Chapter 11

“She didn’t even hesitate,” Drake growled, for Lilah’s ears alone. “You’d think she would do me the courtesy of thinking it over for a bit. Hell’s bells, I’ve known the woman all my life!”

He was dancing with Lilah in a perfunctory way. Both of them were too preoccupied with the events that had just taken place to mind their steps. Their moment of high drama had unaccountably fizzled, and they had been made to feel faintly ridiculous. For the first time, they were united in hostility toward something other than each other.

Lilah, awash with indignant sympathy, patted Drake’s arm to console him. “It is a shame,” she told him warmly. “I sincerely feel for you.”

“But I cannot believe this is her final decision. It makes no sense.” In his agitation, Drake swung Lilah violently in a circle. “Why would she choose an old man over a young one? Why would she choose a stranger over a friend?”

“For that matter,” said Lilah rather breathlessly, “why would she choose a baronet over an earl? Drake, for mercy’s sake, slow down.”

“Sorry.” He slowed his steps. “Dash it, Lilah, there’s something peculiar about the business. She turned me down flat! I don’t mean to sound like a coxcomb, but—”

“Oh, you don’t!” Lilah assured him. “I perfectly agree with you. I love my father—he is a most estimable creature, and quite young and vigorous for his age—but he cannot compare to you by any measure known to man. Or, which is more to the point, woman.”

Drake stared intently into Lilah’s eyes, perplexity and bewilderment writ large across his face. “Then tell me. Why do you think she chose your father over me?”

Lilah thought for a moment. Inspiration struck. “Why, I imagine she was intimidated by that crowd of people in the room.”

Drake halted in his tracks, nearly causing Lilah to stumble. “Do you think that was it?” he exclaimed. “By Jove. You may be right. By Jove, you are right! What else could she say, with Sir Horace standing there?”

“Nothing,” said Lilah triumphantly. “She had to decline your offer. I daresay she has already promised to wed my father.”

“She almost certainly has. Lilah, you’ve hit it! I’ll get Eugenia alone and try again.” He seemed to notice something odd in Lilah’s expression. His brows lifted slightly. “Well? What is it?”

Lilah gave a short laugh and looked away. “Nothing. I merely wondered—” She hesitated. “Well, to speak frankly, there is something else about the business that strikes me as peculiar.” A glimmer of mischief lit her features. “Everyone seems wild to marry Eugenia Mayhew. I confess, I do not see the attraction.”

His eyes gleamed. “Never underestimate the power of a biddable woman. No, do not look daggers at me! I realize Eugenia will never be a beauty. And she’s not the most entertaining woman you’ll ever meet. But she’s restful. And superbly competent. She’ll be an excellent and thrifty housewife. A quiet life and a well-run home are worth a great deal to a man.”

Lilah pursed her lips demurely. “And, of course, one need not watch a plain woman too closely, since it is unlikely that another man will steal her away.”

Drake looked glum. “So I thought,” he admitted. “But apparently I was wrong.”

Lilah choked. “Is nothing safe?” she asked, with mock sympathy. “Is there no woman plain enough to ignore with impunity? Tsk! You might as well marry a pretty girl.”

She looked up at him, her eyes full of laughter. But he was staring down at her with a strange intensity that caused her laughter to fade. “I wonder if you are right,” he said slowly.

Lilah suddenly felt a vigorous tap on her shoulder. Since she was entirely focused on Drake, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “There you are!” said the cheerful voice of Polly Peabody. “I wanted you to know, my dear, that I’ve sent round to Kensington for your things. They should arrive within the hour.”

Lilah quickly dropped her hand from Drake’s shoulder and turned to face her hostess. “I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Peabody smiled patiently. “Since your father is stopping here at the Abbey, we have decided it would be wholly ineligible for you to remain in Kensington. Whatever the custom may be in the countryside, dear child, in London I assure you that single females do not reside alone.”

Lilah blinked. “But—do you mean I am invited to stay here?”

She beamed. “Certainly. You cannot refuse, you know. Your papa and I have arranged everything. Your companion—what is her name, dear?”

“Pickens,” said Lilah faintly. She was feeling a bit overwhelmed.

“Miss Pickens will be brought round in the morning. And as for you, Drake—” Mrs. Peabody bent a severe look on her nephew, peering over the top of her spectacles. “I hope you know better than to argue with me. I’m ready to box your ears as it is.”

Drake looked mildly surprised. “I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, Aunt. You may house Miss Chadwick with my good will.”

“So I should hope. But I’m housing you, too.” She raised a warning finger. “Not another word! I won’t be made a subject of gossip. My own nephew, staying at the Pulteney!” She gave a disapproving sniff. “Anyone might think we’d had a falling out. Well, we haven’t, and I won’t have it spread all over town that we have.”

