Candlelight Wish (10 page)

Ashby brightened. “Finished at that boarding school at last, has she? Must be in high gig. Is she here?”

Miles started to escort him to find Lucy but an elderly matron gowned in mauve satin, with a piercing voice and a gimlet eye, hailed the baron. Miles recognized her as one of Ashby’s numerous relations and gave him up for lost for the next quarter of an hour. Adjuring his friend to join him in the card room when he should disentangle himself, he set forth to see what Lucy was about.

She wasn’t in the first salon he entered. Neither was Miss Caldicot. At least they might be together—though he held out no real hope his sister would behave any better for her former instructress than she did for anyone else.

He entered the next room only to be brought to a halt by a hauntingly familiar laugh, low and musical, so compelling he wanted to join in. Miss Caldicot. He scanned the room then spotted her only two tables from the door. Her partner seemed to be entertaining her very well, he noted. He moved forward a step and found she sat across the table from Viscount Wolverhampton, an amiable peer a trifle too inclined toward the petticoat line. In fact the man could be an unconscionable flirt. On the whole he could not consider any gentleman with so dubious a reputation to be a suitable companion for a young lady as innocent as he deemed Miss Caldicot to be.

“Is that not the little Saunderton chit?” asked a woman’s voice behind him.

He glanced about to see a haughty dame of advancing years, her lorgnette leveled across the room. She had set off an elaborate gown of amber satin with a head of ostrich feathers dyed to match. Diamonds, every bit as famous as the lady herself, gleamed about the neck of Lady Grieves.

Her companion, the equally daunting Lady Templeton, raised her own lorgnette. “Do you mean that rather pretty girl with the officer?”

Lady Grieves gave an affected laugh. “Of course with an officer, my dear Amanda. One hears such rumors.”

“Tell me!” demanded Lady Templeton, all agog for the latest
on dit
.

“It seems she has been seen in Bath, in the Sydney Gardens. Clandestine meetings, one must suppose.” She dropped her lorgnette and lowered her voice though it retained its carrying quality. “And always officers, it is said.”

Miles clenched his teeth to keep from directing a much needed setdown to Lady Grieves. It would do Lucy irremediable harm if he came to points with two of society’s undisputed leaders. He would simply have to steer the girl away from anyone in a red coat for the next two months.

He wended his way through the tables until he reached Lucy’s. She glanced up at him and her eyes took on a wary expression. She knew perfectly well he didn’t approve, the little minx. For that matter, judging from the uneasy glance of her companion—the same officer to whom she’d been speaking earlier—his irritation must be clear to read on his face. With an effort he forced his countenance to betray nothing more than civil politeness. He awarded an acknowledging nod to the officer then turned to the girl. “I need to speak with you, Lucy.”

Her features set in a rebellious glower. “I am playing piquet, Miles.”

“You would oblige me by coming with me. If you will excuse us?” he added to her officer as he caught her elbow and drew her to her feet.

“I will go nowhere with you when you are being so disagreeable!” Lucy hissed at him.

“You will come at once if you wish to avoid a scandal.”

“Scandal?” Lucy’s voice squeaked on the word.

He drew her, no longer protesting, from the room and into a smaller chamber that had been closed off for the evening. He put his hand on her shoulder, leaning close so that what he said would be for her ears alone. In a few well chosen words he warned her of the conversation between the two influential ladies.

Lucy listened in silence, her eyes growing wider by the moment. When he finished she pulled away, tears brimming on her lashes. “How-how could they! No, I cannot believe it. You are making the whole of it up. You are quite hateful.”

He regarded her in a mixture of exasperation and sympathy. “It is far too easy to gain a reputation for being fast—however unjust it might be.”

She sniffed and the tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. “It is all so dreadfully unfair.”

“It is also the way of the world.” Miles frowned at her.

She blanched. “But I have not compromised myself. To even suggest such a thing is vastly unkind.”

“No, you have not yet. And if you will come with me I believe we may undo some of the damage by—”

She pulled away. “You are just trying to be managing and I won’t have it!” She turned on her heel only to come to an abrupt halt as she almost collided with the tiny figure of Miss Caldicot who stood just inside the doorway.

Her former instructress directed an icy glare at Miles. “At least you had the decency to draw her into another room before raking her over the coals. But did it not occur to you how singular it must look when it is seen that she has been crying? No, return to the others. I feel certain we shall do much better without you.”

And with that he found himself firmly closed out of the room.

Chapter Five

To Phoebe’s intense relief Lucy did not break down in tears. She compelled the girl to sit upon a sofa but though Lucy sniffed a few times she soon regained her composure. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and pronounced herself to be much better.

“He just will meddle so in what is, after all, my life. Oh Miss Caldicot, I have met the most wonderful gentleman! Any lady must be thrilled to have captured his attention. And here is Miles making any excuse he can find to prevent me from speaking with him.”

“Is that why he brought you in here just now?”

Her color heightened. “He said the most dreadful things to me. How could I possibly cause a scandal just by playing cards with Lieutenant Harwich?”

“He told you people are talking about you and other officers?”

Lucy stared at her aghast. “Do you mean it is true? You have heard those horrible rumors as well? Oh it is so unfair!”

“But you must see why it is unwise for you to be seen with another officer just at this moment,” Phoebe pointed out gently.

“But Lieutenant Harwich is different!” Lucy looked up, a smile trembling on her lips. “Oh Miss Caldicot, he is so very wonderful,” she rushed on as if the floodgates had been released. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on him I should love him forever. And it is exactly the same with him!”

“But—” Phoebe broke off, trying to sort out her thoughts. “This is not the same officer you met at the Sydney Gardens, is it?”

“No! No of course not. I met Lieutenant Harwich tonight. Lieutenant Gregory Harwich.”

