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She arose on Saturday, refreshed and ready—as she took care to inform Lady Hester as they set forth upon a drive in the park—to resume her interrupted search for a husband.
“I doubt if you need to search, Maidie. They are bound to come to you.”
She was found to be right. But, to Maidie’s chagrin, it was not to her the first one came. She had just entered the house with Lady Hester upon their return and was about to ascend the staircase, when a young gentleman was seen to be coming down it. Maidie had a vague recollection of his face, but Lady Hester hailed him in accents of some surprise.
“You are Selina’s son, are you not?”
He ran down to the hall, and bowed. “Yes, ma’am. I am Oliver, Lady Rankmiston’s youngest.”
“Gracious me, what are you doing here?” Then her eye gleamed mischief and she glanced at Maidie. “Can it be you have come to call upon Lady Mary?”
Oliver flushed. “Yes, I—well, I had hoped to do so. Only I have—I have seen Lord Delagarde, and—” He broke off, and coughed delicately.
Mystified, Maidie stared first at him, and then at Lady Hester. Discovering her ladyship’s eyes to be brimful of amusement, she frowned in puzzlement.
“I do not understand you, sir. You came to see me?”
“Yes, Lady Mary. That is, I had something of a particular nature to ask you. Only of course I would not dream of applying directly to you, so—”
At that point, Maidie recalled Lady Hester telling her on the night of their party this was the only one of Lady Rankmiston’s sons still unmarried. She did not hesitate.
“A particular nature? Did you come to make me an offer?”
Young Oliver reddened again, glancing from her to Lady Hester and back again. “Well, yes, I did. Only Lord Delagarde has refused his permission, so I—”
“I beg your pardon?”
His jaw dropped perceptibly. “Er—Lady Mary?”
“Dear me,” came from Lady Hester, the amused note pronounced.
Maidie paid her no heed. She drew a ragged breath. “Are you telling me you asked Lord Delagarde’s permission to marry me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But it has nothing to do with Delagarde!”
“But—but I was given to understand he is your trustee. Naturally I had to ask him.”
Lady Hester’s brows rose, but she said nothing. Maidie took on another cargo of air, and tried again. “Did Delagarde tell you he is my trustee?”
“Not precisely. I had heard it elsewhere. He did not deny it, however. To my dismay, he told me I might not address you.”
Maidie was by now so furious she could scarcely bring herself to ask the next question with any degree of composure. “Did he give you any reason for his refusal?”
Oliver looked quite crestfallen. “Lord Delagarde thinks I am too young for you.”
“Does he? Does he, indeed? Where did you leave him, may I ask? In the green saloon?”
“No, in his dressing-room. He had just come in from riding when I arrived and wished to change his clothes.”
Without another word, Maidie swept past him, running up the stairs. Behind her she heard Lady Hester calling to her to wait, but she did not stop. Reaching the main landing, she fairly ran past the doors to the three saloons and into the corridor beyond, where Lady Hester had pointed out the way to Delagarde’s rooms on that first day. Grasping the handle of the first door she came to, she turned it without hesitation and threw it open. She took one pace into the room, and stopped dead.
Delagarde was standing at a dressing-table before a long pier-glass, clad only in his boots, buckskins and shirtsleeves, and engaged in placing a fresh cravat about his throat. He paused, his startled glance flying to the door. Behind him, his valet hovered, holding in readiness several more starched white cravats, on his face an expression of severe disapproval.
Maidie blinked. “Oh!”
“A somewhat inadequate expression, under the circumstances,” said Delagarde, his tone cooler than a natural embarrassment might dictate.
