That Scandalous Evening Page 12

  Closing her eyes, Jane took deep breaths and tried to think of something, anything, that would change the subject. Certainly no one else was speaking; they all hung on each word with the avaricious interest of a beggar.

  Mr. Fitzgerald rescued her. “Going to the country tomorrow, then. I’ll call on Lady Goodridge and beg she accompany us. Fresh air will do her well.”

  “I doubt she will go,” Blackburn said repressively.

  “I’m sure she will,” Fitz answered.

  Raising his eyebrows, Blackburn stared at his friend. “Perhaps you know her better than I do.”

  Fitz bowed. “Indeed, Blackburn, a brother is hardly the best judge of a woman’s character, and certainly not a woman as charming and lovely as Lady Goodridge.”

  What Blackburn would have replied, Jane did not know, for Lady Kinnard interrupted by asking coyly, “Are my daughters invited, too, my lord?”

  Blackburn slowly turned his head and looked on Lady Kinnard and her progeny. “Invited?”

  “To Lady Goodridge’s estate!” Lady Kinnard’s Fairchild background was never so clear as now, when she thrust herself where she was not wanted in pursuit of moneyed connections. Eyes gleaming with rapacious greed, she said, “It would be so convivial to visit dear Lady Goodridge’s home with a party of just these close friends.”

  Everyone in the room held their breath, waiting. Would Blackburn issue one of his famous set-downs? Instead, he nodded slowly and in measured tones said, “An excellent idea, Lady Kinnard. The greater the party, the greater the chance for…entertainment. Allow me to extend an invitation to any who would wish a day in the country, be they here”—his gaze swept the assemblage—“or not.”

  With Blackburn’s words, that breathless excitement that afflicted Jane disappeared. Whether she wished it or not, she knew Blackburn, she had studied Blackburn, and she did not believe anything, certainly not love, could change him into an amiable man who offered hospitality to all, especially not the brummish Lady Kinnard.

  Something was definitely odd.

  Chapter 14

  “Would everyone please stop smiling at me?” Jane glared at her companions in the Tarlin carriage with an annoyance that increased with every mile.

  “But why?” Violet jostled close to Jane as the carriage spun off the turnpike and onto the rutted road leading to Goodridge Manor. “Unrequited love for you has so overset Blackburn’s emotions, he has developed windmills in the head.”

  “Or somewhere else,” Lord Tarlin muttered.

  “George!” Violet said, scandalized.

  Her husband just grinned at her, and after a moment she grinned back. But she still reproved, “There are young ladies present,” with a nod to Adorna.

  Turning to the girl at his side, Lord Tarlin asked, “You didn’t understand that, did you, puss?”

  “Understand what, my lord?” Adorna asked.

  “Don’t smirk at me, George,” Violet commanded. “And, Jane, look at the carriages ahead of us. Look at the carriages behind us.” She tapped her hand against the window. “Other than love, what explanation can you give for Blackburn’s generous open invitation?”

  Jane wished she saw life as simply as Violet. Violet would be offended if Jane accused her of being an innocent, yet Violet’s privileged life had insulated her from the realities of life.

  If Lord Blackburn had changed his ways, it was not for love; of that Jane felt certain. Some other reason lurked behind his sudden amiability.

  “I think it’s romantic.” Adorna’s normally unfocused gaze sharpened on Jane. “And he’s so handsome. So debonair. Don’t you think so, Aunt Jane?”

  “Yes,” Jane said shortly.

  “He’s old, of course.”

  “I say!” Lord Tarlin sputtered.

  “But handsome. His hair is a very unusual color. Not quite gold, and not quite yellow…What color would you use if you painted him, Aunt Jane?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane said with ill grace. “Goldish yellow.”

  Adorna placed her finger on the cleft of her chin. “Maybe it’s bronze.”

  “Yellow ocher,” Jane corrected. “The base pigment would be yellow ocher.”

  Adorna stared at her.

  “Blond,” Jane elucidated.

  “That’s right! Blond. And his eyes are such a blue color. So blue, just blue, almost purple-blue. Aunt Jane, if you were going to—”

  “Midnight.” Jane didn’t want to think about him, but Adorna’s questions forced her to. “His eyes are midnight.”

