Mr. Garvey owned a splendid team of matched bays and a well-sprung phaeton of a dusky blue, picked out with paler blue, and having pale blue squabs. Noting that the gentleman also wore those colours, Lisette felt somewhat at odds with the decor, and wondered if he changed his vehicles to match his attire, or vice versa. He assured himself that his fair charge was comfortably settled, took the reins from his groom, dismissed the man, and drove off, feathering the corner neatly.
It was a glorious morning, the air washed clean by the rain and the temperature beginning at last to feel like Spring. Many people were out, and it appeared that Mr. Garvey knew or was known by them all. He was an easy conversationalist, maintaining a pleasant flow of chatter even as he bowed, waved, or smiled upon this or that passing carriage. In Hyde Park they encountered Lady Jersey, enjoying an early drive with the Countess Lieven. Lady Jersey smiled warmly on Lisette and ordered her groom to pull up the horses, but her eyes then alighting on Garvey, the smile in them died. A tiny frown touching her brows, she glanced again at Lisette, lifted one gloved hand in polite salute and told the groom to drive on.
Garvey chuckled. “Pray do not feel that slight was on any account but my own, ma’am. ‘The Silence’ don’t approve of your escort.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Surely you mistake it. I know she chatters, but she is the kindest person.”
“To you, who could be otherwise? She considers me a bad influence on our beloved Regent.” He shrugged and added whimsically, “One might suppose that Prinny, au contraire, corrupts me!”
“Were one to judge by rumour—” Lisette laughed—“your point would be well taken, sir.”
“And do you judge by rumours, Miss Van Lindsay?”
“I try not to be influenced by idle gossip, but I confess that sometimes there is so much of it, one cannot help but wonder.”
“I beg you will not allow my Lady Jersey to prejudice you against me.” He smiled roguishly. “I really am not so very wicked, and—good God! What the deuce has poor Bolster got with him?”
Two gentlemen occupied the approaching curricle. The man driving was young, sturdily built, and having a pleasant, ruddy-complected countenance. Beside him sat one of the biggest and ugliest bulldogs Lisette had ever seen, and she watched the animal, fascinated.
Garvey called, “What have you there, Bolster?”
Both vehicles came to a halt. Lord Jeremy Bolster snatched off his hat, revealing straight hair gleaming pale yellow in the sunlight. “It’s Br-Br-Brutus, Garvey,” he stammered, his abashed gaze flickering to Lisette.
“An unlovely brute. ’Ware, Jeremy, lest it devour you!”
Bolster grinned, bowed jerkily to Lisette, and took up the reins once more. His companion had been turned away exchanging pleasantries with another rider. He now swung around, and Lisette encountered a pair of very blue eyes that stared at her from a gaunt face, the darkly bronzed skin seeming to accentuate that piercing regard. They were past then, and she looked straight ahead, wondering why she felt so shaken. Rather belatedly she became aware that Garvey was making a remark. To allow one’s attention to wander whilst with a gentleman could be fatal, besides being most ill-mannered. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she apologized. “I fear my thoughts were on that most unattractive creature.”
“You’re very frank, ma’am.” He laughed. “Strand ain’t a beauty, I’ll own.”
Strand! No wonder that searing scrutiny had made her so uneasy! Some part of her mind must have remembered what Judith had said of him. She had gone on to remark that he was not exactly a handsome man, or words to that effect. Handsome! That he most certainly was not! Did his notorious sister resemble him, one could only pity poor Tristram Leith for he must have lost all sense of good judgement and— The foolish incident had so discomposed her that she’d not taken heed of the balance of Mr. Garvey’s remark, but now his words came back to her and, blushing, she exclaimed a dismayed, “Oh, no! You cannot think I referred to Mr. Strand? You must not—” She saw the teasing glint in his eyes then, and, with a little laugh scolded, “Ah, so you roast me, sir! You knew very well that I meant the bulldog.”
He chuckled. “Forgive, dear lady. I certainly knew you could not refer to Bolster. One can but hope the brute may prove of comfort to the poor fellow, for he has taken his loss very hard. But I expect you know the story?”
