The Rake and Miss Asherwood Page 4

  The servants of Aisling House had taken Miss Asherwood under their wing after Sir Terence’s death. She was an independent soul, right enough, but still—all alone in that house, somebody had to pay attention. Philippa Cavendish was no help, in the servants’ opinion. Not that they objected to the elderly woman. She was quiet, undemanding, and ate anything Cook chose to prepare. But she stayed in her room the day long, and was no society for a young girl, let alone chaperone.

  Lizzie could have been spending her nights in a gaming hell—or worse—for all Aunt Philippa knew.

  So the servants—headed by Samuel Pivens, the butler, Mrs. Talliaferro, the housekeeper, and Cook—had formed a benign cabal. They protected their charge as best they knew, and if Miss Asherwood thought no-one stayed up to see her into Aisling House after a ball, well that was only what needed to be done to put her mind at ease. Of course Pivens was waiting; sitting quietly in the library off the front hall, with the door—the door that never seemed to close properly—slightly ajar. And of course the coachman had two burly footmen at his side, always, wherever Miss Asherwood might wish to go, and ’twould be an unpleasant day indeed for anyone who tried to accost their young lady in her carriage.

  On the other hand, not even Pivens or Mrs. Talliaferro tried to keep company with Elizabeth, upstairs; that would have been outside of all expectations, and terribly awkward for everyone. But they made sure that she felt welcome in their own domains, and Lizzie was more accustomed than most members of the ton to visit the butler in his pantry, or Cook in the kitchen.

  Where it was always warm, even on the dreariest day in winter; and where there was always something delicious to eat.

  “Oh, they smell heavenly.”

  Elizabeth inhaled deeply, in appreciation of the aroma now emanating from the ovens; raspberry and fresh butter. Her stomach growled.

  “Come on dearie, it’s eleven of the clock,” said Cook. “You’re looking peaky and ’tis high time to get something inside you.”

  “Yes, please,” said Lizzie, smiling. She perched on a stool at the old wooden high-table, the one that Cook used for rolling out the scones and other pastries. The wood, which had been worn to a satin finish over the years, was smooth under her fingers.

  “Tea, love?”

  “I’ll get it, Cook,” said William, one of the morning footmen.

  The scones arrived and Miss Asherwood ate, happily, and finished two cups of hot tea. The tea was served in a beautiful set of Bow porcelain, kept in the kitchen for just this purpose. Lizzie would have been content with kitchen pottery, but Cook would not hear of it.

  Servants came and went, and tradesmen making deliveries; Elizabeth greeted each of them by name. William needed to be sorted out a bit by Cook, as he was sweet on one of Lord Tavener’s maids down the street and was in competition with his lordship’s coachman.

  “A coachman,” said Cook. “Better give it up now, my boy.”

  “She’s ever so pretty,” said William.

  “Pish posh. Have a look at our Bessie, not a finer-looking gel in Mayfair.”

  “Oh, do!” said Elizabeth, who was not overly concerned with the conventions that discouraged servants from marrying within the household. This was her family, and she’d be happiest keeping all of them together.

  “Bessie?” William looked thoughtful.

  “Bessie,” said Cook.

  There was further discussion of the best approach. But in the end, even the bustle of the kitchen and William’s romantic adventures could not keep Elizabeth from considering what ought to be done with the day.

  Marguerite, she told herself, was fine. She had sent the letter, and in a few weeks she would be making plans to meet her sister in Dover. Or wherever one met travelers from France—Miss Asherwood’s life had been sheltered in some ways. It would be tremendous fun having Marguerite at Aisling House, and for the moment Elizabeth refused to think about the social difficulties this might present.

  It would work out somehow. She would make it work out.

  ’Twas time to do something. Penelope would be awake, Lizzie knew. She and her friend could pay a visit to Penny’s cousin, Lord Carlow. Why not? It would put her mind at rest, and surely the British government would have information about these things. Surely they could tell her more of the situation in Picardy.

  “Marguerite is half-English,” Penelope reminded Miss Asherwood.

