A Scheme for Love, page 10
“The thought has occurred. One could do far worse in a wife.”
“Then you do plan to broach the question. I suppose if you love—”
“Ah, now, love,” Kittridge interrupted him. “That is another matter. Few men are blest with both love and wife in the same woman. Do you care for her?” he asked smoothly.
“No.” Potters fidgeted with his spectacles. “A finer sort I’ve never met. Why, she even reads reports of Parliament and understands them, but,” he shrugged and cast a glance at Mathilda and Bartone.
“Look. He is taking her out to the gardens. Shouldn’t we follow?”
“The viscount is not in his cups this eve. I believe Mathilda will be safe enough,” Kittridge assured him. “You worry too much.
“Come, here is Lady Alice, and she has her delightful cousin with her. I shall introduce you to Miss Teresa. I assure you, Potters, her interests do not go beyond her needlework and the rose gardens.”
“Rose gardens, you say? I have just added to my own collection with a most fragrant variety of yellow rose.” He threw a look at the doors leading to the gardens. “Perhaps they would care to hear of it and have a breath of fresh air.”
Kittridge smiled and took Potters’ arm. “Don’t fret so.” He drew him toward the two young ladies. “I am certain Miss Teresa will be only too happy to learn of your addition—to the rose-garden, that is.”
* * * *
“The moon is but a crescent this eve,” Bartone said, raising a hand to point it out.
“Yes, but see how clearly it shines among the stars,” Mathilda answered, lifting her eyes to study it.
“Mathilda—it’s much too stern a name for you,” Bartone said quietly. He captured her eyes as well as her hands. “May I call you Tillie?”
“I suppose it will do,” she breathed. “You are... family.”
“Let us sit and talk. There is an arbour just ahead.”
“My lord,” Mathilda held back, “would it not be wiser to remain here? Or perhaps we could just walk on the paths?”
Her half-fearful expression made Bartone swear. She fears a recurrence of this afternoon, he thought. Forcing a light laugh, he placed her hand upon his arm.
“Of course, let us walk. And I promise to do nothing that would compromise you, Lady Bartone. Please forgive my abysmal behaviour earlier in the day,” he ended earnestly.
Doubt turned to delight. “It is done, my lord,” she said happily.
“‘My lord.’ Must you be so formal? You have said, after all, that I am family. Please call me Will—in private only, if you wish,” he added hastily, seeing her hesitation.
“Will is most fitting for you, my lord,” Mathilda laughed. “Although at times I am certain ‘Willful’ may be closer to the mark.”
“Ahha, she does have a sharp tongue,” he teased. “But what other criticism am I to be given?”
With a glance to see if he was serious, Mathilda said, “It is not my place to find fault, my lord.”
“Am I no longer ‘Will,’ then? Do I have so many offending flaws?” Bartone asked. He stepped in front of Mathilda and raised her face to his with a touch of his hand.
In the darkness of the garden Mathilda could not see his features clearly, but she felt his spirit calling to her own. Sensed a great need within him that clamoured for release. Choosing her words carefully, she covered his hand with hers.
“None of us is without faults. It’s recognizing them and working to overcome them as well as we are able that is important. Especially with those faults that harm others as well as ourselves.
“Many never admit error, seeing only what they wish. If you see faults within yourself, Will, I am certain you can overcome them.”
Bartone stood silent, sifting her words as he tenderly gazed at her. Her sincerity heartened. For the first time since their breach he thought kindly of Lord Potters.
“I... I did not mean to be too personal, my lord,” she breathed.
“Will.”
“Will,” she amended.
“There is no offence taken.” He claimed her hand and lowered it, turning so they faced Devonshire House. “I would speak with you longer, but we must return. I would not want to face Lady Pennypiece for causing tongues to wag,” he joked lightly.
Mathilda joined in his laughter and glanced up shyly to find him smiling gently at her. “Yes,” she replied with exaggerated seriousness as they continued toward the ballroom at a very slow pace. “That would never do.”
