After dinner, the
trio of Eynsford and Lord and Lady Exencour continued to the theater, where
their presence attracted a certain amount of attention. Lady Exencour was
renowned for her dashing sense of fashion and her two companions were
well-known members of the Corinthian set; thus anyone who pretended to sartorial
elegance was interested in their appearance. They looked quite striking, with
Isobel’s auburn head and white and silver gown setting off the gentlemen’s
blondness and dark evening clothes.
“I say, Eynsford
has returned to England,” observed Horace Worth to his mother, the Dowager
Countess of Twytham. “He is unbending amazingly, too; he ain’t the sort of
fellow to be seen enjoying himself, but I swear I just saw him laugh.”
The Countess put up
her lorgnette and observed the Exencour box. She snorted. “It’s that Isobel
Exencour,” she said. “A shameless minx. You think she’d be content with
catching young Wheaton and his fortune, not that she needed it with all that
money of her own. Then his brother died, and she’ll be a duchess someday. Now
she seems intent on enslaving Eynsford.”
Horace sputtered. “That
isn’t fair, Mama. She and Exencour are very happy, by all accounts, and I know
he is a friend of Eynsford’s. Did you know Lady Morgan is staying with them? I
saw her the other day; she is still very lovely.”
His mother turned
her glass on him. “Don’t even think about it, Horace,” she said. “You have to
marry money, not some penniless widow with two children, no matter how pretty
she is.” She turned back to the Exencour box. “Now, between those three there’s
more money than in the Bank of England. Unfair, I call it.”
During the interval
the Exencour’s box filled up alarmingly. Many of the visitors wished to greet
the viscount and viscountess, but the majority were there to hail the return of
Eynsford to England. Any number of fashionable bucks crowded the box and
several mothers seized the pretext of the slightest acquaintance with Isobel or
Eynsford’s mother to display their blushing daughters. Isobel watched in
amazement as their charming companion turned into a bored and cynical Tulip of
Fashion, eyeing the intruders coldly and dispensing caustic comments. More than
one hopeful miss wilted under the considering look he directed at her from
behind his quizzing glass.
In the carriage
during their ride home Isobel asked her husband about his friend. “For he was
entirely delightful when we were alone, but he seemed to live up to his
reputation as a haughty fellow when others approached us,” she said.
Lord Exencour
smiled. “Phillip is a good sort. I have known him for many years; he was a
brave officer and is an extraordinary diplomat. But he was deeply affected when
he inherited the title some years ago; the world suddenly beat a path to his
door, and it has made him cynical.”
Isobel smiled. “And
yet he is so very pleasant when he is with friends,” she said. “Francis, I have
an excellent idea. Would not he and Letitia make a delightful pair?”
Lord Exencour
groaned. “Isobel, your friend is widowed barely two months and you are already
planning her next wedding? What became of the Isobel Paley who thought marriage
a trap?”
Isobel laughed and
took her husband’s hand. “She has learned what a delightful thing a good
husband can be. You can vouch for Eynsford’s character and I can see for myself
how very kind he is. Think how delightful it would be for Letitia. He is
wealthy, charming and humorous, and they both have a dislike of Society. And
how handsome they would look together!”
“Now you have only
to overcome the objections of the principals, for you have quite convinced me,”
said Lord Exencour. “However, as Letitia swears she will not marry again,
particularly a gentleman of fashion, and Eynsford spoke to me only yesterday of
his doubts that his heart will ever be engaged, how do you hope to accomplish
the thing?”
“It will be
difficult, but not impossible,” said Isobel. “I vow, I owe it to Letitia to
settle her happily; for are we not indebted to her for our current state of
bliss?”
“Indeed we are, my
love,” said Exencour. “But I do not think Eynsford is the man for her.”
“We shall see,”
said Isobel. A small silence fell as she pondered.
Exencour sighed. “I
see I shall be much neglected until your plot bears fruit,” he said in a
put-upon tone. “I suppose this is how it is when a marriage begins to turn
sour.”
This produced a
laugh and the hoped for kiss from his wife. All thoughts of Letitia and
Eynsford faded from Isobel’s mind.