  “Like the sky. Yes, that sounds right.” Adorna fanned herself with her hand. “If I were an artist, I’d want to paint him. He’s well formed. It’s not all padding and corsets, like some of the lords. I’d wager he boxes. How else would he get such a sinful body?” Gazing off into the rolling hills, Adorna seemed unaware of Jane’s growing irritation. “What I really like about Lord Blackburn is his face. He looks so stern, almost angry all the time, except when he looks at you, Aunt Jane.”

  “How does he look then?” Violet asked.

  “I think the word is…lustful.”

  “That’s enough, Adorna,” Jane said sternly.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d been this vexed with her niece, and she remained trapped in this carriage until journey’s end. Worse, she couldn’t even look forward to journey’s end, because then she’d be at Goodridge Manor with half of London staring at her and wondering what madness afflicted Blackburn that he should show his devotion so blatantly.

  Jane had, she realized, totally lost her sense of humor.

  “Oh.” Adorna looked downcast. “Did I say something wrong?”

  The carriage jerked to a halt, saving Jane from an answer and Lord Tarlin from his impending explosion of mirth. One by one they exited the carriage onto Lady Goodridge’s estate near the mouth of the Thames. The ocean wasn’t far, and sent its fresh breeze up the river to fill Jane’s lungs. The open spaces around them made her soul expand. The sunshine, the clear sky, the azure water that frothed beyond the scrub hills and sandy dunes—all fed a wild part of her starved by the city’s claustrophobic envelopment.

  When Jane turned her back to the river, she saw Goodridge Manor rising as a monument to civilization. A fine example of Georgian dignity, the house was constructed of a flaxen stone that glowed in the sun. Around it, the well-cut lawn slid away in a silken stretch of green, interrupted only by an occasional gazebo, or covered walk, or walled garden for privacy and shelter.

  Yet the hand of modern man reached only so far. Eventually the lawn grew tall and coarser grass took over. Then the river and the wind took control, and sculpted the hills from the lower, rolling promontories along this stretch of the shore.

  This blissful place formed the perfect blend of impetuosity and caution, and for one selfish moment, Jane coveted it.

  Violet might have read Jane’s mind. “Lord Blackburn’s country estate is Tourbillon, on the sea down the coast. The house looks quite different, for it’s older and harsher, and perched right on the cliffs. Still, the atmosphere is much the same. The whole place rather makes one want to visit and sip tea and watch the ocean forever.”

  Jane knew where Tourbillon was. At one time, she’d made it her business to discover that Tourbillon was close to Sittingbourne where she resided in Eleazer’s house. But she didn’t care now, and it irked her that Violet thought she did. “Your fancy has gotten away from you, Violet,” she said disdainfully. Tying the ribbons of her bonnet with determined gestures, she snatched her filled satchel from the footman and threaded her way along the ridge that ran parallel to the beach, seeking somewhere she could sit in private.

  The others followed her, speaking in low voices, and she began to be sorry she had snapped. But she didn’t need Adorna pointing out how handsome Blackburn was, and she didn’t need Violet to imagine how much she would like to live in such a house. This whole situation had gotten out of hand, and Jane needed to set it right.

  To do so, she would
have to ascertain if Blackburn suffered from lunacy or was simply toying with her affections as an immature means of revenge.

  A figure coming from the house caught her attention, and indeed she could scarcely ignore it. Only Lady Goodridge’s upright figure could have prevailed over the vibrancy of her pink gown. Her matching parasol lent a rosy tinge to her skin. She walked briskly, not allowing the ankle-deep grass to slow her progress, and Mr. Fitzgerald walked with her, a little apart and dragging his feet like a recalcitrant lad.

  As she made her way on an interceptive course from the house, her voice boomed out. “Miss Higgenbothem, I understand I have you to thank for this invasion.”

  Jane’s resolution wavered, then strengthened again as she turned to meet her hostess. Someone needed to teach this domineering family a lesson, and Jane seemed the likely candidate. Dipping into a curtsy, she said, “It is not me you should blame, my lady, but your brother.”

