“Lady Caroline—not so fast, if you please.”
Short and plump, Mrs. Effington huffed after the tall, slender girl who swept from one room to the next, from one floor to the other of the terrace house that was to be their domicile for an undetermined period.
“Lady Caroline!”
“Forgive me.” Belatedly, Jeannette responded to the desperate plea and slowed her step. How long would it take her to accept that she was Caroline? Lady Caroline.
In a vain effort to warm her bare arms, she tugged at the lacy shawl draped around her shoulders. “Never, as long as I live, shall I understand why English ladies must wear short-sleeved gowns made of muslin when long sleeves and wool would be ever so much more comfortable.”
“It is the fashion, Lady Caroline.”
“A ridiculous fashion, considering the expanse of goose bumps displayed.”
“It is quite warm today.”
Proving the point, Mrs. Effington snapped open the fan she always carried in her reticule next to a bottle of smelling salts and a rose-scented handkerchief. She fanned her pink face vigorously.
“And even if it were cold, a lady would not be caught dead in long sleeves in April. Why, she’d be considered a dowd, Lady Caroline!”
“And that,” Jeannette muttered under her breath, “would be a fate worse than death.”
She and her father had arrived in London four days ago, and already, due to Mrs. Effington’s exertions, she was well versed in the ways and manners of the ton. Not that life in the Vieux Carré had been so very different, but Jeannette was just a little too disgruntled to acknowledge any likeness.
She had not completely forgiven her father for keeping her in the dark about the purpose of the visit to England until it was quite too late to turn back. Neither was she reconciled to the switch of names. If Monsieur Dundas and Mademoiselle Jeannette were good enough in New Orleans, why, then, must they be Lord Luxton and Lady Caroline in London?
And on top of that she was always cold.
Jeannette looked into the drawing room and quickly shut the door again. How cramped everything was. All of the first floor was no larger than the salon of her spacious New Orleans home.
The leases of the beautiful large houses in fashionable Mayfair had been taken long before the onset of the Season, Lord Decimus Rowland, her father’s old friend, had explained. Now that the Prince of Wales had finally been made Regent, every family, Tory and Whig alike, had come to town. If only Hugh and his daughter had arrived a month earlier! Or, at least, Hugh should have written and warned Decimus that he would be needing a house.
Jeannette’s father had been perfectly willing to stay on at the hotel where he had bespoken rooms that first night. It wouldn’t be for long, after all—only until he contacted his family, who would no doubt invite him and his daughter to Dundas House in Grosvenor Square.
But Lord Decimus had shaken his head, muttered something about a dashed embarrassing situation, and had drawn Hugh aside for a whispered conference. Jeannette still did not know whether it would be considered an embarrassment to live in a hotel, or whether there was some difficulty about getting invited to Dundas House. Neither her father nor Lord Decimus, or the gossip-loving Mrs. Effington, could be coaxed into an explanation.
Lord Decimus had offered this little house in George Street, which belonged to his niece Juliette Astley. Young Mrs. Astley was enceinte and had just a few days earlier allowed her concerned husband to carry her off into the country. Along with the house, Lord Decimus had produced Mrs. Effington, a chaperone for Lady Caroline.
After one glance at her charge’s best New Orleans winter gown, Mrs. Effington had widened her rather sleepy eyes and instantly whisked Jeannette off to see a dressmaker and a milliner. Now, three shopping days later, they were installed in George Street. They had a cook and three maids. Mrs. Effington had her abigail, Lord Luxton his valet, and the domestic agency had promised two footmen, a coachman, and a groom by the morrow.
“Lady Caroline—”
This time, Jeannette responded instantly. Ascending the third flight of stairs, she looked over her shoulder at the matron lagging several steps behind.
“If you don’t mind, Lady Caroline …” Mrs. Effington permitted herself several quick, shallow breaths and wished she had the figure of her charge, a figure that did not require the torture of stays.
“I’d like a little lie-down before luncheon. I’m not as young as I was, and these stairs—so steep and narrow. When I visited Miss Juliette—Mrs. Astley, I should say—I never ventured beyond the first floor.”
“Of course you must lie down and rest. I do not expect you to be with me every moment of the day. And neither, I should think, does Papa.”
“Thank you, my dear. So considerate of—”
The sound of the front door knocker cut off Mrs. Effington’s words of appreciation. Her face registered consternation and disappointment. It seemed there would be no rest for her after all.
Jeannette gave her a quick smile. “It cannot be a caller, since no one knows we’re here.”
“Lord Decimus—”
“Papa is visiting him. They’d hardly knock if they had decided to join us for lunch.”
Again, the knocker rang out. Three sharp, impatient raps.
“Go on up, Mrs. Effington.” Jeannette squeezed past her chaperone. “It must be one of the tradesmen Cook sent for. Though why he won’t use the areaway … but never mind. I’ll take care of the matter.”
“It’s not fitting, Lady Caroline. Let one of the maids …”
Irresolute, Mrs. Effington watched as her charge ran lightly down the stairs. She shook her graying head. If she had told Lord Luxton once that they should have a footman or a butler first and foremost, she must have told him a dozen times. The maids in a fashionable household simply weren’t used to answering the door. Not that they were precisely fashionable in George Street …
Mrs. Effington took one hesitant step downward. Her feet hurt. She was still short of breath from the tour of inspection.
