Nina Coombs Pykare (5 page)

“Thank you.” The man actually glowered. “Such intimate details ought not to be public knowledge.”

“Quite true,” agreed Licia. “But since Aunt Hortense and Penelope and I and your mama—and even you—have failed to make an impression on Mama, there seems little more we can do.”

“Licia is quite right,” said Penelope. “Tell me, David, have you time to drive us to Queen Anne’s Street?”

Licia caught her breath. That was the place of Turner’s gallery. What was Penelope planning?

“And what do you fancy there?” Ravenworth asked pleasantly.

“Mama is considering purchasing a Turner. And I am commissioned to choose it. I could use your advice on the matter.”

“Certainly. If the others have no objections.”

And since there were none, he instructed his driver to set off.

“So,” said Ravenworth, “what do you think of our Russian guest?”

Penelope shrugged. “She seems right enough. But do all their nobility have that curious flatness to the features?”

Dezzie giggled. “I heard her say that someone had referred to her as platter-faced. Isn’t that apt?”

Before Licia could remonstrate with her, Ravenworth turned a stern gaze on the culprit. “Whoever said that was unkind. And whoever repeats it
.
.
.
” He paused significantly. “Whoever repeats it is foolish and a troublemaker to boot. Do you understand?”

For a moment Dezzie looked rebellious. But then, evidently deciding it was wisest to exercise caution, she nodded. “Of course I understand. I am not a gossipmonger.”

Licia almost choked on the laugh she swallowed. Then she leaned back on the squabs and smiled to herself. If Ravenworth could not change Dezzie, he was at least having a civilizing influence on her. She only hoped it would continue.

* * * *

The gallery was a cluttered place, with pictures everywhere—hanging frame to frame or leaning against each other in a most haphazard fashion. Licia recognized the man who stepped forward to greet them.

So this was Harry Bates. His clothes were indeed shabby and plain, but they were also clean and neat. His smile, because of the others present, was carefully reserved. But there was a friendliness to it that Licia believed might always be in evidence. She liked the man already. Surely such a man could not be a fortune hunter.

“Good day
,
Lady Penelope,” he said.

Penelope nodded and, with just the right touch of haughtiness, replied, “Good day, Mr. Bates. I’ve brought the duke to help me decide which painting to purchase for Mama.”

Ravenworth looked from one to the other, and Licia held her breath. If he should suspect something amiss . . .

But Ravenworth only nodded. “I’ve long been an admirer of Turner’s technique.”

And then the front door opened again. Licia heard Dezzie’s sharp intake of breath. And the Viscount Lockwood said, “Ravenworth, old chap! I saw your carriage and . . .” He paused and bowed. “Afternoon ladies.”

Dezzie cast him a melting smile. “Good afternoon, milord. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“Capital,” declared the young man. He ran a hand through his riot of curls. “Even better since I’ve seen you.”

Dezzie dimpled. “Tell me, milord, are you conversant with Mr. Turner’s techniques?”

“Well, I guess I know somewhat.”

Dezzie’s smile grew. “Then perhaps you could explain to me how he gets some of his effects. Take this picture over here.”

And while Licia watched in astonishment, Dezzie slipped her arm through the viscount’s and led him off.

With an amused smile Ravenworth turned to Harry Bates. “Perhaps you’ll show us the scenes Lady Penelope is considering.”

Bates nodded. “The first is over here.”

Licia was interested in the effects Turner achieved with paint and brush. But even more fascinating was watching Penelope and Harry play out their charade. Harry seemed a little nervous, but then that could be attributed to the presence of a duke in the establishment. And Penelope . . . why, Penelope could have gone upon the stage! In every particular she played the part of the highborn lady.

Ravenworth examined several paintings and asked questions that made it clear he was no novice in the matter of appreciating art. Finally he turned back to Penelope. “I suppose it comes down to whether your mama prefers storms over land or storms over sea.” He looked to Licia. “Which is your preference. Miss Dudley?”

Since her mind had been far from the thought of paintings and her eyes had been following Dezzie and Lockwood as they moved about the gallery, it took her a moment to reply. Fortunately her gaze lit on a nearby canvas and she pointed to it.

