Lady Dearing's Masquerade (4 page)

“No, of—of course not,” Adolphus blustered.

“Allow me to reassure you that I intend to live a very long and very happy life,” she said consolingly.

Adolphus gulped. “But Sophronia and I cannot help but wonder if you might be happier in Rome or Greece. You cannot enjoy your present position in English society.”

“I am quite resigned to my lot.”

“You cannot mean that. You are not received anywhere!”

Livvy nearly giggled at her nephew’s thunderstruck expression. He and Sophronia could imagine no worse fate than social ostracism. But painful as the scandal following the masquerade had been, she had come to learn that a reputation ruined beyond repair—along with a fine estate and a generous jointure—meant unprecedented freedom for a widow.

“I am content with the friends I have,” she replied.

“Yes, I know, Viscount Debenham and his wife. I cannot imagine how they can bear to visit with you, when you live as you do. Are you not aware of how your behavior reflects on me and Sophronia? On little Walter?”

“I do not know why it should.”

“How can it not? Are you unaware of what is said about you?”

“My dear nephew, I am afraid common report has slightly exaggerated the number of my
amours
.”

Adolphus reddened like a girl. The self-conscious prig!

“But I am content,” she continued. “I have my music, my garden and the children to keep me very well entertained.”

“Yes, the children . . .”

One of his eyelids began to twitch; a sure indication that she’d reached the crux of his problem.

“What about the children?” she asked with deceptive calm.

“Well, there’s a new rumor.”

“Yes?”

“It’s being said that the little one—er—”

“Robbie. His name is Robbie. They all have names, you know,” she said, picturing four dear faces in her mind. Philippa, Ben, Mary and Robbie. Her children, and Adolphus was worse than an idiot to think he could part her from them.

“It’s being said that he must be yours. Of course I realize the complete impossibility of such a thing!” he said with false sympathy dripping from his tone.

Livvy bit her lip. What a cruel, small-minded
thing
he was to remind her of her failure to produce an heir for Walter.

“But think how sad if a son of mine had cut you and little Walter out of the title and estate,” she murmured.

Adolphus reddened again, but his small eyes flashed. “I bore too much affection for my uncle to feel anything but regret that he never had the joy of fathering a son,” he replied loftily. “It grieves me that you have so little respect for his memory, living as you do, taking in those little bast—”

He broke off as Livvy leapt from her chair.

“Do not call the children that again,” she said, staring down at him contemptuously.

He cringed, plucking at his diamond pin. “B-but that’s what they are, after all.”

“They are innocent children,” she replied, resuming her seat. “Foundlings. Yes, some or all of them may be illegitimate, but I for one cannot hold their parents’ transgressions against them.”

“Such charitable sentiments may be admirable, but I don’t know why you cannot content yourself with making a modest donation to the Foundling Hospital,” he said peevishly. “Why must you take such children into your care? Whatever you say, they are not the innocents you make them out to be. I am sure the staff at the Hospital were more than happy to see them go!”

“They knew these children required more attentive care than they could provide.”

“What of the damage they may cause the house and grounds? Have you thought of that? Your father could not possibly have intended this when he settled Rosemead on you.”

“Papa only wished to make provision for me and any children I might have. You must content yourself with the knowledge that when I am gone, Rosemead will go to you and your heirs.”

If only her marriage settlements did not preclude her from bequeathing the property to the Foundling Hospital! It was the one thing she would change if she could. Papa had never dreamed she would not have children of her own to provide for. Having no other family, Papa had set up the default clause leaving the estate to Walter and his heirs, but he had not truly expected it would be invoked.

Only her remarriage could prevent it, but that was out of the question.

She rose from her chair and once more smiled sweetly at Adolphus, who was obliged out of politeness to rise as well.

“In the meantime,” she said, “I am mistress at Rosemead. You will have to trust that I shall keep it in good repair for you. Now I have a number of matters to attend to. I am sure you will excuse me.”

He got up, his face reddening, but his eyelid continued to twitch. No doubt his failure to win her cooperation would result in a dreadful scold from his darling Sophronia.

