The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (19 page)

He said, “I am most anxious to talk with Miss Stansbury. Do you know where I might find the lady?”

The butler’s pale eyes slithered over him in a swift appraisal, then blinked at the ceiling as he imparted that he “could not say.”

Recognizing the signs, Cranford took out his purse.

Doncaster Close was located in one of the newer areas that were springing up west of Hyde Park. The houses were neatly kept and of a good size, but there was no central private garden, and the Close conveyed an impression of comfortable affluence rather than the aura of great wealth which pervaded an adjoining square. Cranford’s tug on the bell of number fourteen was answered by a large and gorgeous footman. His protuberant eyes swept the caller briefly, and although he appeared to be somewhat deaf, he was sufficiently impressed by Cranford’s card to admit him to the entrance hall, and having bowed him to a stone bench sailed away, desiring that he “be so good as to wait” while he ascertained whether “the ladies” were at home.

Cranford watched the footman’s majestic progress to the stairs and resigned himself to a long wait. He glanced around the hall. Empty, it would have been a large chamber, but it was so crowded with furniture that it appeared to be quite small. The pieces were seemingly unrelated and of such widely diverse styles that he was put in mind of a second-hand furniture warehouse. Although far from being an expert in such matters, he was able to recognize that an elaborate credenza on one wall was of the baroque style, while beside it was a tall mahogany coat-stand such as might be found in an English country house. The bench he occupied looked to have been culled from a garden; the enormous gilded mirror reflecting his curiosity would have been more suited to a ballroom; and a marble-topped sideboard appeared to be of Italian origin. He was gazing in fascination at a purple velvet chaise supported by black marble griffin’s legs when footsteps sounded from a staircase at the rear of the hall and he sprang to his feet.

The lady who tripped to greet him was tall and willowy, her height accentuated by the large blue feathers that bobbed above her French wig.

“Miss… Celeste…Westerman…?” he stammered incredulously.

Wielding an outsize fan of matching blue feathers, she advanced, hand outstretched, eyes gleaming with delight. “Lieutenant Piers Cranford! Why, you
dear
thing! You have sought me out!”

He bit back the instinctive denial, which could only offend, and dropped a reluctant kiss on the hand that was thrust at his lips. “The—er, pleasure is mine, ma’am, but—”

“Silly boy. We are
alone
at last. You may call me”—she lowered her voice and purred provocatively—“… Celeste.”

“Thank you,” he gulped, edging back as the fan whisked across his nose. “I had—”

“And I shall call you…
Piers”
she said throbbingly. “Such a lovely,
lovely
name. I think—”

“If you did, sister,” growled Mrs. Caroline Westerman, coming heavy-footed from a corridor that apparently led to the back of the house, “you would know that Mr. Cranford probably has not come to see you, but rather—”

Miss Celeste uttered a shrill titter. “But how foolish you are,
dear
Caro. You surely do not flatter yourself that he has come to see
you?
La, but I declare ’tis positively amusing.” Her long eyelashes fluttering, she lowered her voice once more and urged, “Tell her why you are come,
dear
… Piers,” and behind her fan said clearly, “’Tis not kind to tease the poor creature.”

Mentally, Cranford groaned. “I think I am in error,” he said. “It is my pleasure to see both of you charming ladies, but I had hoped for a word with—” He broke off as a laughing voice declared:

“Aunty Caro, I have torn the hem of my gown. I am still unused to these wretched heels… and…” Entering the hall holding one very high-heeled slipper and walking jerkily on the other, Miss Cordelia Stansbury came to an abrupt halt. The laughter vanished from her eyes and the colour from her cheeks as she saw Cranford. “Oh… my…” she whispered.

“Just so,
Miss Mary”
said he sternly.

The wig she wore was dishevelled and a curling tendril of
golden-brown hair had escaped. She had not applied her paint and patches, and she seemed smaller and only half-dressed minus all the jewels she’d worn when first they met.

