Thirteen

“She was drunk as a wheelbarrow, and she threw a disgusting bucket of slops over us,” said Lady Hilda Stane, demonstrating the action with vigorous gestures.

“Ugh,” replied Beatrice Townsend, wrinkling her nose at the idea.

Verity and Olivia walked behind them along a path in Hyde Park. Roses nodded on either side.

“My pelisse reeked,” Hilda added with relish. “And the hem of my gown has the most dreadful stains. Georgina says we will see what the laundress can do.”

“I wouldn’t ever wear them again,” said Beatrice with a grimace.

“Well, I won’t if they’re not clean.”

“Quite an adventure,” said Olivia.

“Hilda was only splashed,” Verity replied. “The duchess got the brunt of it. She was drenched.”

“That must have been a sight.”

“She took it extraordinarily well.”

“Have you joined the ranks of Her Grace’s admirers?” asked Olivia with one of her sly smiles.

Verity acknowledged her friend’s familiar bantering tone. “Is there a regiment?”

“Oh yes. And troops on the other side, who find the Duchess of Langford insufferable.”

That was difficult to imagine. “I suppose no strong character is universally liked.”

“How philosophical of you.”

Verity gave her a sidelong look. “Have I offended you somehow?”

She got an exasperated sigh in response. “No, Verity. Am I not allowed a bit of a joke? Among friends?”

“Of course.” She hadn’t sounded like she was joking, but Verity didn’t want to quarrel. It was difficult to know how to take Olivia sometimes, and how to respond. When Verity had considered asking her about Lord Randolph and the archbishop, she’d realized that she didn’t trust Olivia with the information. Olivia could probably find out the truth. She seemed to have inexhaustible sources. But then she’d spread whatever it was all over London, with satirical commentary. Verity didn’t believe Lord Randolph had done anything so bad. The man she’d come to know simply wouldn’t have. But he’d looked mortified when he spoke of the archbishop. She didn’t want people laughing behind their hands at him.

Verity noticed something odd up ahead. “What is that man… Is that Mr. Wrentham?”

Olivia looked. She snorted, then loosed a peal of laughter. She walked faster, overtaking the younger pair. “Stop dawdling,” she said as she passed them. “We came out for a bit of exercise.”

She led the group closer to the bridle path, where Mr. Wrentham was riding along with other equestrians. Unlike them, however, he sat facing his mount’s tail rather than its head. His saddle had been put on backwards, his reins pulled along so he could still grasp them, though he couldn’t see where he was heading. He bounced awkwardly in the unfamiliar position. His horse looked bewildered and uneasy, despite an extra padding of blankets over its back.

Carriages and riders stopped to watch. People laughed and pointed. Wrentham set his jaw and proceeded. He looked pained but determined.

Olivia was overcome with laughter.

“Do you think he’s paying off a bet?” Hilda asked at Verity’s side. “Men are always doing idiotic things for a wager.” She sounded like she rather admired that fact.

“I don’t know,” Verity responded, though she suspected she did.

Mr. Wrentham bounced and teetered along the path and out the gate. When he disappeared around a corner, general movement resumed, to an accompaniment of animated chatter.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” Verity asked Olivia as their group moved on.

“Why would you think so?”

“Experience?” replied Verity dryly.

Olivia giggled. “I didn’t send a note. I keep my word.”

The letter rather than the spirit, Verity thought. “What did you do?”

“I was wonderfully devious.”

Olivia didn’t rub her hands together, but she gave the impression of doing so. She wanted to tell this story, Verity thought.

“It was dead easy to find out where Wrentham is lodging. And there’s a hall boy there who runs errands for the landlady.”

“You went to his rooms?”

“Of course not. Would I be so foolish? I have…minions.” Olivia laughed again. “With a bit of bribery, I discovered that Mr. Wrentham had sent Miss Reynolds a note—yes, a note—through this hall boy. So I had a message…conveyed to the lad, for him to memorize. From ‘the lady.’ Perfectly true, I am a lady.”

Her friend’s eyes were sparkling with enjoyment, Verity noted.

“The message was a gem, if I do say so,” Olivia continued. “All about how a hero endures hardship and proves his regard through deeds, like the knights of old. Would he dare ride through the park backwards, for example?” Noticing Verity’s frown, she said, “It’s just the sort of thing Miss Reynolds would say. And Wrentham would eat up, obviously. No one made him do it, so you needn’t glower at me.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re taking so much trouble to…mislead them,” Verity replied.

“Because it’s so diverting! Did you see how he bounced?”

Olivia also liked to think of herself as a hub of plots and schemes, Verity thought, remembering the machinations over Mr. Rochford’s phrenology report. She’d probably make an excellent spy, but her life offered no proper scope for her talents.

