Lady Pamela Read online

  And she had never been a kept woman.

  Pah. Pamela turned from the window and saw that Lady Amanda Detweiler was pouring herself a second glass of brandy. She felt sure that Amanda, her closest friend and confidante for many years, was aware of the emotional turmoil that had beset Pam since February. But Lady Detweiler, most uncharacteristically, had chosen to say nothing.

  At least, nothing as yet. Pam knew she wouldn't be able to hide the truth from her friend much longer.

  And she had hidden so little before, not even the truth of her life as Edward Tremayne's mistress. Especially that. Lady Detweiler had known about Edward from the start-had introduced her to the earl, as it happened. Their ... association had lasted almost three years, until he had chanced upon young Claire de Lancie in a hat shop and made her his wife and countess. Lady Pam smiled at the memory. She had encouraged the match, and was still fond of Edward. They had both known, almost from the beginning, that their connection would not last forever. Friends they might remain, but nothing more.

  A mistress. It wasn't the worst life in the world, was it? she asked herself, echoing the words of Lord Quentin, a lifetime ago.

  No, she had answered him. No, it wasn't the worst life in the world.

  * * * *

  The day had been sunny and mild, like most days of late, and Pam had spent much of the morning in her own gardens. In the early afternoon she paid her accustomed visit to Green Park, walking through cheerful fields of autumn crocus and late-blooming aster, with Maggie-her young maid-trailing close behind. Lady Pamela should have rejoiced in the flowers, and in the beauty of the cloudless sky, but her thoughts had seemed determined to escape London.

  What is autumn like in Wiltshire? she had wondered, knowing little of that region. Does one find much society? Do the young ladies and gentlemen amuse themselves with country dances and fine balls?

  On returning homeward, she and the maid had once again passed by Marchers House, the great London home of the Dukes of Grentham. Maggie grumbled that Marchers was a fair street and a half out of their way, but Lady Pam had found herself drawn to the house, and each time she saw the mansion, she daydreamed of what it must have been like in the days of its glory, with fine lords and ladies gracing every room. A good imagination was necessary, as Marchers House was no longer in any condition for entertainments.

  And Virginia, as well. What might one do in the colonies ... the former colonies, now ... for pleasure? How had the duke occupied himself, all those years? He must have left for the Americas in his late teens, twenty perhaps, and handsome as Lord Torrance was, he could not have lacked for female company. Pamela tried not to think of the amusements that a young, rich duke might find, alone in the new world, isolated from the strictures of the ton.

  She knew no more about Virginia than Wiltshire, of course. The duke had stayed only a few weeks at Luton and Lady Pamela had little opportunity to learn of his life in Charlottesville. She thought it must be nothing like London.

  In London, the ton provided its members with countless opportunities for diversion. One might ride instead of walk in the afternoon, in a phaeton, or fine barouche, or one of the newly fashionable cabriolets. One gossiped and was gossiped about, or spent useless hours in milliner's shops and hatteries. One attended soirées and fêtes, danced at balls, listened to one or another dreadful soprano at the latest musicale—

  One even became bored.

  * * * *

  "Pamela."

  "Hmm?” Lady Pam's thoughts returned to the here-and-now. She turned and smiled as Lady Detweiler, mouth pursed in annoyance, closed her chicken-skin fan with a loud snap.

  "I said-not that anyone is paying the least attention, mind you-that Sir Jeffrey Kincannon is in town. Until Michaelmas, I hear. Now—"

  "Jeffrey who?” interrupted Pamela.

  Lady Detweiler rapped the fan sharply on Pam's candle stand. “Sir Jeffrey Kincannon. Sir Jeffrey of the spectacularly broad shoulders and well-muscled thighs. Whose engagement to Melinda Davenworth has just been broken off by the chit herself. The silly fool.” Amanda continued rapping. “Pamela, I simply cannot believe—"

  "You,” said Lady Pam, “are going to ruin that fan. And isn't that the one Lord Burgess gave you? It must be worth a fortune in ivory."

  "Lud,” said Lady Detweiler, throwing the fan down onto the table. “Do not change the subject. You've been moping around for ages. I'm at my wit's end—"

  "I never mope."

  "Ha."

  "I am merely a bit ... out of sorts with the weather."