Know the story? Of course she knew the story! Rachel Strand had stolen the man she loved, and now the wretched woman’s sinister brother had dared to ogle her as if she were a common—but Garvey was speaking of Lord Bolster, not Justin Strand. She must be wits to let for her mind to wander so! Her cheeks hot, she confessed her ignorance and begged to be enlightened.
“Most gladly. I am sure you will remember the sensation last autumn when Lucian St. Clair came to grips with that revolting trafficker in White Slavery? He called himself the Dandy Lion, but was in fact a member of the Quality.”
“Yes! Oh, yes, I do!” Her indignation forgotten, Lisette clasped her hands, her dark eyes sparkling as she recalled the dramatic events that had set all London agog. “Papa never did tell me the whole, but I know there was a dreadful fight, no? It was all very exciting!”
Glancing down at her, Garvey was enchanted both by her beauty and the swift change of mood. “Exciting, indeed,” he breathed, and then as curiosity came into her eyes, added with a grin, “Nonetheless, had it not been for Bolster and a few others who went to his aid, St. Clair would be only a memory today.”
“Oh, how splendid to be such a loyal friend!” Lisette turned to glance back, and at once wished she’d not been so impulsive. The curricle had halted, and the dark face of Justin Strand had also been turned. For the second time their eyes met and, despite the distance, Lisette was as though hypnotized by that brilliant gaze. She jerked around then, her heart thundering. She felt confused and frightened. Why the miserable creature should so upset her was more than she could guess, except that he stared so, and with such a stern, fixed look, not at all in a friendly or admiring fashion. A horrifying new suspicion brought with it a shudder of humiliation: Could it be that he knew of her secret regard for his brother-in-law? Was he contemptuous of the girl who had made such a hopeless little idiot of herself? The very notion was sickening. She was perfectly sure those hard blue eyes were still boring into her spine, and she began to feel so unnerved that she had to take herself sharply to task. It was all too nonsensical. She had concealed her heartbreak, surely? No one knew of it—save only her immediate family. Tristram Leith did not know; he could not know. Could he? Oh, Lord! Please, please let him not know!
Her unhappy introspection had caused the hot blush to recede from her cheeks, which was as well since Garvey was peering at her with some concern. Lisette Van Lindsay, she thought firmly, stop allowing that wretched Strand person to panic you into behaving like a silly widgeon! She clenched her fists and managed to say brightly, “So that is Lord Jeremy Bolster. I was trying to recall what I did know of the matter, and even to do that frightens me.”
Garvey smiled and said with approval, “As any gently nurtured female should be frightened by such villainy, my dear lady.”
Relieved that her small fib had been accepted, Lisette went on, “One would suppose his lordship would be proud, rather than distressed.”
“His distress springs from another cause.” Garvey flourished his whip but did not stop when that dashing young blade, Mr. Galen Hilby, reined in a spirited grey mare the better to bow to Miss Van Lindsay. “You may know,” said Garvey, “that Bolster was betrothed.”
Lisette smiled after Galen, one of her more ardent admirers, who was so wicked as to blow her a kiss. “Yes. In fact, I met her once. Amanda … Amanda— Oh, dear! I cannot think of her last name, but I do remember her.”
“And did you approve?”
“Very much. She is the dearest girl, and has such pretty red hair. I recall that there was not an ounce of affectation about her.”
“True. It’s a pity, it really is. But you do remember the Dandy Lion?”
“Yes, indeed. Dreadful creature, how could one forget such wickedness? And he a member of the Quality. He was a highwayman, too, and a ruthless murderer of his victims. It makes me shudder! His name was Hersh, was it not? Winfield Hersh?” Her eyes widened. “My heaven! That is Amanda’s surname! Oh, never say they are related?”
He nodded. “Her half-brother. Beastly luck, because Hersh will hang—not a doubt of it, so there’s no hope for her. She cannot wed Bolster.”
“Oh, the poor girl. And she and Lord Bolster were deeply attached, I heard. How very sad.”
“And how kind that you are so touched by their tragedy. But it would not serve, you must agree.”