“You will not reconsider what we have discussed?” he asked, his voice rising to a squeak.

“Very well,” she replied. For a few seconds, she assumed a thoughtful expression, then shook her head. “No, I am extremely sorry but I still must decline your kind offer.”

“You cannot have given it any thought!” he sputtered, dragging his heels as he followed her out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall where her butler awaited with his overcoat, hat and cane. Dear old Thurlow! Always ready to rid her of unwelcome visitors.

“Perhaps—perhaps if the amount is insufficient—shall we consider increasing it to fifteen thousand—” Adolphus said quickly in a low voice, embarrassed by Thurlow’s presence.

“Do not distress yourself! There is no sum large enough to persuade me to leave Rosemead.”

Livvy bit her lip to keep from laughing at her nephew’s appalled expression. He muttered something indistinguishable as Thurlow helped him into his greatcoat, then made an ungraceful bow and turned to leave.

“Please send my love to Sophronia! And little Walter!” she called after him.

She smiled wickedly, seeing his back stiffen at her words.

At least it was his back she was seeing.

Glancing at the clock on the hall mantel, she saw it was over an hour before the children and their governess departed for their daily ramble in the Park. Excellent! An hour of painting would restore her mood before she rejoined them.

“Thank you, Thurlow,” she said, smiling at the elderly butler. “Now please see that I am not disturbed for the next hour.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hurried to the salon at the northeast corner of the house that she used as a studio, eager to work out the poison of Adolphus’s visit. Despite her relish at having won this latest encounter, she was conscious of a faint sick feeling to her stomach. Adolphus would hurt her if he could. But he could not. Bless Papa for having ensured her financial independence with the most scrupulously worded of marriage settlements! Adolphus could scheme, but he had no power to coerce her.

As for his mean-spirited remarks, well, such things no longer distressed her. Much.

She put a smock over her green muslin morning gown, thinking over what he’d said about her fall from grace. The truth was there were times she missed the pleasures of society, though not enough to take up the Debenhams’ offer to try to reestablish her character. Harriet and Julian were dears, but she had gratefully declined putting them in the awkward position of defending her. They had a new baby to occupy them, too.

It would have been different had she had children of her own, of course. But the children she cared for now would never enter that polite world, and she herself had learned that there was a wealth of meaningful activities to be enjoyed outside the
Beau Monde
. She’d recreated her life as she willed, and it was nearly perfect as it was.

Nearly.

She turned her attention to the canvas. The muddled image on it bore little resemblance to the earthenware jug of daffodils and hyacinths resting on a table by the wall, backed by a scrap of blue velvet. Surely it would improve with some work. She set to painting with a will, relishing the squishy feel of the oil paints, the tactile pleasure of pushing them recklessly around the canvas. Even the sharp smell of the paint was delightful.

She dabbed her brush into the yellow ochre, then realized she’d overloaded it when a splotch flew to a section of the canvas where there should have been only blue velvet. She smiled at her clumsiness, rather liking the way the golden color contrasted against the deep blue. She flicked another drop of paint against the blue background, then another. Perhaps she would start a new fashion.

Perhaps not, she decided a minute later, ruefully surveying the canvas. Since her schoolgirl days she’d been able to execute a creditable watercolor, but oil painting was a new departure. Perhaps lessons would help. In the meantime, she would scrape the mess off the canvas and try again.

She cocked her head at the picture once more, and laughed. Perhaps she should just frame it and send it to Adolphus and Sophronia as a present! But no, it really was no fun unless they actually felt obliged to display the awful thing. At least imagining them doing so put her in a better frame of mind. Adolphus was just a nuisance; a useful reminder of Walter and the life she’d left behind three years ago, which made her present bliss all the sweeter.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly time for her ramble with the children. Quickly, she began to set her brushes to soak, but dropped the last one as a voice rang out from the direction of the entrance hall.

“I must see Lady Dearing,” the masculine voice said, in tones that were rich and urgent.

An unforgettable voice: a low, mellow baritone that resonated within her somehow.