She gave a brisk nod and bustled away, leaving Drake and Lilah with their mouths agape. They turned back to each other, eyeing one another with misgiving. It was Lilah who broke the silence.

“I hope you won’t take this amiss, Drake, but I am extremely reluctant to stay in the same house as you.”

“I don’t blame you. There’s a very odd dynamic at work between us.” He took a deep breath and expelled it, looking thoughtful. “On the other hand, both of us staying here will have certain advantages. Provided we take care never to be alone together.”

“Oh, we must avoid that at all costs,” said Lilah fervently.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Drake—although it was just as well if he thought that. She did not trust herself. Merely standing beside him as she was now, or dancing with him, gave her far too much pleasure. It wasn’t normal.

“Very well,” said Drake abruptly. “We’ll make that a rule. We meet only when others are present. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Because as long as nothing untoward happens between us, Aunt Polly’s invitation is a godsend. If you and I went tamely back to London, we would never break up this ridiculous engagement. Matters seem to have reached a critical point. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past Eugenia to simply avoid us altogether until the knot was tied.”

Lilah was much struck by this insight. “I believe you are right,” she exclaimed. “I am not acquainted with Miss Mayhew, but that is definitely what Papa will do. He goes to great lengths to avoid what he calls unpleasantness. If he thought we were going to argue with him day and night, he would do almost anything to hide from us.”

“Eugenia is the same way,” said Drake grimly. “Craven, I call it! But if Sir Horace shares the trait, that cinches it. They will duck us if they can. If we are staying in the same house, at least they’ll have fewer opportunities to give us the slip.”

Lilah frowned. “But even if they are unable to avoid us, they will pooh-pooh whatever we say,” she pointed out. “Only look how they treated us just now! As if we were putting on a show for their amusement.” Resentment churned within her. “Papa seemed to think I was being childish.”

Drake gave a brief nod. “Theatrical, he called it.” He sounded both disgusted and sympathetic. “We were both made to look like fools. But we’ll get the last laugh, Lilah, never you fear.”

#

Lilah awoke late on Sunday morning and staggered grumpily down to breakfast. Her things had arrived at Wexbridge Abbey long before the end of the party, and when she was notified of this she had immediately retired—since the more time she spent in Drake’s company, the more jangled her nerves became. However, going upstairs to bed had accomplished little. It had taken nearly an hour to wash the powder out of her hair, and the festivities below had gone noisily on until dawn. She had sat up, listening to the cacophony and waiting for her hair to dry…and brooding. She felt far from rested.

At least her appearance was fresh and neat. Mrs. Peabody had honored her by sending her own maid to help dress her hair this morning. The woman was an artist; Lilah had actually smiled when she saw the result of the maid’s labors. But her smile soon faded. She was in no mood this morning to be pleased.

She expected a solitary breakfast at this hour, but, to her surprise, Polly Peabody was in the breakfast room, consuming a substantial repast and chatting with Miss Pickens. Miss Pickens still wore her traveling cloak and was sipping gingerly on a cup of black tea—her custom when recovering from a journey of any length. Her thin face brightened when Lilah entered the room.

“Lilah, my love, good morning! Is this not delightful? So kind of Mrs. Peabody to invite us! She has been telling me a little of the Abbey’s history and, I must say, I am looking forward to wandering the grounds—which she has told me I may do at my leisure. I am truly grateful. Such an opportunity does not often come my way. Only fancy, Lilah—Queen Elizabeth herself is said to have stopped here for a week’s hawking, in the early days of her reign. Can you not picture it?”

Some of Lilah’s crossness evaporated in the face of Miss Pickens’s obvious enthusiasm. She smiled affectionately at her loyal companion. “I am glad for you,” she said simply.

Polly Peabody, her mouth full of toast, waved Lilah languidly into a nearby seat before swallowing. “Miss Pickens seems to know a frightful amount of history,” she remarked. “I am quite terrified of her.”

Miss Pickens beamed. “I’m afraid I am a dreadful bore on the subject,” she said. “I seldom have an audience for my favorite hobby-horse.”

Lilah laughed, wrinkling her nose. “By that, she means that I showed little interest in sixteenth century politics,” she explained to her hostess. “Or any other period of history, for that matter. I was a sad disappointment to her, back in the days when she struggled to educate me. You have offered her a rare treat.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” said Mrs. Peabody, her eyes twinkling. “It’s seldom that a genuine treat costs so little. I’m delighted to be able to provide it.”

Lilah glanced surreptitiously around the room, wondering what was expected of her. No servants were anywhere in sight. Places had been laid for four persons besides the three now seated at the table, but dirty dishes and discarded napkins bore witness to the fact that two of the four missing people had already breakfasted and departed.

