CHAPTER 15

Lord Penrose continued to regard the marquis piercingly for a moment, then his frown abruptly disappeared and he began to chuckle.

"Well, I see you're not lily-livered, at least," he remarked after he had amused himself in this way for some seconds. "Now you can tell me why you felt obliged to come all the way out here to ask me that question. My wife generally handles such things, as you must know."

Lord Wrotham decided that honesty would best serve him. "From what I know of Lady Penrose and have heard from Miss Deirdre of yourself, I thought I would be more comfortable dealing with you, sir."

The Baron gave him a twisted smile. "Not one of those social butterfly types, eh?" He nodded. "Just as well. You won't be wanting to drag Didi about to balls and such when she could be working on her poetry and other studies. She had a poem published, did you know that?" The pride in his voice was evident, and Wrotham warmed to the man even more.

"I… was able to deduce it," he replied carefully. "It is not common knowledge about Town, you know."

"Why the blazes not?" demanded his host. Then, answering his own question, "Ah, Vivian, of course. Lady Penrose, as you have observed, tends to set great store by social, rather than literary, success. In fact, I suspect she feels that one should preclude the other. That was precisely what I feared for Didi when she left for Town. But she must have heeded my advice after all."

Wrotham nodded uncertainly at this analysis before bringing Lord Penrose back to the subject at hand. "No doubt. But as to the purpose of my visit..." He held his breath, fearing to hear of some previous attachment of Deirdre's, though indeed that had been his primary reason for making this journey in the first place. If her father, or younger sisters, knew of such a partiality, they would be less likely than Lady Penrose to pressure Deirdre into the more advantageous match which he represented.

Lord Penrose waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, marry the girl. No doubt you'll do better than most of the other young bucks she's encountered by now." He snorted. "Vivian seems to have shown good judgement for once, probably by accident."

Lord Wrotham's eyebrows rose questioningly.

"Lady Penrose has already written, asking my consent to the match. I sent off my reply last night. Told you she's the one who handles these things."

"But..."

Wrotham realised in time that it would be impolitic to tell Lord Penrose that he had not yet actually offered for his daughter. It seemed that Lady Penrose had wanted to be prepared, so that there would be no delay in announcing the betrothal. Surprisingly, the knowledge that he had been that transparent did not trouble him. Flinder, or whoever that ode had been about, must be no threat after all. Suddenly light-hearted, he turned back to his host with a smile.

"I hear you are a scholar, Lord Penrose. What, precisely, are you studying now?"

This successfully diverted the Baron, who was always willing to discuss his work; it was rare, however, that he found anyone equally willing to listen. He and Lord Wrotham settled into a protracted discussion of ancient documents and the discoveries and difficulties presented by their translation.

* * *

"Do I look all right, Mama?" asked Celeste as she entered the drawing-room in a vivid pink day dress which matched the roses in her cheeks. "Charles will be arriving at any moment to take me shopping for a few odds and ends I shall need for my ball tomorrow."

Lady Penrose gazed lovingly at her Celeste. "You look divine, as always, my angel," she said with satisfaction before turning a more critical eye on her other daughter, who sat silently embroidering in the corner. "But you, Didi! Why are you wearing that old gown? I vow, you look almost as dowdy as you did in the country!"

Deirdre met her mother's gaze steadily. "I am done pretending to be something that I am not," she replied quietly but firmly. "I'm sure Celeste is fashionable enough for both of us."

The Baroness frowned. "What nonsense is this? Once you decided to dress properly, you became an instant success, nearly as much so as Celeste. Does that not prove what I have said all along?"

"That the fashionable world judges by appearance?" inquired Deirdre with a lifted brow. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"That is not precisely what I said, and well you know it," retorted Lady Penrose defensively, as some inkling of Deirdre's meaning penetrated. "There is nothing wrong, surely, in making the most of the gifts God has given you."

"No, there is not," Deirdre agreed. "That is why I have decided to publish more of my poetry, as Mr. Hunt suggested. Under my own name."

