Lady Caraway's Cloak, page 2
“Well, just because you are at the dower house and I in London does not mean we shall lose touch. Indeed, I am perfectly certain I can cajole your mama into a Season ...”
Miss Waring’s curls shook dolefully. “Mama says her health is too frail, and her finances ... Serena, I should not say this, but Mama is clutch-fisted!”
“She is, but she has no call to be. Spencer left her very well off, you know, and the current earl ...” Serena bit her tongue.
The current earl would not thank her for divulging the full extent of his generosity. Moreover, if she had not been deceiving him for a twelvemonth, she would know nothing whatsoever of these financial arrangements. She held her peace, but could not help remarking, rather sharply, that Lady Caraway could afford a Season for her daughter.
“Perhaps.” Julia looked cast down, then smiled brilliantly. “Serena! You could sponsor me!”
“I?’
“Yes, for you are forever telling me what a matron you are. And I could accompany you and lend you countenance. . .”
At which, the Lady Serena arched her brow so high that Julia giggled. “Well, it is better than jauntering all about London without a companion! Oh, Serena, I would be so good! Not a sore trial to you at all, and though I might break a few hearts, I shall try not to get into any scandals or waltz before I have permission, or flirt with the Prince of Wales though he is so fat I cannot see why I would be tempted ... or ...”
“Stop, child!” A dimple played about the corner of Lady Serena’s mouth.
“I never realized there were so many hazards involved in a young lady’s first Season. You quite terrify me!”
“Oh, Serena! Nothing terrifies you! Oh, please say I may join you in London! It will be such ... ripping good fun.”
“Not if Lady Caraway hears you. She would wash your mouth out with soap for using such cant.”
“Tsha! Mama would more likely faint and make me feel guilty for a month or more. Oh, please, Serena! Please, please, please!”
“Very well. I shall speak to Lady Caraway, but no promises, mind!”
As it was, it took Serena a week to approach Lady Caraway with Julia’s scheme. Truth to tell, she had some such in her mind when purchasing the little house, for up until now, Lady Caraway had shown no signs of dislodging either herself—or her daughter—from Caraway Castle, never mind bending her mind to the problem of a Season.
“Well!” she said. “Well, well ... I would never have thought it, but Julia has always been an undutiful chit ...”
“Put that hartshorn down at once!” Serena’s tone was so commanding that she did not know who was more surprised—the dowager or herself. But the hartshorn was duly laid down upon the occasional table, and only a small ivory fan was produced in its stead.
This the dowager fanned herself with vigorously, obviously feeling very ill used, but Serena made no comment, concentrating, instead, on her persuasive skills. At the end of her well-rehearsed recital, my lady was regarding her speculatively, for while Lady Serena was wild and independent to a fault, there was no doubt some small grain of sense in what she said.
Much of this small grain related to financial considerations, for though the dowager countess was left very well-off indeed, she could not rid herself of the notion that she was in dire straits, a fact that was confirmed each time she donned the Caraway jewels and realized, rather mournfully, that they were no longer hers.
Oh, if only she had borne Lord Caraway a son! Oh, if only they did not have to kow-tow to some trumped-up upstart from the Americas! Serena closed her ears firmly and helped herself to a fresh Valencia orange. She refused to criticize the new earl—whom she secretly admired quite enormously—and hoped her silence would have a dampening effect upon her sister-in-law.
It did, for the countess would not waste displays of sensibility on her unfeeling and ungrateful relations. She merely waved Serena feebly away, and announced, in failing accents, that she required her maid.
Serena, obliging, rang for Redmond, but smiled a little as she reached the door. The countess was behaving exactly as she had predicted. She had just stepped onto the slightly worn carpets of the second corridor when she was summoned back by the tinkling of my lady’s bell.
“Serena!”
“Yes, ma’am?” Serena closed the door to allow for privacy.
“You will procure the necessary vouchers for Almack’s?”
“Of course, Lady Caraway. Sally Jersey was a friend of my father’s.”
“Hmph! Opinionated hussy! I remember ... well, it shall not do to gossip and I daresay I am the very soul of discretion ...”
