Rules for Being a Mistress Page 23

  Cosima began to make excuses.

  Miss Bulstrode’s eyes widened as she saw Lord Redfylde. He was an imposing specimen of the nobility. He wore his tight-fitting mulberry coat and buff-colored pantaloons with distinction. “Oh!” she said. “Were you waiting to see me, sir?”

  “I am Lord Redfylde,” he said haughtily.

  “My lord!” Miss Bulstrode made him a very deep, unsteady curtsey.

  “This is my eldest daughter.” To him, Lady Amelia looked disgustingly insignificant. It seemed to him that, if she could not be male, Lady Amelia might at least have been an attractive female. Instead, she was a fat, listless drab.

  Redfylde much preferred the rosy-cheeked, fair-haired girl who had entered the room with the headmistress. The younger Miss Vaughn was tall and slim and healthy. In her time, she would be as beautiful as her sister.

  Miss Bulstrode sank into another curtsey. “My lady,” she murmured. “This is a great honor. Curtsey, child,” she commanded Miss Allegra.

  Allie’s curtsey was a mere sketch.

  “I’m sorry I was a bit late fetching Allie, Miss Bulstrode,” said Cosima, twisting her hands together. “But Lady Amelia was feeling ill, and so…”

  “Heavens!” cried Miss Bulstrode. “I will fetch the doctor at once!”

  “She doesn’t need a doctor,” Redfylde said curtly. “She’s had more cake than is good for her, that is all. She is fat and lazy. She needs exercise. I am determined, Miss Bulstrode,” said Redfylde, “that my children receive only the finest possible education. Perhaps you would give me a tour of your seminary?”

  Cosima took her sister by the hand. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said quickly, hoping that Miss Bulstrode would forget all about collecting her exorbitant late fee.

  “You’re not going?” said Redfylde.

  “Please, don’t leave me,” said Amelia, her terror returning.

  “I must,” Miss Vaughn said apologetically. “I’m so dreadfully late, my mother will think I ran off with the gypsies again, like I did when I was eight.”

  Redfylde took a step toward her. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to look in on Lady Amelia tomorrow, Miss Vaughn? She will want to thank you properly for your kindness to her.”

  Cosima looked at Amelia’s desperate little face and could not refuse. “I’ll make time,” she promised. “I’ll bring Allie to see your ladyship after school tomorrow, shall I?”

  She bent over Lady Amelia and kissed the child’s forehead.

  The visit was paid the following day. The Miss Vaughns arrived breathless, the elder wearing the same striped dress from the day before, and the younger bearing the small gift of a puzzle for the recovering Amelia.

  Serena gave them tea. The elder Miss Vaughn ate nothing, but the younger ate her fill of sandwiches and cakes.

  Lady Serena had not bothered to show his lordship Lady Caroline’s new tooth, Cosima was shocked to discover. She was sure the proud father must be dying to see it. In fact, Redfylde had seen nothing of any of his children besides Amelia. He had only used Amelia as an excuse to meet Miss Vaughn; otherwise, he would not have seen her either. He had no desire to see them, but to indulge Miss Vaughn, he had them brought down from the nursery.

  “Well, children?” Cosima said, taking Lady Caroline from the arms of her nurse. “Aren’t you going to give your father a kiss?”

  Amelia and Imogen and Elizabeth stared, thunderstruck by the concept.

  Redfylde was annoyed. Anyone would think the ugly little brats were terrified of me, he thought angrily. Miss Vaughn would think he was a monster.

  In fact, it never occurred to Miss Vaughn that the children might be afraid. Her own father, she was persuaded, was the worst blackguard who ever lived, but she had never in her life been afraid of him. For all his faults, Colonel Vaughn had never been violent. She decided the girls must be shy, and still grieving over the loss of their mother.

  “Go on,” she said, laughing. “Give him a kiss! He won’t bite you!”

  Pale as death, Lady Amelia stepped forward. Redfylde bent a little, Amelia put her arms around his neck and kissed her father’s cheek. Reluctantly, Lady Imogen and Lady Elizabeth followed her lead. “That’s better,” Cosima said warmly.

  “You have let them all grow fat, Serena,” Redfylde said in distaste.