Lady Penrose was aghast. "You will do no such thing! Do you wish the world to think you nothing more than a bluestocking? No eligible gentleman will come near you!"

"I would rather be thought a bluestocking than an empty-headed lady of fashion," Deirdre informed her mother bluntly. "Any gentleman who would avoid me because I have a mind is hardly a loss, to my thinking."

Lady Penrose was uncertain how to handle her normally compliant daughter in this new mood. She remembered that her husband had urged her to allow Deirdre to make her poetry public in his last letter, but she had carefully kept that to herself. Obviously, however, she dared not appeal to him for help.

"I have only your best interests at heart, my dear," she said finally. "What will Lord Wrotham think when he returns to find you so changed?"

"If he returns," put in Celeste unexpectedly. "Althea did warn you, Didi," she added. "She said not to put too much stock in his attentions. He played false with her feelings three years ago. Don't let him hurt you, too, Didi."

Deirdre had heard Beata's version of that story, and knew it was not the same. No, it was her own actions, her own deceit, which had driven Lord Wrotham away. She had learned her lesson now, and would never again deny her love of poetry, or her writing of it. Nor did she see any point, now, in taking great pains with her appearance. She had not the slightest wish to entrap some brainless beau to appease her mother. The life of a spinster had begun to look rather attractive, in fact. Love was too painful.

Accordingly, when she came downstairs that evening just in time to leave for a rout at Lady Melcher's, she was wearing the plain grey gown she had worn to Althea's card-party at the beginning of the Season. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun, for she had refused to allow Marie to dress, or even braid it.

"Honestly, Didi!" exclaimed her exasperated mother. "I have a mind to forbid you to leave the house looking like that. Where is the blue-and-white dress I asked Marie to lay out for you?"

"I decided not to wear it," said Deirdre indifferently. "But I have no objection to staying home, if you would prefer it."

Lady Penrose glowered. "If there were time, I would require you to change this instant," she said severely. "I hope you do not mean to spoil the ball tomorrow night by some such start."

"Oh, please do not!" pleaded Celeste in sudden alarm. "You will wear your new white-and-lavender ball gown, will you not, Didi? It will embarrass me to death if you come looking like a servant. After all," she added kindly, "it is to be your ball as well as mine. You should look your very best for it."

Deirdre could see that Celeste was truly concerned and, in spite of her own heartbreak, she had no wish to detract from her sister's happiness. "I shall not embarrass you, Celeste," she promised. "You will be able to enjoy your ball."

Celeste was apparently satisfied with this assurance, for she spoke no more on the subject.

* * *

In spite of Lady Penrose's dire predictions, no one snubbed Deirdre for her attire at the rout, though she received a few curious glances. Celeste was surrounded by admirers as always, though she clung determinedly to Lord Ellerby's arm. Deirdre's retinue had fallen off somewhat of late, as it had become apparent that Lord Wrotham favoured her, and none of her remaining admirers seemed to be present this evening.

She told herself that she did not mind, that she would only have been bored with the empty flattery of some stylish young buck, but in truth she was feeling rather forlorn. She had become accustomed to popularity. Unfortunately, none of the literary circle appeared to be present either, which left Deirdre with virtually no one to talk to.

Midway through the evening, Beata arrived and hurried to Deirdre's side as soon as she noticed her sister standing alone. "Gracious, Didi, what have you done to yourself?" was her first remark, which did not help Deirdre's flagging spirits.

"It's more what I haven't done, Beata," she replied, with a crooked attempt at a smile which unfortunately told her sister something was dreadfully wrong.

"Will you tell me about it?" she asked simply. Deirdre nodded and Beata led her to a small divan in a quiet comer. Once seated, Deirdre took a deep breath and began.

"You were right, I fear, Beata. I should never have kept my poetry a secret from Lord Wrotham." She related the story of his call in her absence and subsequent discovery of the poem she had written about him. "He left Town later that same day. He must be thoroughly disgusted with me!" she concluded. "So you see, all of our fine plans and stratagems to attract him have come to naught. Why ever did I try to be what I am not?"

