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Lord Berne frowned. That had been most disconcerting. Jack had been totally oblivious to all Miss Desmond’s efforts to draw him out, yet she’d persisted. She’d even resorted to Latin epigrams, for heaven’s sake!
Since no woman in his vast experience had ever favoured dull Jack Langdon over himself, Lord Berne had assumed Miss Desmond was simply attempting to spur a rivalry. Still, it was rather lowering to find he could not understand a word of the Latin which has roused Jack from his reveries. What business had the chit knowing the language in the first place?
“You know, Father, she is a very strange girl,” said the viscount thoughtfully.
“Of course she’s strange. Look who her father is. And her mother was an actress. What do you expect?”
The frown deepened. Desmond behaved very oddly, too. Most fathers of young women instinctively viewed Lord Berne with a wary eye, if not outright hostility. But Devil Desmond was not remotely hostile. He appeared to regard the viscount as an endlessly amusing joke. Whenever and whatever the Devil was about, Tony always felt as though the man were laughing at him, even when there wasn’t the faintest flicker of a smile on his satanic face. Desmond would not, Tony reflected, be quite so amused when his memoirs disappeared.
“Well?” said Lord Streetham. “Do you mean to stand there sulking all day?”
“I can hardly run after them this very moment, sir. They’ve scarcely left. And it would look too particular if I did so tomorrow—unless they’ve left something behind?”
“No,” was the curt reply. “I had their rooms sear—inspected shortly after they left.”
“Doubtless Jack’s forgotten something. He always does when his valet isn’t by to look after him. I’ll go to Rossingley in a day or two to return whatever it is, then call on Lady Potterby. I hope that’s satisfactory?”
Lord Streetham was about to voice his opinion that it was not, but a moment’s reflection, stopped him, for he did not want to awaken any suspicions at Lady Potterby’s. Oddly enough, there was some sense in Tony’s arguments. Thus the earl answered sarcastically that he must, by all means, patiently await his son’s convenience.
Chapter Five
Her restless hands folded tightly before her, Miss Desmond stood listening with increasing dismay to her great aunt. It was late afternoon and the still air which hung like a thick blanket over the countryside hung heavier still in her luxuriously appointed guest chamber. Lady Potterby flitted about the room like a fussy little white-capped bird, taking up one after another the garments draped upon the bed, shaking her head and twitting unhappily. At the moment, she was frowning at the beloved amber silk.
“Good heavens, child, were you so distant from civilisation that you could not obtain a copy of La Belle Assemblie? When girls straight from the schoolroom bare their bosoms in public it is absurd for a woman of twenty to be swathed up to the neck. I realise your endowments are excessive,” she added, flicking a reproving glance at her grand niece’s bosom, “but if you hide them, the world will think you hide some deformity. That is, if they do not conclude you are a strumpet trying to pass as a chaste maiden.”
“Then the world,” said Miss Desmond irritably.
“Even if that is so, it is most impolite to mention it, particularly in those terms. Where did you learn such language? But why do I ask? Your papa never troubles to curb his tongue, regardless who is present. Don’t slouch, Delilah. Poor posture is both unbecoming and vulgar, and it will only draw added attention to your figure.”
Certainly there was no hint of vulgarity about Lady Potterby. Her lace cap was immaculately white. Her grey afternoon gown was the epitome of tidy elegance. She might flutter, but she did so with all the dignity appropriate to her station. Everything about her was exactly comme il faut. As a consequence, she made Delilah feel too large, too clumsy, too noisy, and altogether too much of everything.
“I’m sorry, Aunt, that my figure is so unfashionable, but I’m afraid there is no way to amend it.”
“Sadly true,” said her ladyship with a sigh. “Yet we must not be cast down. In that matter at least, the gentlemen are not such slaves to fashion as ourselves.” She brightened and patted the amber silk with something like satisfaction. “Mrs. Archer can drop the neckline an inch or so, and when we get to London, we will leave everything to Madame Germaine. She is frightfully dear, but her taste is impeccable. As to workmanship, there is scarce another dressmaker in Town who can touch her.”