  Amanda sputtered. “The weather? The beautifully warm, never-before-was there-such-an-autumn weather?"

  "Well..."

  "Moping does not become you. Now,” added Lady Detweiler, “Sir Jeffrey is more than well-favoured, he is intelligent and fond of amusements. And you were born to be beautiful and amusing and happy."

  "So you say."

  "Posh. It's what you do best."

  Lady Pam had begun pacing about the room as they spoke; she now stopped to regard herself in the boudoir mirror. She was of average height, with a neat, nicely rounded figure. White-blonde hair cascaded in heavy waves around her shoulders and clear, cerulean-blue eyes stared back at her from the classic oval of her face. Her skin was smooth, the features finely drawn, but Pamela Sinclair had been praised often enough for her looks that even the most extravagant compliments had been drained of meaning.

  It's what you do best. But if you were a beautiful and amusing woman, thought Pam, and were loved by no man, what did that signify? What excuse could you offer?

  Lady Detweiler would scoff if she heard these thoughts, of course. Gentlemen have ever loved you with ease, Amanda would tell her. And you could have married any one of them. Even the Earl of Ketrick, I dare say. ‘Tis your own stubborn nature...

  Her own stubborn nature. Would that it was true.

  Pam stifled a sigh. She looked at Amanda and ventured a question. “Have you heard ... is there anyone new in London of late?” Lady Detweiler's sources for society on dits were beyond compare; Pamela knew that-ironically-her own reputation for being circumspect was partly the result of relying on Amanda for the choicest bits of gossip.

  Lady Detweiler regarded her evenly. “Anyone new?” she repeated.

  Pamela felt herself coloring. “Yes ... you know. In from the country."

  "No,” said Amanda, offhand. She again busied herself with the fan, avoiding Pam's gaze. “And, if you are speaking of the Duke of Grentham, perchance—"

  Pam's color deepened. “Of course I wasn't speaking of Lord Torrance. I was merely curious."

  Lady Detweiler's eyebrows shot up. “Dearest,” she told Pam, “don't spin me Banbury tales. And don't forget, I saw the two of you waltz at Luton. The man is molded like an Adonis."

  "Amanda!"

  Lady Detweiler shrugged. “At any rate, I should be very much disappointed in you-as a woman, you understand-if you had forgotten Lord Torrance."

  Silence greeted this remark. Lady Pamela sank into the nearest chaise lounge and smoothed the cotton skirts of her walking gown. She felt her heart begin to race, the unacknowledged hurt of the past spring and summer threatening to break through. Why had she never told Lady Detweiler about the duke? She had wanted to tell her, had meant to say something long ago. But to speak the words aloud was to give them substance, to give them a reality that Lady Pamela preferred not to acknowledge.

  Much as they had sounded in her mind, for seven months now without ceasing, she had never spoken the words aloud.

  "Amanda,” she began. “Something ... something happened. Lord Torrance ... at Luton. I should have mentioned it at the time, but..."

  Pam paused and looked away, biting her lip. The seconds stretched out. Finally Lady Detweiler rose to her feet, snapping her fan open and shut with a twofold crack.

  Pointing the fan at Lady Pamela, Amanda said sternly, “I have never been a patient individual, so kindly tell me everything immediately, or—"
<
br />   "Ah. Well. ‘Twas nothing, really."

  "-or I shall be forced to take drastic steps."

  "Drastic steps!” echoed Lady Pamela in mock horror, seizing the chance to stall. “What drastic steps, if you please?"

  "I haven't the slightest idea,” said Lady Detweiler, “but don't force me to think of something. Out with it. Now."

  Amanda sat down and took a long swallow of brandy. She watched Lady Pamela continue to pace, knowing, as the steps slowed, that her friend was seeking the courage to reveal what should have been revealed months ago.

  Something happened. At Luton Court last February, when the Duke of Grentham had been a guest of Lady Pamela's brother, the marquess. Something happened-in the weeks between his arrival in Bedfordshire and his departure only days after the Quentin wedding.

  I should have known, thought Lady Detweiler. And finally we shall get to the bottom of this absurd unhappiness, whatever its cause. She had known something was wrong. She had been worried about Lady Pam, in fact, since their last days in Bedfordshire, and Amanda despised worry. A waste of time, she believed. Face your troubles and be done with them.