“Oh, for the lord’s sake, don’t look so Friday-faced,” Olivia exclaimed. “There was no harm done. And don’t think to read me a pious lecture. I won’t hear it.” She sped up. “Are we walking or dawdling?” she asked Hilda and Beatrice as she passed them. Olivia strode by another party of ladies, barely acknowledging their greetings, and began a vigorous sweep of the park.

After a while, Beatrice dropped back. Since Hilda seemed to be engaged in a competition with Olivia, Verity slowed with her. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known Olivia was going to run a race,” said Beatrice, puffing a bit.

“She’s certainly energetic.”

“Oh, she’s been an absolute bear since she received that invitation. And all because I won’t tell a lie.”

“Invitation?”

“I don’t mind a little bit of deception,” Beatrice complained, absorbed in her own concerns. “Obviously. But this is different. Mama would have a nervous spasm. And then probably lock me in the attic for the rest of my life—with Olivia.” She shuddered dramatically. “Well, you can’t think it’s a good idea.”

She obviously assumed that Verity knew all about whatever it was.

“You should tell her so,” Beatrice went on before she could speak.

“She doesn’t seem in a mood to listen,” Verity ventured.

“No.” Beatrice huffed and marched over to sit on a bench beside the path. “I refuse to go any farther. Let them come back for us. If they remember we exist.”

Verity joined her. She was torn between concern for her friend and a reluctance to pry. The former won out. “I suppose the invitation made Olivia think,” she ventured.

“Think? What is there to think about?”

“The implications?” Verity said.

The younger girl stared at her. “Implic… It’s perfectly plain. If you tease a rake, you’re going to get in trouble.”

“Mr. Rochford,” Verity concluded.

“She would keep on about playing cards with him. Olivia can be so annoying.”

“She made him angry.”

Beatrice shrugged. “Oh, angry. He wouldn’t bother to be angry. Indeed, he probably laughed himself sick.”

“Because it was amusing to—” Verity trailed off, leaving the sentence for Beatrice to finish.

“Dare Olivia to come to his house for a game,” the girl obliged. “At nine in the evening! I’m sure he did it to be rid of her. He has no idea how brazen Olivia can be.”

She’d forced an introduction to Mr. Rochford in this very park, Verity thought.

Beatrice stuck out her lower lip. “But I am not going to tell Mama we are visiting Hilda together. And even if I would, she’d never believe me. It’s a ridiculous idea. Hilda wouldn’t invite Olivia.”

Verity was silent, wondering if Olivia really meant to accept such a scandalous invitation. She had to know she was courting ruin.

“Where have they gotten to?” Beatrice wondered. “I’m ready to go home.”

“So you’re going to visit Hilda?” Verity asked.

The younger girl brightened. “Tomorrow. We’ll have a grand dinner and see a play, and then I will spend the night. You can see that Olivia wouldn’t be asked.”

Verity nodded.

Their companions appeared on the path, walking back toward them at a slower place. “There you are,” said Olivia when they arrived. “Sluggards.”

Beatrice jumped up and took Hilda’s arm. “Let’s go back,” she said, pulling her along. “I want to show you a copy of the play we’re to see.”

Verity fell in beside Olivia and followed them. She felt uncertain. “Will you come with me to the Boyntons’ tomorrow evening?”

“I can’t. I have another engagement.” Olivia’s tone was discouraging.

“But I’d be so glad of your company.”

“Mama wants me to accompany her on a…visit.”

“Your mother does?”

“I just said so.” Olivia turned to stare at her.

“Perhaps she’d change her plans if you asked.”

“No, she wouldn’t. Why do you press me so?” said Olivia. She sounded belligerent and looked annoyed.

Verity lost patience. “I thought the Boyntons’ party would be more fun than a…stupid visit.”

Her friend’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you call it stupid?”

“Because it patently is!”

“Beatrice,” said Olivia, her voice disgusted. “She’s always been a tattlebox.”

“You can’t be considering—”

“Will you be quiet!” Olivia looked furious now. She glanced behind to make certain no one was listening.

“I should tell your mother,” said Verity.

“If you do, I’ll never speak to you again. Not only that, I’ll tell everyone that you betrayed a confidence. And that you’re a malicious, jealous cat. And worse!”

“Why do you speak this way when I’m trying to help you?”

“What I do is none of your affair! Why do you think you have the right to meddle? I won’t be judged by a pious little simpleton.” Olivia sped up, joining Hilda and Beatrice ahead. She avoided Verity for the rest of their walk and retired to her room when they reached her home, declaring that she was worn out and needed solitude.

