Miss Determined, page 21
“You flatter me, my lord.” Purvis let his client strut as far as the door before dropping the critical question. “My lord, that factor in Bordeaux who might present Mr. Vincent’s unpaid bills—can you give me a name? We get all manner of correspondence from the Continent, but if you give me a name, I’ll have the staff bring those epistles to me directly, unopened.”
“Good thought. The firm is…” His lordship stared at the tea tray, upon which one biscuit remained. “Marchand et Fils. Probably trying to sound English. Offices on the Rue du Vignoble. Back a few streets from the harbor.”
“Very good, my lord, and again, my condolences.”
Tavistock took the last biscuit, sailed through the door, and bellowed for Jones to bring him his hat.
High-handed, just like his father. Exactly, precisely like his father.
“Are you sure, Lissa?” Diana murmured, fingering the rim of a straw hat trimmed with embroidered ribbons. Tiny birds in shades of blue, cream, and brown flitted about on intricate green satin boughs, and a bouquet of silk bachelor buttons adorned the right side of the brim. “I’ve never seen such delicate work.”
Because Diana had never shopped anywhere save the Crosspatch shops and markets. “I’ve never seen trimming that so effectively flatters your coloring. To replicate this pattern would take us weeks.”
“Maybe you could do it,” Diana said, lifting the hat off its stand, “I haven’t the patience for it.”
“Try it on, miss.” The clerk was young, handsome, and doubtless half the reason for the millinery’s sales. “Is this your first Season?”
“Stop that,” Lissa said, leavening her scold with a smile. She didn’t blame the fellow for flattering the customers, but even flattery needed limits. “We are in Town to see the sights, and you know quite well that if we buy the hat, we’ll need matching gloves and a shawl to go with it.”
Diana perched the hat on her head and allowed Lissa to do up the ribbons in a trailing bow tied off-center.
“Let’s have that blue silk shawl,” Lissa said, “the one hanging in the window, and we’ll try a pair of blue gloves the same shade as the bachelor buttons.”
The clerk scurried off like a man carrying news of victory back to his general, while Diana beheld herself in a cheval mirror.
“I never realized how blue my eyes are.”
“And you probably thought your hair was plain brown rather than a lovely dark chestnut.” Lissa watched as her sister turned to the left, then to the right. Diana’s fascination with her reflection revealed a depth of wonder both touching and painful to behold.
She was attractive, in her liveliness, youth, and robust spirits, but she did not know that.
Mustn’t be vain.
Mustn’t be uppish.
Mustn’t draw too much notice.
Until speeding through the nearest sonata became a weapon against invisibility. Diana was also naturally social, had a fine sense of humor, and was fiendishly talented at maths. She spoke French with Mr. Dabney as if it were her native tongue, and all of these wondrous abilities—to say nothing of her fiery skills at the pianoforte—were of no use to her, because she lacked confidence in her own worthiness.
“Very fetching, miss,” the clerk said, holding up the blue silk shawl. “May I presume?”
Diana nodded and allowed the man to drape the blue shawl around her shoulders. He was deft, probably would have made a fine valet, and stepped back when he’d arranged the shawl just so.
Loose, graceful, the perfect wrapping for a lovely pair of shoulders and a pale throat. Diana’s eyes positively glowed when she wore that hue.
“And the gloves?” he said, offering a crocheted pair in a lighter shade of blue.
To assist a lady to put on her gloves was a personal office, and Diana was bearing up well under the fellow’s attentions.
She turned to the mirror again. “Is it too much blue? Is the blue too intense? I thought I was required to wear pastels until… until I’m older.”
Until she’d secured a proposal of marriage. “You are required to wear clothes that flatter you and cover you decently,” Lissa said. “Clothes you enjoy wearing. What do you think of the gloves?”
“I like them well enough.”
Faint praise where an honest opinion should have been, and that was Lissa’s fault. When had she stopped seeing her own family? Probably just about the time Gavin had disappeared, taking with him financial security and all of Mama’s good humor.