“Aunt, I do hope you are not saying I need a new wardrobe,” said Delilah with alarm. “Papa really cannot afford—”
“Well, who asked him?” Lady Potterby now took up a light green muslin frock. “This will do for church, I think—at least in Rossingley,” she muttered to herself. Then more distinctly she said, “Your papa has nothing to do with it. I told your mama I would move heaven and earth to see you wed. I should hardly stop at a trifle such as a wardrobe. Besides, there is my late elder sister’s bequest. She urged me to use it on your behalf. The poor dear had so many regrets towards the end. We always doted upon your mama, you know, but neither of us wished to stir up more ill will in the family. Really, sometimes it is very difficult to know what is right.”
This Delilah understood too well, in spite of her irritation. Her great aunt’s fault-finding, which had commenced the instant Delilah had alit from the carriage, had continued almost unceasingly since. Still, one was forced to admit the elder lady had the right of it most of the time, and certainly she meant well. One ought to strive for patience, considering the risks her ladyship was prepared to run. The entire Beau Monde was certain to believe Lady Potterby had lost her mind, and the Ornesbys had already ceased communicating with her.
The best return Delilah could make was in striving to be a credit to her great aunt. Only thus could she hope to overcome the world’s prejudices.
“I understand, Aunt,” Delilah said, “and I’m deeply grateful for your kindness. I only wish this business were not so expensive.”
“Frankly, child, expense is the least of our problems,” her aunt answered as she put the green frock aside. “With a mama once an actress and a papa a notorious adventurer—and of course with such a face and figure—you will be prey to every evil-minded man in the kingdom. They will be endlessly casting out lures. I hope you are prepared.”
“Yes, Aunt, I know my position is precarious, to say the least. I only wonder,” Delilah added dolefully, “if it can ever be made secure. If the men are so busy casting out lures, they may not have time to consider offering marriage.”
“It is up to you to behave in such a way to force them to consider
it,” was the brisk reply. “That wicked Letty Lade got herself a title. Lord Berwick married Harriette Wilson’s sister, Sophia, only last year. If noblemen wed demi-reps, why should they not marry a good-looking, blue-blooded maiden?”
“Yes, there must be some senile lord or ambitious Cit who’ll be sufficiently blinded by my looks to tumble onto his knees.”
“You will not even contemplate marrying into trade, miss,” said Lady Potterby sternly as she took up a dark green riding habit. “This is better,” she murmured. “Quite dashing.”
Then she recollected her grand-niece. “Good heavens, why that long face?” she asked, putting her head to one side like a puzzled sparrow to study the girl. “I hope my frank speech has not lowered your spirits. I only wanted us to face the obstacles squarely, not be overcome by them. Ornesbys are never overcome by obstacles, and certainly not the Desmonds, either.” She glanced at the watch dangling from her waist. “Gracious, how late it grows. No wonder you are cross. It is past time for tea.”
Tea, it turned out, was an opportunity for a lesson in deportment. Delilah was called upon to pour, so that her great aunt could size up her command of common etiquette and ability to take instruction. In Lady Potterby’s opinion, few exercises so clearly demonstrated a lady’s character as her manner in presiding at the tea table.
“Doubtless you observed how Lady Streetham conducted herself,” said the great aunt, watching narrowly as her niece lifted the delicate teapot. “I suppose you were shocked, so stiff she is and lacking in grace.”
“My daughter was too busy talking at Mr. Langdon to remark Lady Streetham’s skills,” said Mr. Desmond as he accepted his cup with a gracious nod. “I am sure Delilah never even glanced at the tea tray—if she did, I cannot think why such an innocent object should cause her to blush so prettily.”
“I am vastly relieved to hear she can blush at all,” her ladyship returned tartly, “considering your notions of parental guidance. I distinctly heard her utter two oaths when Joan was pinning up her hair.”