* * *

The Countess of Frane’s evening party spread from two large reception rooms on the ground floor of her house into the large back garden. Lanterns furnished with colored glass lit the landscape, splashing walls and vegetation with beams of crimson, blue, and gold. “You see?” Randolph said to Miss Sinclair. He’d been watching for her inside and swooped down with an offer to show her the display as soon as she and her mother entered.

“It looks like fairyland,” she said.

He led her down two shallow steps to join others strolling around the illuminated space. “A pretty conceit,” he agreed. “And it has another advantage.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Oh?”

“An escape from the music.”

As if on cue, someone began playing the pianoforte inside. The notes plodded one after the other, correct but fatally inexpressive.

“Ah.”

He led her farther into the garden. “Ever since our duets, people ask my opinion on every young lady who sets her hands to the keys. I’ve run out of vague generalities.”

“It’s worse when they ask for themselves,” Verity replied. “And won’t be put off.”

She sounded distracted, as if her mind was elsewhere. Randolph looked down at her. Golden light from a nearby lantern gilded her face and sparkled in the braided trim of her pale gown. He was very conscious of her hand on his arm, of the light scent she wore, and of a strong desire to have all her attention. “Of course, the garden has dim secluded corners, too.”

Now she turned to him.

“When I said the garden had advantages, that’s what you thought I meant,” Randolph added.

“Is it?”

“I could tell from your expression.”

“Really?” She smiled a little. “Are you so expert at reading faces?”

“Of course. I’ve spent years in the study.”

He’d hoped for a laugh. Instead he got a long, thoughtful gaze. “People ask you for advice,” she said.

It was a statement, not a question. A practiced part of Randolph came alert.

“Yes, I imagine they do,” she added, as if absently answering herself. “They would consult you about moral dilemmas. And what action to take.”

The idea that Miss Sinclair was grappling with a moral dilemma made him uneasy. What, or who, had created it?

“And if they tell you things in confidence, you keep their secrets.”

This was even worse. “Miss Sinclair.”

“Because if a friend insists that something is none of your affair, even when it might be…disastrous, do you think—” She pressed her lips together.

Nine times out of ten when people said a friend they were speaking of themselves, Randolph thought. He’d seen it over and over in his parsonage. And he didn’t like the word disastrous. He steered toward one of those dim corners beyond the lantern beams and took her hands. “Miss Sinclair. If you have doubts about some action you are contemplating, I urge you to consult—”

“What?” she interrupted.

Out of nowhere came the image of his lovely companion talking to Thomas Rochford after their performance at Carleton House. She’d laughed so gaily at that fellow’s sallies. She’d shaken off warnings about a man who was notoriously seductive. Years of knowledge and experience, of carefully cultivated patience and objectivity, deserted Randolph in an instant. “Disastrous how, precisely?” he growled.

She pulled her hands away. “You have misunderstood me.”

“So speak more clearly.”

A laughing couple ran into the pool of darkness around them. The gentleman careened into Miss Sinclair. She stumbled into Randolph’s arms.

“Oops,” said the intruder. “This spot’s taken.” He pulled his giggling consort away again.

Randolph held her. Her arms had gone around his waist. Now her cheek rested on his chest. She was soft and pliant against him. He wanted her most desperately. “Verity,” he murmured. Her name meant truth.

She let out a sigh. He could feel it.

“Verity.” He savored the syllables.

She looked up, her face a dim oval in the dark. He kissed her.

Her lips were sweet. Her arms tightened around him, and she pressed closer. A sense of rightness enveloped Randolph, nearly as strong as his desire. This was where she belonged. And he. It was as if their kiss drew the scattered pieces of existence into order, and all was well. He wanted it to go on forever.

Impossible, of course. The kiss ended. He was bereft, and yet joyfully complacent. She couldn’t kiss him like that and not care. “Now tell me about this disastrous thing, and we will dispose of it,” he said.

She pulled away. “My friend—”

“There’s no need to pretend you’re speaking of someone else.”

“Pretend?” She pushed at his chest. With great reluctance Randolph let her go. “Why would I pretend?” she said as she stepped back.

“You needn’t be shy with me.” He groped for words to capture the certainty he’d felt moments ago. But they eluded him. Astonishing. He always had words.

“I’m not shy. I’m perplexed. About my duty and my friend.”

She’d moved farther away. A shaft of golden lantern light caught her from the side, painting her half gilded, half dark. “You look like a renaissance masterpiece,” he said.

“What?”

With a breathless bustle, the couple who’d interrupted them earlier returned. “If you’re just going to stand about, you might leave this prime spot for those with…other plans,” the gentleman said. His companion giggled. Didn’t the constant giggling irritate him? Randolph wondered idiotically.