The clerk cocked his head as if studying some Renaissance masterpiece. “I agree with Miss. Maybe a bit too much blue?” he asked with just the right degree of self-doubt. “The shawl provides a heavenly complement to your eyes, but a touch of contrast might also draw attention to your exquisite complexion. Brown gloves might work, or cream, perhaps? Tan?”
There followed an earnest and protracted discussion of all the colors of glove that might suit—even green came under consideration—while Lissa let the shop clerk begin repairs to Diana’s self-regard that were at least two years overdue.
Diana eventually followed his advice—cream gloves, blue shawl, the perfect straw hat—and Lissa considered the cost well worth the goods.
And the service.
“If you have the stamina to shop for slippers,” the clerk said, wrapping Diana’s new treasures in brown paper, “I can suggest Madame Celeste’s two doors down. Her selection is unrivaled and her prices—if I might be so bold—competitive. Shall I summon a porter?”
“Please say we can peek at the slippers, Lissa.” Diana struggled to hang on to her newfound dignity, though she was clearly on the verge of begging.
“Of course we’ll have a look at the slippers while we have your shawl and bonnet with us, and then we can send the lot home with a porter, along with any additional purchases.” They would carry their own parcels. Ticket porters in London came dear.
“Very sensible,” the clerk murmured, though the smile he sent Lissa was pure cheek. “And where shall I send the bill?”
“To the attention of Mr. Giles Purvis, Smithers and Purvis, on Peebles Street, to the account of Miss Amaryllis DeWitt.”
The clerk jotted the direction on some ledger or other and congratulated Diana on having made a tasteful and original purchase.
Diana did not clap her hands and spin with joy, but her eyes sparkled, and when she left the shop on Lissa’s arm, her step was bouncy and her parting wave to the clerk coy.
“He reminded me of Gavin,” Diana said. “As if he was playing the part of a shop clerk on a lark and having a jolly time with the role. My job was to be the inexperienced customer, and I was to have great fun with that, too—which I did. Do you recall when Gavin would challenge us to pretend we were attending a funeral rather than Sunday services? His little farce kept Caroline from tucking a book between the pages of the hymnal for nearly a month.”
They strolled along the walkway, which was busy, but not thronged as it would be a fortnight hence.
“You do know all the clerk’s charm and flattery was intended to bring you back for your next purchase, Di?”
“Oh, I suppose most of it was, but I hope a little was also because he enjoyed making me smile and helping me look fashionable.”
“You don’t look merely fashionable in that bonnet and shawl, you look lovely. Beautiful, fetching, delightful. I can see a resemblance to Grandmama when you tilt your head just so, and she was quite a beauty.”
Lissa expected a demurral, a reversion to the brittle testiness Diana favored in Crosspatch Corners.
“That hat would make anybody look scrumptious. If Caroline had a hat like that, she might not be so prone to freckles. The next time we visit that shop, we’re buying new millinery for you. Roger said with your height, you could carry off the boldest styles.”
Roger? “Diana, I’m glad you enjoyed making your selections, and it’s wonderful to have such an abundance of choice, but please be careful. He’s a clerk whose fortunes rise or sink on the strength of his charm.” And Lissa had passed him a generous tip for his efforts.
“Were you careful with Mr. Dorning?”
Not careful enough. Lissa debated strategy and decided if Diana was old enough to flirt with shop clerks, she was old enough to hear the truth.
“He’s not Mr. Dorning, Diana.”
“Well, he’s certainly not Mrs. Dorning. Who is he?” Diana stopped outside the shoe shop and all but pressed her nose to the glass. “Oh, Lissa. Just look. Every color, and the buckles!”
To Hades with the buckles, which sparkled in the afternoon sun like so many jewels. “Mr. Trevor Dorning is the current Marquess of Tavistock. His given name is Trevor, and the family name is Vincent.” Debrett’s had confirmed that much. “He might well have been skulking about Crosspatch with a view toward selling Twidboro Hall and Lark’s Nest.” Lissa had been haunted by that possibility through many sleepless nights.
