Fran Baker (17 page)

Crossing toward them, Stratford had caught this last and said with rare affection, “I, too, long to see such a meeting. But Miss Lawrence has virtually disappeared. I’ve not had the fortune to see her all week. Where has she been hiding?”

“Why, she has been touring the sights with Mr. Baldwin,” Helen answered without regarding her effect. When she went on to innocently inform Stratford of the constant attention his cousin was devoting to her sister, she was unaware of the depth of his displeasure, for he covered it well. He asked in an even tone where the two of them had ventured.

“I do not know precisely where they have been each day, but I do know that today they were to see the London Tower. Rose has a guidebook, you see, which tells about all the sights to be seen in the metropolis.”

“Do you think, Helen, that there is anything . . . of a serious nature . . . between them?” Stratford asked with a casual air.

“In truth, I have been wondering . . .” she replied slowly. Then looking at him with a tremulous smile, she added, “But would it not be the most tremendous thing! We could perhaps have a double wedding!”

This pleasant prospect did not appear to afford his lordship with much satisfaction. Perceiving this, Maret led the conversation onto a less volatile path, helping to surmount any obstacles during the remainder of the visit.

Though he lingered as long as was socially acceptable, Lord Stratford was again denied the opportunity of seeing Miss Lawrence, for she had not returned before he and Maret rose to leave. The viscount strenuously suppressed an impulse to travel home by way of the London Tower, proceeding instead to Gentleman Jackson’s Salon in Bond Street, where he expelled his excess of repressed choler by sparring with the great man himself. Jackson was heard to remark that m’lord would do better if he could but keep his passions out of the business.

Had he so desired, Mr. Maret could have enlightened Jackson, for he well knew that Colin Phillips never kept his passions out of any matter.

*****

The Viscount Stratford was not alone in his disparagement of the possible pairing of his cousin Baldwin and Miss Rose Lawrence. Amelia Thacker had grown increasingly downhearted during the week, and upon Rose’s return from the Tower, she loudly announced she had the headache and flounced from the sitting room. Rose accepted her young cousin’s departure with equanimity and sat talking with her aunt for a full hour before excusing herself to make her way upstairs.

Entering Amy’s room before the sound of her knock had died away, Rose found her cousin sitting before her gilt dressing table, staring morosely into her mirrored reflection.

“I trust the headache is better?” Rose asked as she came to stand behind Amy.

“Yes, thank you,” sniped the girl.

“You know, Amy, I had the oddest notion that you were suffering from something quite different.”

“Did you?”

“Well, yes, I must own I’ve been thinking you to be in love,” Rose admitted.

“Love—ha! And with whom, I pray you, should I be in love?”

“Oh, someone like . . . Mr. Baldwin, perhaps?”

“Mr. Baldwin is stuffy!” Amy enunciated firmly. “He—he thinks I am nothing but a sad flirt.”

“Well, and so you are,” Rose agreed. Before the indignant young lady could remark to the contrary, Rose went serenely on, “But you are not
wild
, Amy. Mr. Baldwin knows this, surely.”

“He is stupid and stuffy and I’m sure I do not care in the least what he thinks!” she declared dejectedly. After a moment, she added, “At any rate, I have been thinking Mr. Baldwin has shown a decided partiality for
you
, Rose. Have you—have you not formed a
tendre
for him?” she asked in the voice of one not desiring to receive an answer.

“Oh, Amy, don’t be absurd!” Rose replied on a laugh. “I am no longer of an age for such fancies.”

Though many would have argued this point, Amy seemed much struck with the force of this sensible argument, and a smile spread over her lips. In a moment, however, an unhappy thought effectively removed the smile.

“Still, it is apparent that Mr. Baldwin has formed one for you,” she insisted glumly.

“Well, you know, I’ve not wanted to mention is, Amy, not knowing how you would feel about such a thing, but it’s my belief that Mr. Baldwin has been escorting me about town just to have an excuse to call here and perhaps see you. His eyes always follow you when you’re in the room, you know.”

“No—do they?” Amy breathed.

“Indeed they do,” Rose assured her with a smile. “Mr. Baldwin needs only to realize what a very well-behaved girl you can be to get over his priggish attitude.”