“No … it would not.” She sighed regretfully. “Bolster is from a very fine house. Even were he willing to ignore his own obligations to his name, he could scarcely expect his family to consent. Indeed, it would be dishonourable to ask such a thing.”
“If there’s one thing Bolster ain’t, it’s dishonourable. I must ask your pardon for failing to introduce him, but—well, you saw how he is.”
Perplexed, she said, “No. What do you mean?”
“Nothing to his detriment, I assure you. He was badly wounded at the Siege of Badajoz. He’s the best of good fellows, but a little…” He tapped his temple significantly.
“Oh, my! How dreadful! And now, to have lost the girl he loves!”
“There are still some wagers on the books at the clubs, but she’ll not wed him. If it were up to Jeremy…” He paused thoughtfully. “He’s not the man to puff off his consequence. But I don’t have to tell you that, for you saw who was with him.” He met her enquiring gaze and said mischievously, “The—ah, unattractive creature.”
Lisette stiffened. “I have already said, sir, that I intended no such implication. I should be most distressed did you hold me guilty of so unkind a remark.”
“What—about a dog?” he looked at her askance. “You are very nice, ma’am, but I thought you spoke only truth. He is, indeed, unattractive.”
“Good morning, Miss Van Lindsay! How do you do, Garvey?” The Duke of Vaille smiled on them from the driver’s seat of a splendid high-perch phaeton. “Do not forget my waltz, dear lady!” he called, then swept past.
“Shall you attend the ball for his son’s betrothal?” asked Garvey eagerly. “I implore—I beg to be allowed to escort you. Do say yes!”
Lisette thanked him but said she had not yet made up her mind as to which of several offers to accept, and beyond asking that she consider him also, he did not press her. During the balance of their drive he was all a lady could wish for on such an occasion, bringing her to laughter more than once with his recountings of humourous episodes concerning the Regent’s Pavilion at Brighton and some of the dinners and entertainments he had attended there. He was charming, bright, witty, and poised; very much a man of the world. Lisette could not but be flattered by his very evident admiration, nor was she unaware of the many curious glances that followed them. She enjoyed herself as she had not done for weeks, and when Garvey returned her to Portland Place and escorted her to the front door, she was sincere in expressing her thanks for a delightful drive.
Once in the house, she was pounced upon by Judith and begged to recount all that had happened. To an extent she complied, amused by her sister’s excitement, but when Mrs. Van Lindsay returned from an afternoon card party and joined them in the family parlour, she was obliged to tell her tale again. Her mother was ecstatic to learn of Garvey’s request to escort Lisette to the Vaille ball. “You must have a new gown!” she decreed. “You have moped at home for too long, and nothing could be better than to return to Society with so consequential a gentleman as James Garvey as your partner. It will be all over Town by now that you are his new interest!”
“But, Mama, I only just met the man. Surely, I—”
“What has that to say to anything? Never say you have taken him in aversion?”
“Well, no, but I scarcely know him.”
“You could do a deal worse, Lisette. He is a man of insinuating address to which you may add impeccable lineage, wealth, influence.… Only think of Timothy and the doors a word in the Regent’s ear might open!”
At this point, Powers made his dignified way into the room, followed by the parlour-maid carrying a huge bunch of red roses, a small flower box, and two letters. Mrs. Van Lindsay accepted the letters and the small box. The red roses were from Garvey, the card reading “To London’s fairest flower.” Admiring the perfect blooms, Lisette heard her mother utter a derogatory snort. The small box held a bunch of lilies of the valley set in a filigreed container. Frowning at the card she held, Mrs. Van Lindsay said, “What impertinence!” and tossed the flowers into the wastebasket.
Lisette took the card she extended. There were no written words, only the printed name, Justin Derwent Strand. She experienced an odd little jolt of the heart, and could almost see those brilliant blue eyes scrutinizing her as they had in the park. She said nothing, but when she was alone, she rescued the posy. It was, she thought, quite dainty, and she was fond of the fragrant little flowers. No matter who had sent them.
She was tidying her hair when Mrs. Van Lindsay returned to advise that Miss Charlotte Hilby and her brother Galen had come to call, and that Sir Aubrey Suffield’s chaise had just stopped outside.