Beata soothed and shushed before going over the details Deirdre had just related. "You say Lord Wrotham is a devotee of poetry after all?" she asked.

"That is what Lord Ellerby implied," said Deirdre with just the slightest sniff. She had managed, through valiant effort, not to cry.

"Perhaps there is no difficulty then," suggested Beata after a moment's thought. "You do not actually know that Wrotham's absence has anything to do with you. It is possible he called that morning simply to tell you he was going out of Town, but your exquisite verse drove it from his mind temporarily. I recommend you do not despair until you have actually seen him. Then you can fall on his neck and confess everything, begging him prettily to forgive you."

Despite herself, Deirdre giggled at Beata's words.

"That's better," said her sister bracingly. "Now, I want you to promise me you'll wear your loveliest gown for your ball tomorrow night. Beautiful clothes can do wonders for the spirits."

Deirdre had to admit to the truth of this, for her spirits during the past two days, when she had been back in her dull things, had certainly been abysmal. Besides, she had already promised Celeste. Brightening as she always did after a talk with her sensible older sister, Deirdre went to strike up a conversation with Julia Heatherton.

* * *

It was gone dinnertime when Lord Wrotham arrived back at Berkeley Square. He had spent an enjoyable day at Rose Manor, where he and his host had talked far into the night on various subjects, scholarly and otherwise. They had found they had much in common and enjoyed their time together immensely.

The Marquis had accepted his host's invitation to stay the night, and had been privileged to meet Deirdre's two younger sisters over a leisurely breakfast in the morning. Elise reminded him forcefully of Celeste and Lady Thumble, but the quieter Faith was charming, and eager to know all he could tell her of her Deirdre.

He smiled, remembering her delight at her favourite sister's "fame and fortune" at having a poem published. He had also been able to glean, from references Faith had made about Deirdre's letters, that his case was by no means hopeless, and his fear of a rival completely unfounded. He and Deirdre would have her often to visit them after they were married, he decided. Engaged in such happy thoughts, he was unprepared for the mournful face of Bigby, who opened the door as he mounted the steps.

"Egad, man, has there been a death in the family?" he asked in some concern. His butler was never known for his cheerful countenance, but he was looking several shades more doleful than usual.

"No, my lord. Everything is well," he replied hesitantly, which was also unusual for the man.

"The devil you say! Come, Bigby, out with it! What has you in the dismals?"

Bigby winced at his master's phrasing, but answered readily enough. "You will recall, my lord, that before you left on Friday you asked that I set Hodge to keep an eye on a certain Mr. Flinder?"

Wrotham nodded. Actually, he had all but forgotten it, pleasurably distracted as he had been by his discoveries about Deirdre and her family, but he quickly recalled his orders. "You discovered something?" he prompted the butler.

"Indeed, my lord. It would seem that your Mr. Flinder has a frequent visitor to his lodgings, one well known to your lordship."

Wrotham's heart contracted painfully. Deirdre! Was she actually carrying on an affair with that blackguard Flinder? He would never have believed it of her. He would kill the man; kill them both! "Oh?" he asked, amazing himself with the calmness of his voice.

"Yes, my lord," continued Bigby with increasing concern. He had not missed the sudden whiteness about Lord Wrotham's mouth and eyes. "It appears he is closely associated with your cousin, Mr. Myron Gates."

For a moment, Wrotham did not comprehend; when he did, his relief was so great that he felt almost lightheaded. Bigby, who had apparently braced himself for the outburst sure to follow this intelligence, seemed flabbergasted when the Marquis began to laugh.

"Myron?" he gasped after a moment. "It is Myron who has been visiting Mr. Flinder? That— that is most interesting, Bigby." His eyes were still dancing when he realized that his butler was regarding him as if he had gone abruptly mad. "I apologize, Bigby," he said in a more normal tone. "I have ridden all day and am famished, as well as fatigued. That was not quite the news I expected, and it took me off my guard."

"Will you be wishing to go out then, my lord?" asked Bigby, once more his unperturbable self.

"No, not tonight. Have Cook put something together for me; nothing fancy, but quick and filling. Then I believe I'll early to bed. No doubt I'll be better able to consider this... unexpected development in the morning."