Eynsford had
returned home in a curiously abstracted mood. He chose not to retire
immediately, but repaired to his library, a bottle of brandy at his side and
his dog at his feet. His long, slim fingers fondled the hound’s silky ears, and
deep brown eyes met those of lapis blue.
“Why does her face
haunt me, Foxer?” he asked. The hound looked silently at him, and placed its
wet nose in his palm.
“She is more
beautiful than most women, I grant you,” said the marquess. “But I danced with
her only once. I suppose she would not even recall my name if she saw me now.” The
dog licked his wrist.
Eynsford smiled
bitterly. “Indeed, it would be wonderful if she did know me, for I was much
less cynical then.” He resumed stroking the dog’s ears, each stroke pulling the
hound’s eyes closed, an expression of bliss on its face. It seemed to soothe
the man as well, for the hard expression left his face and he looked oddly
young and vulnerable.
“She was very
beautiful and charming, wasn’t she?” he asked the dog, who whined in reply and
settled his chin on the marquess’ feet. Eynsford refilled his glass with brandy
and sat back, turning the glass in the candlelight, watching the flames glow in
the amber fluid. He sipped thoughtfully and the dog lay silently, looking up at
him. Suddenly the man put the glass down with a snap, startling Foxer, who sat
up and nosed under his elbow.
“You are right, I
am a fool, and, unbelievably, a sentimental fool. The lovely Lady Morgan fills
my thoughts, and yet, how am I to pursue a lady who not only is not dazzled by
my title and fortune, but will not even meet me because of them?”
The dog wagged its
tail and yipped encouragingly.
“You encourage me
in my infatuation, Foxer?” said the marquess. “Perhaps you are right. Exencour
thinks highly of her, and any woman who would turn down an introduction to the
Marquess of Eynsford must have a remarkable character. I shall see what I can do.”
Foxer eyed him
thoughtfully, and then, judging the excitement to be over, settled on the
hearthrug with a hearty sigh. The marquess gazed into the flames, a thoughtful
look on his face.
In less time than
might have been imagined, Letitia was settled in her house in Kensington. Isobel,
once she had given way, was determined that Letitia should be as comfortable as
possible, and a small army of tradesmen and servants descended upon the house,
measuring, cleaning, and sewing until all was in readiness. A few pieces of
Letitia’s own furniture had been brought from Morgan Park, some small pieces
had been purchased, and Isobel pressed other items on Letitia as loans.
“When I sold my
house in Clarges Street after I married Francis, we had no need for so many
furnishings, and yet I could not bear to part with some of them,” she observed.
“You would be doing me as great a favor as I am doing you, for I am sure they
will come to harm stored away.”
The end result was
gratifying. The house, while small by the standards of the
haut ton
, was
well-suited to a widow and her children. There was plenty of space for a
nursery and play room, while still allowing Lady Morgan a drawing room and a
morning room. There was a small dining room, should she wish to entertain once
she came out of mourning, and well-situated bedrooms. The house was gracious
and airy, the rooms well proportioned, the furnishings elegant, the street
quiet. Letitia felt that she finally had a home of her own.
She had been fond
of Bainstall Court, but it was her parents’ house, and Morgan Park was an
ancestral estate, belonging to her husband, inherited by her son. For the first
time she felt able to decorate as she pleased, and though she could afford no
extravagances, the results were delightful. She soon settled into a quiet
routine, walking each day with Jamie and Emily in Kensington Gardens,
supervising her small staff, visiting the lending library, and entertaining the
few friends who came by to visit.
Her life would
surely have seemed dull to Isobel, who was accustomed to managing her own
estates, conducting archaeological research, and attending parties each
evening, but Letitia found it perfect. Her disposition was naturally retiring,
and the years of her marriage had been full of strain; the simple routine of
running a small house to her own satisfaction appealed to her immensely and
restored her spirits.
Isobel was her most
frequent visitor, and she found Letitia one day in the morning room, perusing a
letter with a perplexed look on her face.
“Isobel,” she said,
“you will scarcely credit it, but I have received a letter from Bainstall.”
“From your cousin?”
said Isobel. “I thought he washed his hands of you when you were so foolish as
to come to stay with me. Whatever does he want?”
“I am not
completely sure, as he makes little sense, but I think perhaps he is
contemplating my re-marriage.”