“You see?” Philippa cried triumphantly. “It has begun! London believes you recovered from the ‘slight indisposition’ I had set about. You will likely become more popular than ever, my love!”
She was quite correct. It was the start of a flood, and even Cook, apprised at the last moment of the fact that they would sit down twelve to dinner, broke only two glasses and a chipped plate by way of protest. When the teatray was brought in at ten o’clock, a merry crowd of four and twenty, mostly bachelors, with a sprinkling of parents and sisters, had gathered in the drawing room.
“Thank God!” Mrs. Van Lindsay murmured in an aside to her spouse. “Lisette is in looks again. For a time I really feared she would go into a decline. Only think how mortifying that would have been!”
“Silly chit,” grunted Humphrey. “She was sure all the ton thought her jilted. Was you t’ask me, not a soul so much as suspected she gave a button for Leith! She’s too sensitive and flighty by half. An overabundance of pride has that daughter of yours, ma’am!”
“And as she should have—nor begrudge her it, sir! It is that very pride and knowledge of her position in Society will compel her to make the best match she may. How clever of Garvey to send those beautiful roses, but not call tonight. Much that wretched Strand girl may count her triumph. Lisette will eclipse her yet!”
Mr. Van Lindsay slanted an oblique glance at his wife, pursed his lips, and said a cautious, “Hmmnnn.…”
It said much for Philippa’s excitement that she did not take heed of this warning signal, turning instead to chatter graciously with the beautiful Miss Hilby, although everyone knew her family tree could be traced only to the fifteenth century, and there was some suspicion her great-grandfather had been a wealthy merchant.
All in all, it was a triumphant evening and by the time she retired, Lisette was very weary. Sleep eluded her, however, and she lay reliving the events of the day. Her thoughts lingered on poor Amanda Hersh. How deeply she must love, and how unselfishly, since she had chosen to reject Lord Bolster sooner than disgrace him by her unworthiness. What a contrast was offered by Rachel Strand, who, for all her famed beauty, was the daughter of a man known to have cheated at cards and to have evaded debtors’ prison only by his own death. As though that were not sufficiently shameful, Miss Strand had won even more notoriety by jilting the French nobleman to whom she had been betrothed and running off from her own engagement ball with some unknown. Utterly disgraceful conduct! There was no understanding why Tristram Leith, one of the most handsome and wellborn young aristocrats in all England, should have wed the girl. One thing was sure, however, he was now just as much an outcast as his bride! Lisette tried to feel triumphant and, having failed, sighed miserably. How strange a thing was Fate. Rachel Strand had stolen the man she loved. And even now, Justin Strand’s flowers were adding their fragrance to her bedchamber. She sighed again, and went to sleep, to dream of mushrooms growing in a field of lilies of the valley.
* * *
The next five days raced by. The word that one of London’s most spectacular beauties was recovered of an illness that had confined her to her home for several weeks swept the ton like a whirlwind, and quiet Portland Place became the target for more traffic than it had seen since before Miss Van Lindsay’s “illness.”
Lisette was showered with invitations. She was taken driving in the park by Galen Hilby and by Sir Aubrey Suffield; James Garvey escorted her to a rout party and a musicale and sent flowers every day; Jocelyn Vaughan, one of London’s very popular bachelors, became a member of her court, which pleased her, since she found the handsome young man most charming. The morning callers meanwhile seemed to increase daily. Among these latter was Lady Jersey. That revered patroness of the mighty Almack’s complimented Lisette upon her recovery and, taking Mrs. Van Lindsay aside, remarked that her daughter was again in great beauty. “It is certainly understandable she is so admired by the gentlemen,” she observed, “for she looked ravishing when I saw her driving with James Garvey on Tuesday. You—er—approve, my dear Philippa?”
Mrs. Van Lindsay smiled rather smugly and acknowledged that Mr. Garvey had been added to the list of her daughter’s admirers, which fact did not in the least surprise her.
“No, indeed,” said my lady, with a lift of her thin eyebrows. “But it does surprise me, Philippa, that you and Van Lindsay would countenance it.”
