Lord Iverbrook's Heir (17 page)

Lord Iverbrook, with Grandmama's permission, had carried Peter down to the orchard, bundled in a rug. Selena would willingly have ignored the viscount’s presence but she could not ignore her nephew when he waved and called to her.

She offered him an apple.

“I want to climb up a tree and pick one,” he said. “If I get stuck, Uncle Hugh will help me down, won’t you, Uncle Hugh?”

“I think you had better not, Peterkin. You are still convalescent.”

“Grandmama said I may. Uncle Hugh asted her. Long as I don’t get cold or hot or wet.”

“Or tired,” confirmed Uncle Hugh. “Which tree would you suggest, Selena?” He smiled at her over the child’s head.

She looked away quickly. “Phoebe and I always used to climb that winesap over there. It is easy because it grows at a slant, and the apples are sweet."

They stood beneath the tree, watching Peter climb, Iverbrook ready to catch him if he slipped.

“Is . . ."  Selena's voice sounded strange and she cleared her throat. “Is Amabel gone already?”

“I neither know nor care.” Iverbrook turned to her and took both her hands in his. “Selena, I knew Amabel in town before I went to Jamaica. She had any number of admirers, the sort of court collected by any beautiful and fashionable young widow living on the fringes of Society, and I was one of them. That life is past. I have a mission now, and a nephew, and soon, I dare to hope . . .”

“Uncle Hugh, look at my apple. Isn’t it big, Aunt Sena? It’s the biggest one on the tree. I can't climb ‘cos I have to hold onto it with my hand. Come and get me, Uncle Hugh.”

Uncle Hugh went.

* * * *

On Saturday evening, Lord Iverbrook was loitering in the hall when Selena descended the stairs, dressed for the ball. She seemed to float in her gown of amber sarcenet, trimmed with Honiton lace, and the topaz necklace at her throat sparkled no more brightly in the candlelight than did her eyes.

She read admiration in his face and a delicate flush tinted her cheeks.

He bowed low over her hand.

“Madam, allow me the pleasure of driving you to the ball. I wish to be seen to arrive with the most elegant lady in the place.”

She dimpled. “Why thank you, kind sir. I shall be happy to go with you, if Mama permits.”

“I have already consulted Mama. At first she did not think it quite the thing for a young lady to drive alone with a gentleman at night, but I pointed out that since it will be dark, no one will see us, and she is altogether won over.”

“I do not believe you even broached the subject! However, I mean to tell Mama I am going with you, not to ask her if I may, and I doubt she will object. You are, as even Lady Anne was forced to acknowledge, practically one of the family.”

“‘Practically’ will not suffice for long,” he said, a gleam in his eye.

The door bell rang and Bannister admitted Jane and Clive Russell, who were to dine at the Manor before they all set out for Oxford. Clive had promised his mother to see that Jane danced only with gentlemen of their own party.

“For she is not yet out, ma’am, you know,” he explained to Lady Whitton. “And she is to ride with me in our own carriage. Will you go with us, ma’am? Our coachman is very safe and steady, I promise you." He glanced wistfully at Delia, who was looking very pretty in pale blue muslin, her silk-smooth hair wound in a knotted, grown-up style. She was laughing with Mr. Hastings and had scarcely acknowledged his arrival.

Mr. Hastings, Delia, and Sir Aubrey were to travel in the Whittons’ barouche. Selena thought of suggesting that it was not quite proper for her little sister to go alone with two gentlemen, but she was too happy in her own arrangement to risk upsetting it. Her mother seemed oblivious of any possible impropriety, and she decided that Lady Anne’s strictures must be preying on her mind. After all, if Iverbrook was nearly one of the family, Cousin Aubrey was not only a family member but actually the head of it. She dismissed her qualms and prepared to enjoy the evening.

Delia was already enjoying herself. She had noticed Clive’s pleading look and deliberately ignored it. Handsome as he undoubtedly was, next to Mr. Hastings’s sartorial splendour he looked a country bumpkin. Not that Mr. Hastings was flamboyantly dressed—far from it. His fastidious black and white made Sir Aubrey’s vermilion ridiculous.

Sir Aubrey seemed unaccountably nervous. He jumped when spoken to, and had a tendency to look behind him in a hunted way. He insisted on conferring with Jem, on the box of the Whitton carriage, for several minutes while the others disappeared down the drive and out into the lane. Delia was biting her nails with impatience by the time they set off at last.

