Authors: Janice Bennett
“Or she’ll run off with him,” he countered.
“Only if you raise so much opposition that she feels it to be her only choice.”
He regarded her in exasperation. “Do you enjoy trying to manage everyone’s affairs, or merely my sister’s?”
Her color darkened. “I don’t know why I waste my time talking to you. If I hadn’t promised Lucy—” She broke off. Without another word she strode from the room.
So Lucy had begged her to intervene. He should have guessed.
He did not, as temper urged him, leave the party. That would be to allow Lucilla free rein in her folly since Aunt Jane seemed to forget her role of chaperon the moment one of her cronies sat at her side. Instead he joined his sister and Lieutenant Harwich and forced himself to be polite to the man. He found it a strain but the surprised and gratified glances directed at him by Lucy made the effort worthwhile. The irritating suspicion that Miss Caldicot might perhaps be right upon this one point galled him.
He didn’t speak to Miss Caldicot again that night except to take his leave. In the morning, somewhat to his surprised annoyance, she did not emerge from her house to indulge in an early ride. He took his exercise alone and found this normally enjoyable pastime did little to ease his growing temper. He returned early only to pace restlessly about the house until his aunt objected that she would never know a moment’s peace as long as he remained indoors. Miles took the hint and departed for his club.
By the time he had enjoyed a few hands of piquet with Charles Dauntry, visited his tailor, ordered a new pair of riding boots and talked Wolverhampton out of purchasing an overly ornate snuffbox, it was time to change into riding dress and join the fashionable promenade through Hyde Park. He found his aunt laid down upon her bed recruiting her energies for the evening’s jollifications and his sister already departed in the company of Lady Xanthe, Miss Caldicot and Hanna Brookstone. Miles sent for Cuthbert and set off in pursuit of the ladies.
They were surprisingly easy to find though not easy to reach. Lady Xanthe’s barouche stood to the side of the carriage drive about halfway around the circuit, surrounded by a horde of gentlemen on horseback who resolved themselves into Simon Ashby, Charles Dauntry, Viscount Wolverhampton and the Marquis of Rushmere. Miles urged Cuthbert forward and worked his way into the throng.
“Miles!” Lucy waved gaily at him as he maneuvered into position between the marquis and Dauntry. “Rushmere has just suggested the most wonderful scheme. We are all to be his guests for a tour of Hampton Court!”
Miles turned to the marquis who sat astride a large lanky black with a flashy blaze and stocking. “And when is this expedition to be?”
“Three days hence, if that is convenient?” He spoke to them all but his gaze rested on Miss Caldicot, making it abundantly clear for whose pleasure he had planned this party.
It was Lady Xanthe who answered. “It is very kind of you, to be sure but I quite regret that Mrs. Mannering and I have other plans.”
Lucilla turned to her, her face a picture of dismay. “Aunt Jane cannot go? Oh that is too dreadful. It would have been the most delightful of treats.”
“There is no need to fret, my dear.” Xanthe bestowed a smile on her. “I daresay there need not be the least objection to your brother acting as your escort. And if you are both to go, then I need not scruple to permit Phoebe to make one of the party.”
Lucy brightened and turned toward him. “Oh, pray say we may go, Miles.”
“Yes,” Rushmere awarded him a civil smile. “Do say you will come.”
Miles experienced an overwhelming temptation to claim a prior engagement simply to scotch the man’s plans. But if he did the marquis might well find another way to spend the day in Miss Caldicot’s company, which Miles felt was an occurrence to be prevented. He forced a smile and said, “I shall look forward to it,” and did an admirable job of keeping his sarcasm from sounding in his voice.
“Excellent.” Rushmere eyed the group. “Miss Caldicot, will you do me the honor of riding with me in my curricle?”
A delicate flush tinged Miss Caldicot’s cheeks. Very becomingly, at that. What right had Rushmere to make her blush with pleasure? But as long as that unprincipled rake gave her no other cause, he would be satisfied.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
The marquis beamed at her. “Then I shall call for you on Thursday at nine in the morning. If you will excuse me? I have more invitations to extend.” He swept off his hat in farewell but his smiling gaze lingered on Miss Caldicot a moment before he wheeled his horse and rode off.
