Chapter Thirteen

Once in the parlor, Lucy heeded Henry’s advice by viewing the visitors as no different from the criminals she’d known so well, while remaining mostly silent. Before long, Isabella probed Henry.

“What an odd invitation list, Henry. Lord Warwick seems a bit out of place in this gathering.” Then she batted long eyelashes at Warwick. “Although, my gratitude for his attendance is substantial.”

“You are looking well, Lady Isabella,” Warwick replied warmly. “I must admit, I am as befuddled as you are. My father ordered me here tonight with no explanation. That said, your presence eases my irritation.”

“Why, sir. What a gentleman you are.” She swiveled her regard to Henry. “Nearly equal to Mr. Beaumont, I would say.”

Lucy watched with alarm as Warwick and Henry locked eyes, exchanging unspoken words that seemed more a prelude to a fistfight than anything else. She recognized Isabella’s subtle maneuver, having seen Steadman do the same many times. When discussing the price of an item or the share of a windfall, he would pit interested parties against one another to drive up the bidding and enhance his interests. Isabella wore the smile of a child who had set a spinning top in motion and simply waited to see which way it would fall.

“Perhaps Mr. Beaumont has no alternative to playing the gentleman,” Warwick said, “because his breeding outstrips his income.”

Henry glared at Warwick. “I prefer that condition to the opposite.”

Isabella waded into the brewing conflict. “Gentlemen! There is no need for tension on my account. I hold you both in the highest regard.”

Lady Barrington sniffed and turned to the duchess. “Flirting has changed since our day. Today’s young do so with all the aplomb of oxen on a muddy track.”

As the older women nodded agreement, Isabella confided loudly to her cohorts. “Lady Barrington makes an excellent point. A long time has passed since her youth.”

Before allowing a counterpoint, Miss Braye leaned toward Warwick and clapped her hands. “My lord, I hear such wondrous stories of your father’s estate. Can you confirm them?”

Warwick smiled. “Why, of course, Miss Braye. What do you wish to know?”

“Everything!”

With no additional prompting, he launched into a long-winded description of his family’s expansive country estate and extensive holdings. After several minutes, Isabella interrupted him.

“Lord Warwick, I fear we are behaving rudely to our hostess. The fineries you describe are likely foreign to her. You speak of classicism and rococo without explanation. Perhaps you should define such terms for her benefit.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Lucy sensed an opportune moment to execute her first maneuver. She clasped her hands together and gazed earnestly at Warwick. “Please accept my deepest gratitude, sir, for so kindly considering my ignorance. Your benevolence is equaled only by your humility.”

Warwick and Isabella forced uncertain smiles of acknowledgment before he pressed ahead. His monologue soon veered toward his family’s renowned stable of Thoroughbred horses.

“My personal mount is descended of the Godolphin Barb himself.” He looked to Lucy. “I should explain that the Godolphin Barb was one of three original Arabians brought to England a century ago.”

She smiled adoringly at him. “Once again, sir, I thank you for illuminating the dark corners of my benightedness. Your generous sharing of equine lineage is most appreciated.”

He nodded with seeming suspicion. “You’re welcome.”

Isabella sighed. “One must know details of fine horseflesh if one is to walk among gentry, Lady Margaret. Dispelling your ignorance on this and other subjects is of utmost importance.”

Lucy nearly flinched at the earnestly mocking tone. Her well-maintained façade wavered. “I know of horseflesh in a manner you never will.”

Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Henry leaned forward to catch Lucy’s attention, likely hoping to stop further explanation. She ignored him. “One can never truly know a horse until one has reached into a mare’s birth canal to extract a struggling colt, and then nursed both mare and colt to health. As I have done.”

Expressions of ghastly horror instructed Lucy that she had overstepped her bounds. A brief glance at the stricken face of the duchess told her just how far. Miss Wharton broke the silence.

“Well, I have never heard of such indelicacy!” She raised a hand to her forehead and feigned a swoon. Miss Braye fanned herself with shocked indignation. Isabella, however, smiled like a cat before the kill. Lucy looked to Henry for support, but his forehead remained in one hand. Lady Garvey, however, rode gallantly to her rescue, with saber swinging.

“I will have you know, ladies, that I am third cousin to His Majesty, and I helped my noble father birth a colt when I was a girl. I see no wrong in charity toward such fine creatures.”

She shifted her glare from person to person, daring anyone to denigrate the actions of a royal relative. In a manner that threatened to impress Lucy, Isabella rose to the challenge.

“Oh, I quite agree, your ladyship. Birthing a foal is a fine skill that would prepare Lady Margaret for any number of professions, including groomsman or midwife. And see, she has suitable hands for the task.”