Amy cupped her chin in her hand and stared thoughtfully at her cousin. “You think that if I act prettily and don’t flirt overmuch at Helen’s ball, Mr. Baldwin will no longer hold me in dislike?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh.” She sat digesting this. As Rose got up to leave, however, she broke from her reverie to ask, “Would you like to wear my silver ribbon at the ball? You may—I shan’t be wearing it.”

Rose accepted her cousin’s burst of generosity, then left her to ruminate further on the arts of catching a man—even a man as stuffy, as obstinate and as, in Amy’s view, adorable as Daniel Baldwin.

Chapter 12

One pale hand brushed a blond lock off his brow as Maret listened to the viscount’s description of his afternoon session at Manton’s Shooting Gallery. They stood within the Thacker’s elegantly formal withdrawing room, both wearing the finest full evening dress. The stark black favored by Maret heightened the ethereal effect of his pallid coloring, while Stratford’s deep blue velvet intensified his own darkling good looks. His lordship appeared even more than usually restive, but this, Maret supposed, would be natural in a man on the night of his public betrothal.

The opening door disrupted Stratford’s tale as the men turned to watch Elizabeth Thacker glide forward. “Forgive us! Shocking of us to greet you so late, I know, but we’ve been at sixes and sevens the whole of the day.” Her broad smile charmed them both as with a swish of her aqua empire gown she sat upon a rosewood sofa with scroll end.

Entering quietly behind her aunt, Helen was utterly dazzling in a white India muslin gown embroidered with gold threat and with a long train coming off the shoulders. She curtseyed in a very pretty manner, then said as she gave her gloved hand to her fiancé, “Amy and Rose send their apologies. A last minute tear in Amy’s gown has delayed them, but they shall join us directly.”

“Dear child,” put in her aunt with a comic smile, “if I live through this ball of yours, I swear I’ll not give another! Amy shall have to make for Gretna Green. You cannot imagine, my good men, what last minute crises I’ve been put to averting all day.”

Her light-hearted air set the conversation traveling along droll lines as they awaited the rest of the dinner party. Soon the drawing room doors opened upon a liveried servant who made the stentorian announcement that Lady Minerva Baldwin and Mr. Daniel Baldwin had arrived.

Remembering their last meeting only too clearly, Lady Minerva greeted her nephew with the merest inclination of her elaborately turbaned head a she swept past him to place her plump form next to her friend Elizabeth. By contrast, she extended a regal hand to Jacques and begged him to favor her with the name of his tailor, for whatever may be said of him, no one could ever fault the cut of his clothes and Daniel would do well to call upon Maret’s tailor as soon as may be.

Having long ago acquired the art of charming ladies, old and young alike, Stratford promptly presented himself before her and, bowing with an exaggerated flourish, said teasingly, “You see before you, dearest aunt, a miserable nephew anxious to make amends. He is even willing to go so far as to praise vociferously that golden headdress which now reposes so brilliantly upon your glorious curls.”

His tone was engaging; his smile even more so, and Minerva could not resist. Slapping at his wrist with her carved fan, she exclaimed, “Oh, Stratford. You are a sad rogue, indeed. It’s a wonder that Miss Helen is willing to have you, and so I declare!”

“I quite agree—it is a great wonder,” he murmured as he straightened to salute his cousin.

The latest breach between Daniel and his titled cousin had never been properly healed, but outward relations between them had remained cordial enough. Tonight, however, it was to be noted that this lordship was decidedly cool toward Baldwin.

Stratford’s humor did not improve when, on the opening of the double doors, Daniel became rather more keenly attentive. It was not to be known that the cause for his sudden interest was the pert blonde in the dashing primrose evening dress flounced with lace, for Miss Lawrence entered directly behind her, to stunning effect.

With his quizzing glass raised to view her, Maret lamented to his friend in a sleepy undertone, “But, my dear Stratford, you told me she was quite plain.”

The viscount did not reply. He simply stood and stared.

Feeling her age no longer required the unbecoming pastels demanded of a debutante, Rose had chosen a gauze gown decorated with silver rosettes worn over a dove gray satin sheath, the color of which perfectly matched her enormous eyes. A silvery gauze shawl was cunningly draped over her arms and allowed to trail behind her, providing adornment as no amount of jewelry could have done.