  Lady Detweiler had made more than a guess in mentioning the duke's name just now, and her friend's reaction had spoken volumes. Amanda had suspected that Lady Pamela harbored a tendre for that gentleman, and she had thought the duke strongly attracted as well. Lady Detweiler had schemed to throw them together, at Luton, but it had been a damnably difficult job. Lord Torrance seemed capable of an appalling level of restraint.

  Or so she had thought....

  But the duke had left Bedfordshire only days after the wedding last February, and Pam had said no more about him. Out of sight, out of mind? Amanda thought not, but Lady Pamela had deflected every question related to Lord Torrance, every not-so-chance comment, with studied indifference.

  "The duke? Of Grentham, you mean? Yes, his costume was quite fine, I suppose..."

  No doubt Lady Detweiler could have extracted the truth had she wished. But Amanda had hesitated to confront Lady Pam, who had heretofore trusted her with every confidence. The freedom not to confide, in Amanda's experience, was essential to friendship. And after all, what possible troubles could have descended upon the beautiful and much admired Pamela Sinclair? Lady Detweiler had given up thoughts of a direct attack and had waited, biding her time.

  So patience is rewarded, thought Amanda. How dreary.

  "The night of the wedding ball...” began Lady Pamela, haltingly.

  Charles and Helène's wedding ball? Amanda nodded to herself. She had watched Pamela and the duke waltzing at the Luton Court ball, and noticed the tension between them. A lover's spat, she had supposed, knowing both lady and gentleman too well to believe that either had committed a real offense. And ‘twas a vile anger, in Amanda's book, that could not be turned to passion.

  But Lady Pamela had danced with him only once, had she not? Lady Detweiler frowned. She seemed to recall Pam spending the last half of the evening in the company of several harmless, adoring third cousins, and as for Lord Torrance, Amanda couldn't remember seeing him at all after the first waltz.

  "The duke...” said Lady Pamela. Her words were so soft that several moments passed before Amanda realized that her friend had continued speaking.

  "The duke?” she prompted, resisting the urge to take Pam by the shoulders and give her a good shake. Yes, yes, the duke. Now, what about him?

  "Asked ... Lord Torrance asked me..."

  The duke asked Lady Pamela...? Lady Detweiler's mind, never slow, at once rushed forward, making the obvious leap. The Duke of Grentham had asked Lady Pam to become his mistress! All those months ago at Luton ... And after knowing her only a matter of weeks. It was not surprising to think that Pam had attracted notice from such a man; still, Amanda thought she now understood the source of her friend's pain.

  Pamela Sinclair had been one man's mistress already. And although Pam had truly rejoiced in Edward Tremayne's marriage to the lovely Claire and did not grieve his loss, her days as a chère amie were over. She had never said as much, not in so many words, but Amanda knew it to be true. And now, for the duke to ask her to—

  "...become his wife,” continued Pamela, almost in a whisper. She colored deeply, and turned away from Lady Detweiler. Amanda, still enmeshed in her own thoughts, frowned. What had Lady Pamela just said?

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Pam took a deep breath. “Lord Torrance asked me to marry him. Last winter. At Luton."

  Lady Detweiler stared. “But—"

  "Amanda, don't say anything. Don't say anything. I know, I should have told you."

  "But—"

  "I couldn't even bear to think about it myself, I couldn't think about him. I wanted to tell you."

  This was too much for Lady Detweiler. “For pity's sake!” she cried, flinging her arms out and nearly spilling the glass of brandy, “who cares a fig what you should have told me! What did you tell him?"

  * * * *

  "H'ya!"

  Lord Benjamin Torrance, the Duke of Grentham, checked the reins sharply and brought Xairephon, his roan gelding, to a prancing halt. The duke's Wiltshire estate boasted little in the way of hills; still, the ground rose slightly to the east, and he was high enough to enjoy a sweeping view of the green fields of sweet hay, and to see his home-Corsham Manor-in the distance. The house was a rambling, many-gabled structure, and the most beautiful dwelling in the world, in its owner's eyes.