Lucy clutched her calloused hands to her waist, wary of the gazes now trained there.

“Of course,” added Miss Braye. “And her nonverbal manner would calm the dumb creatures. They might even view her as one of their own. A fine talent indeed.”

The mocking words had the effect of bringing Lucy ramrod straight. She peered intently at Isabella. “You need not patronize me. If you wish to insult, then do so directly and with courage. Your acting skills are not sufficient to pretend earnestness.”

Isabella’s eyes went wide, and her cohorts gasped. The older women, though, exchanged wicked smiles. The duchess leaned toward Lady Barrington and spoke in low tones.

“Now there is the aplomb of which you spoke earlier.”

Warwick sneered. “I see no aplomb. I see only a milkmaid pretending to be a lady.”

Lucy watched as the face of the duchess grew red with rage. “Scurrilous boy, why…”

Henry leaped from his chair. “Ladies! Gentleman! Please! There is something you must know about Lady Margaret.”

Lucy’s clenched hands became white-knuckled. When all eyes turned to Henry, he motioned toward her. “Through no fault of hers, she passed adolescence in a remote place without the company of finer people or a more conventional education.”

Warwick mumbled, “That explains much.”

Henry faced her with a grave expression. “Lady Margaret. As hostess of this affair, I think it only appropriate that you apologize for such frank and shocking talk.”

She glared at him, wishing to burn him to the ground with her eyes. His lack of support wounded her more painfully than any daggers from the haughty guests. He seemed no friend after all. After gritting her teeth, she offered what words she could manage.

“Please accept my apology. Now, let us dine before I say something actually worthy of one.”

…

Once the duchess settled at the head of the table, Lucy took the appointed place to her right, while Warwick sat to her left. Lady Garvey, Lady Barrington, Miss Braye, and Miss Wharton occupied the next chairs, the older women on one side of the table and the younger on the other as if two armed camps prepared for bloody battle. Despite her rank, Isabella asked to be seated across from Henry in the lowest chair, a maneuver that appeared to miff Warwick. Lucy frowned. What game was she playing?

As the staff served dinner, conversation commenced among the guests. Lucy remained largely silent, not wishing to begin the meal with an immediate breach of etiquette. At the prompting of the duchess, she managed to string together a few sentences for Lord Warwick, but he seemed barely aware of her presence and more interested in the mostly inaudible conversation between Isabella and Henry. Lucy found herself craning her neck toward them as well. She failed to discern anything meaningful.

The main course had only just arrived when Isabella suddenly broke off conversation with Henry and trained her eyes on Lucy. “Lady Margaret.”

“Lady Isabella?”

“Please, dear. You must tell us more of this very intriguing upbringing. What words did Henry use? Remote? Unrefined? Unconventional? We must know more of the details.”

“There is little to say.”

“Oh, come now. At least tell us where it was.”

She glanced at the duchess and then at Henry from the corner of her vision. Both appeared cautious of the question but not overly alarmed.

“Go ahead, dear,” the duchess said. “You can say a little, or as little as necessary. Whatever you deem appropriate.”

She nodded. “A house in Devon many miles from any village.”

Isabella pressed. “With a genteel family, at least?”

“Yes. With a gentleman who, shall I say, represented my father’s interests.”

“What is the gentleman called? Perhaps I know of him.”

Henry’s eyes cut sharply to Lucy and spoke warning. However, his earlier advice of playing the game still echoed through her head. “Oh, I doubt you would know of him. He moved in different circles than the pampered folk of London, as he felt most of them were beneath him.”

Isabella’s forehead creased with the verbal shot, but quickly smoothed. Lucy braced for a countermove.

“This gentleman, I assume, is a relative of yours?”

“No, he is not.”

As expected, Miss Braye and Miss Wharton expressed dramatic disbelief by covering their surprised mouths with gloved hands and exchanging shocked glances. Isabella blinked slowly as a wry smile crept across her face. “That sounds positively scandalous! Some would call the man unscrupulous for housing a young girl not his relative. They might even call you the same by association.”

“Lady Isabella,” the duchess interrupted, “I think we have had quite enough of this type of questioning.”

Lucy waved a hand. “All is well, Your Grace. I do not mind answering these questions. The information will come to light eventually, so why not now?”

The duchess nodded, perhaps observing the spark in Lucy’s eyes. “Very well, then.”

Lucy pinned Isabella with a hard stare. “I quite agree that some would find the situation unscrupulous. Especially those lacking scruples.”

Isabella’s smile faded, and Lucy pressed ahead before the shrew could attack again.

“In fact, the man took charge of me as my guardian and protector after my father’s passing. He took that duty very seriously and executed it with the utmost propriety and vigor. Unlike those who might judge him, his scruples regarding propriety were above reproach.”