“Your what?”
squealed Isobel. “Do not be ridiculous. As though you would be thinking of
another marriage now, especially to someone of his acquaintance! If you wish to
marry again, I will help you to find a husband.”
“Such as Lord
Eynsford?” asked Letitia mischievously.
Isobel colored
slightly. “Am I so obvious? ‘Tis only that he is so very handsome, kind, and
rich, and I think you would deal extremely. But of course it is your choice to
make, Letitia. But surely you would prefer a husband I found to one of
Bainstall’s choosing!”
Letitia shook her
head with a smile, and then looked back down at her letter. “Perhaps I wrong
him, but do listen to this: ‘You will be surprised to hear from me, Cousin, as
you must be aware of my disapproval of your actions. I was grieved when you
refused the shelter of my home for the frivolous enticements of London and Lady
Exencour’s companionship. But I am pleased to learn that you have moved out of
her home and into one of your own and therefore attempt again to provide you
with the guidance you need. Despite my distrust of Lady Exencour, her husband,
with the exception of his unbecoming levity and his indulgence of his wife’s
odd notions, is accounted a reasonable gentleman, and may have been able to
advise you how best to go on.’” She looked up as Isobel gave a gurgle of
laughter.
“I must tell
Francis,” she said. “He will be honored. Pray, continue.”
Letitia smiled and
resumed her reading. “‘However, as head of the family I am responsible for you
despite your flouting of my wishes, and I therefore put pen to paper to counsel
you.’”
“How vastly
accommodating of him,” observed Isobel. “Your cousin obviously has a passion for
organization.”
“I think he means
well,” said Letitia, a doubtful note in her voice. “He did not expect to
inherit the title, as my father was still quite young when he died and it was
not inconceivable that he would yet father a son. I fear his new consequence
has gone to Bainstall’s head.”
“So it seems,” said
Isobel. “What does Lord Bainstall counsel you to do?”
“That is what I am
wondering,” said Letitia. She picked up the letter again. “‘I recommend to you,
dear Cousin, my friend Archibald Wolfe, Bishop of Mainwaring. He is currently
in residence outside of London, and I have asked him to call on you in hopes
that he may be able to guide your footsteps while you are far from me. He is a
worthy man, a widower these two years, with a sober turn of mind and a good
understanding. I trust you will make yourself agreeable to him. I believe it is
unnatural for a woman to be long without the guidance of a man, and I trust
that Dr. Wolfe will be able to influence you in a positive way.’” Letitia
looked up and met Isobel’s eyes, which were brimming with mischief.
“Why, Dr. Wolfe
sounds ideal for you, Letitia,” she said. “A sober gentleman, able to cure your
willful ways. I am sure he will make you a perfect husband.”
“So I am not wrong
in thinking that he means this Dr. Wolfe as a suitor?” said Letitia. “It seemed
very plain to me, and yet I could not imagine that Bainstall would be seeking
to marry me off already. Why, Alfred has been dead only a few months.”
Isobel picked up
the letter and looked at it curiously. “I would venture that the impropriety of
a young woman living alone offends him more than the impropriety of a widow
being courted,” she observed. “And a bishop’s courting will not involve much
romance, I would imagine. You would do better to consider my candidate, Letty,”
she teased.
Letitia responded
to this sally with a smile, but still looked vexed. “This puts me in a very
uncomfortable situation, Isobel. Dr. Wolfe will surely present himself here,
and I will be obliged to be polite to him. I find the situation most
distasteful.”
“I am in complete
sympathy,” declared Isobel. “You must do your best to drive him away. Believe
me, if you behave with a great deal too much levity, and perhaps betray that
you have more learning than simply a smattering of French and the ability to
paint watercolors, he will conceive an instant disgust for you. I cannot
imagine what Bainstall has told him of you, but whatever it is, it cannot be
accurate, as your cousin has no idea what sort of person you are.”
“I wonder what sort
of person Dr. Wolfe is?” said Letitia. “He is a bishop, after all.”
“Surely you cannot
mean to take him seriously?” said Isobel. “If I knew you wished for suitors I
could have produced a dozen eligible, charming, and wealthy men who are not
bishops. Your beauty is still remembered, you know.”