“I like this one.
Frosty Morning.
Not that Mr. Turner’s storms aren’t marvelous. But I prefer peace and tranquility. The quiet of country life. This scene is so peaceful. And the frost seems so real. It reminds me of home.”

The duke nodded. “I, too, admire that effect.”

For a moment his eyes looked directly into hers. They gave her such a feeling of giddiness that she almost reached out for something to cling to for support.

The feeling was disconcerting enough. But even more disturbing was the scene that her mind insisted on presenting her—a cozy domestic scene in which Ravenworth sat, his long legs stretched toward the fire while she listened to the results of his newest land reform. That picture left her decidedly giddy.

She looked away and his gaze went to Penelope. “Tell me if I’m wrong
,
Pen,” he said. “But I collect Lady Chester wishes for a storm.”

Penelope, who had been gazing at Harry Bates, looked quickly back to the duke. “Yes, David. Mama has decided she simply must have one of Turner’s talked-about storms.”

The duke looked from one painting to another. “Then I should take
Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps.
Though I confess that I should like to see a little more of Hannibal and his army and a little less of the storm.”

Penelope nodded. “I like that one too. But I also like
Calais Pier—
the effect of the sun breaking through the storm clouds and gleaming on the water seems so real.”

Harry Bates smiled just a little. “Of course, milady. That is a beautiful effect.”

The way he pronounced the word
beautiful
sent little shivers down Licia’s spine. It was plain—at least to her—that the word was meant for Penelope and not for any painting. And seeing the slight coloring of her cousin’s cheeks, Licia knew Penelope thought so too. But a glance at Ravenworth convinced her he was oblivious.

Penelope considered both pictures and then shook her head. “I’m afraid I shall have to give the matter some more thought. You understand, Mr. Bates.”

“Of course, milady.”

Licia smiled to herself. Of course the decision would necessitate many more visits to the gallery.

Ravenworth called to his nephew. “Come, Lockwood. We are leaving now.”

The duke turned away and so did Licia, but not before she saw Penelope slip a note into Harry Bates’s outstretched hand.

Hurrying after the others, Licia tried to keep her expression serene. But Penelope’s behavior was startling. True, she was no longer a young miss. But this kind of thing was still dangerous. If Ravenworth ever discovered her secret—or her mama—Licia shuddered to think what Aunt Hortense would have to say about such a disreputable liaison.

Young Lockwood accompanied them to the carriage where with a heavy sigh Dezzie withdrew her arm from his and allowed him to assist her to her seat. After which she bestowed on him a smile of bewitching magnitude and said, “Thank you for a most pleasurable time.”

“Quite welcome,” replied the young man with a matching smile. And with a sigh he took himself off to his curricle.

When they were once more moving homeward, the duke turned to Penelope and smiled. “Are you sure you are well? I have never known you to take so long in making up your mind about a thing.”

Penelope shrugged. But she looked a little uncomfortable. “With so many to choose from, the choice is difficult. And, after all, it is not myself I have to please.”

Ravenworth looked about to pursue the matter further. But Dezzie leaned toward him. “Mama says you were once intended to marry Cousin Penelope. Why did you not do it?”

Licia gasped. “Dezzie! Oh, dear! You must not—”

The duke laid a gloved hand over Licia’s, and the ensuing sensation so bemused her that she fell immediately silent.

“You are quite right
,
Miss Desiree. Our mamas wished us to wed.
They
wished it to be true. But
we
did not.”

Dezzie shook her golden head. “When
my
mama wishes something to be true, it
happens.”

Ravenworth frowned. Perhaps he was thinking of Mama’s various impositions on his time. “Perhaps,” he observed dryly, “but your mama is now in the city. And things are different here.”

Chapter Five

The night of Dezzie’s ball finally arrived. After a day of immense confusion in which Mama continually found fault with everyone and everything, she sent them all off to dress.

Dezzie fluttered around the bedchamber like a distraught moth until Licia finally protested. “My dear, you must settle somewhere. You’ll be exhausted before the ball begins.”

Dezzie’s eyes widened and she came to a stop in front of her sister. “But I am afraid. What if he doesn’t come?”

“Who is this he?” Licia asked, though she knew quite well to whom Dezzie was referring.