  Benjamin drank in the cool morning air, appreciative as always of the difference in climate between Wiltshire and central Virginia, where he had resided for most of the past ten years. ‘Twas not that he had found the American states unpleasing. Charlottesville, Virginia was a lovely town, nestled in rolling, forested hills, and clean beyond his every memory of English cities. Still, for all the beauty of the new land west of the ocean, Benjamin had never adjusted to the oppressive heat of a Virginia summer, a season which carried well into the current weeks of mid-September.

  Pure bliss, to awaken each morning and not find the sheets drenched in sweat. Bliss, too, to work throughout the day without fear of one's skin becoming red and scalded with the sun. Benjamin had spent his years in Charlottesville working in the surrounding countryside, taming a land for farm and dairy that the forest did not wish to surrender. The well-mannered Wiltshire landscape was soothing and mild by comparison.

  He did not regret those years abroad. The work had been demanding, but the duke had ever loved a challenge, and the experience of hard, physical labor was something he believed beneficial for any man.

  Bent double, his eyes shielded from the sun by a dingy straw hat, cutting hay. The low, rhythmic sound of the scythe...

  It might not have been allowed, if he had remained in England as the old duke's heir. Young lords did not work in the fields with their employees. Young lords did nothing much at all, as far as Benjamin could see.

  After dark, the sound of cicadas was loud enough to drown conversation. At night a man slept, exhausted, from the work of the day.

  The Virginia land was an inheritance from his mother and had even been profitable, albeit in a small way, during his last year or two. Profits were welcome, but they had never been the primary reason for his stay in the former Colonies, and when Benjamin returned to England he gave the acreage over to the long-term care of two of his best workers. The profits, such as they were, would remain in Virginia. The gesture had shocked some of his land-owning neighbors; Lord Torrance liked to think his own parents would have been pleased.

  Although his generosity would, no doubt, have infuriated the old duke. Rupert Torrance-Benjamin's uncle and his father's oldest brother-had died only nine months after Benjamin's arrival in Virginia. An unfortunate circumstance of timing, for his own father had already passed away, and it was nearly ten years before Benjamin Torrance-the new Duke of Grentham-again saw the land of his birth.

  "Tch, tch."

  The duke clucked and lightly spurred Xairephon. T
he gelding sprang forward. As his mount trotted along, Benjamin mentally reviewed the activities he had planned for that day.

  Pulling burdock weed in the northeast pasture, first off. Cook had warned him not to touch a small stand near the house-she used burdock in tisanes and decoctions-but the rest must go.

  Then, the stone wall along the same pasture needed repair, and a small channel to divert water from the boggiest spots needed digging. After that, Benjamin would check with his steward, to see what else might need to be done.

  The duke spent as little time as possible in reflection. His own thoughts were lately no welcome friends, and he had found comfort only in the most mindless and repetitive labor. Not one to embrace idleness, Benjamin's appetite for work had become unquenchable, and all summer he had thrown himself into the chores of the estate, waking at dawn even in the long days of late June, and not sleeping until well after midnight. Not that there was any question about the health of the Corsham Manor lands. James Pharr was a conscientious employee, and had performed his duties as estate steward with diligence. Indeed, Lord Torrance had needed to make an effort to find problems worthy of attention.

  Ah—But now that he thought of it, the stable yard should probably be mucked out. “It dunna need mucking every day,” the groom had said, but what did he know? The duke was sure the horses appreciated a clean paddock. The paddock at Luton, for example, there was a fine home for horseflesh. The marquess had taken great care of his Bedfordshire stables. Benjamin remembered them in every detail, remembered Lady Pamela walking through the stables to Duchess, her mare. His mind's eye still saw her elegant, forest-green habit, the smooth lines of wool limning her every curve.

  Could Lady Pamela find Wiltshire as much to her liking as Luton Court? he wondered. The landscape was less wooded and lush than Bedfordshire, but perhaps she could learn to admire, as he had, its gentle charm.

  Pah. Shaking his head to dislodge these thoughts, Benjamin urged Xairephon to a swifter pace. His estate was the largest in Wiltshire, but the gelding flew, and they were soon traversing the northeast pasture. The duke swung down from his mount, untied a large roll of canvas sheeting, and spread it out on the ground. He pulled on a stout pair of leather gloves and attacked the burdock with passion, ripping great clumps from the earth and tossing them onto the sheeting. Benjamin hoped that he had found this patch in time, before any of the seedheads had ripened. No sense in doing the whole job over again next year.