A Season for the Heart (16 page)

Instantly a pair of arms shot out to keep her from falling, and she was pulled close to a manly chest.

“Oh! . . . thank you!” breathed Pommy.

“What a delightful encounter,” said a youthful, mocking voice. “Are you running away from, or toward, someone?”

Pommy peered up in the dim light to observe a good-looking face wearing a saturnine grin. The elaborately casual styling of his blond hair would have told her that he was adopting the mode of the Corinthian, had she had enough
nous
to recognize it. What she did recognize was a young, dissolute-looking face, weary gray eyes, and a smile which struck her as more desperate than dashing.

“I was attempting to avoid playing gooseberry to a pair of sweethearts,” she explained soberly. “You may release me now. I am quite steady on my feet, thanks to your help.”

The dashing stranger gave her a searching look. “I do not know you, do I? Surely such a gorgeous creature could not have entered the scene without my being aware of it? You are new to the
Ton
—”

“It is not worth your while to play off your gallant compliments upon me, sir, for I am merely Lady Masterson’s paid companion,” said Pommy prosaically.

After a startled instant, the young man laughed rather harshly. “Then Lady M. must pay you a good deal more than most such wretched females usually receive, for you seem a pattern card of elegant simplicity.”

“How can you tell?” asked Pommy. “It is almost too dark out here to see one’s nose before one’s face.”

The young gallant was betrayed into a chuckle, but he persisted in his role. “A man can always see a lovely lady,” he instructed her loftily. He continued to hold her, now quite brazenly assessing her face and figure. “Item one: a handsome gown, very ingénue but obviously very expensive, of some pastel color—hard to determine in this shadowy retreat. Item two: a cloud of night-black hair, most fetchingly arranged by Her Ladyship’s dresser—the style is too perfect for your amateur hands to achieve. Item three—”

“Item three,” warned Pommy sternly, “I shall tip you a wisty castor if you do not unhand me this instant!”

This time his laughter was a boy’s full and free, as Pommy’s captor released her and stepped back a pace. “Item three: a pair of magnificently stormy eyes, which could do a man more harm than any blow from your soft little fists! And item four: a vocabulary which I’ll wager you have not displayed to Lady M.!”

“My uncle’s coachman was always threatening the groom in that phrase,” explained Pommy. “What
is
a wisty castor? It sounds dire!”

The blond gentleman was chuckling. “The term is boxing cant. I do not believe your employer would thank me for encouraging you in its use,” he said. “By the way, my name is Alan Corcran. May I know yours?”

Pommy’s eyes widened. “You are Mr. Alan Corcran? But I have met your fiancée, Miss Isabelle Boggs—”

All traces of humor left Corcran’s face. “You know Miss Boggs?” he asked

“Yes. We rescued her when her coach broke down on the way to London.” Pommy regarded him doubtfully. Had Destiny led her to walk in this shadowed garden, to meet Alan Corcran? It must have been a kindly Fate which had brought her to him, for he was the one person who could immediately and definitely thwart Mr. Boggs’s blackmailing scheme. “I am glad now that I ran into you,” she said quickly. “I must inform you that your father-in-law-to-be has conceived a most dastardly plan against Lord Austell. He is going to claim that His Lordship has compromised Isabelle’s reputation—and that
he
must marry her!”

Instead of the outrage or at least alarm she had expected to see upon the face of Isabelle’s intended, Pommy was shocked to observe a wide grin. “Is he, now?” breathed Alan. “A wily old trickster, our Thomas! First me and then the Earl. Well, better Masterson than me!”

Pommy glared at her new acquaintance. “How can you be so—so rag mannered! Lord Austell has interests in—another quarter, and he must not be trapped by this odious father of Isabelle!”

“Oh-ho! So that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” sneered Corcran. “The little companion raising her eyes above her station?”

The words were scarcely past his sneering lips when Pommy’s hand connected sharply with his cheek. “I thought Mr. Boggs was odious! I see now that you and he are evenly matched!”

Corcran’s hand had gone to his slapped cheek, but rather than seeking reprisal, he was staring intently at the small, angry countenance before him. “You are not on the catch for the Earl?”