“Of course I do not
mean to encourage him,” said Letitia. “I was merely wondering if he would be at
all interesting, since I will be forced to receive him if he calls upon me.”
Isobel picked up
the letter. “He is ‘worthy...with a sober turn of mind and a good
understanding,’” she read. “A dead bore, obviously, exactly like Bainstall. Letitia,
you must allow me to introduce you to Lord Eynsford. If this Bishop were to
encounter him here, Eynsford would surely give him a sharp set-down. He is very
good at that, you know.”
“You are
incorrigible, Isobel. I do not care for Dr. Wolfe as a suitor, nor do I care to
meet Lord Eynsford. You are nearly as bad as my cousin!”
“An unkind cut,
Letty!” said Isobel. “My choice is at least young and handsome, while I feel
sure that Dr. Wolfe is of middle years and stout. But you know I am only
teasing; I would never pester you if you did not wish it.”
The talk turned to
other matters, with Isobel supplying her friend with the latest gossip and the
newest novels that she had purchased that morning. It was a pleasant time, and
Isobel spent some hours, returning home late in the afternoon to find her
husband and Lord Eynsford ensconced in the library. She greeted them casually,
for the marquess had become quite a fixture at Strancaster House over the past
weeks.
“Such a delightful
visit I had with Letty,” she said, stripping off her gloves. “Her house is
charming, and although I hate to see her hiding herself away in this manner,
she seems very content.”
“I trust she is
finding ways to amuse herself?” asked Lord Exencour.
“Oh, yes. She is
quite taken with managing a house for herself. She walks in Kensington Gardens
each day with Jamie and Emily, and the children are thriving. I am convinced
Letitia is right and Kensington is very good for them.”
Lord Eynsford
looked up. “She is fortunate to have the Gardens so near. Did you say they walk
there each day?”
“Every day in the
early afternoon. Letitia is quite comfortable, for she is certain she will meet
no one she knows, and that seems to fulfill her present wishes. I am glad that
she is happy, but I hope that in time she will go out more into the world.”
“Doubtless Letitia
will grow more at ease as time passes,” said Lord Exencour. “You must not cause
her discomfort by teasing her to go about before she wishes to.”
“Of course I will
not,” said Isobel. “Her cousin is doing quite enough of that. Only imagine,
Francis, he has written a letter recommending his friend, Dr. Wolfe, to her,
and telling her he will come a-calling. He is a bishop and a widower, you must
know, and both sober and sensible!”
Lord Exencour
laughed. “So Letitia is to have a suitor. Well, you need not fear for her,
Isobel. I have no doubt that she can defend herself quite ably from a bishop.”
“But it did perturb
her,” said Isobel, “and I can hardly blame her. She is quite uninterested in
being courted, and now she is faced with someone to whom she must be polite. I
could strangle Bainstall, I think. Only fancy, Francis, he said in his letter
that despite your unbecoming levity and your indulgence of me, he thinks you
may be a reasonable gentleman.”
The marquess had
been inspecting the shine on his boots, but at that he looked up. “I think you
have reason to call this gentleman out, Francis,” he observed. “That is an
intolerable slur on your character.”
“You see, my lord,
what poor Lady Morgan must put up with?” asked Isobel.
“If I were forced
to deal with such a person, I might conceive an antipathy for the peerage
myself,” agreed the marquess. “Of course, I have done that, to some degree. It
is merely that my position and sex make it possible for me to flout Society,
rather than having to hide from it. Lady Morgan has my sympathies.” He returned
to the inspection of his boots.
The marquess soon
took his leave. He was thoughtful on the drive home, as an idea slowly grew in
his mind. The past weeks had not served to erase the thought of Lady Morgan
from his mind, or rather the thought of the young lady with whom he had once
danced. It was foolish, he felt, to dwell on the memory of youthful encounter,
but if the thought could not be banished, it could be challenged by reality. It
was necessary to meet Lady Morgan, and prove to himself that she held no power
over him. If he could not call on her as Lord Eynsford, perhaps there was
another way to meet her.
His lordship’s
groom watched as his master drove, and saw with concern the look in his eyes. Chisholm
knew that look well, and he reflected that his lordship was up to something, no
doubt about it, and it was likely mischief.