Mrs. Peabody saw Lilah’s indecision and, with the same informality she showed in waving Lilah to a seat, gestured toward the sideboard. “The coffee and tea are piping hot, and I can vouch for the eggs and ham as well,” she said cheerfully. “You may need to stir the chocolate. Shall I ring for fresh toast?”

Lilah was taken aback for a moment. Apparently, she was supposed to wait on herself at breakfast. How excessively English.

“No, thank you. Not on my behalf,” she replied politely, and carried her plate to the sideboard to explore the contents of various covered dishes. Strange. But as she lifted the covers and examined what lay beneath, choosing what to take and what to leave, she discovered that she rather liked filling her own plate. Mrs. Peabody’s informal ways, although different from the French customs she had learned from her mother, had a charm of their own.

By the time she returned with her plate to the table, Miss Pickens and her hostess had moved on to another subject—one that enthralled Lilah even less than history did. She frowned in irritation as Miss Pickens lavished praise on the absent Lord Drakesley.

“And to think of him helping two strangers!” she gushed. “I never met with such extraordinary consideration. And in a man of his rank, too! He put me forcibly in mind of the Good Samaritan.”

“The extremely reluctant Samaritan,” said Lilah tartly, dropping into her chair with an indignant flounce. “You know you are talking nonsense, Picky. Why, he threatened at one point to put us out on the road—simply because my name is Chadwick! The only extraordinary thing I saw in Lord Drakesley’s conduct was his arrogance. Now that, I will own, is something out of the common way.” She shook out her napkin with an angry snap, then paused. It hit her, all of a sudden, that she was maligning her hostess’s nephew. She felt the color rush into her face and her gaze flew guiltily to Polly Peabody.

Mrs. Peabody looked merely thoughtful. “It’s true that Drake can be high-handed,” she said agreeably. “He means well—most of the time—but I have often told him that his temper will be the death of him.”

Lilah bit her lip, scarlet with shame. “I am so sorry,” she said, in a strangled voice. “I should not have said such things of your nephew. I am afraid I am not myself this morning.”

Mrs. Peabody smiled very kindly. “Never mind, my dear. You had a difficult evening last night, did you not?” She turned to Miss Pickens and confided, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Drake kissed her, you know.”

Lilah gasped. The color burning in her cheeks seemed to drain in a heartbeat. And to think that, two minutes ago, she had thought Polly Peabody’s informality charming!

Miss Pickens, frozen with her teacup halfway to her mouth, looked as if she had been turned to stone. Her goggling expression might have struck Lilah as comical, had she not been too horrified to appreciate it.

Mrs. Peabody appeared oblivious to Lilah’s and Miss Pickens’s reaction to her simple statement. She continued speaking, placidly spooning sugar into her tea. “We did not actually see them kiss, but what we did see was more than sufficient to tell us what had taken place. I wonder why Drake turned round and offered marriage to Eugenia, after demonstrating so conclusively his attraction to someone else? It strikes me as most peculiar. But perhaps I am old-fashioned.” She glanced at the door and her face brightened. “Here is Nat at last.”

Mr. Peabody rolled in, puffing and beaming, and nodded genially at the ladies. “Good morning, good morning everyone. Good morning, my pet.” He bent and planted a loud kiss on his wife’s cheek, then straightened, rubbing his hands together with delight as he looked from Lilah to Miss Pickens. “Ah! This is cozy. How d’ye do? Nathaniel Peabody. Don’t believe we’ve met.”

Miss Pickens half-rose in confusion, murmuring a few disjointed phrases. Mr. Peabody shook her hand heartily and sat down, taking the presence of a complete stranger at his breakfast table entirely in stride. He stole a bit of scone off his wife’s plate and asked, as he popped it in his mouth, “I say, where’s Horace?”

His wife frowned scoldingly at him over the tops of her spectacles. “Behave yourself, Nat, for pity’s sake. What will our guests think? Horace and Eugenia have gone to church.”

“Ah, yes.” He swallowed contentedly. “Sunday. I should have thought they’d give it a miss, after dancing all night—but I suppose they want to be there when the banns are read. Not bad, these scones.” He winked at Lilah. “Scottish cook this morning. French chap resting up after last night. Have you tasted the porridge?”

Lilah stared at him. She had the oddest sensation that time had stopped, leaving her suspended forever in the breakfast room at Wexbridge Abbey. “No,” she said, her voice sounding high and faint. “No, I have not. Excuse me, but did you say…banns? Banns being read?”

“That’s right.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What! Didn’t you know? Horace told me he’d written you. Had a notion that’s why you showed up here last night.”

Lilah pressed a hand to her forehead. “Yes, but—Papa’s letter said nothing of banns. I had the impression that…” Her voice trailed off.