Astonished, Mrs. Van Lindsay drew herself to her full height and said at her most regal, “Countenance it? My dear ma’am, Garvey’s lineage is second to none.”
“His lineage, perhaps. But—his morals?”
“Good God! I’d heard only that he was of the Carlton House set, which I cannot quite like.” Alarmed now, Mrs. Van Lindsay asked, “Is there more, Sally?”
“Too much smoke for there to be no fire. But—” my lady shrugged her shoulders—“perhaps I am prejudiced. I do not care for the man, which he well knows. Now, do I say more, I shall invite the criticism that I am the one who is vindictive and has a poisonous tongue. I will add only this: I should want no daughter of mine to associate with a man who whistled a fortune down the wind in only five years!”
Mrs. Van Lindsay paled.
Upon being apprised of this conversation in the privacy of his wife’s bedchamber later that evening, Mr. Van Lindsay paled also, then uttered a shocked, “By thunder! So it is truth! I had heard a whisper or two, but fancied it malicious gossip, merely.”
“Then he is ruined? Oh, lud! And I have given the wretch every encouragement! I even influenced Lisette to accept his escort to Vaille’s ball! Why in the world does he pursue the girl? Does he suppose us to be wealthy?”
Humphrey frowned at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. “Perhaps. More likely he has it in his mind that your mama is very well to pass. And a little stricken in years.”
“But—but whatever my dear mama has—which is very little—will all go to Tim!”
“True. But very few people know that, my love, and although many consider the old lady to be cheese-paring, there are more who believe her full of lettuce!”
Philippa’s indignation that her mother should be spoken of in such a disparaging way might have bloomed into a full-scale attack upon her luckless spouse had not a greater outrage taken precedence. “That villain!” she exclaimed. “I believed him to be a chivalrous gentleman, when in truth he is no more than an unprincipled fortune hunter!” Having uttered this righteous complaint, she marred it by adding, “What a disappointment! Well, we shall have to look elsewhere, and there are so few bachelors just at the moment who have satisfactory family and expectations. If only Leith had offered…” She then proceeded to list the various wealthy and acceptable young men who had been snapped up by mediocre girls with not a tenth of her daughter’s beauty. Humphrey paid little attention to this gloomy recital. Being far more harassed than his wife suspected, he had already taken inventory of London’s possible candidates for Lisette’s hand. Since Garvey had been the leading contender, the runner-up must now be considered the only logical choice. It was a choice that would, he knew, create considerable consternation in his household, and he was seeking for the least offensive way to nominate his man when Philippa asked, “What do you think of young Hilby? Were he to attempt to fix his interest, it would be splendid, no? The boy’s vastly wealthy, and if his lineage is not of the finest, it certainly is not contemptible.”
“True. But I doubt he’s ready to be leg shackled. And there are some more likely gentlemen, my dear. Vaughan, for instance, Cossentine, Strand, Alastair, Den—”
“Strand?” Philippa echoed, then went into a ripple of laughter. “You jest!”
With a fine nonchalance, her husband answered, “It might serve. The boy’s come home from India a regular nabob. Paid off all his papa’s debts, and I hear has dropped a mountain of blunt on that place of his in Sussex. The family’s not ancient, I allow, but it ain’t totally beyond the pale, and Strand can scarce be held accountable for his sister’s manners—or lack of ’em.”
Astounded that her husband should stoop to consider Justin Strand a suitable prospective son-in-law, Philippa tightened her lips. But after a moment’s thought, she said with a thin smile, “Lord! I can well imagine how Lisette would react did Strand offer. To have Leith for her brother-in-law…? And his odious wife for a sister? I declare she’d sooner wear the willow all her days!”
Mr. Humphrey said slowly, “I’ve no doubt she would, my dear.”
* * *
Lisette’s new ball gown was as far from “wearing the willow” as one could imagine. A cloud of net of the palest pink over deeper pink tulle, with tiny spangles here and there, it arrived the day before the ball that the Duke of Vaille held to honour the betrothal of his only son, the Marquis of Damon, to that lovely young widow, Lady Sophia Drayton. Lisette returned from walking with two of her cousins to find the large box on her bed, and Judith all agog to see it opened. The gown looked even lovelier than Lisette had remembered, and she was holding it up against her when an unusually firm scratching came at the door. In answer to her call, her brother burst in, impelled by the enthusiasm of an ugly and vaguely familiar dog.
