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“It is what anyone would have done,” Delagarde protested, but uneasily aware of the creeping memory of the sum of his activities last night. He repressed it. “In any event, it was Aunt Hes who asked me to do so.”
“Oho, was it, indeed?”
Delagarde threw up his hands. “Will you make something of that as well, Everett?”
“I should dashed well think he might! What, is the old lady planning to parcel you off at last?”
“Parson’s mousetrap looming, old fellow?” teased Corringham. “What is Lady Mary’s thought upon all this?”
“Now, how should he know?” demanded Lord Riseley of his friend, mock-indignant. “That was your mission, Everett, and you failed it most miserably.”
“How could I help but fail, when my subject would do nothing but sneeze?”
Delagarde eyed them both with a degree of hostility. There was too much truth in their banter for his comfort. That Aunt Hes had conceived of a union between himself and Maidie he could not deny, although he was reasonably sure she had given up the notion. That Maidie might entertain the idea for one moment was inconceivable—as inconceivable as that he would do so himself. Or was it? He was uncomfortably conscious of a wish Everett had succeeded in his mission to discover her sentiments—if such had been his intention. Unlikely, but suppose Maidie was developing some sort oftendre? He would wish to know of it, if only to teach him to be more circumspect. One did not, if a gentleman, knowingly raise expectations. He was not tender-hearted, but one would not wish any female to suffer the pangs of unrequited affection.
The oddest sensation attacked him in the chest. Revulsion? No, not that. Compassion? Yes, compassion. So vulnerable as she had seemed last night. Familiarity was damping his antagonism. He could laugh at her oddities. Was it possible he had even begun to like her? Decidedly, he was conscious of more friendliness towards her. But how long could it last? Maidie was—
The thought escaped him as he found both his friends were silently watching him. Striving to shake off his abstraction, he turned the subject. He was succeeding admirably in deflecting the conversation, when it was thrust back into the same channel by another morning visitor: Adela, Lady Shurland, who boldly accosted him.
“Lord Delagarde, may I speak to you for a moment? I am anxious to hear news of my poor cousin.”
There was nothing to be read in the angular countenance other than an anxious concern but, at the back of her eyes, Delagarde read something more. Faintly intrigued, he discarded his first impulse, which was to return a polite answer in the company of his friends. Bowing acquiescence, he stepped aside with her and, as he supposed, out of earshot.
“What is it you wish to know, ma’am?”
Adela gave him a limpid smile. “How Mary is, what else? I hear you were obliged to take her home from this house last night, upon a sudden onset of illness.”
Delagarde shrugged. “It was nothing very much. Miss Wormley has had a cold these few days and Lady Mary has taken it from her, that is all.”
“I am so glad,” sighed Adela. “But it is all of a piece. Mary is giving you a deal of trouble, I believe.”
There was no gainsaying this, but Delagarde was not about to admit the fact to Lady Shurland. “Not at all. The house is enlivened by her presence, and my aunt takes great pleasure in Lady Mary’s society.”
“But you don’t?”
Delagarde compressed his lips upon an exclamation of annoyance, and said, at his most suave, “I cannot imagine why you should make such an assumption.”
The Countess smiled archly. “You have no need to pretend with me, Lord Delagarde. Remember, I am well acquainted with Mary. She is bound to rub against you. Indeed, I must suppose any man would find her impossible to live with.”
He eyed her frostily. “Indeed? Then it seems to me extremely odd you should encourage your brother in his pursuit of her.”
If he had hoped to put Adela out of countenance, he was disappointed. She gave a laugh which rang a little false. “There is no accounting for taste, sir. What would you? My poor brother is smitten. I conceive it to be my duty to do what I may to oblige him.”
Delagarde was so much disgusted by the disingenuity of these remarks he almost walked away from the woman without another word. He was stayed only by her hand reaching out. She placed it upon his arm and leaned towards him with an air of confidentiality.
“Lord Delagarde, it is for that I wished to speak with you, to be truthful. You cannot, I am persuaded, desire the continued burden of Mary’s presence in your house. She has been, I must guess, nothing but a source of trouble and annoyance to you. Why do you not use your influence?”
What new ploy was this? What influence was he supposed to have with Maidie? And how dared the woman take it upon herself to make these wild suppositions about his state of mind? Whatever trouble and annoyance he might have felt because of Maidie’s presence in his house had nothing whatsoever to do with Adela, Lady Shurland. He would not demean himself by quarrelling openly with her, but his smile was as false as her own.
“According to your reading of our relationship, Lady Shurland, I cannot imagine how you deduce I have any influence with Lady Mary.”
“Oh, not with Mary. With Lady Hester. No one could doubt she has influence with Mary, and she is a guest in your house, besides being your aunt.”
Delagarde raised incredulous eyebrows. “Are you suggesting I should intercede with my aunt to petition Lady Mary on behalf of your brother, ma’am?”
Adela sighed gustily. “I only wish you might. Between you, I am persuaded you could induce Mary to accept Eustace. He is a respectable man, and personable—though I speak as his sister, I cannot but notice how he is admired. What is more, he cares for her, Lord Delagarde. Surely that must count for something?”
“Yes, you mentioned he was smitten.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “But I, Lady Shurland, am no fool. If he is smitten, it is not with Maidie, but with her forty-five thousand pounds.”