Trevor’s behavior—familiarizing himself with the surrounds, inspecting both houses to the extent a guest could, riding over the tenancies and grounds—supported the theory of an inspection tour prior to sale. Even his wooing could have begun as part of a campaign to acquaint himself with his pretty estates not too far from Town.
“Our Mr. Dorning is a lord?” Diana said, slanting a look at Lissa. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do either. He hasn’t explained his use of a fictitious name to me, but then, I did not ask him for details when I had the opportunity.”
Did she want those details? “He lied to us?” This possibility was of sufficient enormity that Diana ceased goggling at the shoes. “He seemed like a true gentleman, Lissa. The genuine article. Why would he be dishonest?”
“I don’t know. I suspect had he swanned into the village exhibiting the full regalia of his station, we’d have closed ranks against him. St. Nebo’s has been sorely neglected, he raised our rent the moment we’d put off mourning for Papa, he has begrudged us basic maintenance for the Hall, and nobody has anything good to say about the old marquess either.”
A coach clattered by, high-stepping bays in the traces, plenty of gold trim. Crests on the doors and boot.
Not Trevor’s crest. Lissa had been watching the traffic since they’d arrived in Town three days ago. She’d been watching the mail, hoping for a knock on the door. She was on edge and homesick and out of sorts.
Expecting another ambush, spoiling for battle, and—the heaviest burden—hoping Trevor could explain himself.
“I tell you, Lissa, your Trevor is a good, decent fellow. Patience and good humor like his could only be sincere. Are you sure he’s the marquess?”
“He all but told me himself, and when he left Crosspatch, his traveling coach—which was half the size of Crosspatch’s assembly rooms—displayed the Tavistock crest. The former marchioness of Tavistock married a Dorning, and that’s probably where he got the name.”
“You said he left the village because of a death in the family. Was that a lie too?”
“We should choose a pair of slippers for you. The ones on the end—brown velvet—might do. Brown won’t show wear as cream would.”
“Lissa, hang the perishing slippers. Did Mr. Dorn—Lord Tavistock toy with your affections? Is he even in London?”
The lending library was across the street, and they’d left Grandmama there perusing fashion magazines. Crosspatch had no lending library. Trevor had probably thought the place pathetic.
“How would I know if he’s in London or France or darkest Maryland?”
Except that he’d sent her two expresses by private messenger, and the riders had mentioned riding out from Town. The notes had been little nothings.
Safely arrived, hope your upcoming journey is similarly uneventful. T.
Anticipating your arrival, matters here complicated and tedious. T.
Why pay for an express that said nothing? Though the notes also had said that Trever was thinking of her and biding in Town, as he’d said he must.
“Well, what do you know about him?” Diana asked. “He seemed smitten, Lissa. He put up with me and Caroline at supper, he rode out with you all over God’s back pasture, he put some manners on Roland, and he even called on Phillip.”
Those facts had also featured in Lissa’s sleepless nights. “I know there truly was a death in his family. We passed his town house on the way here, and the knocker was done up with black crepe.” A detail on an otherwise elegant and imposing façade.
A small detail, and an enormous relief.
Diana leaned near and lowered her voice. “Amaryllis DeWitt, were you spying on his lordship?”
“Perhaps. All I know for certain is that I am in London to get our solicitors sorted out and to do some shopping. Other than that, I have no earthly notion what I’m doing here.”
Diana straightened and patted her shoulder. “Most of us find ourselves in that posture the majority of the time, Sister dear. You were long overdue for a turn at muddling along. Let’s find Grandmama, shall we? I do believe the situation calls for an ice.”
Diana took Amaryllis by the arm and led the way across the street, and what did it say about Amaryllis that she was willing for once to go where her younger sister directed her?
Chapter Fifteen
Trevor had considered many a scheme for crossing paths with Amaryllis.
His first thought was an apparently chance meeting on the bridle paths at dawn, though a discreet chat between grooms confirmed that Amaryllis hadn’t brought a riding horse to London.
An encounter at Gunter’s came under consideration—except a peer in mourning ought not to be treating himself to an ice, much less turning the occasion social while all of Berkeley Square looked on.
