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“I do wish you would not, Maidie. It would be the most shocking imposition, and I do not know what his lordship will think of you.”
“It does not matter what he thinks of me, Worm. Do stop fussing! Unless you would have me wed Eustace Silsoe, after all?”
“No, no, I am persuaded he could not make you happy,” had said Miss Wormley, distressed. “Besides, after the manner in which Lady Shurland has behaved towards you, I cannot blame you for wishing to seek another way.”
“Well, then?”
“But not this way, Maidie. To beard Lord Delagarde in his own home! He must think you dead to all sense of decorum. What he will think of me, moreover, for allowing you to behave in this unprincipled way, I dare not for my life imagine!”
“Have no fear, Worm,” Maidie had soothed. “I will make it abundantly clear to his lordship the scheme is mine, and mine alone. Do not be teasing yourself with thoughts of what he may think of you, but set your mind rather to the programme of how we are to go on once we are installed in his house. You will be obliged to take me about, you know, for we cannot expect Lord Delagarde to chaperon me. It would be most improper.”
But Miss Wormley had been in such a fever of anxiety she had been unable to set her mind to the resolution of anything. Besides, as she had several times informed her charge, she had no idea how to set about such a programme since she had never moved in fashionable circles. Maidie knew it, and did not hesitate to set her mind at rest as she related her doings at the Delagarde mansion in Charles Street.
“I must thank heaven for Lady Hester,” sighed Miss Wormley, setting a hand to her palpitating bosom, and sinking down upon the bed.
For want of something to distract her mind, she had been engaged, when Maidie returned with her abigail in tow, in collecting together those of Maidie’s belongings which were scattered about the bedchamber they had shared at her insistence, for she could not reconcile it with her duty to allow her charge to sleep alone in the chamber of a public inn in the heart of the capital.
“But was not his lordship very much shocked?”
“Oh, yes.” Maidie was removing her hat and smoothing the bands, now a trifle disarranged, which held her hair concealed under it. “But I took no account of that.”
“No, I should have known you would not,” agreed her duenna mournfully. “The large portmanteau, Trixie.” Rising again, she directed the abigail how to pack the items of mistress’s clothing used overnight. Her own accoutrements were already neatly stowed in the smaller receptacle. The bulk of the luggage not yet needed remained intact. Then she turned again to Maidie, adding, “You never take account of me, after all.”
She spoke without rancour. A colourless female of uncertain age, Miss Ida Wormley had become inured, after near eleven years, to the knowledge her influence over Lady Mary Hope was but sketchy. She suffered a little in her conscience, which led her to overcome a natural timidity and speak out, whenever she felt her principles to be at odds with Maidie’s conduct. But, despite the fondness with which she knew her charge regarded her, she could not flatter herself that her advice and protestations were attended to.
“But I thought perhaps you might attend to Lord Delagarde.”
“Humdudgeon! You know very well, dear Worm, that Great-uncle counselled me never to allow myself to be impressed by rank.”
“Yes,” agreed Miss Wormley, repressing a desire to disabuse her charge of her unshakable faith in the wisdom of the deceased fifth Earl’s counsel.
“In any event, Delagarde is only a Viscount.”
“Only!”
“But he’s ever so fashionable, m’lady,” put in Trixie suddenly. “Ain’t that right, Miss Wormley?”
“Oh, yes. Lord Delagarde is always finding a mention in the Court sections of the London journals, and I recognised his name often in your great-uncle’s copies of the Gentlemen’s Magazine.”
“Yes, and in them scandal pages often and often. Breaking hearts left and right. Abed here, abed there—”
“Trixie!”
“Is that true?” asked Maidie, interested. “Has he had many such associations?”
“You must not ask me, Maidie!” The Worm blushed. “Trixie should not have spoken. It is all nasty gossip.”
“But is it true? I can readily believe it, for he is certainly personable.”
“Is he, m’lady?” asked the maid, awed. “What is he like?”
“He is tall and dark, and very cross!”
“Now, Maidie—you should not! I am sure Lord Delagarde must be all that is amiable—even if it is true his name has been linked with a number of fashionable…oh, dear, I did not mean to say that!”
“It does not signify. You are bound to think well of him, Worm, for you are more closely related to him than I. For my part, I find him excessively temperamental. I only hope he may not take it into his head to interfere in my concerns. My dependence must be all upon Lady Hester.”
It seemed, when the party arrived back at the Charles Street house, that her dependence was not misplaced. She was touched by the enthusiasm of Lady Hester’s greeting, and noted, with a rush of gratitude, her champion encompassed Worm in the warmest of welcomes.
