A Season for the Heart (15 page)

The colonel drew himself up and made his adieux like a gentleman and a soldier. The Earl saw him to the door with a rather malicious courtesy. Returning to his curricle, Rand gave his invaluable sergeant Lady Masterson’s address and sank back on the seat, seething with embarrassment and anger. He spent the time it took to reach Portman Square in thoroughly damning his brother for a totty-headed knock-in-the-cradle who deserved the shrew he’d married.

When he got down in front of Her Ladyship’s mansion, he was secretly impressed by the quality of his niece’s new associates. Companion she might well be—for he remembered her as a bright, open, charming little miss, well suited to be an attendant upon a lady—but she was dwelling in a finer house than any his family had ever had, and if her clothing was as handsome as Charles had described, she was being paid a much larger salary than most companions ever hoped to earn. Becoming suspicious again, he demanded entrance to Her Ladyship’s residence with a stout assault upon the knocker. By God! he’d see the child and make sure there was nothing havey-cavey going on!

Thus Mikkle, answering the thunderous pounding upon the front door, was confronted by an angry officer in full regimentals who demanded to see his niece, Miss Pommy Rand, without argument or delay.

Mikkle had far less courage than Tupper, and ushered the intimidating soldier directly in to the dining room where Her Ladyship, Pommy and Gareth were just finishing their meal. Gareth rose to confront the invader, but the soldier was suddenly frozen in the doorway, his staring eyes fastened upon the face of the Lady Masterson, exquisitely beautiful in the light of a hundred candles.

He saw a lovely woman whose fabulous silver-gray eyes gleamed between long dark lashes, whose silver gilt hair framed the delicacy of a mature, beautiful face of such mournful sweetness that it quite won his heart. Gradually his face whitened beneath its tan. Colonel George Rand of the Seventh Hussars had surrendered, horse, foot, and sabres, to the one foe he had never expected to confront: Eros.

Lady Masterson herself was not unmoved. The tempestuous entrance of this man, incredibly dashing in his regimentals, was having a strange effect upon her breathing. She wondered if the evening had not become suddenly warmer. She looked again. He was not as handsome as the Earl, and certainly not a Nonesuch like Gareth. In fact, severe critics might call him stone faced. His hard brown eyes looked steadily out from a weather-beaten face, topped by sandy brown hair, brushed with white at the temples. His mouth was firmly set above an aggressively outthrust jaw. Aurora, experiencing an unaccustomed weakness, chided herself for behaving like a green girl at sight of a handsome uniform.

Gareth was addressing the stranger. “What can I do for you, sir? Perhaps we should leave the ladies to finish their dinner while you state your business to me—in the hall.”

“My apologies,” said the soldier, his bemused gaze still fixed upon Lady Masterson. “I am Colonel Rand, Seventh Hussars, and I am seeking news of my niece, Melpomene Rand—”

“Uncle George?” came a girl’s voice, hesitant, unbelieving.

The soldier tore his gaze from the vision of loveliness and searched the room. A young woman, modishly dressed, had risen and was coming around the table toward him.

“You are—Pommy?” he asked, and then, meeting the direct glance of huge green eyes, his face broke into a smile which Aurora privately thought transformed his harsh visage. He opened his arms and welcomed his niece into them.

With a little gasp, Pommy ran into his embrace. He was the only member of the Rand family, outside of her father, who had ever made an affectionate gesture toward her. And she had seen him so seldom that she had been hard put to recognize him at first. After a moment, uncle and niece drew apart and looked at one another appraisingly.

“I should not have known you but for those pretty eyes,” said the colonel. “You were nine, I believe, the last time I saw you.” He smiled at her fondly. “You have grown into a fine young woman.”

Noting how Pommy flowered under her uncle’s praise, Lady Masterson mentally applauded his speech. For all he was such an impressive, even formidable figure, the soldier had warmth and compassion. Her Ladyship rose and came to stand beside the suddenly shy pair.

“Let us go to the drawing room,” she suggested gently. “Gareth, instruct Mikkle to serve coffee there. And liqueurs for you gentlemen,” She looked up, smiling, at the colonel, who at once offered her his arm. When she had placed her fingers lightly upon it, she directed him out into the hall and then to the drawing room, while Gareth and Pommy, whispering, brought up the rear. But alas, the harmony which seemed to be developing among the four was soon shattered. It all began with an innocuous question from Pommy to her uncle.