“Did you hear him scratch at your door?” Norman laughed, clinging to the leash. “’Pon my word, but he’s the very cleverest brute.”
“Brutus!” gasped Lisette, remembering.
Her utterance of the name was heard, and the response was as fervent as it was immediate. With a bark that shook the windows, Brutus hurled himself at the lady who had thus invited him. Lisette gave a shriek as two large paws were planted upon the dainty and pristine fabric of her new gown. Brutus very obviously did not count this a rebuff, for he continued to jump and bark, while Lisette shrieked and Judith berated and Norman shouted with laughter.
“Get him away! Get him away!” cried Lisette, dodging frantically.
Judith shrilled, “Horrid dog!” but ran behind the chair when Brutus turned eager eyes her way.
“He is not a horrid dog!” Norman protested. “I met Lord Bolster outside and he was kind enough to let me bring his puppy up to show you. I might have known you’d—”
“What in the name of creation is happening?” roared Mr. Van Lindsay, appearing in the doorway.
“It is my new ball gown, Papa,” Lisette wailed, inspecting her sullied net with anxious eyes. “Norman brought that hideous creature upstairs—”
“And he jumped all over poor Lisette and chased me behind this chair,” put in Judith indignantly, if not altogether accurately.
“Well, get the dirty hound out!” ordered the master of the house, advancing purposefully.
Brutus trundled a few interested paces towards him, and the master of the house retreated precipitately.
“Come on, poor fellow,” said Norman, tugging on the leash.
Brutus began to growl at Mr. Van Lindsay, and took a few more paces towards him.
“Go away!” screamed Judith, taking one of Mr. Garvey’s roses from a vase and waving it threateningly.
Brutus emitted a piercing yowl and shot under the bed, the leash whipping through Norman’s hand.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Norman knelt by the bed, and called a cajoling, “Come out, poor frightened puppy.”
“Puppy?” snorted Mr. Van Lindsay. “The brute’s a behemoth, rather! Remove him, sir! At once!”
Norman proving singularly unwilling to reach under the bed and drag Brutus out by a paw, this adjuration was not immediately complied with, as a result of which Mr. Van Lindsay’s temper worsened and his son was treated to some decidedly cutting remarks.
Not until Norman sacrificed a piece of toffee was the dog at last lured forth. Norman grudgingly voiced the apology his sire demanded but, on his way out, dimmed the effect by muttering, “Women! He didn’t hurt your silly dress!”
Fortunately this appeared to be true. Lisette could find no rents, and the few snags were easily corrected. By this time, however, the afternoon was far spent and it was necessary to change for dinner. Their guests came early and stayed late, and it was not until the following morning that Lisette was able to try on the gown. With loving hands she took it from its protective covering, held it up, and uttered a shriek of horror. The gauze was torn and ripped; large, muddy paw-prints defaced it, and several sections looked to have been well chewed. For a moment, recalling the frightful expense of that gown, Lisette was actually dizzied. With a choking sob she laid the victim on her bed, and only then saw that the damaged gauze was of a slightly different hue. Puzzled, she investigated. Several recent additions had been clumsily pinned onto her lovely (and mercifully unsullied) gown. Her first reaction was one of soaring relief, but a muffled chortle from the door brought her swinging around in time to see Norman’s grinning face jerk from sight. Rage boiled through her. The monster! What a fright he had given her—her heart was still hammering!
It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to lose her temper, but this was too much! She snatched up the nearest thing to hand, which chanced to be her new parasol, and ran in hot pursuit.