It was a moonlit night, and once they reached the post road they proceeded at a good pace for several miles. Delia had been to Oxford any number of times, and she chattered about shopping expeditions and concerts and the hordes of dashing young gentlemen who swarmed about the city during the university terms.

“I have never been to an Assembly, though,” she confided, “for though I was old enough last year, we were in mourning for poor Phoebe. Is it not vastly exciting?”

She scarcely noticed when they left the main road at Cowley and drove a short way down a bumpy lane, but as they turned in between gateposts of ornately carved stone, she exclaimed in surprise.

“Wherever are we?” she said, puzzled. “The ball is in the Assembly Rooms at the Blue Boar, not at a private house. Jem has made a mistake.”

“You are sure?” queried Mr. Hastings. “Let me stop him before we disturb the residents.”

“It’s all r-right,” stammered Sir Aubrey. “I t-told him to come here.”

Before they could demand an explanation, the carriage reached the end of the short drive and pulled up before an elaborately Italianate house. The front door swung open at once, and there stood Amabel Parcott, resplendent in a daringly diaphanous, peach-coloured ball gown, already hatted and gloved. A servant was placing a cloak about her exposed shoulders as Sir Aubrey let down the step of the barouche, and a moment later she seated herself beside him.

“G-go on!” he called to Jem.

Unlike the baronet, Mrs. Parcott was perfectly composed.

“So kind of you to stop for me,” she said, pressing his hand, then turned to the others. “When I told Sir Aubrey that my parents would be absent for several days, taking our carriage with them, he insisted on fetching me on the way."

Delia was too young, and Mr. Hastings too proper, to do anything but accept the situation with what complaisance they could muster. As they left Cowley behind and started down Headington Hill, the former wondered what Selena would say, while the latter had a very good idea of what to expect from Lord Iverbrook!

When they arrived at the crowded Rooms, a cotillion was in progress. The viscount was dancing with Jane Russell and Clive with Selena. Lady Whitton had met several acquaintances among the chaperones and was enjoying a comfortable cose. It was too late for the newcomers to take their places on the floor, so Mr. Hastings escorted Delia to her mother’s side and begged the honour of the next dance.

The cotillion came to an end. Lord Iverbrook left his demure and rather speechless partner in Lady Whitton’s care and went in search of Selena. A glance flashed between Delia and Mr. Hastings. He must have missed Mrs. Parcott’s arrival: best not to mention it.

Sir Aubrey appeared and with a flourishing bow requested Miss Russell’s hand for the country dance, which the musicians were just striking up. Clive came up just in time to watch both his sister and Delia being led onto the floor. With a disconsolate face he wandered away, but his circle of friends in the neighbourhood was large, and he was soon provided with a partner.

Lord Iverbrook danced with Selena. He found it hard to take his eyes off her, but the figures of the dance sometimes separated them and during one such moment, glancing about the room, he noticed Bel. She was standing at the side of the room, talking to a pair of gentlemen who seemed to be old acquaintances.

The viscount groaned, eliciting a surprised look from the lady standing next to him. He had not enjoyed a ball so much for years and the wretched female had to come and spoil it for him. He made a silent vow that he would not ask her to dance, no matter what wiles she employed against him. His neighbour’s elbow nudged him back into the dance, and he found himself promenading arm in arm with Selena.

“You are looking very fierce,” she whispered.

“Am I? I am minding my steps, you see. It takes a deal of concentration, for I renounced country dances years ago!”

“Had you rather sit it out?”

“No; it would spoil the set. Besides, I think I am doing splendidly.”

She laughed. “Unlike Clive, you have not yet stepped on my feet!” She gave him a slight push and skipped to the left, so he hurriedly skipped to the right.

Amabel did not approach him all evening. She danced only three times, once with Sir Aubrey, once with a stranger and once, Iverbrook was amused to note, with young Mr. Russell. Clive seemed very much
épris;
the typical callow youth with an older, experienced woman, he thought wryly. As the night advanced and she did not seek to speak to him, he relaxed his guard.

He took Selena to supper, and later stood up with her for a waltz. It was the first time, he confided, that he had found a partner tall enough to waltz with comfortably. As a result, he did not have to watch his steps but surrendered to the music and to her hazel eyes, and drifted round the floor in a dream.