“How did you know where to find me, Uncle George?”

Colonel Rand frowned. “Your Aunt Henga had seen you talking to a man on the street outside his home, and took the number. The family were anxious that I—make sure of your—ah—safety. . . .”

There was an awkward silence. Gareth looked at his mother, who was frowning at the colonel. Only Pommy voiced the general unease.

“
Aunt Henga!
I might have guessed! So she said something horrid enough to send you here with that thunderous face—”

“But this is Mama’s home, not the Earl’s—” began Gareth.

Colonel Rand explained a trifle woodenly, squaring his shoulders and facing Lady Masterson. How does a man tell a beautiful woman that he had suspected her brother of being a libertine? “I called upon the Earl. He gave me this address.”

All might yet have been saved if Gareth’s evil genius had not prompted him to try for a joke to relieve the tension even he could feel. “How did my high-in-the-instep uncle enjoy being taken for a rake?”

There was an icy silence. Lady Masterson’s glance, suddenly frigid, swept in challenge to the colonel’s face. Pommy gasped, blushed, and then became pale as she took in her employer’s rage.

“Ma’am,” the officer, forehead bedewed, strove to mend his fences, “My Lady, His Lordship was generous enough to set me right—that is, he explained the situation. . . .”

“Indeed?” said Lady Masterson. “May I know what situation needed to be explained? I had thought my brother’s name—and my own, since I am Miss Rand’s employer—would have been sufficient warranty for any but the most ignorant and ill disposed—”

Setting his jaw, the colonel faced her with courage. “My Lady, I had my brother’s word that Melpomene was—had placed herself in an equivocal situation.”

“Ah! Your brother,” repeated Her Ladyship with a smile like vitriol. “He is the one who allowed his niece to be thrown out into the storm, is he not? And his intelligencer, was, no doubt, his wife?”

“I believe so,” gritted the colonel.

“You military men should always be sure your—ah—spies are completely reliable, should you not?”

Pommy could not believe that this tigress, fighting tooth and claw to avenge the slight on her brother-in-law, was the charming, lachrymose, and elegant lady who had so graciously befriended her.

Colonel Rand had had enough. Too much. Immediately after meeting the most glorious female he had ever encountered, he had been placed in a position which invited her utmost scorn. And none of it his own fault! he thought bitterly. If it were not for Pommy, so pale and unhappy at the dressing-down he was getting, he would have stalked from the accursed mansion and never thought again of his mistress! But for Pommy’s sake—

“I—deeply regret that, in my ignorance, I have offended Your Ladyship,” he said stiffly. “I assure you there was no intent to do more than protect a young woman of my family. I beg leave to be excused.” With a formal bow to Lady Masterson, he turned to Pommy. “My dear child, it is good to see you well and happy. If you should ever care to be in touch with me, I may be reached at the Seventh Hussars. I shall reassure Charles as to your welfare, child. Good night and God bless you.” With a slight bow, the colonel made an honorable retreat.

“Tactless of me,” said Gareth remorsefully. “I was only trying to be funny. He seemed such a decent chap—”

“Oh, get ready to take us to the
soirée
,” said his mother, so crossly that Gareth and Pommy exchanged anxious glances as they hastened to obey.

Twelve

The guests were already arriving for the Musical Soirée when Lady Masterson’s fashionable carriage deposited Her Ladyship, Pommy, and Gareth at the Earl’s door. Pommy was most impressed by the elegance of Milord’s mansion when it was lighted for a gala evening. She and Gareth followed a still tight-lipped Lady Masterson into the great central hallway. Tupper swept toward them majestically past a double row of footmen—eight of them, Pommy counted—in their velvet coats and powdered wigs. He led them to the ballroom whence, over the babble of conversation, could be heard the distinctly unmelodious squawks, screeches, and twanging of an orchestra in process of tuning up. Gareth peaked his eyebrows in a glance of pure horror at Pommy, who found herself compelled to smother chuckle. Then they were entering the great ballroom.