“Oh, naturally.” Serena’s eyes were alight with irony, but Lady Caraway saw nothing amiss in what she said. Slightly mollified, she reached for her vinaigrette—never far from her side—and inquired about arrangements for modistes and other London essentials.
What she was really inquiring about, in her roundabout way, was who was to be footing the inevitably large bill, and Serena managed to very eloquently inform her that the entire matter would be squarely her own concern. “For you must see, ma’am, that I am very fond of Julia, not to mention anxious for a young companion.”
“Indeed, yes, for you are a sad scatterbrain, Serena, and although I hesitate to have to inform you, you are now almost entirely on the shelf. Yes, I quite see how young companionship may serve to bolster your sagging spirits ...”
Serena smiled sweetly and swallowed a rather cutting retort.
“My dear, she may go, for I am not an unnatural parent, and if she chooses to go pleasuring rather than to minister to my ailing nerves ...”
“Redmond shall minister to your ailing nerves. And here she is. Redmond, I fancy your mistress has sore need of one of your tonics. She looks frail.”
Since Lady Caraway looked nothing of the sort, Redmond regarded Serena suspiciously and pursed her lips.
She had never liked her ladyship, and the sooner Lady Serena removed herself off to London the better. Despite Serena’s precautions, Redmond had had her ear pressed to the gilt-embossed keyhole, I am afraid.
Fortunately, Serena seemed blithely unaware of her dagger-looks and happily removed herself from the salon.
Lady Caraway was left looking at nothing but Redmond and a dish of long, skillfully peeled rind. She waved both away, her rings glittering bold in the sunlight.
Chapter Two
A smile lightened the features of Robin, Lord Caraway. His long, black hair may have been unfashionable in length, but the vivid crimson of the ribbon that bound it was of the finest quality, making even the most discerning of critics nod grudgingly in approval. After all, when one was as handsome as Robin—not to mention as rich—one could afford to defy the conventions. Even Amelia Stanbury, who knew every pattern card to perfection, and who could recite her Debrett’s and her Charlotte Gilford’s books of etiquette with unwavering certainty, agreed that it would be a shame indeed to take a scissors to those long, lustrous locks.
Of course, all these considerations were made under the cover of a great deal of giggling and blushing and twirling of silk-tasseled parasols, for naturally young ladies of quality did not discuss gentlemen at all, no matter how fine their attributes.
Fortunately, Robin was oblivious to these ruminations, or he might have seen fit to crop his shoulder-length mane posthaste. Instead, he merely adjusted his ribbon and did not so much as seek a mirror to inspect the result. He was no dandy, though his boots were fashioned most elegantly for comfort, and no one could possibly quiz him on the cut of his coat, or on the whiteness of his freshly-starched cravats. It was just, one supposed, that he did not suffer trinkets—or fools—gladly.
He refused, in the roundest of turns, to invigorate himself with scented pomades, or to brandish a quizzing glass, or even to allow a seal or two to dangle from his waistcoat. It was considered, in some circles, a trifle unfair that he should be so damnably handsome. He bore his good looks with a shocking ill will, disposing at an early age of the necessity for not only daily fittings with his tailor, but also with the indispensable services of a valet.
It was perhaps just as well for him that he had not stayed in London to hear the endless lists of complaints laid at his door, but had sailed to the Americas instead, where he had made a fortune in such commodities as sugar and rye. There were whispers that he had also spent some of this time as a privateer, or even more dramatically, as a pirate, but these were whispers only, and could in no way be verified but for the very fine state of his cellar, and for his immensely proficient use of the short sword.
Since he did not generally engage in duels, and since his cellars might, after all, have been legitimately come by, society merely called him a rogue, and ensured that he was always the first to be invited to any social gathering that happened to arise.
Sadly, he more often than not chose to decline, and when he did not, was most indiscriminate with his favors, a source of great annoyance to matchmaking mamas who would have preferred their daughters to be singled out more properly. Instead, almost every maiden in the room became afflicted with a strange and improper malady—dreamy giggles and distressing inattention to other more likely suitors. Still, he was so engaging a gentleman, and so rich, the invitations continued to flow.