Norman was leaning against the stair railing, laughing his triumph, but he straightened when he saw retribution at hand and tore down the stairs, Lisette close on his heels. He reached the ground floor a very short distance ahead and, turning to the right and the rear of the house, barely avoided two gentlemen leaving the study. Lisette, parasol upraised, was able to stop at the very last instant, halting all but under the chin of a tall, slender man clad in the height of quiet elegance, who regarded her with one mobile brow lifting. Staring into that bronzed face, Lisette thought that the skin seemed almost stretched over the high cheekbones, and that he was younger than she had supposed—somewhere in the neighbourhood of thirty. Her appraisal brought a smile creeping into the extremely blue eyes, but it did not touch his mouth.
“Lisette,” said Mr. Van Lindsay, palpably annoyed, “I must make you known to Mr. Justin Strand. Mr. Strand—my second daughter.”
Strand’s bow was brief and remarkable for a lack of embellishment. Renowned for her serene grace, Lisette realized with a considerable shock that the parasol was still flung up over her head. For a horrified instant she could not decide what to do with it, and her arm wavered. The smile in Mr. Strand’s eyes spread to a quiver beside his mouth. Scarlet with embarrassment, Lisette thrust the parasol behind her and favoured him with a dignified curtsey. The most graceful curtsey in the world, however, can only suffer when the derrière of the lady executing it suddenly comes into violent contact with the handle of a parasol. Lisette, in fact, was thrown so off balance that it was necessary for Strand to steady her.
“Lord’s sake, girl!” expostulated Mr. Van Lindsay. “What are you about?”
Wishing the floor might open and swallow her, Lisette mumbled, “I—er—Norman—that is to say—Brutus—”
“Yes. Precisely why I came,” said Strand, coming to her rescue. “I heard my dog had caused you some inconvenience, Miss Van Lindsay. My apologies. May I hope to make amends in some fashion?”
He had a brisk but pleasant voice. And he was Rachel Strand’s brother. Recovering herself, Lisette said a cool, “Your dog, sir? I understood he was the property of Lord Bolster.”
She had made an excellent recovery, thought Strand. How charmingly the thick dark hair waved about her face, and those great eyes were like dusky pansies … as he had heard. But her back was very straight now, and those same dusky eyes were tinged with ice. “I—ah—bestowed him upon Bolster,” he explained. “So I feel responsible.”
Lisette was in no mood to return that quirkish smile. Of all the people in this world, Justin Strand was the last to whom she would have wished to show a foolish front. Whatever must he have thought to see a lady of her station in life racing down the stairs, brandishing her parasol like some hobbledehoy? And as though that were not bad enough, she had all but thrown herself at his feet! Small wonder he smiled. One scarce could blame him did he laugh aloud! “I certainly do not hold you responsible, sir,” she replied. “And I believe I have to thank you for some very pretty flowers.”
“Have you?”
The twinkle in his eyes was even more pronounced and, disconcerted, she stared at him.
“I am flattered you remember who sent ’em,” he went on with a shrug she could only find deliberately provoking. “I suspect you are fairly deluged with floral offerings, Miss Van Lindsay.”
Lisette managed a smile, excused herself, and walked on in the manner of a queen moving towards her coronation. She knew that Papa was vexed with her and wondered why he should give this man house room, let alone expect her to be civil to the creature.
Wandering into the breakfast room, she came upon her erstwhile prey choosing from some fruit on the sideboard. He threw up one arm and begged for mercy. “I did not harm your gown, I swear. And I’d not intended to land you in the suds again—did Papa come the ugly?”
“Not with me. But I cannot guarantee he will not have a few words to say to you!”
“Oh, well. it was worth it. Truly, Lisette, the expression on your face when you fell off your parasol was priceless.”
Strand had doubtless thought the same! “At least,” she snapped, “no one has yet wished to pay to view it. Do you continue to gobble up every piece of food in sight, they will offer a pretty sum to see you at Astley’s Amphitheatre!” The instant they were spoken, she would have given a good deal to have retracted those unkind words. The grin died from Norman’s face. He flushed, and in silence replaced the apple, bowed with surprising dignity, and left her alone. She thought with a trace of shock, He’s growing up! and felt confused and unhappy.
When she was sure the hall was clear, she hurried upstairs and was arraying herself in a gown that Papa favoured when a quiet scratch on the door announced the arrival of Norman and Judith. They both looked solemn, and the fact that they were side by side with no appearance of animosity told its own story. Lisette ushered them inside, allowing her hand to rest an extra minute on her brother’s shoulder, and asked, “What’s wrong?”