Raising a hand to straighten her wig, she forgot the shoe she held, with the result that the wig was knocked sideways. Scarlet-faced but recovering, she snatched at it frantically, and gabbled, “Lieutenant—Cr-Cranford. How—er, charming that you have called upon—”

“Me!”
interposed Miss Celeste sharply.

“Nonsense,” barked Mrs. Caroline.

“I was under the impression I had called upon Miss Cordelia Stansbury—or is it Miss Mary Westerman?” said Cranford, his eyes bleak.

“Why, you silly boy,” teased Miss Celeste, preparing to take his arm. “Don’t you know—”

“We
know that we must ask Cook to prepare tea,” said Mrs. Caroline, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Come
along
, sister. Be so good as to show the Lieutenant into the withdrawing-room, Mary.”

Miss Celeste’s squeaked protestations faded as her sister took her firmly by the arm and all but dragged her from the hall.

Cranford said, “May I help you with your shoe, Miss Stansbury?”

For answer, Cordelia kicked off her other shoe, gathered up her trailing skirts and said defiantly, “Oh, come along and do stop looking daggers at me. You have found me out. You know perfectly well who I am.”

Following her along an over-furnished corridor into an even more over-furnished withdrawing-room, he said, “You would appear to be two ladies, ma’am, both of whom have been playing a game with me.”

She was silent until they were seated on either side of a merrily crackling fire. Watching the flames thoughtfully, she murmured, “Yes. You are entitled to an explanation, I suppose.
My mother, you see, never liked the name Mary. My father had chosen it and my aunts liked it well enough, but Mama judged it too—ordinary. She refused to call me anything but Cordelia. Mama judged my aunts ‘ordinary’ as well. Which they knew. There were—disagreements and eventually a sad rift. Afterwards, my aunts insisted on calling me Mary Westerman, and of late I’ve not minded using that name since my own is so sadly disgraced. Family nonsense, you see, but I trust you are not going to claim that I have broke your heart, sir.”

“It would be foolish in me, considering that we had never met prior to the day I called upon your mama and you saw fit to make mock of my offer.”

Her hazel eyes lifted and scanned him with a candid and unwavering gaze. She nodded. “I apologize for being so gauche. But now you must please be honest. Do you even like me?” He hesitated, then said, “I like Miss Mary Westerman.” “But not Miss Stansbury. Did you dislike Cordelia on sight?”

“I—er, I try never to rely on—on first impressions, ma’am.”

“Now you are evading. You strike me as being the type of man who would form immediate first impressions and seldom revise them.” She saw the slow smile that crept into his extremely attractive blue eyes. “In which case, Lieutenant,” she said with a small chuckle, “why ever did you offer for me? No! You are a soldier, I’m aware, but pray answer me honestly and do not exercise tactful diplomacy.”

She had asked for honesty, but if, as he suspected, she was deep in love with his revolting “cousin,” he had no wish to hurt her. He said, he hoped nonchalantly, “I have sold out and am no longer a soldier, ma’am. I will tell you that I stand in need of a bank loan which I cannot obtain without the consent of my great-uncle.”

Her brows lifted. “General Lord Nugent Cranford?” “Yes. He is a very—proud gentleman and will fight tooth and nail to protect our family from any hint of dishonour.”

She said with a faintly sardonic smile, “And you are, I believe, related to Mr. Gervaise Valerian?”

“Unfor——er, I mean—distantly, ma’am.”

“Ah. I see that you do not like the gentleman.”

He shrugged. “As you say.”

“But you have been commanded to—what is it you men say? To ‘pull his chestnuts from the fire’ by offering for the lady he rejected, and thus restore the family honour. Is that the case, Mr. Cranford?”

Her candour would be judged by many as scandalous, but she was reacting calmly and sensibly, thank goodness, and he was emboldened to admit, “You are in the right of it, ma’am.”

“Right
of it!” She sprang up, eyes flashing suddenly and cheeks flushed.
“Right
of it? I would say rather you have the
wrong
of it! It is
disgusting! Indecent! Immoral!”