Dizziness overcame her. How she’d longed to hear that voice, after that malicious article had mistakenly coupled her name with that of Lord Arlingdale, as doors had closed to her, as renewed friendships had faded and gentlemen of every description had tested their chances with the debauched widow who’d come to London seeking a lover. And he’d stayed away, whether from indifference or cowardice, she never knew.

He’d seemed so . . .
kind.

Now he was here, rolling back months of pain and years of adjustment, tipping her world edgeways.

Why now?

She stole out of the room, quietly heading toward the entrance. Thurlow’s voice sounded, too low for her to quite make out the words though she guessed he was trying to repel her visitor.

“No, I am
not
here to impose on her!” the stranger insisted.

The vehemence in his voice caused her to stumble. She missed his next words. Did it matter? Perhaps he’d been confused by the rumors about her and Lord Arlingdale. Perhaps he’d just discovered what had truly happened. Perhaps . . .

She reached the hall at a run, then stopped, breathless, to lock eyes with the man standing beside her butler.

Dear God, it was he! As tall as she remembered, his shoulders as broad. The folds of his greatcoat were flung back, revealing a sober black coat, a gray waistcoat buttoned over a flat stomach, dove-colored riding breeches molded over muscular legs. His hair was dark, a bit long, curling over a broad forehead. His chin firm, with the hint of a cleft, his lips as firm, as beautifully curved as she remembered. And his eyes—oh, those eyes! Framed by thick lashes, they were huge and dark. Focused, melting her with their intensity.

And completely lacking even the slightest glimmer of recognition.

Chapter 3

Livvy’s cheeks burned. Heavens, she’d all but flung herself into the arms of a man who was now regarding her as a complete stranger!

“My apologies, Lady Dearing,” he said. “It seems I have come at an inconvenient time, but my business is important.”

His face had darkened, as if he too was conscious of having locked gazes for a shockingly long interval. Still there was no hint that he recognized her. On the other hand, she was more certain than ever. There was no mistaking those eyes, that chin, those lips. Or that deep, rippling voice that instantly transported her back three years.

Apprehension pierced her reawakened yearning for him. If he did not remember her, why was he here?

Before she could say anything, Thurlow coughed.

“I did tell him you were not at home to visitors, my lady,” he said apologetically.

“It is no matter. I had finished painting for the day,” she replied, trying not to stare at her visitor.

“I am Sir Jeremy Fairhill,” he said, handing her the card he’d been holding in his hand. “I am one of the Governors of the Foundling Hospital.”

She stared at the card, marshaling her thoughts. “Has—has one of the children’s parents come forward, perhaps?” she asked, unable to keep a quiver from her voice.

“Not exactly,” he replied, eyeing her intently. “May I suggest we sit down to discuss the matter?”

A sense of foreboding came over Livvy at his unrevealing tone, and his critical scrutiny. She did not think he recognized her, but was instead summing her up for some other reason. Had some new bit of gossip caused the Governors to reconsider her fitness to care for the children?

She reached a hand down to smooth her gown, instead finding the flannel of her painting smock. Good God! She must look a complete lunatic, and yes, there was a dab of yellow paint on her cheek! She saw it reflected in the mirror across the room.

“I—I shall be delighted to speak to you, Sir Jeremy. Thurlow, please show Sir Jeremy to the drawing room. Do you wish for some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?”

“I require nothing.”

Sir Jeremy’s tone was curt. She risked a peek at his face and saw to her dismay that his jaw was set in a disapproving line.

He
did
know her reputation, clearly.

“Then please excuse me,” she said in a low voice. “I shall return in just a few minutes.”

As Sir Jeremy followed Thurlow to the drawing room, Livvy fled up the stairs.

Sir Jeremy Fairhill . . . The name was familiar. Yes, Lord Bromhurst had spoken of Sir Jeremy’s efforts to raise funds for the construction of a branch hospital. An eminently worthy man, then.  A man of charity, who had kissed her into delirium against a pillar at the Pantheon Theatre. A member of the Foundling Hospital’s Board of Governors, who could take away her children at will.