  “Oh! Yes, of course,” replied Elizabeth. “The Foreign Office must get involved, mustn’t they, in that case?”

  “I don’t know,” said Penny, who was temperamentally inclined to honesty. “But ’tis a point in our favor, at the least.”

  The two friends were in Elizabeth’s carriage, on their way to the Foreign Office in Fludyer Street. They were traveling from New Bond Street to Old Bond Street, on their way to Piccadilly, but slowly, as Mayfair was noisy and crowded at this time of day, and the carriage was stopped—it seemed—every few minutes to wait for one cart or another to go about its business.

  She’d spent several frustrating minutes convincing the Asherwood coachman that a visit to the environs of Whitehall and Downing Street in the middle of the day was an unexceptionable activity for two young women. She had finally been forced to appeal to Pivens, and to tell him that her errand was on behalf of Marguerite. The servants knew about the comtesse and Marguerite, although exactly what they knew about the connection was not clear to Elizabeth.

  She had no way to ask. Perhaps, thought Lizzie—who was much more the naïf in these matters than any of her servants—they thought the comtesse a mere acquaintance, and her daughter a . . . ward of Sir Terence.

  Pivens had approved the expedition, and Elizabeth’s anxiety was in check, for now. ’Twas a little past one when Penny had sent a servant ahead, with a request for a few minutes of Lord Carlow’s time, and they had received a reply within the hour.

  Lord Carlow would be delighted to see his cousin, Miss Perrin, at her convenience.

  “I can’t imagine what he thinks our purpose is,” remarked Penelope. “I’ve never spoken to him of aught but family before.”

  “Penny . . . ”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you suppose . . . ? I mean to say, Lord Carlow can be trusted, can he not?”

  Penelope looked at her. “Trusted with what?”

  “Well, not to say anything of this matter to . . . anyone else?”

  Her friend considered this. “But if he is to get word of Marguerite, I suppose he will have to tell someone else.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “And why can it matter?” Miss Perrin laughed. “You cannot be worried that your reputation will suffer for it?”

  “No—”

  “If Marguerite is safe and well in the French countryside, then there is no harm done. But if she is not—what can a reputation among the dragons mean, in that case? Lizzie, it’s not like you to care about such things.”

  Miss Asherwood sighed. “I know. It’s not that—” She hesitated.

  “Out with it,” commanded Penelope.

  “I haven’t told Geoffrey yet.”

  “Lud,” said Penny.

  “I keep meaning to say something. But the subject never seems to fit into conversation.”

  “It wouldn’t, would it?” said Penny, drily.

  “I mean, why would I tell him of a half-sister, it we weren’t to be married?”

  “Ah.” Miss Perrin nodded. “Indeed. You don’t want to move things along. Lizzie—”

  “A pox on marriage! Why should I care what Geoffrey thinks? I can get by on my own.”

  “I don’t think you are required to marry Lord Winthrop,” said Penelope. “At least, not any time soon. But you really should tell him about Marguerite.”

  * * * *

  What a waste of time that was, thought Elizabeth, as she combed out her hair that evening in preparation for bed. Her belief in the capabilities of the British Foreign Office—or at least one of its senior representatives—had
taken a serious blow.

  Penelope’s cousin, a florid, rotund man with an officious manner, had received them amiably enough, but that was the end of any assistance Lord Carlow could offer.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he kept saying, as if he was agreeing to something.

  “You girls needn’t worry.”

  “Yes, yes. Your young . . . friend will be fine, I’m quite sure.”

  Like we were children, thought Lizzie. It didn’t help that he was obviously shocked by the revelation that Marguerite was the late Sir Terence’s daughter.

  “Yes, yes—”

  Penny had been no happier with the man. “Gods, what a nodcock,” was her comment, once they were safely back in the Asherwood carriage. “I’m sorry, Lizzie, but he’ll be no help at all.”

  “I know,” said Elizabeth, gloomily. “What do you suppose he actually does with his time?”

  “I’ve no idea. If Lord Carlow is truly an up-and-comer in the Foreign Office—”

  “—the country is in serious straits. One hoped to have a better opinion of them.”