“What of your education, then?” Isabella’s question hinted impatience. “In such a remote place? While your lack of finishing school is a matter of simple observation, I assume you had a governess? Or perhaps private tutors?”

Lucy straightened with pride. “No. The gentleman taught me everything he knew, and I taught myself the rest by reading and questioning everyone I met.”

“Is that so? What sort of knowledge did he and a pile of books impart to you?”

“Literature. History. Philosophy. Theology. Astronomy, chemistry, and horticulture.” She paused, deciding not to add her coarser knowledge, such as how to spot a cheat, jimmy a door, or swing a foil. “Let me see…also bookkeeping, architecture, classical debate, elements of common law…”

“Those are positively manly pursuits,” said Isabella. “Although befitting of your general presentation, they are unsuited to your newfound status. Did you not learn anything of feminine pursuits?”

Lucy dipped her head humbly. “You must forgive me, then. I did not know feminine pursuits included general ignorance and rumormongering. I thank you for so ably mentoring me in that regard.”

Isabella recoiled from the barely concealed ridicule. She quickly recovered, however, and sighed. “I fear that undoing your education is too difficult a task. One cannot restore silk once the moth has corrupted it.”

“Yes, of course,” Warwick injected. After swallowing his wine, he added, “A pig in silk is still a pig, no matter what one calls it.”

Lucy held a palm to the duchess to prevent her agitation from growing and pretended Warwick’s remark did not sting, even though she cringed inside. She hoped her act might prove convincing but doubted as much.

“Thank you, Lord Warwick. You are nearly as kind as Lady Isabella.”

“Perhaps we should converse on a different subject for a while,” said Henry. “The fare is delicious, don’t you think?”

Conversation drifted from there, but twice more during the main course, Isabella probed maliciously into Lucy’s mysterious past. True to her plan, Lucy avoided revealing the more damaging details of her exile and even managed to land a few soft insults while simultaneously feigning appreciation for the interest. However, each of the episodes drove her spirits lower. Several times she looked to Henry for help and support, but he offered none. In fact, he seemed amused by the banter, either unaware of her pain or simply uncaring of it.

With the arrival of dessert, she began to believe she might survive the evening with both her reputation and emotions intact. However, Isabella proved relentless.

“Tell me, Lady Margaret,” she said as a lioness might inquire of its prey. “Her Grace says you will entertain the interest of suitors soon. What sort of man do you desire?”

All other conversation ceased and every face turned to regard Lucy, some filled with hopes of decorum and others with desire for scandal. Regardless, everyone waited with interest for her next words, none seemingly more than Henry.

“I do not know,” she said.

“Come, now.” Isabella seemed to abandon all concern for the duchess’s feelings. “I understand your coarseness and lack of refinement are befitting of a farmer or blacksmith’s wife, but surely you aspire for more given your recent good fortune of returning to House Huntington. To what do you aspire?”

“Really, I have not given the matter much thought.”

Warwick laughed. “Of course, you have. All women do, as such activity is inherent to their frivolous natures. If I did not know better, I might believe you prefer the attention of rakes and rogues over those of gentlemen.”

The demeaning tone piqued her anger. “Sir, I do not. I prefer an intelligent man to a self-important oaf. A man who is kind and considerate, and appreciative of my qualities and nature. If he is also pleasing to the eye, then I consider that serendipitous.”

Isabella shared a laugh with Miss Wharton and Miss Braye before explaining her mirth. “Oh, my dear! Men of that nature seek sensible mates, not one as unorthodox as you are.”

Lucy’s lips went grimly tight as the irritating woman’s response stabbed her soul. However, Isabella had not finished.

“No, dear. You might find more luck with a man who is none too bright and rather plain. You should seek a suitor lacking in wealth so your riches might elicit a stronger sense of loyalty.”

Henry’s indicting words to the duchess from days earlier stirred in her mind, words that had not been far from her thoughts since she’d overheard them.

“No such men would desire your granddaughter in her current state.”

Her chin quivered as she stared at a triumphant Isabella. All pretext of witty banter evaporated, leaving only her vulnerability on display for all to see. “So, Lady Isabella, you believe as Henry does that no reasonable man of good character would want me as a wife?”

Henry’s eyes grew wide with the implication of her words and the understanding that she had overheard his assessment to the duchess.

“Look at you.” Isabella’s tone softened. “You are as an infant in your understanding of propriety and seem utterly lacking in even a shred of the delicacy required by such a man. Only your ties to a dukedom give you a seat at this table. Otherwise, we would not even look your way.”

The patience of the duchess shattered. “That is quite enough, Lady Isabella. I will not stand another second of you denigrating my granddaughter.”