The situation might be worse, Miles reflected as the barouche maneuvered once more into the line of traffic. Ashby, Dauntry and Wolverhampton trailed after it with Miles remaining close to the carriage. At least Lieutenant Gregory Harwich was not likely to make up one of the party. That meant for once he could relax his vigil on Lucy—and direct it instead toward protecting Miss Caldicot.
That young lady said something which he didn’t quite hear but Lucy, who sat at her side, laughed gaily. “It is you who has been singled out for this honor. Do you honestly believe for a moment he would have invited any of the rest of us had we not been in your company?”
Which was exactly what Miles was thinking but he didn’t like the idea any better when his sister voiced it.
“Oh, if only the other girls at school could see this,” giggled Hanna Brookstone. “He is their idol, dear Lady Xanthe, yet it is our own Miss Caldicot he seeks out.”
“They would refuse to believe it,” said Lucy.
Miss Caldicot directed a quelling glance first at Lucy then at Hanna. “I too refuse to believe it so let us have no more of this nonsense, please.”
“But he is quite one of the most sought-after gentlemen in London,” cried Hanna. “And since the death of his wife he has had uncounted caps set at him. Oh Miss Caldicot, just think if he should offer for you! That would be such a triumph for he is quite the greatest matrimonial prize imaginable, not to mention being such a dashing romantic gentleman.” The girl blinked at her former instructress. “You do not look pleased.”
Miss Caldicot cast an odd glance at her godmother. “It seems such a very unlikely thing for him to do, does it not?”
Lady Xanthe returned the regard with unusual solemnity. “Should you like it?”
Lucy laughed. “Of course she would. Why, any lady would be in alt at the mere prospect!”
Miss Caldicot shook her head. “This is all the most complete nonsense. He is merely indulging in a flirtation, probably being kind because I was one of his daughter’s instructresses. He doesn’t mean anything by it. I would be foolish beyond permission if I were to refine upon his attentions.”
And that, Miles reflected, was the most sensible speech he had ever heard made by a marriageable young lady. Now if only he could convince himself she meant it.
* * * * *
Xanthe knelt in the corner of her room, rummaging through the collection of beeswax tapers that lay in the box on the floor. She hesitated over her choice then drew out three of the candles, one of pink for love, one of light blue to open understanding and one of white to ward away doubts and fears. Humming softly, she arranged them in holders on the lace cloth.
A curious
myap
sound came from the bed where Titus lay with his tail wrapped about his body, watching.
“Because she used a candle when she made her original wish,” Xanthe told the feline. “Make yourself useful and come breathe on the flames.”
The cat unwound himself, stretched luxuriously then sprang lightly from the coverlet, sauntered across the room and in one leap landed before the tapers she arranged in a triangle. He sniffed each one then looked at her expectantly.
“She’s very difficult,” Xanthe told Titus who merely flicked an ear in response. She regarded him with a touch of exasperation. “Well what would you call someone who cannot see the obvious? She looks for her answer everywhere except in the right place.”
Titus made a derisive sound.
She shook her head. “Coming right out and simply telling someone their answer never works. You know that. She has to find it out for herself.”
The very tip of Titus’ tail twitched and he emitted a silent meow.
Xanthe’s mischievous smile flashed. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not actually telling her anything. I doubt she’d listen anyway. I’m just nudging things a little.”
Titus didn’t deign to reply. He merely sat back on his haunches, waiting.
“I just thought it might be helpful,” she said and her voice took on a defensive note, “if one or two people were to display their true natures.”
Titus regarded her, unblinking.
Xanthe stared at the cat but no further comments were forthcoming. Satisfied, she began to hum softly as she inscribed an ancient symbol directly in front of the candles and all three burst into flame. The sweet scents of rose, cardamom and lavender mingled in the air and a trace of smoke rose from each taper, spiraling upward, intertwining in a mystic dance. Xanthe rubbed her hands together, her humming changed to a mysterious lilting tune and she got down to business.