“Daydreaming?” Captain Adam McNichols sallied into the room without knocking. He grinned and pointed at an inviting decanter half filled with a sublime, reddish gold liquid.
“Ah, port! The very thing!”
“My dear fellow, it is just gone ten o’clock!”
Adam filled himself a glass of the precious liquid.
“I know, but really, Robin, one simply cannot pass by your cellars. It is a crime that one man alone should own such bounty!”
Robin suppressed a grin. “I am not alone, it seems.”
But Captain McNichols had a talent for ignoring the most cutting of comments and was now happily engaged in tilting the glass to the sunlight. “Excellent vintage!”
“Yes. Adam, I do not wish to seem ... you know ... inhospitable ... but did you barge into my private chambers merely to praise my wines?”
“No. Of course not! Shoddy thing that would be!”
“Ah.” The whisper of a smile, but again, lost on his young companion.
“Truth is ...”
“Rolled up?”
“Gracious, what a suggestion! As a matter of fact ... oh hang it, Robin! I don’t perfectly know how you guess these things. It is really most unnerving! Have no fear, though, I shall be as right as a trivet in no time!”
“That is what I fear.”
Adam had the grace to color.
“Well, if you must know, it is the Fansham woman ...”
A twinkle of amusement lit Robin’s eyes. “Harpy, you mean!”
“Yes, but you must admit she has the most extraordinary. . .”
“Proportions?” asked Robin helpfully.
“You laugh, but yes! That is precisely what I mean. Well, she wanted a bracelet of diamonds and I was hardly listening to a word, for I had my mind on Mrs. Minchin’s macaroons—she promised to bake me a plateful and I swear, Robin, they are the very best ... well, I digress—at all events, I thought I could stand the ticket, but galloping good gracious, you can have no notion of the cost of these things!”
“What, macaroons? You can procure some perfectly acceptable ones from my cook for nothing at all.”
Captain McNichols brightened. “Can I just? I shall hold you to that, my fine sir, though you deliberately misunderstand me ... I mean the diamonds. I was never more dumbfounded than when presented with the bill! You can have no notion, Robin! No notion at all!”
Lord Caraway smiled. If there was one thing he did know, it was just that. He had bought several such himself, and for women far more beautiful than the Fansham one.
“Let it be a lesson to you, cub!”
“Oh, pray, do not start moralizing!”
“I? Hardly! That would be rather like the pot calling the kettle black. Draw on my banker in the morning.”
“I would rather not, unless you hold it against my land or my bonds. You have been too good already ...”
“Fustian. Now ... I trust, by the look on your furrowed brow, that you have some other pressing matter to impart?”
“Yes! I mean ... No! Not, that is, if you would prefer me to call later ...”
Robin grinned. It was the sort of engaging smile that instantly put men at ease, and sent ladies into the type of trancelike ecstasy that required either a high dose of smelling salts or a chaise longue upon which to elegantly swoon. “Don’t be such a cork-brain, Adam. I cannot possibly permit you to call later when you are bursting with ... good God, I know not what! News, I suppose, but you cannot possibly expect me to survive the suspense. Tell all now, I pray you, if you have finished with my port.”
“What? Ah, beg pardon! I shall replace the stopper at once, I should not have left it so, but in truth, Robin, I am distracted.”
“So I see. Here. Let me help you. You are butterfingered, too.”
“I have had a letter from Mama. It came with the last packet.”
“Then I must congratulate you.”
“Congratulate? How in the world did you know what the letter contains ... ? Oh! I see, you are roasting me. You mean congratulations that my mother wrote to me at all.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, it is not very kind of you, though I dare swear you will change your mind when you hear what news I have.”
“Let me hear it as we ride. Much as I am loath to continue this state of unparalleled suspense, my horse is being brought from the stables as we speak. See, there he is now.”
Robin indicated the windows of his extensive home. Far below, a dappled stallion was being walked by one of the stable hands. He looked frisky, but his bearing was everything a man could require of such a beast.
Adam’s gaze followed that of his friend’s.