Dezzie stared at her. “Why, the viscount, of course. The Viscount Lockwood.” She clasped her hands in a gesture of despair. “If he doesn’t like my gown, I shall die!”

Licia hid a smile. “Dezzie, my dear—”

“It’s true.” Dezzie fixed her sister with a look of the utmost intensity. “Lockwood is my intended. I know it.”

“Dezzie, you’ve only just met the man. Talked to him twice.”

Dezzie shook her head. “He’s the one. I know it. When he looks at me . . . when he speaks to me . . . oh, Licia, my heart palpitates till I think it will quite fly out of my mouth!”

Licia swallowed another smile. Perhaps Dezzie was in the right. After all, what experience had her older sister in affairs of the heart? “And do you think he returns your regard?”

“Oh, I think so. I thought so. Oh, I don’t know!” Dezzie wrung her hands in a manner that would have done honor to the renowned Mrs. Siddons. “How does a woman tell these things?”

Licia sighed. Unaccountably the situation had lost its humor. “I’m sorry, my dear. I cannot help you with this. But cheer up. I’m sure the viscount will put in an appearance. And who knows—after you have seen him again you may decide you prefer some other young man.”

Dezzie’s eyes widened in horror. “Never! Never!” she averred. “Lockwood is the one.” She sighed. “Being in love is dreadfully trying. I should never have imagined how difficult it can be.” She pulled at a ribbon. “Do you think I look all right?”

“My dear, you are beautiful.” And it was true. In her gown of white satin trimmed with pale blue ribbons, matching ribbon threaded through her golden curls, and blue satin slippers peeking out from below the gown, Dezzie was a vision of loveliness. And Licia was not looking at her through sisterly eyes. When the young men saw Dezzie . . . Licia smiled. The viscount was in for a lot of competition.

She adjusted her own tunic dress of sea-foam sarcenet. It was the first gown she’d had edged with a Grecian motif, and she did think she looked rather well in it. But would he think it attractive? Or would he think she was addlepated, a spinster playing at going to the ball?

With a frown at such foolishness she turned from the cheval glass. She’d better get herself in hand. It mattered very little whether or not Ravenworth liked her gown. She was not there to be danced with and admired. She was a mere appendage to Dezzie’s night of triumph. And she would do well to remember that. “Come,” she told her sister, “let us go up to the ballroom.”

The huge room had been decked out with potted palms and banks of blossoms till it resembled a greenhouse. But Licia had to admit that it looked very festive and quite fashionable.

Mama, in a gown that was far too young for her, flitted around the room, her golden curls bobbing as she made a last-minute inspection of things.

“There you are,” Aunt Hortense said, turning from the refreshment table. “You’re both looking lovely.”

“You’re looking quite well yourself,” Licia replied. And Aunt Hortense did look well. It was that abominable excuse for a gown in cerise and yellow striped taffeta that looked so sickening.

Surveying this creation of dubious merit, Licia understood how Penelope could choose the gown she had. Its yellow hues did nothing for her complexion, and the design of the gown, gathered tight under the bosom and then falling in a skirt that looked like nothing so much as a sausage casing, did nothing for her figure, either.

Penelope smiled and whispered. “Isn’t this gown horrendous? It’s just what I wanted. And Mama won’t even know.”

“Why—” began Licia.

But just then Mama came up. She fussed over the placement of Dezzie’s curls, the hang of her ribbons, till Aunt Hortense exclaimed, “Upon my word, Dorothea. Leave the poor child alone. You’ll only make her nervous with all that fuss.”

Mama bristled, her blues eyes beginning to blaze. “I hope I may fix my own daughter’s hair. On this most important night in her life.” She drew herself up. “I knew I should never have—”

“Mama.” Licia intervened before Mama could get well under way with her tirade. “Please do not scowl so. Remember, all must go well for Dezzie’s sake. And just think, the guests will be arriving at any minute.”

And arrive they did. One after the other till the ballroom seemed filled to overflowing. Licia watched as Dezzie grew ever more fidgety. “He will be here,” she whispered, not certain if the reassurance was meant for herself or for Dezzie.

Fortunately she did not have time to give the matter much more thought. For there, through the crush, came the Duke of Ravenworth. And right beside him strode the Viscount Lockwood, resplendent in evening clothes and a white satin waistcoat shot with blue thread.