ladies persevered in reproducing the scene before them.

  “Laggard,” Lady Drucilla called as he approached. “All the other ladies have someone to admire their work, but poor Miss Merriwether, who is by far the best of us, has no one.

  Bourne offered the lady a short bow, then glanced down at Mandy’s sketchpad. Good God! “I thought you told me you had no accomplishments,” he said.

  “I admitted to sketching a bit,” she informed him loftily, never taking her eyes off her work.

  “That is not ‘a bit.’ It looks more like the work of a master than a pupil.”

  “Papa made certain I was well taught when we wintered in London,” Miss Merriwether responded primly.

  “Well taught indeed. Have the other young ladies seen this? I daresay it will quite bowl them out.”

  “I have no desire to be more of an outcast than I already am!” Her fingers jerked, adding an unwanted streak to her paper. Muttering a most unladylike word, she reached for a cloth to rub out the unwanted mark. “And, besides, I am far from done,” Miss Merriwether added as she scowled at her sketch. “It is not yet ready to be viewed. And that, my lord, includes you.”

  Bourne chuckled, ever a captor of her sharp tongue. “You are a treasure, my girl,” he returned, “ever full of surprises.” A woman a man would never tire of. A woman to grow old with. A woman to bear his children. Intelligent, as well as handsome children.

  Not new ideas, but ones he’d managed to put aside because marriage was something in the far distance of his life. Something for a time when he had kicked up all the larks, indulged in all the sprees available to a young man about town. When he had set up enough mistresses to regard even the most stunning with ennui.

  When he was ready.

  Because he was not, he had acquiesced to the duke’s dictates in the past. But now . . .

  Now the rest of his life yawned before him, a black pit if he could not have the woman he wanted.

  Yet chaos if he chose the Lady of the Lock. Mandy’s hints left little doubt. Even his maman had deserted him, and there was no doubt about Carewe’s opinion of the matter.

  Pounding hooves interrupted his thoughts. Two riders coming up the road, ventre à terre. One he recognized as a stableboy from the castle. They skidded to a halt beside the duchess, a brief conversation, and one of the men ran up the hill, ignoring all the sketchers but one. John Merriwether.

  Devil a bit! Bourne recognized the man, an assistant foremen from the tunnel project.

  “Mr. Merriwether,” the man said after pausing to gulp a breath, “’tis sorry I am t’tell you, but there’s been another cave-in. A bad one. We lost Jeb Banks and five others. Three more bad hurt, one may lose his leg.”

  “Not Jeb!” Mandy cried.

  “I fear so, Miss Mandy. Helped dig his body out m’self.” The messenger remembered to pull off his cap, clutching it before him. “I’m right sorry, Miss. He was a good man.” He turned back to John Merriwether, the two speaking softly.

  Miss Merriwether looked up, straight into Bourne’s eyes. And what he saw there shocked him to his soul. The cave-in was all his fault. The Challenor Tunnel had killed six men, including Mandy’s special friend, the foreman. There would be no forgiveness.

  Slowly, John Merriwether straightened his slumped shoulders. “Thank you, Jenks.” He turned to Montsale. “If you would be good enough to give us the use of a carriage to take us into town, my lord, so we might hire a post chaise. We must leave immediately.”

  “No need for that, Merriwether. My carriage will take you back to the canal. No
, do not protest. I insist. It’s the least we can do.” The least, the very least. And so wholly inadequate.

  A half hour later, the Merriwethers were en route to Marlborough, with a basket of picnic food tucked up beside them. Leaving Bourne with nothing but a remarkable sketch of Castle Carewe and memories of a bronze-haired, green-eyed witch who would probably never speak to him again.

  The weather being good and the moon approaching three-quarters, the Merriwethers paused their journey back to Great Bedwyn only long enough to change horses. The post boys, inspired by the extra compensation offered, made the trip without respite. Not that Mandy was able to sleep a wink and could only envy her father’s ability to sleep under even the most adverse conditions.

  In Marlborough they stopped just long enough to exchange the post chaise for Esmeralda and the gig; in Great Bedwyn, only long enough to order their baggage taken to their rooms. And then the final few miles to the Challenor Tunnel. As her father drove, Mandy attempted to smooth her traveling gown, tuck straggling bits of hair beneath the confines of her bonnet, but a miasma of tragedy, compounded by lack of sleep, gripped her tight. With a spark of anger lingering from the moment Papa had suggested she remain at the inn while he continued on to the canal. Didn’t he understand how much she cared about the navvies? About everything that happened along the Kennet & Avon?

  About what this disaster had done to her life?

  Selfish twit! Disaster or no disaster, she was never going to be the Marchioness of Montsale. If it had been any other excuse to leave Castle Carewe, she would have welcomed it. She had been examined and found wanting, and that was the end on it. Time to retire gracefully and accept defeat.

  Unfeeling witch. That she could even think of Montsale at a time like this! Jeb and the others would still be alive if Carewe and Montsale had not insisted on a tunnel beneath High Meadows.