But it was her hair that commanded his lordship’s attention. Having previously been hidden by a succession of spinsterish caps, the soft brown radiance had been unexpected. Like Helen’s, Rose’s hair was not fashionably cropped, but kept long in a profusion of gentle curls. For the occasion, she had piled her hair into an artful topknot, threaded with the silver ribbon so generously offered by Amy, with tendrils tumbling over her ears. Gazing at the warm blend of color, Stratford was reminded of the patina of some richly mellowed wood.

Helen darted forward to take Rose’s hand, guiding her to the gentlemen, where she shyly introduced her to Mr. Maret. He took Miss Lawrence’s hand and held it for a still moment as he searched her eyes.

“I am honored,” he said at last, lightly caressing her fingertips with his lips.

Rose, for her part, examined him just as directly. Despite the studied languor, she recognized the intelligence behind the sleepy eyes and the strength of character beneath the elegant clothes. She decided that, wager or not, she liked what she saw.

“The honor, Mr. Maret, is mine,” she replied. “I’ve heard a great deal of you, you must know, and have long anticipated this pleasure.”

A smile graced his lips. “Ah, but you must put aside whatever you have heard, my dear, for the half of it, I am persuaded, can do me no justice at all, while the other half does me rather too much justice.”

Her honeyed laughter enchanted him as much as it had the viscount. His lordship took the moment to make his own greeting of her, saying, “It is becoming a novel experience to see you, Miss Lawrence. Have you quite finished with all the sights to be seen in the metropolis?”

“Oh, I am quite certain, my lord, that you could show me a few not even mentioned in my guidebook,” she returned, laughing.

Their attention was captured just then by the announcement of dinner and the small party proceeded to the formal dining room to pass a pleasant interlude preceding the ball. Sitting at opposite ends of the lengthy table, Stratford was granted no further opportunity for speech with Rose, but throughout the meal, his eyes wandered often toward the spot where she sat next to Daniel. Conversation was light and witty, the food savory and fulfilling, and the small company at last rose from the table satisfied with it and with each other.

Within the hour, Brook Street was the scene of a bustling fervor as carriages, coaches and vehicles of all kinds rolled forward to dispense their occupants at the front of the well-lit town house. Footmen ushered the arrivals within, removing cloaks and capes, walking sticks and hats, before each guest mounted the stairs to formally greet their hostess in the threshold of the elaborately decorated ballroom.

Not wishing to copy Mrs. Knight’s recent success with silk hangings, or to resort to following Lady Holloway’s lead in festooning her rooms with fresh flowers, Elizabeth had shrewdly struck upon the notion of placing mirrors throughout her rooms. The prismatic reflection of shimmering candles, sparkling gems and splendid gowns was stunning. In addition, small bits of mirror hung from the ceiling with ribbons, creating a celestial glitter much admired by her guests.

Music penetrated the air as Lord Stratford led Miss Helen to the head of the first set. Other couples fell in behind them, and Rose was gratified to see her cousin wreathed in smiles as she took to the floor on the arm of Mr. Baldwin. Mindful of Rose’s advice, Amy behaved with an unsurpassed decorum and was so gracious toward her partner that the two were soon in perfect charity with one another.

Sitting on one of the armless Sheraton chairs lining the walls, Rose placidly watched the colorful activity around her.

“May I request the honor of this dance, Miss Lawrence?” a lazy voice inquired.

She turned her head to behold the lithe figure of Jacques Maret. “I do not intend to dance, sir.”

“Ah, then I intend to sit with you.” He put his words easily to action, settling beside her. “I have heard, Miss Lawrence, that you old Lord Stratford to dislike.”

She followed the direction of his gaze to study Stratford as he moved with graceful ease through the dance with Helen. She then turned to scrutinize the long, thin face of her companion before saying, “You have been misinformed.”

“Indeed?”

She ignored this weary inquiry to observe, ‘I’d not have thought that the two of you would make close friends.”

“Stratford is somewhat . . . shall we say, energetic.”

“But he is your friend nonetheless,” she persisted.

“He is my friend.”

It was simply said, but she was conscious of a sudden desire to change topics. Several impartial subjects were covered, with Rose being kept much amused by Maret’s air of fatigue, when toward the end of the first set, he commented, “I trust you will change your mind about dancing, Miss Lawrence.”