“He is a prime one. I wish you would sell him to me.”
“You shall have him upon my deathbed and then, alone. Do hurry up, will you? I have a sudden compulsion for speed.”
With which words Robin strode down his pristine hallway, grabbed at his riding crop, then proceeded to advance down his highly polished mahogany steps three at a time.
He did not seem to notice the stares of his butler, or the fluttering lashes of two undermaids and a housekeeper, all armed with such weapons as feather dusters and floor polishes.
Captain Adam McNichols, watching him, wondered for the umpteenth time how it came to be that such a man as he, so vigorous, so unbounded by conventions, so ready to run, rather than walk in a stately fashion, had been saddled with the ancient Earldom of Caraway. It seemed that the gods were having their joke. He wondered, rather fleetingly, at whose expense.
The day was dappled with bright sunshine and a few tiny white clouds drifted in the sky. Robin felt the wind at his back and drove his stallion to greater lengths than ever before. In truth, he was restless, his wanderlust—always a demon—grasping at him once more. It was time to move on, time, he supposed, to assume the mantle that had been flung upon his unwilling shoulders.
Not that he did not see the funnier side of it—him, being cast as an earl when once he had been a common pirate on the deep blue seas. Well, not common perhaps. Never common. That smile flickered in his eyes again, and his lips, almost unconsciously, curved into a quick grin. He may not ever have been common, but he had been a pirate nonetheless, though the riches went to England, and certain invaluable packets were wrested from the French. Oh, how he longed for those days now as he drove Pan onward, east, toward the morning sun.
Behind him, Adam thundered to catch up. Robin spurred his mount faster yet, over a thicket which he effortlessly cleared and across a small area of flatland that led, he knew, to the sun-bleached cliffs. On the horizon, he could see The Albatross, anchored out at sea, its great white canvas sails flapping lazily in the sea breeze.
A small crew would be sweeping the decks, checking the mainsails, inexpertly stitching any small tears that were discovered, painting the masts with a fresh black coat of paint, and no doubt imbibing—moderately, he hoped—the casks of rum and apple cider he had stocked just after his return to shore. They would be whistling, he knew, several ditties unfit for ladies’ ears, but merry nonetheless.
Robin began to hum. His eyes meticulously scanned the waters, dancing with sunlight, then rested with a smile upon the trusty skiff bobbing against its moorings. Close to shore, just a small adjustment of breeches and he could wade to it without getting wet. For a moment, he was tempted, but that would mean scrambling down the cliffs, and though Adam would not mind in the least, the horses would doubtless object.
So my lord contented himself with a loud, penetrating whistle and a long, lingering wave across the coastline. He could see nothing of his men, but there was always the chance that they could see him, especially if bold Lem was playing with his spyglass again.
He patted Pan, then thrust his hands into his pockets, watching with a smile as Adam, far below, could be seen galloping helter-skelter up the steady slope toward him. His fingers curled yet again over a crisp unopened missive, waxed, strangely enough, in his own, unfamiliar seal.
The Caraway seal of England, and Lord only knew how Addington, as a mere bailiff, was authorized to use it. Not that he minded in the least—he was not such a nip-farthing as that—it only added yet another mystery to the already mounting mysteries that were, at the moment, tantalizing his curiosity.
He pulled out the letter, glancing curiously at the delicate strokes and the soft, calligraphic twirls that he had come to recognize across the C’s and E’s. Then, seeing Adam catch up, he stuffed the letter back into his greatcoat and waited, a smile just curling about the tips of his very fine masculine mouth. A shocking habit, stuffing his pockets with wafers, but then he was not at the mercy of valets and tailors, and therefore did not have to suffer their black looks at such sacrilege.
Still, the wafer was burning a hole in his pocket. It amused him to think how eager he was to read it. It promised of a day eased, a little, of the usual constraints and conventions. His reward for meticulously overseeing his business prospects—a wearying but necessary business—and promising to attend not one, but two, society functions in the evening. He grimaced at the prospect, for American ladies were even more eager than their English counterparts to attach themselves to his person—and slightly less timid.