She signed. Slowly, ponderously, she turned and moved upward—to her chamber and the bliss of kicking off her shoes and loosening her stays. Surely Lady Caroline could deal with the butcher or the grocer or whoever it was, knocking louder than ever.
Downstairs, Jeannette muttered, “Heaven grant me patience!”, and with this heartfelt prayer, she swung the front door open while the last volley of raps still echoed through the narrow entrance hall. Knitting her brow in a repressive frown, she looked up at the gentleman outside. She was a tall girl and could not remember ever having to look up quite so high.
“Sir?” Her voice did not match her frown. It rather took the wind out of her sails to be facing a true English gentleman in riding dress when she had expected to see the butcher’s lad in smock and apron. “Can I help you?”
For a fleeting moment she thought she must have encountered him before. The proud, aquiline nose, the square-cut chin touched a chord of memory. A second look proved the first impression wrong. There was nothing at all familiar about that lean, sharply etched face. And she was certain she would not readily have forgotten those keen gray-green eyes, blatantly admiring her from her long raven curls, tied with a ribbon, to the tips of her slippers.
Apparently, he had not found what he expected either. Beneath the gleam of admiration, she caught his look of puzzlement.
He swept off his hat. “You’re no servant. Who are you?”
“Jeannette Dundas. But, more to the point, sir. Who are you?”
“I beg your pardon. Simon Renshaw, at your service.” His voice was deep and smooth. “And you’re Jeannette, you say? Miss Dundas?”
Belatedly, she remembered. “Caroline Jeannette Dundas. Lady Caroline.”
“Ah! Lady Caroline. Your father neglected to mention you.”
The voice was still deep and smooth, but it grated on her nevertheless. Admiration and puzzlement had given way to a look of derision.
It should not bother her, but it did. “My father, Mr. Renshaw?” she said stiffly. “Why should he have mentioned me to you?”
“May I come in?”
He did not wait for a reply but stepped past her, tossing hat, gloves, and riding crop on the hall table.
This was too much. Her bosom swelled. “Mr. Renshaw—”
“I have business with your father. Pray take me to him.”
“My father is not at home.” Look and voice were meant to wither. “State your business, and I shall see he gets the message.”
He sketched a mocking bow. “Well done, my dear. The queen could not have spoken more crushingly. Great care has obviously been taken with your education and your training.”
“Sir, you are impertinent!”
“In that case, I must beg your pardon.”
Looking not at all contrite, he reached out and placed a long, blunt-tipped finger beneath her chin. “But, I fear, the impertinence is all on your part, Lady Caroline.”
With a toss of her head, she shook off the offending finger. “Is it the custom in England to accost a lady when her father is not there to protect her?”
She quaked beneath the quick flash of anger in his eyes but refused to budge.
“Well, sir? What have you to say for yourself?”
“A lady need not fear my touch. But beware the schemer and deceiver.”
“You’re mad.” Now she did take a cautious step backward. “Utterly, totally mad.”
“Not as mad as you and your father.”
He was deranged. A person with an addled mind always believed that he was sane and the rest of the world afflicted with madness. Perhaps he was even dangerous?
She ventured another step backward. If she could reach the baize-covered door beneath the stairs, she might flee below to the kitchen and its arsenal of heavy pans, of rolling pins and meat cleavers.
“If he even is your father,” said the madman. “Did he hire you from a traveling theater company? Perhaps he believes a daughter makes him look more respectable?”
Throwing caution to the wind, she turned and made a dash for the basement door.
“That’s right, Lady Caroline,” he mocked. “Run, lest I haul the pair of you before a magistrate!”
This brought her up short. To be threatened with the law was not what she expected from a madman. A hand within reach of the brass door knob, she spun.
“And what precisely do you mean by that?”
“Bravo!” He collected hat, riding gauntlets, and crop. “You play the outraged innocent as well as you did the queen snubbing her lowly subject.”
Hard schooling by her grandmother, the formidable Madame Vireilles, had taught Jeannette the wisdom of keeping a tight rein on her temper. But Madame Vireilles was far away in New Orleans.
Jeannette flew across the narrow hall. Clutching her shawl, she barred his way to the front door.
“What do you mean, you’ll haul me before a magistrate? Explain yourself, sir!”
He looked at her in silence for a long moment. Slowly, the harshness left his face.
“Could it be that your father has deceived you, too?”
“My father has deceived no one! We haven’t been in town a week. We haven’t met anyone save Lord Decimus Rowland and Mrs. Effington. We—”
“Lord Decimus?” he interrupted. “Well, well. At least, your father has done his homework.”
“Oh, go away!” Exasperated, she shooed him toward the door. “Go quickly, before I have you hauled before a magistrate. I don’t know why I thought I’d get a sensible word out of a man who ought to be locked up in—wherever it is you English lock up a lunatic!”
“In Bedlam. Remember it well, Lady Caroline.”
Unhurried, he walked to the front door.
He turned briefly. “Tell your father that Hugh Dundas had a son who would now have been some thirty-odd years old—if the son had lived. But Dundas never had a daughter, especially not one as young as you, since he himself died in the winter of 1780.”