Still dreaming, he gave her up to her next partner and sought out Lady Whitton.

“I am glad to see you, Hugh,” she said. “I think we had best leave after this dance, for we have a long drive ahead of us. Do you not agree, Aubrey? That we must leave soon?”

The baronet, who came up just then, acquiesced. “As you w-wish, Aunt.” His stutter seemed to be growing worse. “B-but I have been meaning to ch-challenge Lord Iverbrook to a hand at piquet. Will you p-play, my lord, before we go?”

Iverbrook had no desire whatever to play cards, but he was in an amiable mood. He followed Sir Aubrey into the card room, sat down, and watched benignly as the Bart made inept efforts to attract the attention of a waiter. At last Sir Aubrey stood up and went to fetch some cards.

He returned bearing a tray with a fresh pack and two glasses of brandy. While he shuffled, the viscount sipped at his glass. They settled the odds and began to play. Sir Aubrey proved as inept at piquet as he was at calling for service, and Iverbrook wondered why the devil he had issued the challenge if he meant to discard at random.

His lordship took the first rubber without difficulty. He took a swallow of his brandy and was about to suggest that they return to the ballroom to find the ladies when a wave of nausea swept through him.

Unsteadily he stood up. The room whirled about him and he sank insensible to the floor.

Two waiters rushed over, but Amabel was there before them. She laid her hand on his forehead and felt his pulse.

“Too much of your odious brandy!” she diagnosed. “He should not be moved far. Surely you have an unoccupied chamber here?”

The Blue Boar’s landlord bustled in, tut-tutted, and directed the servants to carry the inert viscount above stairs. Sir Aubrey accompanied them into the lobby and watched as they carried him up, Amabel following and urging them to take care. Then he returned to the ballroom.

The dance was over and Lady Whitton had gathered her party together, Delia hotly protesting that it was too early to leave.

“Oh there you are at last, Aubrey,” she said. “Who won your game? And where is Hugh? We are all ready to go."

“I do not think we should wait for Lord Iverbrook,” said Sir Aubrey solemnly. “I saw him not five minutes ago going upstairs with Mrs. Amabel Parcott!”

Chapter 14

Lord Iverbrook did not return to the Manor until midday on Sunday. There was no one in the stables and the barouche was missing. He entered the house by the side door. Bannister emerged from his pantry to greet him frostily with the information that the family was at church.

“They’ll be back soon, my lord,” he added more kindly, noting the pallor of his lordship’s face. “Oh, a letter came for you last night; brought by a special messenger, it was, my lord. Here, I’ll get it.”

He popped back into his room and returned with a sealed paper.

Iverbrook leaned against the wall, opened it, and read it. He closed his eyes for a moment and ground the heel of his hand into his temple, as though to still a throbbing headache.

“I have to go to London at once,” he said harshly. “Where is Tom?”

“He went to church with Cook, my lord.”

“I cannot wait. It is past noon already. I must write a word to Lady Whitton.”

“There’s paper in the library, my lord.”

The viscount’s note to his hostess was brief:

“My lady, I am called away urgently to London on legal business. I hope to return on Tuesday. You will not, I know, judge me without a hearing. Hugh.”

He folded it, wrote her name on it and, after a moment’s thought, took another sheet of paper.

“Hasty,” he scribbled, “I know not what you saw or were told. I fell into a dead faint after drinking some brandy and when I came round it was morning and Mrs. P. was at my bedside. She said bad brandy but I suspect foul play. I must go to London to put a stop to this damnable suit against Miss W. Tell them what you see fit. I.”

“L. Hastings, Esquire,” he wrote on the outside, and left both letters on the desk.

* * * *

Mr. Hastings was acutely uncomfortable. He had entered the Whitton household under the auspices of his friend. His friend was now in disgrace, a disgrace so deep as to be unmentionable. Mr. Hastings’s lifelong
savoir faire
deserted him and he had no idea how to extricate himself from the situation. He went to church.

He returned from church none the wiser. The butler met the family at the door and handed him a letter. He retired to his chamber to peruse it, dismissing Dimbury who was waiting to rid his master’s coat and boots of any speck of dust or lint inadvertently picked up during the morning’s devotions.