  “Bah! He scarcely knows good sense when he’s with you. Good to see you, Tarlin, Violet. Miss Morant, you’re looking beautiful as ever.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Adorna said in her sweet, vibrant voice. “But my aunt Jane reminds me that beauty is only skin-deep.”

  Lady Goodridge snorted. “What do you want? An adorable liver?”

  Adorna’s eyes rounded. “I thought I had one.”

  Barely subduing a smile, Lady Goodridge said, “I’m sure you do, dear.”

  She waved them on. Mr. Fitzgerald remained. Turning her attention back to Jane, Lady Goodridge said, “You—you have intelligence.”

  Jane had heard it before, and no longer considered it a compliment. “Surely it’s better for a girl to have beauty than brains.”

  “Yes, men do see better than they think.” Lady Goodridge glared at Mr. Fitzgerald, then indicated the lorgnette that hung from a pink ribbon around her neck. “Luckily for you, Miss Higgenbothem, Ransom’s eyesight has faltered with his injury.”

  “I am not so cold as to call that luck, my lady,” Jane said. “Nor to seek pleasure in another’s misfortune.”

  “Of course not. If you didn’t display every gentle quality, along with your spirit, I would not be interested in you at all.” Lady Goodridge gestured widely. “He’s around here somewhere, and he’s condescended to speak even with the cits who dared appear. Miss Higgenbothem, you’ve driven him insane with passion.”

  “He has always been mad,” Jane replied frostily.

  Tossing back his head, Mr. Fitzgerald burst into laughter. “That’s telling her.”

  “Stop that!” Lady Goodridge took her closed fan and slapped him across the arm with it. “It’s your fault I was dragged along today!”

  Still grinning, Mr. Fitzgerald evaded her. “I freely admit that, but I’m dancing attendance on you as penance.”

  Lady Goodridge abandoned her attack, and something—in another woman, Jane would have called it hurt—flashed in her eyes. “Insolent boy, you call caring for your hostess penance?”

  “It is when I could be flying my kite on the beach.”

  “I told you to go.”

  “And I told you to go with me.”

  Lady Goodridge stared at him, outrage puffing her ample bosom to impressive heights. “A woman of my age does not fly a kite.”

  “A woman of your age could watch.”

  “A woman of my age does not walk on the sand and dirt. It gets in one’s shoes and makes one’s knees wobble unattractively.”

  “You could take off your shoes.”

  “Mr. Fitzgerald, you are brazen, and very…you are very young. Much too young.” Lady Goodridge stared at her companion as if she wished it otherwise.

  “Not so young as all that, my lady.” Fitz moved closer to her. “But young enough to keep you busy.”

  Lady Goodridge stepped back and in a formal tone, said, “I’m busy enough.” Then she rounded on Jane. “You, miss, will catch flies with that mouth hanging open.”

  Jane shut it with a snap.

  “As I was trying to say, Miss Higgenbothem, I would strongly suggest you marry Ransom during this brief flash of sanity. With a man”—she glared at her companion—“one never knows how long it will last.”

  “You just said Lord Blackburn was insane.” But Jane spoke to Lady Goodridge’s back.

  Mr. Fitzgerald grinned over his shoulder at her as he trailed after Lady Goodridge. “You’ll not win an argument with her, Miss Higgenbothem, nor with her brother. They’re both stubborn as mules and twice as fractious.”

  Lady Goodridge stopped dead in her path. “Mr. Fitzgerald!”

  Slanting a wicked look at his companion, he called to Jane, “There’s only one way to deal with these noble folk.”

  She didn’t want to ask, but no one important could hear, and she couldn’t help herself. “What is it?”

  “A quick wit. A fast dodge.” He laughed aloud as he glanced from the indignant Lady Goodridge to a shocked Jane. “And a good loving.”

  Chapter 15

  One by one, multicolored kites caught the breeze and lifted jerkily into the air, soaring above the dunes under the guidance of dandies who wanted to impress the resplendent parade of young ladies. Blankets of the primary colors, of red and blue and yellow, had been stretched across the grass and weighted with rocks and picnic baskets for any matron who wished to sit. The murmur of the river formed a constant background for the laughter of a hundred people, all out of the City for a celebration.