* * * *
“A most enjoyable and profitable evening,” Lady Pennypiece commented to Mathilda as they settled in the coach for the return to Golden Square from Devonshire House. “Did you find the evening to your taste?”
Mathilda leaned back tiredly, but with a smile upon her face. “Yes, but I do wish Lord Potters and Mr. Kittridge would not make all their acquaintances dance with me. My feet feel as if I had on slippers that were much too small.”
“Dancing does, I suppose, limit the amount of time one can spend in the duchess’s beautiful gardens,” the countess noted. “But then, at my age, I enjoy them more in the light of day.”
Thankful the darkness hid her blush, Mathilda chose not to take the proffered bait.
“I do believe Lord Potters is interested in you, my dear,” Lady Pennypiece persisted. “Did he not spend a great deal of time at your side?”
“You know that is only because he is concerned about.... Aunt Nettie, I am much too tired to fence with you. What is it you wish to know?” Mathilda asked, her tone implying far more than her words.
“I? Wish to know? Why nothing!” Lady Pennypiece answered. “Merely making light conversation to amend for my lack of attention this eve. Lady Potters spoke with some hope of her son’s interest in you, is all.”
“Ahha. She outdid you, then.”
“Young lady, I will thank you to show more respect for your elders. By the bye, Kittridge told me you were alone with Bartone more than once this eve.”
Despite her effort not to, Mathilda laughed. “Aunt Nettie, no wonder Mr. Brummel approves of you. You are an ‘original.’
“Yes, Viscount Bartone and I did go for a brief walk in the gardens once or twice.”
“It must have proven very beneficial. I notice you speak of him in more kindly tones than you did earlier in the day.” Her voice sharpened suddenly. “Be wary of him, Mathilda.”
“He wishes me no harm, Aunt Nettie.”
“Has he offered to give you the doll?”
“No, I do not even know if he is aware of the doll or knows of how its lack affects me,” Mathilda objected.
You mean you do not wish to know.” She paused for a moment. “I learned this afternoon that a man has been questioning the servants about you. It can only mean one thing.”
“Lord Bartone would have nothing to do with that.”
“He is the only one that has reason to.”
“But what of the Pellums?” Mathilda interrupted. “You have said that Mr. Pellum—”
“Richard is far too obedient to his mother to do anything on his own initiative. You must know that his mother feels she knows enough of you already.”
“But it makes no sense. He has merely to ask.”
“Do you feel you could speak freely of the doll and the stipulation in Howard’s will with him?” Lady Pennypiece demanded.
Mathilda could not give her an answer.
“What I say is for your good, Mathilda—to keep you from far greater hurt. Ask yourself. Why should Bartone take this sudden interest in you? Perhaps you are right and he does not know as much about the matter as I think. He may be attempting to learn more. Take care, Mathilda. Do not lose your heart. You may well lose any chance of finding Doll in Red along with it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A delicate balance was struck between Bartone, Mathilda, and Lady Pennypiece as June came to bloom. For a week after the Devonshire ball, Viscount Bartone appeared wherever Mathilda went, but Lady Pennypiece had decided he was to be held on a short rein.
Making the ultimate sacrifice, she refused to go to the card rooms, instead chaperoning Mathilda as she had never done before, even to the point of accompanying the pair in the viscount’s high-perch phaeton. Many young bucks and dandies found themselves adjusting their behaviour under the scrutiny of the countess’s upraised quizzing glass and learned a new respect for her wit.
In the third week of June with the season just past its height Bartone suddenly and without explanation failed to appear at any entertainment.
“Lord Potters, how good to see you,” Mathilda greeted him. “We have missed you.”
“My absence has been rather necessary, with the vote nearing on several issues,” he explained. “Had hoped to see Fox here this eve.”
“Have you seen Lord Bartone? Is he helping you with these matters?”
“Haven’t seen him at Whitehall. Matter of fact, have not seen him anywhere for several days. Do hope he’s not gone off on another romp. Must go.” He bowed. “I see Fox.”