She had had the impression that Papa’s marriage to Eugenia Mayhew was nothing more than a vague possibility, something being talked of, not prepared for. There was a vast gulf between a marriage proposal and the actual reading of banns. Banns were serious. Banns meant that the marriage might actually take place within a few weeks! How could matters have progressed so swiftly?

While Lilah struggled with her emotions, Mr. and Mrs. Peabody continued the conversation. Nat turned to Polly for confirmation. “It’s the second reading of the banns, is it not, my love? Yes, yes, I thought so. Being read in Wiltshire, I daresay, as well as here. And up in the Lake District somewhere as well, Drakesley’s parish. Have to publish ‘em everywhere the parties reside. Or so I believe.”

“Yes, I think that’s right,” said Polly. “Unless the couple marries by special license, of course.”

“No need for that; Horace and Eugenia are a sensible pair. Always thought there was something unseemly about rushing down the aisle, not bothering with banns. Silly stuff! Almost as bad as an elopement, if you ask me. Which no one did, of course, nor ever does.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “At any rate, they’re expensive things, special licenses.”

Miss Pickens chimed in. “I had a cousin who married by special license. So extravagant! But she was ever the impatient sort.”

Lilah sat silent, inwardly seething. Everyone was acting as if Papa’s betrothal to Miss Mayhew was nothing more than an interesting event! Could they not see how outrageous, how unsuitable, the match was? Could they not understand the anguish it was causing Lilah? A strong sense of injury began to swell her bosom. She felt betrayed. Overlooked. Her feelings, her opinions, her concerns, her very dignity, were being ignored. If the Peabodys were correct, and this was the second Sunday the banns were being read, Papa had planned to marry Miss Mayhew without even introducing her to his only child! Was she worth nothing to Papa? Was she a cipher in her own home? Tears of anger and hurt pricked Lilah’s eyelids.

When Miss Pickens began clucking contentedly about how much she looked forward to meeting the future Lady Chadwick, Lilah could stand it no more. She flew up out of her chair, quivering with emotion. “This is intolerable!” she cried, flinging down her napkin. “Does no one have any consideration for my feelings? Am I to be passed over? Will my father marry a total stranger, without so much as a by-your-leave? I seem to have strayed into a nightmare.”

Three pairs of eyes fixed on her with expressions ranging from mild surprise (Nat Peabody) to outright distress (Miss Pickens). Mrs. Peabody tsked sympathetically. “There, there, dearie, it’s not as bad as that,” she said, in the tone one uses to soothe a screaming two year-old. “We know Eugenia so well, and think so highly of her, we never stopped to think how the situation might strike you. Once you have had a chance to become acquainted with her—”

“I don’t wish to become acquainted with her!” Lilah cried. She knew she sounded irrational as well as uncivil, but she was past caring. “I wish to return to Wiltshire with Papa and go on just as we always have!”

She had to stop herself from blurting out, And I want my mother! She pushed a fist into her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud, and fled the room.

But this was terrible. She was in a completely strange house. Her breath hitching, she ran into a disused salon across the hall from the breakfast room and slammed the door behind her. It was cold and dark, with no fire lit and the draperies pulled across the window embrasure. She didn’t care. Cold and dark matched her mood beautifully. She vented her feelings by delivering a few savage kicks to a tufted ottoman, then sank onto the closest sofa, buried her face in an embroidered pillow, and wept like a child.

Exactly like a child. Good God, this was appalling. Shameful.

What on earth was the matter with her? Why had all her emotions boiled up to the surface like this? She was carrying on like a madwoman. A rude madwoman, since she had begun her outburst at the Peabodys’ breakfast table.

She sat up, struggling to scold herself back into control. What would Drake think if he saw her like this?

Now, there was another stupid thought. Why should she care what Drake thought of her? She didn’t care. She didn’t care. He was an ally at the moment, but not a permanent friend.

Somehow that thought made her even more miserable. It did, however, stiffen her spine. She dashed the tears from her cheeks with a resolute hand and took a deep breath. Enough. She would go to find Drake and tell him the latest bit of news. He may be the most irritating man on the face of the planet, but at least he was capable—and, on this subject if no other, sympathetic. If anyone could help her out of the present emergency, it was he.

She rose, shook out her skirts, and walked out of the room with her head high. She would keep a grip on her turbulent emotions, she promised herself. Even if, in order to accomplish this, she had to ignore two uncomfortable facts: that the very notion of going to find Drake had inexplicably lifted her spirits, and that no degree of urgency was sufficient to keep her from washing her face and tucking her hair back into place before she went.

Merely seeing Drake, of course, would neither strengthen nor comfort her. He had no magic power to make her feel better. It was absurd to feel more cheerful at the very thought of him. He might come up with an idea, but she knew perfectly well that he might not. This sense of pleasurable anticipation, this weird bubble of excitement, defied logic. It must be due to some disorder of her nerves.