“I see.” Phoebe considered this with no little concern. “And you knew at once?”

Lucy nodded, her eyes glowing. “Is it not the most romantic thing you ever dreamed of?”

“Unexpected, certainly. But in my experience, passions so quickly begun usually die just as fast.”

“Not this one,” Lucy averred. “You must help me, my dear Miss Caldicot. Miles will listen to you. You can make him understand I shall never love anyone else.”

Phoebe hesitated, picking her words with care. “I don’t believe your brother and I are on such terms that anything I might say would carry any weight with him.”

Dismay filled Lucy’s mobile countenance. “Promise me you will try,” she cried and continued her begging until Phoebe at last agreed to speak with her brother.

Of course, Phoebe reflected as she set forth upon her distasteful errand, she had made no commitment to Lucy about what she would actually say to Miles. Only that she would speak to him about his sister.

Certain the girl would remain in seclusion until she had recovered her countenance, Phoebe worked her way into the main drawing room then searched through the fashionables who spilled out into the adjoining rooms. When Xanthe had first spoken of a card party Phoebe had imagined a small gathering, perhaps ten people in all. But she must have counted more than fifty.

To her relief, she discovered Lucilla’s aunt in the second room she tried and the woman set forth at once to sit with her distressed niece. Sir Miles proved more difficult to find, but she spotted him at last on the far side of one of the card salons. He was easy to pick out, his restrained elegance showed in marked contrast to the excesses of the Tulips and Pinks. Only a single fob crossed the subdued brocade of his waistcoat and the ruby signet ring on his hand was not the least bit ostentatious as were so many she had seen. She had only to look for broad shoulders set off by a superbly cut coat and the muscled frame that must always proclaim him a Corinthian. Memory flooded through her of being lifted in those strong arms from her precarious perch atop an iron rail, of the feel of his fingers tight about her waist, of his air of amused confidence… Her cheeks burned.

At the moment he conversed with a rather pretty lady just past the bloom of youth but by no means marred by age. Their discussion seemed serious, or at least solemn and Phoebe hesitated to intrude. A certain understanding seemed to exist between the two as though they had known one another for a long time. Or perhaps it indicated something more?

Curiosity welled in her and she watched the lady covertly. She could detect no signs of humor in her docile eyes. In fact the lady didn’t seem at all suited to the lively humor that all too often overcame Sir Miles. But then perhaps he preferred a companion of a less animated turn of mind. She probably accepted—or even welcomed—his meddling in her affairs. Phoebe doubted an argument had ever sprung up between them.

She turned away and almost collided with a gentleman who had been walking at right angles to her. To her consternation she found herself staring at an elaborate brocade waistcoat shot through with gold thread and a coat of deep mulberry velvet. Her gaze traveled upward, past an impeccably tied cravat boasting a sapphire stickpin, into the handsome tanned face of the Marquis of Rushmere.

Rushmere. Phoebe stared at him, disoriented to see him here, so far from the Misses Crippenham’s Academy in Bath. But so many things had changed since last she’d seen him there.

He stared back. His expression of polite boredom faded behind a confident smile which in turn faded into a puzzled crease in his brow. “Do you know,” he said with the smile that had caused her former pupils to whisper his name in awe, “I feel certain we have been introduced yet I cannot imagine how I could have forgotten the name of any lady so lovely.”

He delivered the line with practiced ease but that didn’t detract from its charm in the least, she decided. She smiled back. “We have indeed met, my lord.”

A gleam lit his eyes. “Then I may claim you for a game of cards without the least impropriety. If you will grant me the pleasure?” He offered his arm.

“I cannot guarantee my ability will please you.”

“Sometimes,” he asserted in heart-melting tones, “the company more than makes up for the game.”

Another delightful line. But this one too sounded like the type a practiced flirt kept in his repertoire. Phoebe placed her fingers on his sleeve, flattered and not a little smug that he should bother to make her the object of his gallantries. For one reprehensible moment she wished Miss Georgeana Middleton or Lady Jane Hatcher could see her now, strolling off so casually with their idol. It quite set her up in her own conceit.

Of course if she were honest with herself—as she had a disconcerting tendency to be—she had to admit she could not think of a single reason why the marquis should single her out in so flattering a manner. Unless…

Xanthe. Had her fairy godmother released another of her “suggestions” in the marquis’s vicinity?

She allowed him to seat her at an empty table for two and as he broke the seal on a fresh pack of cards and sorted out the lower pips, she cast a surreptitious look about for Xanthe. And there she sat close by, indulging in a rather peculiar game of silver loo. Peculiar of course in that Xanthe’s wagers floated several inches above the cloth and not one of the other players seemed to notice that her coins rainbowed through a sparkling array of color or that the size of her cards shifted with carefree abandon.

Xanthe, it appeared, enjoyed herself. Did she intend for Phoebe to do so also? Or had she some greater purpose in mind? A nobleman of Rushmere’s rank would not pay attention to a penniless ex-schoolmistress without a little outside influence.

As the marquis dealt she considered the possibilities. Rushmere had been the epitome of her students’ dreams for so long, the object of their gossip and sighs, she had come to include him in a few daydreams of her own. Had Xanthe known this when she gifted Phoebe with a wish for a husband? And if so, then was Rushmere more than a confidence-building interlude? Might he be the answer she sought?

Marriage to a marquis. That would be quite in keeping with the doings of a fairy godmother. For it would take a fairy godmother to bring it about. It seemed she would have to give serious consideration to such an arrangement.

They declared point, sequence and sets and the game began. As Rushmere took the first trick he directed at her that dazzling smile that would have sent one or two of her pupils—such as Miss Hanna Brookstone or Miss Sophronia Farhnam—off into a swoon of ecstasy. “Why can I not recall where we have met before, Miss—” He broke off, inviting her to provide her name.