CHAPTER 12

Lord Wrotham rode slowly away from the Examiner office. He could not fault Mr. Hunt; indeed, his respect for the man was increased by his refusal to be swayed by rank to break his word. The Marquis would simply have to work on the few clues supplied him during the interview. He reviewed them carefully.

Mr. Hunt's slip, from which he had quickly recovered, told Wrotham that the mysterious poet was in all likelihood a female. The reference to family, in addition, implied that she might very well be a lady of Quality, perhaps a married one whose husband did not wish his wife's name made public. Either her first or last name likely began with the letter D. Finally, Hunt had spoken to her only that morning, so it had to be someone currently residing in London.

Wrotham considered the various ladies he knew of who might fit those circumstances. Lady Doncastle, perhaps? Her husband would certainly not wish his wife known for scintillating verse, as he was such a dullard himself. Or what about Mrs. Hervey? Wasn't her first name Dorothea? She was known to be a bit of a bluestocking, besides.

Finally, he shook his head in resignation. He simply had too little to go on; D might be one of a dozen or more married ladies. The initial might even have been chosen to throw people off the scent. Besides, if the poet were a lady— and maybe Hunt was so shrewd that the slip had been deliberate —his hopes of a friendship would likely come to naught anyway.

Checking his watch, he saw that it was half past four. Miss Wheaton would surely distract his mind from the matter. If he fetched his phaeton at once, he could be at Penrose House before five to take her driving. His mood considerably lightened by this decision, he turned his horse and set it into a brisk trot.

* * *

Deirdre would have forgotten her engagement to drive out with Mr. Barclay if her mother had not reminded her, so flustered was she by Mr. Hunt's visit that morning. She had spent much of the afternoon with Beata, who alone of her relatives in London could be relied upon to understand her conflicting feelings. When she returned to Penrose House it was past four, but the time had been well spent, for her mind was more settled than it had been for days.

"Gracious, Didi!" exclaimed Lady Penrose when she entered the drawing-room. "You are still in your morning dress. Is that what you plan to wear to the Park? By the bye, I can't think why you should want to encourage that spindle-shanked Mr. Barclay when Lord Wrotham is so much better a catch."

Deirdre choked on a laugh at her mother's description of Mr. Barclay. "How uncharitable, Mama," she exclaimed. "I merely agreed to drive in the Park with him. It seemed uncivil to refuse, when I had no other engagement." In truth, she scarcely remembered her conversation with the man, so overshadowed had it been by her next visitor. Not that Mr. Barclay was particularly memorable, even at the best of times. "I shall change at once."

Upon her return, properly clad in a lilac carriage dress, Deirdre was dismayed to find Lord Wrotham awaiting her.

"I had hoped to take you driving again, Miss Wheaton," he said regretfully, "but your mother informs me you are already engaged. Perhaps another day?"

Deirdre felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Drat Mr. Barclay, she thought almost involuntarily. Whyever had she agreed to go with him? "Perhaps," was all she said, however. Perhaps it would be as well for Lord Wrotham to understand that she was not at his beck and call.

The same thought apparently occurred to the Marquis, for he said, "I see I must plan further ahead with such a popular lady as yourself, Miss Wheaton. I shall hope to engage you for another drive within the week."

She inclined her head regally, mindful of the advice Beata had just given her. "That would be pleasant, my lord," she said coolly, and was rewarded by a searching look from his lordship. Keep him wondering, was what her sister had advised. He seemed to be doing just that, no doubt wondering too, who it was she had a prior engagement with.

"Bid you good day then, Miss Wheaton, ladies," he said with an all-encompassing bow.

Unfortunately, Mr. Barclay arrived just before Lord Wrotham was out of the house, announcing loudly to the butler that he was come to take Miss Wheaton driving. Deirdre, eyeing Mr. Barclay's thinning blond hair, spreading waistline and, yes, spindle shanks, in some dismay, thought it extremely unlikely that Lord Wrotham would be jealous.

To make matters worse, it became apparent during the drive that Mr. Barclay had discovered, most likely from Celeste, Deirdre's affinity for poetry. He therefore tried to impress her with his own knowledge, which was obviously quite limited.

"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more temperate and lovely,'" he misquoted, gazing soulfully at her face.

Deirdre refrained with difficulty from correcting him, only saying brightly, "Ah! I see you are familiar with Shakespeare's sonnets, sir." Her statement was undoubtedly an exaggeration, for not only was the quote from one of the Bard's more commonly known poems, but Mr. Barclay had reversed two of the words. Still, it seemed only kind to reward his effort to please her.

"Shakespeare?" Mr. Barclay looked alarmed. "Er, yes, of course. Quite a follower of poetry, you know." He reddened as he spoke and Deirdre realized, with a spurt of amusement, that Mr. Barclay had actually been attempting to pass the famous lines off as his own.