“Of course,” Mathilda answered absently as he walked away.
“What did Potters say to bring such a frown to your face?” Kittridge asked, joining her. “Or was the music so very bad?”
“Actually Lady Alice does very well on the harp,” Mathilda answered. “I do wish her mother would not force poor little Lord Francis upon us. He may well be a prodigy, as she hopes, but it will never be with a violin.”
“The countess told me you have the headache. Is Lord Francis responsible?” he teased.
Mathilda grinned sheepishly. “I have endured worse, I suppose. But Aunt Nettie was just bursting for a good game of whist and I for a restful evening at home. Do you mind terribly taking me there? It would be fine if you simply called a hackney.”
“I have already ordered my coach. I have been wishing to speak with you for some time, and as this will be the first time in weeks you have been permitted from her ladyship’s side, I will do well to take advantage of it. Are you ready to go?”
“No, I must take leave of our hostess.”
“That has already been done for you, my lady.” He bowed formally. “You will find I am always most helpful.”
His curious words drew a glance from Mathilda, but she did not speak as he propelled her forward.
Reaching the street, Kittridge ordered his driver down, instructing the man to wait until his return. Joining her on the seat, he said, “Now we shall have some privacy at last.” For the first few minutes his attention was taken with reining the team through the crowded assortment of carriages and coaches about Lord Glashow’s residence.
Once out of the worst of the snarl, he said, “We have become good friends, have we not, Mathilda?”
She nodded, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach at so strange a beginning to the conversation.
“We enjoy each other’s company—seem suited, in other words,” Kittridge continued. “Do you not agree?”
“I... well, of course I find your company very pleasant. You have been very kind and...”
“And,” he interrupted, “and you are a widow—alone in this world. Oh, deuce all,” he gave an ironic laugh. “I am making a mess of this business. Come, Mathilda, say you will marry me.”
Faced with what she had feared he was broaching, she answered, “I cannot, Kitt. You mean well, I know, and I do care for you, but... it... it would not be fair to you, for it is not love I feel for you.”
“Love would come in time,” he returned. “Many marriages have less in the beginning than we would have.”
“You cannot have thought this out, Kitt. I have not even been introduced to your family. Surely they expect you to marry well. I have nothing. Even the clothes I wear have been purchased by the countess,” Mathilda protested.
“That is not the true reason, is it?” he asked, a rueful smile upon his lips.
“No,” she answered slowly, reaching out and touching his arm, “but I do thank you.”
“If ever you change your mind, you have only to let me know.”
“I could not hold you to such unwise words. You would regret it bitterly when you met the one whom you could truly love. I married once for security. I could not do it again.”
Both fell silent, wrapped in separate thoughts. As they neared No. 31 Golden Square, Kittridge spoke again. “Let us remain friends and not let this linger uncomfortably. Of course, we shall say nothing of it to the countess.”
“I gladly agree to that,” Mathilda replied with relief. “And I do appreciate your offer.”
Kittridge smiled and nodded. No further mention was made of what had passed, and the two slipped into their usual conversation, but Mathilda would not have forgotten the matter so quickly had she seen the concern with which Kittridge watched her enter the house or the frown which he carried back to Glashow’s.
* * * *
“Good morn, Aunt Nettie,” Mathilda said, entering the breakfast room early the next morn. “You look unusually pleased with yourself this morn. May I presume you had a winning night?”
“Fair, rather fair,” Lady Pennypiece responded in measured tones. “A most interesting eve. I almost woke you when I returned.”
“Oh?” Mathilda raised her eyes from her plate. “What has happened? What did you hear?” she asked cautiously.
“I saw an old cousin whom I had almost forgotten existed.”
Relaxing, since the news did not concern either Kittridge or Bartone, Mathilda sipped her tea. “Did she lose a large amount to you?”