“Of course I am not, you silly creature! I have told and told you that I am Her Ladyship’s companion! I am very well aware indeed of my inferior position in the social order—Ceci and Aunt Henga have seen to that most effectively!” She ended in a low, anguished tone.

“And who are Ceci and Aunt Henga? No, don’t enlighten me!” he added hastily. “From the sound of your voice when you mention them, they must be the most overbearing and hidebound of females. Have they been impressing you with your lack of worth?”

Pommy caught her breath at the acute intuitiveness of the young Blade’s comment. “It is only natural that my aunt should not be too happy at being encumbered with the care of a destitute niece, when she has two daughters of her own to launch into Society,” she answered slowly. “Aunt Henga was kind enough to give me a home when my grandfather died, so I am showing myself less than grateful to be talking about her in such a fashion.”

“It is sometimes hard to show proper gratitude,” admitted Alan ruefully. “As a younger son—and a pretty unsatisfactory one at that!—I know exactly how it is to be forced to be forever offering thanks for things one would rather not have had in the first place.”

Pommy, listening to the strong emotion in Alan’s voice, was beginning to believe that her first, superficial judgment could easily have been at fault. To be a disregarded younger son could not be comfortable, as she had gathered from the Highcliff servants’ references to her own father. Was Corcran exiled from estates he loved with all his heart, compelled to play the butterfly in the
Ton
when every feeling rebelled—to laugh when his heart was breaking? Had he perhaps even been forced to offer marriage with an heiress he could neither love nor respect? Her vivid imagination was off and running. Her great eyes dark with compassion, she placed one small hand on his arm.

“I am sorry to hear of your unhappiness, but consider, Mr. Corcran! Whether you wish to marry Isabelle or not, it is surely not your desire to see another man blackmailed into doing so?”

The Blighted Hero looked at her with lifted eyebrows. “Why should I care for Austell’s dilemma? If he has compromised the girl, it is his duty to right the matter.”

“But he hasn’t! Compromised her, I mean. I was there all the time. He could not have been more—more—”

“Avuncular?” suggested the graceless Corcran with a grin. “So he has compromised the two of you, has he? A regular rakehell! I know which of you I’d offer for, if I were threatened with a parson’s mousetrap.”

“Well, you can be quite at your ease, for Isabelle doesn’t wish to marry you, and I certainly don’t!” huffed Pommy.

“Is that a challenge, Miss . . .? What is your name, anyway? I’ve given you mine most properly, but you have been reticent. Is it Cinderella, by chance?”

“It is Melpomene Rand,” she said repressively, for this young man seemed very bold to one who had lived in the quiet backwater of a small Cornish village. Besides, for some reason unknown to her, she resented quite bitterly the phrase “regular rakehell” which the youth had applied to the Earl. For the first time she fully understood Lady Masterson’s anger at poor Uncle George, when he had implied his own fears that his niece had fallen into the hands of an unprincipled man. And then, staring up challengingly into Alan’s face, she caught a glimpse again of the rather unhappy, disappointed youth under the mask of the sophisticate. In a softer voice she continued. “It is not an unmixed joy, living in London, is it? There seems to be an almost frantic search for amusement, or advancement, and a brittle kind of relationships, which do not seem to me to be at all comfortable!”

“You foolish child—” began Alan, when both of them heard a male voice calling softly, “Pommy? Where the deuce have you got to?”

Along the path came Gareth, balancing a full glass in each hand. “Oh, there you are! You’ll have to toss this down quickly, you know. The concert is about to resume—worse luck!”

He had reached them by this time, and his glance slid quickly over the stocky male figure so close to Pommy’s. “Do I know you? Oh, it’s you, Corcran.” This last in no very welcoming way.

“Yes, it is I, conspiring with Miss Rand as to how we may save her employer’s brother from being victimized by the rascal who dragooned me into offering for his daughter.”

“Dragoon? You are referring to Pommy’s uncle?” stammered Gareth, never very quick in the uptake.