  “All you can do is wait for Marguerite’s letter,” said Penelope.

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “And tell Geoffrey.”

  Miss Asherwood was an intelligent and strong-willed female, but those adjectives applied only within the context of the world she understood. Of the English government and its relations with the French, of politics and diplomacy, she knew nothing beyond what one might overhear at a soiree or ball. This was all through no fault of her own. Gentlemen seemed to think that ladies were uninterested in such topics, and Elizabeth had not found it easy to begin a serious conversation with any of them. The Duchess of Devonshire alone seemed able to travel in such circles, and she, decided Lizzie, was merely the exception to prove the rule.

  But what about Lord Winthrop? Elizabeth could, at the least, sit down with him to a serious conversation and expect more than ‘yes, yes’ in reply. And Penelope was correct; it was past time Lord Winthrop knew about Marguerite.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  An Unexpected Conversationalist

  A fortnight went by, and wherever London society gathered its gossip was full of the guillotine. The gentlemen stood around in groups, exchanging serious glances; the ladies professed horror and shock—and went on talking. Miss Asherwood found the attitude of the ton difficult to endure, as they seemed happy enough to discuss the deficiencies of the current French government without any suggestion of doubt about their own. British society, it seemed, was perfection itself.

  The conversation at last night’s dinner party at the home of Lord and Lady Bessonby had been particularly annoying. Darcy Stratham was the first to speak of France, and everyone else chimed in with details—real or imagined—that they had heard of the Tribunals and tumbrels and the Paris Commune. Even Lord Bessonby, whom Elizabeth knew to be an intelligent, thoughtful man, had something to say about Robespierre. Sitting there, captive, Miss Asherwood became convinced that some people enjoyed hearing about the appalling misery of others—as long as it was no-one they cared about very much.

  She tried to listen to as little of it as possible, talking determinedly of the weather to her partners. Then, at the start of the musicale, after dinner, the mention of one name caught her attention. She was seated immediately behind Lord Bessonby, and he was talking sotto voce to his neighbor, a man Elizabeth did not recognize.

  “Negotiations? In France? No, the situation is impossible, you’ll absolutely need assistance,” said her host.

  One word, very quietly. “Who?”

  “The man you want is Peregrine Blakeley,” said Bessonby.

  Lizzie pricked up her ears. Peregrine Blakeley. The incompetent Lord Blakeley, who worked for the Foreign Office?

  The other man said something that she could not distinguish. Lord Bessonby gave a quick, dismissive laugh.

  “Don’t believe all the gossip you hear,” she heard him say. “Peregrine’s the man for the job, no matter what he might have told you of the matter.”

  Miss Asherwood had no idea who he might be. She hoped for enlightenment, but before Lord Bessonby could go on his wife sat down next to him and made some comment—Lady Bessonby, at least, was perfectly audible—on the fashion for skin-tight breeches among some of the younger gentlemen. There was laughter.

  “You are correct, my dear, of course!” said Lord Bessonby to his wife.

  And the previous conversation went no further.

  * * * *

  Lord Winthrop was to call upon her that morning, and Elizabeth was determined that she would have it out with him at last. She would tell Geoffrey everything of the comtesse and Marguerite du Merveille, and enlist his help. She even—

  No, she could not think it. But a treacherous voice in the back of her mind whispered that agreeing to marry Geoffrey would be one way in which his full support could be obtained. The Winthrop family was as old as her own, and Geoffrey, unlike Elizabeth, had a large number of living relatives to call upon. There was an uncle, Miss Asherwood knew, with an association through marriage to the Duke of Grafton who, although no longer the Prime Minister, still carried considerable influence within the House of Lords. And another uncle with close ties in the City.

  “Miss?”

  One of the maids scratched at the library door. Elizabeth looked up.

  “Yes, Bessie?”

  “Lord Winthrop is here, miss.”