For the remainder of the drive, Deirdre's escort seemed afraid to say anything, beyond some rather obvious comments on the weather. That suited Deirdre quite well, as she was busily composing another sonnet. The news that her work was not only publishable but apparently in demand had fired her with a sudden enthusiasm to produce more.

By the time Deirdre returned home, she had nearly finished the new poem in her head and ran upstairs to write it down after only a cursory greeting to her mother and Celeste. That evening, she pleaded a headache rather than attend Mrs. Blakely's rout so that she could devote herself to her poetry. By the time she went to bed, her desk strongly resembled the one in her room back home in the country, with scattered notes and bits of rhyme littering its surface.

Much as she would have liked to, Deirdre realized that she could not repeat her headache excuse the next evening to avoid Lady Heatherton's musicale. Besides, several of the literary gentlemen she had already met would likely be there, and she had a desire to speak to them again with her new-found confidence. Not, of course, that she would actually tell them that "Dreams of July" was her sonnet! She knew that Lord Wrotham was to be there as well, but she was not certain whether she wished to seek him out or avoid him. At any rate, she would be attending and he could seek her out if he so desired.

Celeste was resplendent, as always, in a gown of chiffon the same blue as her eyes, trimmed in vivid pink and purple. Deirdre could not help but notice the eagerness in her sister's face as they alighted from their carriage at the Heathertons' doorstep, and wondered if Lord Ellerby had put it there. She herself was dressed with more subdued elegance in a pale green gown with matching ribbons woven through her hair, and carried herself with an assurance which had been absent only a few days ago. It was amazing what success did for one's spirits, she reflected.

Lady Heatherton, an old crony of Lady Penrose, shared the Baroness's penchant for overstated opulence, apparent by the profusion of gilt and fantastically carved accents in her home. The buffet table was lavish, the platters of food interspersed with objets d'art placed for effect. The order of the evening, of course, was to be music, provided by no fewer than half a dozen prominent pianists, violinists and chanteuses. A dais, therefore, had been erected at one end of the music room, with chairs arranged before it. Small alcoves would allow those more interested in eating or talking to do so without apparent rudeness to the performers.

To the delight of both the Misses Wheaton, Lord Wrotham and Lord Ellerby hurried forward almost the moment they arrived. Deirdre was too busy trying to steady the sudden pounding of her own pulse to notice the proprietary way in which Charles took her sister's arm, or the trusting, adoring gaze Celeste bestowed upon him.

"I missed you at Mrs. Blakely's last evening," said the Marquis softly as soon as the other members of the party were occupied in conversation. "I would have called this morning to see how you went on, but I have sadly neglected my business affairs of late, as my secretary constantly reminds me. Are you quite well enough to be out?"

Deirdre took a deep breath to ease the sudden constriction in her chest. "Of course, my lord. My headache was largely fictitious, I confess. I stayed home so that I might... rest." Dear God, she had almost told him the truth! Something in her longed to confide in him. The concern in his voice had been genuine; surely he cared enough for her now that he would not condemn her?

"Perhaps I should have done likewise," he said, the tension in his eyes easing. "I had a dashed dull evening there, and would have done better in my bed, I make no doubt."

The thought of Lord Wrotham in his bed was suddenly an extremely tantalizing one to Deirdre. Before she could dwell on it, however, he spoke again.

"Are you fond of music, Miss Wheaton? Several noted artists are to be performing this evening, I understand."

"Yes, I very much enjoy music, my lord," she replied, "though I fear I am sadly ignorant about it. I should like the opportunity to learn more." Music had not been an important part of the education of the Wheaton sisters; only Faith, who already showed remarkable proficiency on the pianoforte, had actively pursued the discipline.

"You must have that opportunity then," said Lord Wrotham with a smile, obviously pleased with her answer. "I spent last summer in Italy and, though I am by no means an expert, I learned much from some who are. If you would care to sit with me during the performance, I may be able to make a beginning in your instruction."

"Thank you, my lord, I should be grateful for your help." Deirdre's heart was pounding again. The Marquis apparently appreciated some of the arts, so surely his aversion to poetry could not be so deep-seated as she had feared. Perhaps while he instructed her in music, she could similarly enlighten him about poetry.

"Your willing servant, Miss Wheaton," said Lord Wrotham with a bow. "Now, as the performances are not to start for an hour, I shall leave you for the moment. There are others present with whom I must speak." His expression was regretful.

"I shall save a seat for you, my lord," she promised, returning his smile. She watched him make his way across the room, but a warm glow remained with her. Tearing her gaze away, she looked about and saw Robert Southey standing nearby, along with one or two lesser-known literary figures. She moved to join them.