Isabella dipped her head. “My apologies, Your Grace. Perhaps I was too forward in my assessments. I wished only to offer guidance that might help your granddaughter’s cause.”

The duchess seemed ready to commence battle, but Lucy once again calmed her with a staying hand. Tears had already begun to roll down Lucy’s cheeks as she faced Isabella.

“Your assessment is correct.” Her voice grew husky. “But you need not relentlessly remind me of the fact. I am well aware of my shocking inadequacies and my deep unworthiness of the position handed me. That I am little more than a pretender is more obvious to me than to anyone else.”

She shifted her eyes toward Henry. He regarded her with a deep frown.

“I realize, Mr. Beaumont, my company is not something desirable. I know that any attentions toward me are bought with silver.”

His frown grew deeper still. Let him frown, she thought, and let him judge. I am past caring what he thinks. She paused to dab the tears with her dinner cloth.

“I thank you, Lady Isabella, for your candor and frankness. Your words are truer than what I have received from others, even from those whom I believed cared for me. Now, if you will excuse me, I am feeling unwell and wish to retire for the evening.”

She immediately rose from her chair in the deafening silence and leaned toward the duchess. “I am deeply sorry,” she whispered, “but I cannot maintain this charade. I cannot become what you wish me to be. I thank you for your kindness and good faith, however ill-spent.”

With the truth confessed, she departed the silent dining room and made her way upstairs. To both her relief and dismay, Henry did not follow.

…

Henry’s frown grew deeper still as he watched Lucy depart the dining room. Gone was his amusement with the spectacle of her adept and repeated deflections of Isabella’s attempts to discredit. The last attack had gone too far, though, and his light mood had evaporated as he watched his capable pupil sink beneath the onslaught of Isabella’s judgment—and of his. She had clearly overheard his private conversation with the duchess; that much was certain. That she now classified Isabella and him as equal antagonists created a remarkable knot in his gut.

“Can you believe that?” Miss Braye said, breaking the pall of silence that had descended on the dining room. “To abandon her guests! What utter disregard!”

Henry glanced at the duchess, who seemed broken in her silence. He focused a glare at Isabella across the table, waiting for her concurrence with Miss Braye. She avoided his eyes but said nothing. Miss Wharton, however, showed less restraint.

“We should have expected as much. The girl is out of her depth in gentle company. What she said about birthing a colt still mortifies me.”

“We apologize for having upset her,” Miss Braye said to the duchess after a giggle. “We meant no harm. However, her sensibilities seem more akin to one who is lowborn.”

The duchess remained silent, apparently quite shaken by the occurrence and perhaps realizing that Lucy’s future was slipping away.

“Why are you apologizing, Miss Braye?” said Warwick. “Why are we avoiding the obvious? Lady Margaret was a disaster this evening. That she represents this house must appall the duchess.”

At Warwick’s pronouncement and the continued chortling of Miss Braye and Miss Wharton, the carefully maintained emotional dam inside Henry broke for the first time in years. He leaped up so vigorously that his chair crashed against the wall and clattered to the floor. All faces swiveled toward him with an array of wide eyes and open mouths.

“Hold your tongue, sir! I will not listen to you besmirch Lady Margaret’s honor any longer.”

Warwick apparently had never experienced such reprimand, especially from those beneath his station. His face at first grew angry, but Henry’s unflinching glare and clenched jaw slowly melted the rage into bland befuddlement. As Henry shifted that glare to each of the women opposite him, they glanced away in turn. His next words surprised even him.

“For your entire pampered lives, since you came wailing into this world until now, you have been tutored, trained, and educated in the finest points of socially appropriate behavior. No lesson or expense has been spared to clarify to you every rule and nuance of Society. Lady Margaret’s education has lasted only a fortnight. Two weeks! And yet she bravely faced you all tonight and endured a fusillade far beyond what any of you would have suffered without failing.”

He paused to run a hand through his hair, to breathe, and to allow the hot flame of his anger to subside.

“You should show more charity to Lady Margaret. Her efforts this night far exceeded yours.”

At that, he strode to the duchess. The old woman peered up at him with moist eyes. He bowed deeply. “I must apologize, Your Grace. My skills were clearly unequal to the task, and I will no longer be party to your granddaughter’s humiliation. You may retain all intended payment as I have not earned it. I bid you good evening.”

He exited the dining room and made for the entrance hall. As he collected his hat, Hawes rushed to open the door for him and nodded with seeming gratitude. Henry stepped through the opening into the night, feeling abruptly adrift. He would never again engage in a rousing contest of wills with Lucy. Never again admire her astonishing eyes. Never again feel the remarkable touch of her hand on his elbow. He lingered in the darkness with his head hanging low before turning in the direction of his lodging on Bow Street.