Pommy smothered a reprehensible desire to laugh. At this moment, Gareth reminded her no little of Isabelle—the beautiful, anxious face, the struggle to comprehend the shift and thrust of quicker minds, the deadly absence of relieving humor. “This gentleman was—maneuvered into offering for Miss Isabelle, and neither of them really wish for the match—”

“Corcran!” growled Gareth. “You have dared to bandy about the name of that peerless lady—!”

“Do be easy, Gareth,” advised Pommy wearily. “I am sure you would not wish Isabelle to marry where there was no love on either side, would you?”

“No,” agreed Gareth devoutly.

“And Isabelle is my friend. It is quite permissible for Alan to discuss with me the means of saving her from the nasty machinations of her rogue of a father, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Gareth, smiling for the first time since he had encountered Corcran.

“It is now become quite urgent that steps be taken, Gareth, for you yourself were present when Isabelle came to inform me that her wretched parent was trying to blackmail the Earl into offering for her, which she does not at all desire.”

“She does not?” queried Gareth with great interest.

“She does not,” repeated Pommy firmly. “Neither, I must tell
you
, Alan, does she desire to be wedded to you—for reasons which you understand very well.”

Corcran seemed torn between a conventional expression of disappointment and a gasp of heartfelt relief. He contented himself with the remark that of course any man would be desolate at losing the opportunity of a closer relationship with such an admirable lady; both gentlemen seemed to feel that he had expressed himself with correctness and sensibility; they began to adopt a much more friendly attitude toward one another. For this last, Pommy was thankful. It had appeared to her for a few charged moments that she might have to separate a pair of fighting cocks. However, the trio had hardly had time to agree to put their heads together to discover a means of outwitting Mr. Boggs when a very cold voice challenged them.

They turned like three guilty children to perceive the Earl himself standing not four feet from them and regarding them with what, even in the dim light, could be seen to be a very disapproving face.

“Is there some explanation for this—nocturnal tête-à-tête?” queried the Earl of Austell, frigidly. “No, do not try to think of one,” he continued, with what Pommy felt was singular injustice. “You will please escort Miss Rand back to the ballroom, Gareth, where the musicians are waiting to begin.”

Feeling like a naughty child receiving punishment, Pommy made her way along the path a few steps ahead of Gareth. She found herself becoming more and more angry at the Earl with every step she took toward the ballroom, and when finally Gareth ushered her through the French doors and to her seat beside Lady Masterson, her color was very high indeed and her eyes were glowing green fire. It did not help at all that Lady Masterson, instead of being angry or disapproving, sent her a very shrewd look, followed by a small, knowing smile which quite infuriated Pommy.

Somehow the second half of the concert left her cold. It was impossible to forget the importance of the conference Lord Austell had interrupted. Even more difficult to dismiss from her mind was the unaccustomed coldness of his voice and manner. By the end of the performance, Pommy had convinced herself that Lord Austell, like all her relatives, was pleasant or unpleasant as the whim took him, and had no real knowledge of or regard for the feelings of one who was of lowly station and unimpressive appearance. This conviction naturally encouraged the headache which had been threatening since she left the garden, and Pommy was more than ready to agree with her employer when Lady Masterson announced that she wished to leave without partaking of further refreshments.

Her “Oh, yes, please, let us!” was in fact so woebegone that Lady Masterson glanced at her with concern, and hastened their departure. Pommy did not open her mouth during the drive home, except to murmur agreement to her employer’s casual remarks about the music. Gareth said nothing at all. It was a silent trio who took their separate ways to their bedrooms in Portman Square.

Thirteen

The following day, the massive knocker on the door of Number Three Portman Square thundered so often that Mikkle began to hope the Great Days were returning, when all the
Ton
beat a path to the doorstep of the popular Lady Masterson. First to call was the Earl, who demanded to see Miss Pommy. On being asked respectfully to wait in the drawing room, he informed Mikkle that he did not intend to wait for long, so Mikkle had better send a maid up to Miss Rand’s room at once. This importunate demand was accompanied by the sour comment that most persons would already have broken their fast by this hour, which comment Mikkle ignored, convinced that His Lordship was the Victim of Love and thus could not be judged as a rational man.