Miss Sinclair turned and walked away. The look she threw over her shoulder was bewildering.

Verity moved fast, her skirts frothing about her feet, scarcely seeing the other guests strolling in the garden. She was dizzy with the feel of him. She’d wanted to stay forever in his embrace. It had felt like home, and like the most thrilling place on Earth at the same time. And the kiss! She missed a step and nearly fell into a clump of shrubbery.

She moved into the shadow of the bushes and stood still, catching her breath. After a moment she put her hands to her flushed cheeks, as if she could push down the emotion that flooded her. Her fingers felt cold. What was she doing?

Verity had known so many churchmen in her life, from canting prudes to foxhunting parsons who hardly seemed clerical at all. She’d thought Lord Randolph Gresham was the best kind—serious without being condescending, kind without being wishy-washy, intelligent and educated and…so very attractive. Not that the latter was relevant.

But just now he’d seemed positively…cloth-headed, exactly as she’d predicted for a country clergyman.

Her breath caught on a sob, and she swallowed fiercely. This would not do. She wasn’t some feeble twit to be found sniveling at a ton party.

Verity let her hands drop. She straightened and held her head high. She stepped smartly out of the shadows and rejoined the strolling guests, walking as if she had a definite goal in mind. And then she rounded a low tree lit by a crimson lantern and came face-to-face with the Duchess of Langford.

She recoiled and nearly tumbled over backward. The duchess caught her shoulders and held her steady. Verity felt like a clumsy child. “Are you all right?” the older woman asked.

Those blue eyes, so like her son’s, which seemed to see much more than one might have wished, Verity thought. “Not looking where I was going,” she replied. “Sorry.” She pulled free. The duchess made no effort to hold her. “Have you recovered from your dreadful dowsing?” Verity asked. The red light made the other woman look feverish.

“It was rather dreadful, wasn’t it?” The duchess laughed. “A gruesome greeting to the neighborhood for you. I hope you weren’t put off. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”

“No.” Verity made a move toward the house. The duchess fell in beside her.

“Miss Fletcher is quite excited about the idea of a music teacher. She’s found a candidate already.”

“Oh, good.” She heard footsteps coming up behind them. Probably, most likely, Lord Randolph.

“She’d be happy to have your opinion when you can find the time to call. Our carriage is at your disposal, of course. As am I.”

The footsteps came closer. She simply couldn’t chat with the man she’d just kissed—and his mother—just now, Verity thought. “Yes, I’ll see when… If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Mama.” Feeling confused and young and rude, she hurried off. When she ventured a glance from the doorway, she saw she’d been right. Lord Randolph had joined his mother on the garden path. What was he saying to her? It was all a great muddle, and to top it off, she still didn’t know what to do about Olivia.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Randolph was, in fact, saying.

“A large one?”

“I hope not. I’m not certain, because I don’t know precisely what I was mistaken about. Only that I was ham-handed, and tongue-tied.”

“You?” His mother smiled up at him.

He had to smile back. “Difficult to believe, I know. The circumstances were…unusual.” Or unprecedented, or revolutionary, Randolph thought. Now that it was too late, his mind teemed with words.

“Pleasantly so?”

“I think…I hope…perhaps.” He sighed. “People say wisdom increases with age, but I never felt so at sea with Rosalie.”

His mother looked him over. The acute assessment was as familiar as childhood. “Can I do anything?”

Could she? Randolph considered the idea. “I don’t think so. I need to make some inquiries. I wonder if Hilda might—”

“Georgina’s sister might help?” the duchess asked when he didn’t go on. She sounded dubious.

He nodded. “There’s no one better at ferreting out secrets. Could she be the friend? No.”

“Must you be so mysterious, Randolph? It’s quite irritating.”

He laughed. “Sorry, Mama. Sometimes a thing isn’t ready to be told.”

“I’m familiar with the concept,” she replied, a touch of asperity in her voice. “I’ve often heard it from you and your brothers. Though less so in recent years. I’m also familiar with a wide variety of results, from hilarity to catastrophe.”

“I hope to avoid either of those.” His mother sighed audibly. She seemed to sway slightly. “Are you well?” Randolph asked her.

“Of course.”

“You look a bit peaked.”

“It’s this red light. Like a beam from the infernal regions.”

Randolph laughed but said, “Shall I take you inside? Where is Papa?”

“Arguing politics with Lord Holland.” She made a shooing motion. “Go on and dig into your secrets. I’m perfectly fine. I like the night air.”

Randolph examined her. She made a face at him. He laughed again and went on his way.

The duchess stood alone in the illuminated garden, an oddly isolated figure. Then a friend came along, and the rhythm of the party overtook her again.