  Under Lord Tarlin’s direction, the footman had spread their plaid blanket a little away from the crowd. Perhaps Lord Tarlin feared Jane, in her present mood, would alienate someone important.

  Hardly likely. When she got too impatient with the triviality of London society, she had only to remember Adorna, and she tucked up her opinions.

  “Will you sit, Jane?” Violet called as she came close. “I want to walk with George.”

  “Of course.” Jane placed her satchel at the foot of the blanket and waved them on.

  Catching Lord Tarlin’s arm, Violet wrapped her own through it and smiled up at him, and he looked down on her with such affection, Jane turned her face away. She was glad Violet was happy, but sometimes she couldn’t watch. Violet’s bliss only made Jane’s lonely heart ache.

  Adorna laid her bright head on Jane’s shoulder. “I’ll settle down right here with you.”

  The girl’s empathy pleased Jane. She loved the child, trouble that she was. Of course, Adorna would attract attention—was already attracting attention—and soon this peaceful stretch of the ridge would be swarming with young lords.

  “It’s warm here. Will you hold my pelisse?” Adorna asked.

  As Adorna shed her jacket, it seemed the laughter, the talk, even the wind, died. Just as Jane suspected—even the elements would cease for a glimpse of Adorna.

  “Better.” Adorna took a breath of air, and one young kite-flying gentleman fell right on his face. “Are you warm too, Aunt Jane?”

  Jane was, and her gown was constructed for outdoor wear. The long sleeves and high neck protected her from the sun, and no one, certainly not Blackburn or any of the inveterate gossips, could call the dull sage color alluring. Jane unfastened the buttons, and Adorna helped free her.

  Sinking onto the blanket, they sat side by side, facing the beach. They tucked the hems firmly around their ankles as the breeze snatched at their skirts, and they watched the ripples curling on the shore, and the rush of wind teasing the sand.

  At least, Jane did. Adorna’s gaze followed the clumps of laughing gentlemen showing off for the ladies. She glanced occasionally at the road, and kept up a running commentary on the new arrivals. “Look! Mr. Southwick is wearing full evening dress, doesn’t he look silly? The Andersons have arrived, they got married just last year and they say he has already found a ladybird. There’s Mr. Brown courting Miss Clapton. She’s got a face like a horse, but he must marry soon, or his estate will be put to the hammer.”

  “You have a remarkable memory for names. Why
aren’t you as adept at French as at tattling?”

  “Because remembering their names is easy. You just look at their faces and”—Adorna wiggled her shoulders—“remember. French doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Oh, but it does.” Jane’s fervor showed her love of the language. “It’s romantic, and when it’s spoken it sounds just like music.”

  “Very nasal music, then.”. Adorna gave a quivering sigh. “Monsieur Chasseur has started teaching me one phrase every day which I must remember. He said as long as I remember that one phrase, he’ll be satisfied with my progress.”

  Jane didn’t know if she approved, but all aristocrats spoke at least a smattering of French, and something had to be done to help Adorna learn it. If he thought that would work, she wouldn’t gainsay him.

  “Sometimes I’ll make an exception and forget a face.” Disdain tightened Adorna’s rosebud mouth. “Like now. Lord and Lady Athowe have arrived.”

  Jane started to glance toward the carriages, but Adorna grabbed her. “Don’t look. Maybe they won’t see us.”

  “You don’t like them?” Jane stared fixedly at the sea.

  “After what they said to you at Lady Goodridge’s ball?” Adorna tossed her head. “Beasts.”

  “She was rude, but I don’t remember him saying anything objectionable.”

  “I suppose he didn’t. I wager he’s never said anything objectionable in his life. But he’s the worst kind of worm.”

  Remembering his disappearance so many years before, Jane agreed.

  “Who is that old man?” Adorna cocked her head toward the man walking along the ridge, and for once her extreme youth had not misread the situation.

  He was indeed ancient. Bent and gnarled, he walked with a cane, followed by a footman who lunged whenever the old man tottered.

  “That’s Viscount Ruskin, formerly plain Mister Daniel McCausland.” Jane nudged Adorna. “Stop staring. He’s a solicitor, very rich. Rumor is he invented a machine that helped the war, so Prinny gave him a title.”

  “He was born a commoner, then.”