"Miss Wheaton!" exclaimed the poet as she approached. "You have become quite the lady of fashion, I perceive." He had not seen her since the card-party at Lady Thumble's a fortnight before. "I hope you are not allowing the whirl of Society to interfere with your muse."

"She deserted me briefly, I'll admit, but she seems to have returned now," replied Deirdre. Mr. Southey then introduced her to the others in the group and they discussed poetry and literature with relish for some time.

"I trust you all saw that remarkable sonnet in the Examiner, " remarked Mr. Scott, joining them at that moment. "London is agog to know who the anonymous D is, I hear."

"Hunt won't tell," Southey informed him wryly. "Sooner or later the author will come forward, though. That sort of talent refuses to stay hidden."

Deirdre had to exert enormous self-control to refrain from blurting out that the sonnet was hers. Robert Southey, Walter Scott— they had liked it! "Perhaps the poet has reason to remain anonymous," she managed to say.

"So Hunt says," replied Southey with a sigh. "As long as we are privileged to read more of his work, I suppose I can resign myself to ignorance as to his identity. He's every bit as good as young Keats, in my opinion, though his style is vastly different."

"I understand you make your home in Keswick, Mr. Southey," said Deirdre, unwilling to pursue the subject of her poem any further for fear of betraying herself. "Is the Lake District truly as inspirational as I have heard tell?" She had another reason for her question; ever since Lord Wrotham had mentioned that region and his desire to return, Deirdre had fantasized about what it would be like to live amongst its mountains, falls, and glens with him.

Her question successfully turned the subject, and Southey's descriptions of Windermere, Coniston Water and Scafell Pikes increased her longing to see them for herself. At least as enthralling was his casual recounting of various conversations he'd had about their home district with Samuel Coleridge and William Wordsworth over the years. Just when Deirdre was certain that she could feel no more awed, another poet joined the group, one she had not yet been privileged to meet, but whom she recognized at once from likenesses she had seen: Lord Byron.

Forgotten was her plan to tell him what she had thought of the second canto of his Childe Harold. It was enough to stand silently by and listen to the great men converse on topics dear to her heart. (She later discovered how lucky she had been to meet Byron at all, for he was fated to leave England permanently only a week or two after that evening.)

Lord Wrotham was not enjoying himself nearly so keenly. As he had last night, he made various discreet enquiries among the ton in hopes of finding a clue to the mysterious D's identity, but to no avail. He was gratified, however, to find that his high opinion of the sonnet was shared by all those whose views he respected.

The time for the performance was drawing near and he excused himself from a rather lengthy (and pointless) discussion with Lord Heatherton, realizing that he had yet to question any of the literary circle, many of whom were present tonight. Looking across to where several eminent bards stood together in conversation, he was startled to see Miss Deirdre Wheaton among them— standing right next to the debauched Lord Byron! Frowning with surprise and a tinge of annoyance, he made his way across to the group.

Nodding to Southey, Scott and others of his acquaintance, he also greeted Lord Byron more civilly than he felt inclined to before turning to Deirdre. "Shall we find our chairs, Miss Wheaton? I believe the first performance is about to begin."

Deirdre was surprised at the hint of displeasure she detected in his voice, but even more startling was the discovery that Lord Wrotham was apparently on easy terms with these celebrated poets and writers. Before she could mention it, however, he asked nearly the same question that was on her lips.

"How is it, Miss Wheaton, that you come to be acquainted with Southey, Byron and the rest? I distinctly recall you telling me only yesterday that you were not the least literary."

Again, Deirdre cursed her cowardice of the day before. "I... I was attempting to change that, my lord," she replied, trying to partially undo the damage. But then it occurred to her that it might be her very association with the poets which had displeased him. "My father would appreciate hearing anything I could tell him about such men, I know," she added cautiously. If only she knew what Wrotham was thinking!

But he was smiling now. "Just as I shall try to improve your understanding of music." He gestured to two chairs near the back, where whispered comments would be less likely to distract the performers or the other guests.

During the ensuing performance, he quietly pointed out details of composition and execution that left Deirdre greatly impressed with the scope of his knowledge. And he had claimed to be no expert! Had he truly learned all of this during one summer in Italy? She doubted it. And what of his casual greetings to Southey and the others, as if they were well known to him? Surely, that bespoke a man of literary, as well as musical, interests?

The Italian pianist was followed by a French chanteuse with a spectacular operatic voice. After her breathtaking recital a short break was announced, during which the guests were invited to partake of the refreshments spread in the adjacent dining-room. Reluctantly, Deirdre rose; she had been enjoying herself far more than she had expected to.

"Shall we see what the table has to offer?" inquired Lord Wrotham, extending his arm to her. She nodded and they strolled towards the dining-room, chatting comfortably of the performances.

"So! I was right, I see," came a peevish comment from just behind them. Deirdre swung round to find herself face to face with Jonas Flinder.

* * *