  “Ah, sure, ’tis only puppy fat,” Cosima said quickly. “All they need is a bit of exercise and fresh air, as I keep trying to tell Lady Serena. Oh, but listen to me, ganching on like a magpie, when your lordship is dying to see the tooth!”

  Redfylde stared at her blankly. “The tooth?”

  Without warning, Miss Vaughn brought the babe closer to him. Redfylde was startled to say the least. The babe opened its sticky pink mouth and gurgled. Reddylde had never been this close to the child before and its open mouth was as disgusting to him as an open sore. At birth, all the children had been taken from their mother and placed in the nursery.

  “Take her,” said Miss Vaughn.

  He cringed. “I couldn’t possibly,” he said quickly.

  Miss Vaughn ignored his protests, and placed Lady Caroline in her father’s arms.

  Lady Caroline began to scream the instant she felt her father’s arms around her.

  “There it is,” Cosima exclaimed in triumph. “See? Lady Caroline has cut her first tooth! Don’t cry, little baby. Papa has you now,” she cooed. She gave the bewildered marquess a dazzling smile. “I just love babies, don’t you? If there’s a baby within a square mile of me, you can bet I’ll be the one holding him.”

  Redfylde held Lady Caroline at arm’s length.

  “They do not seem to like me, however,” he sniffed.

  Cosima took the baby from him. Lady Caroline stopped crying as if by magic. “It’s hard for them,” Cosy said softly, rocking the baby from side to side. “It’s not been so very long since they lost their mother. I know it’s hard on you, too, my lord,” she added kindly, “but you can see how much the children need you. I hope you’ll be staying a while?”

  He smiled at her. “I hope to stay in Bath for quite some time,” he said. “After all, the children do need me.”

  Cosima beamed at him. “And you need them, of course,” she said softly.

  She felt quite proud of herself for bringing together this shattered family.

  On the first day of spring, Lord Westlands arrived in Bath. Cosima saw him from the drawing-room window, and flew downstairs to the door, feather duster in hand, and opened it just as he was touching the bell.

  Marcus Wayborn, Lord Westlands, peered into the interior of the house. He saw a brown Holland pinafore worn over green baize and looked no further. He held out his card with a gloved hand. “Lord Westlands to see Lady Agatha,” he said.

  His voice and manner were so supercilious that for a moment, Cosima debated meekly taking the card like the servant he evidently thought she was. But she was too happy to see him.

  “Hello, Marcus. I wasn’t sure you would come.”

  His eyes flew up to her face. “Cosy! Good God! What are you doing? Is it a masquerade?”

  Her hair was wrapped in a cloth and there was a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose, but she was the same pretty little cousin he had been caught kissing behind the stables of his father’s estate when she was eleven and he was fourteen. With one very intriguing difference. She had soft little breasts now.

  “Spring cleaning,” she explained, flicking the turkey feathers over his handsome face as if it were a knick-knack in need of cleaning. She pulled him inside the house and closed the door.

  “Why are you doing it?” he demanded. “Where are the servants?”

  “I gave them the year off,” she said dryly. “Not everyone is stinking rich like yourself, Marcus! Some of us have to do our own cleaning.”

  “I wish I were stinking rich,” he muttered darkly, “but I’m afraid my father keeps me on a tight rein, allowance-wise.”

  “Mother’s sleeping, and Allie’s at school, so
I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” She led him upstairs to the drawing-room. “I take it you got my letter,” she said, returning to dusting the mantelpiece.

  “I did. Interesting choice of a messenger,” he observed, looking around the room. “Sir Benedict Wayborn. My father thinks he’s a dangerous radical.”

  “Dangerous radical?”

  “The man’s a born troublemaker.” He grinned at her affectionately. “But I suppose that comes with the territory, eh?”

  The feather duster paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s half-Irish, isn’t he? Just like you.”

  Cosima looked at him in astonishment. “Who?” she said blankly.

  “The stiff, Sir Benedict. His mother was Irish. Didn’t you know? Lord Oranmore’s daughter. Lady Angela Redmund that was.”

  Cosima’s legs suddenly felt weak. “I think I’m gonna have to sit down,” she said faintly.

  “You’ve been working too hard,” Westlands complained, putting her into a chair and kneeling at her feet. He took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you ever grew into those big, green eyes of yours,” he said softly.

  Holding her hands, he looked at her like a lovesick goose.