The Earl, magnificent in dark crimson and gold, came forward to kiss Lady Masterson’s hand and greet Pommy and Gareth with a smile which Pommy privately thought irresistible. He took her hand, but did not kiss it. Then, offering his arm to his sister-in-law, he led her party to seats near the front of the huge room. Pommy followed Lady Masterson and found herself on the aisle, with Gareth directly behind her in the next row. To their left, French doors opened onto a formal garden, where fairy lights gleamed among the leaves of several trees. Thankful for the promise of cool, fresh air, Pommy looked around her.

Upon a slightly raised dais, banked by greenery and baskets of flowers, the members of the orchestra fluttered and rustled like a flock of blackbirds settling into an enormous nest. Within a few moments, as though they had been waiting for Lady Masterson’s arrival, the orchestra began its first number. For all their discordant preliminaries, their music swelled, sweetly sonorous, into the room.

“Bach,” whispered Lady Masterson. “Do you know it?”

“No. But I like it,” Pommy whispered back, hoping her employer would not wish to converse throughout the program. She was aware of other whispered conversations going on all around her, and began to feel a little annoyance on behalf of the musicians who were working with such concentration to present the composition. Before she realized what was happening, Pommy had lost herself in the elegant, convoluted labyrinth of the music.

She was recalled, almost with a sense of shock, by the light pressure of her employer’s hand upon her arm. Turning bemused eyes, she saw a sympathetic smile upon Lady Masterson’s face.

“You enjoyed that, did you not?” Her Ladyship’s voice was barely audible above the sudden chattering which signaled the conclusion of the composition. “Now we shall have refreshments.”

Pommy sighed as they rose from their chairs. “It was like wandering through a garden maze! On every side, green leaves, and beneath one’s feet a firm footing, leading one to the heart of the labyrinth . . . where a bird sang . . . promising fulfillment, if only I would persevere. I felt myself on the brink of discovering the secret center of the maze, but always paths led me away from my heart’s desire—”

“Pommy!” the Earl’s voice sounded at her shoulder with an urgent note she had not heard in it before. She turned quickly.

Lady Masterson intervened with a light laugh. “Yes, Derek, the child is a poet, but I must speak to you privately at once. There has been a new and quite unpleasant development.”

The Earl’s voice changed as he turned to speak to his nephew. “Gareth, I leave Miss Rand to your care. See that she has some ratafia and biscuits. The concert will resume in half an hour.”

Then he was ushering his sister-in-law from the ballroom, his hand possessively under her elbow, or so it seemed to Pommy. The silver-gilt hair brushed against the Earl’s shoulder as they moved away. Pommy followed their progress as long as she could distinguish the Earl’s dark head above the crowd. Then she turned and was embarrassed to see that Gareth was watching her with sympathetic eyes.

“Sure you want the ratafia?” he asked. “It’s pretty sickly stuff, but you females seem to enjoy it.”

“Yes, thank you,” answered Pommy, more to get rid of his pitying glance than from any thirst for the disparaged offering. “What is it?”

Gareth grinned. “It’s a liqueur flavored with almonds and peach pits and the like—very sweet.”

“I’d like to try it.”

“Right. We’ll find you a place to sit and I’ll bring it to you. Can’t let you do battle with that mob!” and he indicated the fashionable throng crowding to get through the doors to the dining room, where tables of refreshments were set up.

“I’d like very much to go out under the trees,” said Pommy wistfully. She was finding her first introduction to the
Beau Monde
overpowering. “It seems so pleasant out there—and so quiet!”

Gareth glancing distastefully at the crowd of guests, nodded agreement. “Find yourself a comfortable spot. I’ll be out as soon as possible.”

Thankfully Pommy escaped into the peace of the gardens. She was too restless to wish to be seated, partly, she admitted to herself, because of the sight of that shining dark head bent so closely above the silver-gilt one in an attitude of attentive protection. If only someone would show that much concern for herself! Pommy had seldom felt so lonely, so much the Blighted Heroine, even in the days when Aunt Henga had been at her most unpleasant. She strolled miserably through the Earl’s charming plantings on a path of clean white gravel, neatly raked. Once, from a vine-covered arbor, she heard soft laughter and a man’s coaxing voice. It was apparent that some at least of the Earl’s guests were making harmony of their own. With a sharp pang of envy, Pommy walked away quickly, so quickly that she bumped into a solid figure at the bend of the path.