He saw the rather anxious smile in her eyes and grinned his forgiveness.
“Beatrice,” he said succinctly.
“And poor Sir William,” nodded Judith.
“Come for the Damon ball,” Norman finished.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Lisette.
* * *
Lady Beatrice Dwyer was, at four and twenty, a younger but slightly more waspish version of her mother. In a little less than three years, she had succeeded in so cowing her gentle husband that, when in her presence, he seldom spoke without first looking anxiously for her approval. Beatrice had her share of the Bayes-Copeland good looks, and it was those looks that had snared Sir William. He had neither an athletic build nor a handsome countenance to recommend him, being short and rather stocky, his colouring florid and his hair of an undistinguished brown. He was (besides being the possessor of a fine old name, a baronetcy, and a comfortable estate in Somerset) a kind-hearted soul whose interest in his fellow man had won him far more friends than he knew. He idolized his wife, humbly marvelling that he’d been able to win so pretty a prize, not realizing that more worldly-wise gentlemen had taken heed of Beatrice’s tendency to shrewishness, and turned their attentions otherwhere.
At the luncheon table that day, Sir William was a little more spirited than usual. Lisette always went out of her way to be kind to him, being very aware of the burden under which he laboured. Taking their cue from her, Judith and Norman, who were both now allowed to join the family for luncheon, treated him with a deference he found gratifying. Beatrice was rattling on as usual, allowing him little chance to contribute to the conversation, but when Lisette found an opening and asked if he had been able to get in any hunting after the Christmas holidays, he answered joyfully that he had, by Jove! “Was invited to ride with the Melton men. Bought m’self a dashed fine hunter. Splendid beast. Sixteen hands, good shoulders, and a fine barrel. If I say so m’self—”
“Oh, pray do not, William,” Beatrice interpolated with a tight smile. “The family don’t want to hear all that hunting talk. Now, Lisette, tell me what is all this we hear of your having been in queer stirrups? You look well enough to me. I hope you don’t mean to become one of these sickly women, always ailing. It’s high time you was wed. She needs a husband, Mama. She is getting to be a positive old maid, which will never do. We all expect you to at least try to make as good a match as did I, dear one.”
Judith looked daggers and opened her mouth for an impassioned defence, only to gasp as Norman’s shoe connected hard with her shin, and a warning frown was levelled at her across the table.
“Lisette is much better now,” said Mrs. Van Lindsay. “And is, in fact, being courted by several gentlemen.”
“Well, I hope one amongst ’em has two groats to rub together. I vow I could have wept when I heard Colonel Leith was snapped up by that Strand woman! I was sure you’d catch him, Lisette—though you must have been his second choice at best, for everyone knows he was mad for Euphemia Buchanan. Lord knows why; she’s nothing for looks, heaven only knows.”
Lisette kept her eyes on her plate and was silent. Norman and Judith looked at each other in a mutual fuming. Mr. Van Lindsay coughed and said grandly, “I’d allow your sister’s admirers to be a fairly well-breeched lot. Young Hilby will never be able to spend the half of his fortune; Vaughan is wealthy in his own right, to say nothing of what Moulton will leave him; and Garvey—” He exchanged a meaningful glance with his wife. Few people knew of Mr. Garvey’s financial dilemma, and his prestige was such that Lisette’s reputation could only be enhanced by his attentions. “Garvey,” he finished, “is fairly crazy for her.”
“Garvey?” put in Sir William. “James Garvey? Jove! He’s an out and outer if ever there was one! And as well breeched as he can stare! What d’you say to that, milady!”
His wife’s eyes were very wide. “A most splendid catch,” she said, with only a trace of hollowness.
“How regrettable that I have no intention of ‘catching’ him,” averred Lisette, her cheeks flaming.
Norman murmured softly, “Just like a blasted butcher’s shop!”
Fortunately, his withering comment did not carry past Lisette, and she did not betray him. She was, in fact, completely in agreement with him.