Chapter Seven
The day of the expedition to Hampton Court dawned bright and clear, the deep blue of the sky accented by puffy white clouds. It still lacked a quarter of an hour before nine—the appointed time when Rushmere would drive his curricle to the door at Half Moon Street—but Phoebe waited, already gowned in a carriage dress of bottle green muslin.
She turned from her bedroom window and regarded her reflection once more in the cheval glass. “I think it looked better in that lighter shade,” she said after a moment.
Xanthe, who had seated herself hovering cross-legged four feet in the air—the better to see her protégé from all angles, she had said, though Phoebe strongly suspected she did it merely for the fun of it—floated closer then down to the same level as Phoebe. “I’ve been thinking—” She broke off and hummed a single bar then said, “Look again. Do you not think the russet hue is vastly becoming?”
A meow sounded from the window and Titus turned to regard them, the tip of his tail twitching.
“Your marquis,” Xanthe informed her, “has just turned onto the street.”
Phoebe, who had reached for her bonnet, stopped. She turned her serious regard on her godmother. “Is he?
My
marquis, I mean?”
Xanthe smiled that mysterious smile that gave nothing away. “Don’t you know?”
Phoebe set the bonnet on her head and tied the ribands into a bow. “No,” she said at last. “I don’t.”
“Well.” Xanthe bestowed that aggravating smile on her once more. “You had best go down if you do not want to keep him waiting.”
Why can Xanthe not give me a definite answer?
Phoebe reflected as she descended the stairs to the hall. If one’s fairy godmother presented one with a marquis, one would be foolish to whistle him down the wind. Yet despite Rushmere’s attentiveness since her arrival in town Phoebe could not be certain of the outcome of this wish of hers.
She had expected to fall head over heels in love, she supposed. Only she hadn’t. She was flattered by his attentions of course. She was vividly aware of the social and financial advantages of the union. Such a husband could ease Thomas’ future in a manner that could not help but make a loving sister recognize her obvious duty. So today she would take a long look at Rushmere to discover in him why it was that Xanthe had produced him for her.
As she reached the foot of the stair the knocker sounded on the door. She stepped quickly into the Ivory Salon, waiting for one of the servants to open to him. Her gown, she noted with a touch of amusement, had returned to the flattering pale green she had liked. Peeping out the window, she beheld not the sporting racing curricle she had expected but a high-perch phaeton, a treacherous vehicle and driven unicorn at that. Rushmere himself sat on the precarious seat, walking his team of three very flashy blacks. He had sent his groom to announce his arrival. That disturbed her—though he probably entrusted those remarkable cattle of his to no one. She returned to the hall, thanked Arthur and accompanied the groom down the steps to await the return of the dashing equipage.
The Saundertons’ groom drove up and Miles and Lucilla emerged from their house. Lucy greeted her with delight, hurrying over to join her. “It is going to be so much fun,” she cried as she reached Phoebe. “Oh my dear Miss Caldicot, I am so looking forward to this.”
The mischievous twinkle in her eye did not escape Phoebe’s notice. The girl had been up to something but what it was she couldn’t tell. She determined to keep an eye on her, though what trouble even so enterprising a young lady as Lucy could get into at Hampton Court while a member of a private party and under her brother’s chaperonage at that, she couldn’t tell.
The phaeton appeared again and Miles’ eyebrows rose. “An unusual choice of vehicle,” he said.
“What a-a mark of honor,” Lucy cried. “He must be determined for you to have the greatest treat today.” She sighed. “How much I wish some gentleman would make such romantic gestures for me.”
“Romantic perhaps,” said Miles dryly. “But deucedly uncomfortable I should imagine.”
Rushmere drew abreast of them then swung down from his precarious perch to assist Phoebe up to the seat. This proved no easy feat to accomplish but Phoebe at last achieved her goal amid considerable laughter which she hoped hid a touch of embarrassment. Rushmere mounted with the ease of practice, setting the vehicle swaying in a manner that left Phoebe a touch queasy. Miles and Lucilla, she noted, already waited in the curricle.