“She? Oh, my cousin. No, it is he—Sir Grewould. And no, he did not lose. Honestly, Mathilda, you speak as if I live only to fleece others. Well, let us forget that.” Lady Pennypiece leaned forward, pointing a bony finger.
“Sir Grewould should interest you, young lady. He made me recall my youth, and,” she dragged out the word, “he mentioned a most curious fact.”
“What? That your wig was slightly askew?” teased Mathilda.
“Mind your manners, miss. I think it is time you were removed from this corrupting city for a time,” Lady Pennypiece quipped, with feigned anger.
The saucy smile upon Mathilda’s lips trembled and was gone. “If you wish, Aunt Nettie. I can be ready to leave this afternoon,” she said, keeping her eyes fast upon her food.
“That will not be necessary—two days hence—this weekend you may note—will do. I am glad you agree to go. A rest from our hectic pace will do us both good, and you may at last be successful,” she ended triumphantly.
“But I don’t understand,” Mathilda stammered, totally bewildered by the other’s words.
“Of course not, my dear,” the countess returned haughtily, “and my wig is never crooked unless I decide it should be so. Style, you know.” She patted the elaborate array of powdered curls.
“Forgive me, please,” Mathilda said, a smile belying her contrite tones.
“Did you believe for a moment that I would send you away?” Lady Pennypiece asked, becoming quite serious. “After all my conspiring to keep you here? Do you not know what your coming has meant to me?” she asked, her voice breaking on the last word.
“Aunt Nettie,” Mathilda said, startled by the sudden crack in the old woman’s seemingly impervious demeanour. She was startled when tears came as she reached across to take her hand.
“There you go—you have made me cry,” scolded Lady Pennypiece, raising her napkin to dab at her own. “Will the young never learn?” A loud sniff and a scornful shake of the head indicated the depth of her feelings. “I arrange a simple weekend in the country and we sit here acting as if a death notice has just arrived. Enough.”
“Oh, Aunt Nettie.” Mathilda rose and hugged the old woman. “What was that most curious fact your cousin mentioned?” she asked, “and where are we going for the weekend?”
“You still doubt your interest in this, eh?” Lady Pennypiece teased. “I have not been idle. My servants have returned from Pennywise and—”
“When? Why was I not told? What did they find? Are we to go to your estate?” Mathilda asked excitedly.
“Calm yourself, my dear. Excitement is bad for the complexion.” She sighed at Mathilda’s eagerness. “I did not mean to make you think the doll had been found.
“But there is still hope it will be,” she hurried on. “That is what I meant by Sir Grewould. We are to go to his country estate.”
With her last, meagre hope evaporated, Mathilda returned to her chair dejectedly. “There is no need for a weekend in the country, Aunt Nettie. I have spent my entire life there.”
“But we go for a specific reason. You see, Sir Grewould mentioned his late wife’s habit of collecting gewgaws.”
“How can that aid me?”
“Many years ago her passion was for dolls. I know I gave her several. She and I were friends but lost contact as she settled to raising a family. But the important thing is that the collections are still in the house on the estate. This weekend we shall discover if Doll in Red is there.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Welcome home, my lord,” Green greeted the viscount, noting his master’s healthy glow. “Your journey was pleasant?”
“Very,” Bartone answered. “Is Lynn about?”
“Yes, my lord, he is in his office now. But Mr. Nettles has returned. This is the third day he has awaited you.”
“Send him to my office and tell Lynn I want to see him as soon as I have finished with Nettles. Also see that my landau is readied,” Bartone ordered and strode to his office.
“My lord,” Mr. Nettles greeted the viscount as he entered.
Bartone tossed aside the letters he had been going through. “What did you learn?”
“Actual facts, my lord, were easily obtained.” He handed an envelope to the viscount. “This contains all dates—the lady’s birth, marriage date, Sir Bartone’s death. It also has a report on what I learned.”
“Is there anything you have to add to what you have written?”
“Facts, my lord, don’t always tell all there is to know,” Nettles began. “Often one needs to go beyond them.”