A rendezvous feeding the Serpentine’s ducks at some quiet hour might have served, but for the fact that in spring, Hyde Park was never entirely deserted, and ducks made a deuced lot of noise, which would attract notice. They also left disagreeable mementos all over the grass.
The solution had come from the only person Trevor truly considered an ally: Jeanette had mentioned that she was presuming on Sycamore’s acquaintance with the DeWitts to invite the ladies to tea.
Even in mourning, Trevor was permitted to call on family.
He did so at precisely two of the clock on Tuesday afternoon, after having fussed over the propriety of showing up with an amaryllis blossom on his lapel and discarding the notion as beef-witted and fatuous.
Instead, he wore a black armband and the most subdued morning attire Bond Street offered.
“Tavistock.” Jeanette took both his hands and let him kiss both of her cheeks. “A pleasant surprise. You might be acquainted with my guests.”
Amaryllis, attired in a flattering ensemble of raspberry trimmed in gold, sat between her mother and Sycamore on a sofa flanked by enormous ferns. She rose as Jeanette ran through the introductions, curtseyed at the appropriate moment, and held out her hand for Trevor to bow over. Her bare hand, because the ladies were at tea.
“You must join us,” Jeanette said. “My guests have been in Town for only a week, but Sycamore had lovely things to say about Berkshire. I want our friends to have lovely things to say about London hospitality.”
Sycamore had risen to shake Trevor’s hand, and the scheming bounder now found it expedient to take the place beside his wife on the love seat. Unless Trevor wanted to occupy the escritoire by the window—which he did not—the only available seat was beside Amaryllis.
Not subtle, but appreciated.
“How are you finding London, Miss DeWitt?” The impulse to take Amaryllis’s hand with her mother looking on and Sycamore smirking nineteen to the dozen was nigh overwhelming. Trevor denied himself that pleasure not only because propriety demanded it of him, but also because Amaryllis’s military bearing suggested she’d dump her tea in his lap for presuming.
“London is an adjustment, my lord. I imagine you endured something similar in reverse when you sojourned in Berkshire.”
Had Amaryllis put a slight emphasis on the honorific? Was she in some way offended that he’d intruded on this tea?
“I found Berkshire very congenial after years spent more or less in the French countryside. Like you, I find a return to London an adjustment.”
Amaryllis shoved a tea cake into her mouth. Sycamore’s smirk had turned into a puzzled half smile, and Mrs. DeWitt was eyeing the door.
Dieu au paradis.
“Sycamore,” Jeanette said, “might you show Mrs. DeWitt your latest botanical album? I believe you left it in the family parlor.”
Sycamore popped to his feet. “Oh, do indulge me, Mrs. DeWitt. The illustrations are exquisite, and I can ask your opinion on a pair of ferns that are turning up contrary. The family parlor is this way.”
He had Mourna on her feet and out the door in the next instant, with Mourna looking more bewildered by the moment.
“If you’ll excuse me briefly,” Jeanette said after a few more minutes of isn’t-this-marvelous-weather. “I will inquire after a second pot and have the kitchen send up some sandwiches. Tavistock enjoys a healthy appetite, even in the blighted confines of London.”
The only sound in Jeanette’s wake was Amaryllis munching her tea cake. Trevor swirled his tea and decided on the direct approach. Neither Sycamore nor Jeanette would leave him alone with Amaryllis for long.
He took Amaryllis’s hand. “I’ve missed you dreadfully.”
That was her cue to buss his cheek and offer reciprocal assurances.
“I’ve missed Mr. Trevor Dorning,” she said, “and I’ve wanted to administer the Marquess of Tavistock a sound drubbing.”
What the hell was going on? “Has his lordship given offense?”
She rose and began to pace, arms folded, hems whispering of feminine upset. “Why did you lie? You presented yourself to us as Mr. Trevor Dorning. Then you told me otherwise, but I was too muddled… I was not focused on proper terms of address, I was… I thought you were Tavistock’s by-blow.”