"Very well, my lord." Bigby went to do the Marquis's bidding, his impassive expression masking the raging curiosity he felt. Who had his lordship expected to visit Mr. Flinder? He was destined never to know.

* * *

In the morning, much refreshed after a good night's sleep, Wrotham felt ready to consider the day ahead. He would call on Deirdre, of course, and finally make the offer he had intended to make last week. Only if she hesitated would he reveal that he had already called on her father and received his consent. However, he did not think she would be unwilling. According to Bigby, Flinder had not been near her for the past three days, so it seemed unlikely that any attachment lay in that direction.

The thought of Mr. Flinder brought to mind the interesting news Bigby had told him the night before. This friendship between Myron and Flinder was of fairly recent origin, and might bear looking into. Perhaps the two men had discovered a certain compatibility due to a similarity in age, style of dress and foolishness, the latter of which both no doubt possessed in abundance; but it might be something else entirely. Yes, it would definitely bear looking into.

Accordingly, after a large breakfast in his rooms, Wrotham dressed with more than his usual care, mindful that his cousin was easily intimidated by appearance, and set out to pay the inimitable Mr. Gates a call.

Normally, Lord Wrotham might have walked the distance, less than a mile, to Myron's lodgings, but instead he elected to take his crested carriage, the one with the gold trim. He rarely used that carriage, commissioned by his mother many years ago, for it was too ostentatious for his tastes; just now, however, it seemed appropriate.

The lodging house where Myron lived was more run down than he remembered. Dirty children played about an equally dirty stoop, and the door looked as though it had not been painted in years. Wrotham rapped with the tarnished brass knocker and was answered by a slovenly woman with greasy black curls. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Marquis and the elegant carriage behind him in the street, and she quickly ushered him up the stairs to Mr. Gates's room.

"Visitor for ye, Myron," she rasped, tapping at the door. "A real swell!" The door opened slowly and, with a final awed glance, the woman retreated down the stairs.

"Ed! What— what a surprise!" exclaimed Myron, palpably nervous. "Whatever can bring you to this part of Town?"

"Why, I came to call upon you, Myron, what else?" said Wrotham languidly. "May I come in?"

"Of—of course! That is... I wasn't exactly expecting you." He stepped back, allowing the Marquis to move past him into the squalid little room. It looked as though Myron had not expected visitors for months. Preferring to spend as little time as possible in such surroundings, Wrotham came directly to the point.

"Myron, I understand you and a Mr. Flinder have been quite thick of late. Would you care to elaborate for me?" He hoped, by avoiding specific questions, to glean more information than he might otherwise. He was not disappointed.

"My God! I knew you'd find out! Jonas is such a ninnyhammer, he no doubt left clues enough for a blind man to follow. I tried to talk him out of it, Ed, you must believe me!"

Lord Wrotham began to seat himself but, on closer examination of the chair's surface, reconsidered. Instead, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms, looking down his aristocratic nose at his cousin, whose paunch had begun to shake like so much jelly. "And why is he so set on this course?" he enquired, as though he knew all.

"Dash it, I don't know! I suppose he loves the girl, though half the time he talks as though he hates her instead. He's jealous of her poetry, I know, and thinks if he marries her he can pass it off as his own. But if she has half a brain in her head, she'll escape before ever they reach the border, the way he's planned it!" Wrotham straightened abruptly. This was more serious than he had suspected. "I want all the details, Myron, and I want them now. Else, I'll consider you a full accomplice."

That was more than enough for the quaking Myron, who immediately told all he knew of Flinder's contemplated abduction of Miss Wheaton: time, place, route, everything. As he absorbed the details, Wrotham began to smile.

"Myron, not a word to anyone of my visit here or of what you have told me, particularly to Flinder, and there will be twenty pounds in it for you. If Flinder calls, you are not in. Do you understand?"

He did not, but twenty pounds was twenty pounds. Myron nodded.

"Very well. You can trust me to handle it from here." Chuckling, Lord Wrotham departed, his step light.

* * *