  “Thank you, Bessie,” said Lizzie, smiling at the maid and wondering if Cook’s suggestion to William had come to any result. “Tell my aunt, if you please.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  The maid curtseyed and left, to fetch—in theory—Philippa Cavendish as chaperone. Aunt Philippa would never arrive, of course, but the conventions were kept, and even Geoffrey had no qualms about keeping Lizzie company in a first-floor library whose door never properly closed.

  “My dear.”

  Miss Asherwood stood as Lord Winthrop strode into the room. She curtseyed, he bowed, and Bessie—who had now returned with the message that Miss Cavendish would be down ‘very shortly’—was sent for tea.

  Elizabeth had dithered over the matter of telling Geoffrey about Marguerite for months, but now that her mind was made up she did not waste time.

  “Geoffrey,” she began, and motioned him to a seat beside her on the sofa, “I must tell you something about our family.”

  He is taken aback, thought Lizzie. Lord Winthrop had grown quiet during the telling of her story, and now he was regarding her . . . cautiously.

  As if he was weighing his options, she decided, and felt an unease that she’d never felt before with Geoffrey; an intimation that perhaps he was not as easily hers for the taking as she had always thought.

  Can you blame him? she thought to herself.

  Perhaps not.

  “Sir Terence’s child?” asked Lord Winthrop.

  “As I said.”

  “And you are sure?”

  Elizabeth looked daggers at him and bit back a retort. Was he suggesting that her father had lied to her?

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but you must realize that this is a serious matter.”

  Mr. Peppers, who considered the partly-open library door a cat thoroughfare, chose that moment to jump on the sofa. Geoffrey shooed him away.

  “I know,” said Elizabeth. “That’s why I’ve been worried.”

  Geoffrey frowned. “No—you misunderstand me. I’m quite sure the girl is perfectly safe, and at any rate you must leave her mother to know what is best for her. I am speaking of your own circumstances.”

  Miss Asherwood forced herself to take a sip of tea, and wait.

  “The long and the short of it,” said Lord Winthrop, “is that there is no reason at all for you to become involved.”

  “My father said—”

  “Let us hear no more of Sir Terence’s wishes for the moment.”

  “Geoffrey.” Lizzie was indignant.

 
“Your father asked too much. I see no objection to you sending the girl money, although these days it would be unlikely to reach her. Nor to you visiting the comtesse and her daughter when the situation improves. But as for her visiting London—”

  Elizabeth noticed that he had yet to call Marguerite by name.

  “’Tis out of the question.”

  The soft sounds of the room—the carriages passing by in the street, the servants going about their business in the hall outside the library—faded. There was a ringing in Miss Asherwood’s ears and she realized that it was indeed possible to see red. Who was Geoffrey to tell her what her own sister was allowed to do? Lizzie stood up, swallowing back the words which would send Geoffrey from the room.

  You need him, said the little voice. You can’t do this on your own.

  Lord Winthrop was standing up, too, a look of amazement on his face. Well, let him be amazed. Let him know how much he had hurt her, and perhaps she would not be the only one with sudden doubts—

  But Geoffrey was not looking at Elizabeth. He was looking past her, and making his bow.

  “Miss Cavendish, how nice to see you.”

  Aunt Philippa?

  The old lady stood in the doorway to the library. She was wearing an outfit Elizabeth had never seen before, a full-skirted gown that was definitely an ensemble of some forty years past, smelling faintly of camphor.

  Elizabeth was sure that Geoffrey shared her astonishment. He could only have guessed at Aunt Philippa’s identity, since in all the time since Sir Terence’s death the elderly woman had never once come downstairs to meet him.

  “What’s this I am hearing about Marguerite?” said her aunt.

  Elizabeth stared at her. This was more and more curious. Miss Asherwood had never precisely hidden her sister’s existence from Aunt Philippa, but they’d never spoken of her, either. The servants did not gossip, Lizzie was sure. Where could she have learned of Marguerite?

  Lord Winthrop spoke up. “Miss Asherwood is . . . concerned for the young woman. But I’m sure you will agree that—”

  Lizzie would have been annoyed on any day for his presumption in speaking for her. On this morning, she was livid.