  “Oh, Marcus,” she said, howling with laughter. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

  Chapter 15

  “Where is she?” the Marquess of Redfylde demanded of Serena.

  The Monday dress-ball was in full bloom in the Upper Rooms, but Miss Vaughn was again a truant. Her elusiveness, which had tantalized and amused Lord Redfylde at first, was beginning to wear thin with his lordship. Redfylde could not bear to be denied anything he wanted even a little, and he wanted Miss Vaughn more and more every day.

  Unwisely, Serena chose to be obtuse. “Who are you looking for, my lord?”

  Her brother-in-law’s hand bit into her arm. “Did you not send the carriage to Camden Place for her?” he demanded. “I told you to send the carriage.”

  Serena unfurled her fan. “I sent the carriage, my lord, with my compliments, but, short of instructing my footmen to abduct the girl, I could not make her get in.”

  Redfylde bit back his frustration. The situation was becoming intolerable. Miss Vaughn, it seemed, would go out of her way to visit his children, but she wouldn’t lift a finger to be with their father. He supposed this was her way of bringing him to the point of marriage.

  “What excuse did she give for her rudeness?” he wanted to know.

  “Miss Vaughn has but one excuse,” Serena replied. “The claims of her sick mama. She cannot leave poor Lady Agatha even for the space of an evening. Apparently, the woman is just sick enough to keep her daughter at home, but not sick enough to die.”

  “Have you sent a doctor?”

  Serena laughed in astonishment. “Have I sent a doctor? Why should I?”

  “Perhaps,” he said coldly, “Miss Vaughn has reason to think Lady Serena’s affection for her is not sincere, and that is why she will not make use of your carriage! You must try to make yourself agreeable, my dear. Take the poor girl under your wing.”

  Serena was speechless.

  “I think perhaps I will use you in the carriage on the way home,” he said very quietly, even as he smiled and nodded to Mr. King. “I shall open the roof so that the driver and the footmen can hear your cries of ecstasy. Or, perhaps, I shall invite one of the footmen to take my place. Would you like that, my dear?”

  Serena shuddered. “I shall send Dr. Grantham to Lady Agatha at once, my lord.”

  By this time, Mr. King had made his way to them. The master of ceremonies was in a state of euphoria. The continued residence in Bath of the Earl of Ludham had been a blessing. The sudden appearance of the Marquess of Redylde had been like a miracle. With the arrival of Lord Wayborn’s son and heir, Mr. King’s cup was running over. When word got out that gentlemen of such exalted rank were disdaining London in favor of little Bath, the Upper Rooms would again be filled to capacity. Or so he hoped.

  “My dear Lady Serena!” he cried, bowing. “My Lord Redfylde! Have you heard the news? Lord Westlands has come to Bath. He is here tonight with his fiancee, Lady Rose.”

  Serena was sufficiently surprised. She raised a well-groomed brow. “I had thought Lady Rose was engaged to Mr. Freddie Carteret?” she drawled. “I read it in the papers.”

  “A mistake,” Mr. King confidently declared. “A mistake which I am laboring to correct for poor Lady Matlock’s sake. The notice was put in wrong. Ah! Here is Lady Matlock now, with Mr. Carteret. She will tell you all about it herself. I must have a word with the musicians.”

  Lady Matlock seemed to have borrowed one of her daughter’s filmy, low-cut gowns for the occasion. “It was the stupid man at the newspaper,” she explained. “He put it in wrong. Of course Rose is engaged to Westlands. How could it be otherwise when his lordship was so attentive to her in London? He only went home to ask for his father’s blessing first.”

  Bored, Lord Redfylde left them without a word, and strode in the direction of the card room. “How could the man at the newspaper be so stupid?” Serena murmured.

  Freddie Carteret stepped into the breach wearing an obsequious smile. “It will, perhaps, become understandable when I tell your ladyship that it was I who placed the notice in the newspaper. The stupid fellow wrote my name down by mistake.”

  Serena blinked at him. “You put the notice in, Mr. Carteret?”

  “In my capacity as Personal Private Secretary to Lady Matlock,” he explained.

  Lady Matlock swayed on her feet. Her new secretary took her by the arm and lead her gently to a chair. Attending to Lady Matlock when she had one of her “spells” would comprise the bulk of Mr. Carteret’s new duties, but he did not mind. The countess was paying him so well that he did not feel it necessary to threaten Lady Rose with a breach of promise suit. “Dear Freddie,” she murmured, patting his cheek. “When that girl is finally married, I shall take to my bed for a week. I am quite exhausted.”