Startled, he said jerkily, “You asked for—for an honest—”

“Beneath
contempt!”
Her voice shrill with fury, she cried, “Not caring a button for the poor creature, you were willing to take her for your wife only to secure money for—”

He had stood also, and gripping her shoulders, interrupted harshly, “You insisted upon the truth. Try using some yourself. I am no matrimonial prize, I grant you. But I could have offered the lady a good name at least—”

“To cleanse her sullied reputation? I wonder so proud and upstanding an officer would stoop—”

“Be quiet! I know she—you—are in love with my cousin.”

Her head bowed at this, and she stood silent and passive in his grasp.

“But I would have made no demands upon the lady,” he declared. “However much I—”

“Lusted for your rights as a husband?” she shot at him.

“I was going to say, however much I deplored Miss Cordelia’s taste in men,” he replied, taking his hands from her shoulders.

She turned away and walked to a window, her careful dignity marred by an occasional trip, since her gown had been fashioned for wear with high heels. Reminded of Dimity as a child dressing up in one of Mama’s gowns, he smiled faintly.

“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Cranford?” she asked in a calmer voice.

“Surely every man has been in love at some time during his life.”

“You are skilled at evasions, sir, but I wonder if you know what it means to…really… love someone.”

“The same thought occurs to me regarding Miss Cordelia and her—passion for Valerian.”

She swung around and regarded him smoulderingly. “You almost said ‘unrequited’ passion.”

“Ill-judged, rather.”

“If you admit it to be genuine passion, how could you endure life with a lady who loved another?”

“Probably-by finding myself—‘another,’ as you put it.”

She said with a curl of the lip, “A splendid basis for a happy marriage, I do declare!”

With a nonchalance he did not feel, he responded, “We live in a modern age, Miss Cordelia. I am—” He paused as a maid entered, carrying a tray laden with tea-time paraphernalia which she proceeded to set out on a low table.

Returning to her chair, Cordelia took up the teapot, then slanted a glance at Cranford and murmured, “Alas, you will not care for it. No brandy, Lieutenant.”

His eyes were fixed hopefully on a plate of steaming buttered crumpets, but meeting her gaze and finding a sparkle of laughter there, he grinned in response. “Ma’am, I am too famished to quibble for such unorthodox seasonings.”

“Famished? A late breakfast, perchance?”

“No lunch. After we parted I went to see my brother and then to your—Miss Cordelia’s home.”

She at once handed him a plate and offered the crumpets and strawberry preserves. “I trust you found Sir Peregrine not badly injured?”

“He goes along better than I’d dared hope. The attack was stupid and pointless.” He said thoughtfully, “At least, I think it was pointless,” and sank his teeth into a deliciously juicy crumpet.

Conversation languished as they enjoyed their tea, but when his hostess offered to ring for more crumpets, Cranford declined and asked her instead to tell him about the island where she had been cast away. “If ’tis not too painful for you, ma’am.”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” she answered, so blithely that he looked at her in surprise. “Well, of course, it was terrifying—the storm, I mean,” she amended hastily. “But the island was lovely. So sunny and warm. And the natives were very kind.”

“They did not—er—That is to say, you were not—ill-treated?”

“If you mean was I ravished,” she said outrageously, “I was not, sir.” She saw the lift of his brows and her chin went up. “You are thinking that ladies do not make such remarks, but I will tell you that I was in fact treated with far more respect than I have received here in London.”

Her defiant flare faded into a wistful resignation, and Cranford waited, saying nothing.

“I suppose,” she went on, running a fingertip around the handle of her cup, “you are wondering why I did it.”

“Did—what? Come back to England?”

“No! This is my homeland; of course I would come back. I meant—why I set out.”

“I understood your mama sent you to Egypt.”

“Not so, Mr. Cranford. The truth is that—that I was so humiliated when poor Gervaise was entrapped into offering for me…” Her voice trembled a little. She took a deep breath and
said, “I—knew he didn’t care for me, you see. And I—I just could not bear it.’