  “Allow me,” Freddie smiled, “to make your burdens my own.”

  Lady Matlock quivered. It would be so nice, she mused, to have a gentleman to turn to in a time of crisis. Footmen were all very well when there was nothing better to be had, but nothing could compare to comfort of a gentleman.

  Serena was surprised when her brother-in-law reappeared at the tea interval. Her surprise turned to alarm when she realized that he had lost a great deal of money at the card table. Redfylde was a wealthy man, but he hated to lose even a trifle. Serena knew from bitter experience that he would vent his anger on her if he could. She was filled with such dread that she could scarcely focus on the conversation.

  Lady Rose Fitzwilliam was chattering happily about her forthcoming marriage, and, in particular, about the design of her wedding gown. The prospective bridegroom looked bored until his bride-to-be suddenly exclaimed, “I wish Miss Vaughn were here. She could describe the skirt to you so much better. What was the word she used?”

  “Meringue,” Westlands said, laughing. “Cousin Cosy has a definite way with words. The Irish gift of gab, you know.”

  Lord Redfylde swung his pale blue eyes in Westlands’s direction. “Cousin?” he said sharply. “Miss Vaughn is your cousin, is she?”

  Westlands glanced at him. Redfylde was an intimidating figure, and he outranked the viscount, but Westlands had the invincible arrogance of youth on his side. “I said so, didn’t I?” he replied rudely. “Are you hard of hearing?”

  “If she is so,” Redfylde said coldly, “why do you allow her to be held prisoner to her mother’s illness? Lady Agatha is your aunt, I suppose?”

  Rose said quickly, “Indeed, my lord! Westlands sent a chair for Miss Vaughn, but she could not leave her mother.”

  “Is the woman so sick?” Redfylde demanded.

  “Who is sick?” Lady Matlock demanded, panting indignantly. “Agatha Vaughn? Pshaw! I am persuaded she is not half as sick as I am, but I do my duty. I chaperone Rose to all these events, in spit
e of my wretched health. I extend myself for my daughter’s sake.”

  “I think,” said Miss Millicent Carteret, “that it is a matter of clothes! Everyone knows the Vaughns are poor. It is not Miss Vaughn’s fault, of course, but there it is. You saw that hideous green affair she wore to Lady Serena’s card party! It has been a year, if not longer, since we saw a lady’s waistline under her armpits! Not a very flattering look when one is as small-bosomed as Miss Vaughn.”

  “I did not realize that Miss Vaughn had attended a party at your house, Serena,” Redfylde said angrily. “You did not tell me.”

  “She also attended a concert, my lord,” Serena murmured, “so, you see, her concern for dear mama comes and goes.”

  Lady Matlock recalled that it had been Miss Vaughn who had brought Lord Westlands to Bath. Due to her influence, the young man had lost no time in engaging himself to Rose. Lady Matlock’s ordeal was almost at an end, thanks to Miss Vaughn. Lady Matlock saw an opportunity to do the Irish girl a good turn.

  “Such a pretty girl, my lord!” she said. “She plays and sings like an angel. I can’t recall when I heard anything that gave me more pleasure than hearing her play. How I would love to present Miss Vaughn to Society! Sally Jersey would eat her pink pearls if she had to receive Miss Vaughn at Almack’s. With the right clothes and hair, I think she would do very well.”

  Redfylde smiled to himself. The idea of spurning all the unworthy London debutantes in favor of Miss Vaughn appealed to him. Cramming her down the throats of jealous mavens like that Jersey cow would be a rare pleasure.

  Westlands frowned at his fiancée. “If it is only a matter of clothes, Rose, why do you not give her something? You have more dresses than you can ever wear as it is, and you will be getting all new things for your trousseau, anyway.”

  “With all my heart,” cried Rose. “I would do anything to help Miss Vaughn. But she is so slim, I doubt my clothes would fit her. Westlands can span her waist with his hands! And that is without any corseting!” she added in amazement. “I could not believe my eyes.”

  “Indeed,” said Lord Redfylde severely. “Do you often have occasion to span your cousin’s waist with your hands, sir?”