A Lady Never Tells Page 9

  Mary wondered if he was thinking the same things as he looked down at her, if his mind, too, strayed to the kiss they had shared the evening before. When his eyes darkened further and his gaze flickered for a moment to her lips, she knew that his thoughts had indeed mirrored hers. He would not be so brazen as to do it again, she thought, not here, but there was some part of her that boldly wished he would.

  His mouth softened, and Royce bowed, his lips brushing the back of her hand. Mary shivered, feeling the velvety touch all through her. He straightened, his eyes glinting, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. He knew her reaction, she thought; indeed, he had intended to produce exactly that response.

  “Good night, Miss Briscombe.”

  “Good night.” She could barely get out a whisper. She turned and ran up the stairs, not looking back. But when she reached the top, she could not keep herself from turning and glancing back down the steps. Royce was still watching her.

  Mary hurried on to her room, unable to erase the smile from her face.

  Rose was in their room undressing. To Mary’s surprise, the maid Jenny was there too, efficiently undoing the buttons down Rose’s back. Rose shot Mary a pained look as the maid bobbed a curtsey to her.

  “You needn’t have stayed up to help us,” Mary told the girl.

  Jenny gazed at her in the puzzled way that Mary was becoming accustomed to. “But, miss, it’s me job.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure you could do with a bit of extra sleep, and Rose and I have been helping each other with our buttons for years.”

  The maid hesitated, looking at Mary, and Rose took the opportunity to slide away from the girl, holding her dress up with a hand to her chest.

  “But what about your hair?” the girl protested. “Don’t you want me to take it down and brush it?”

  “We are quite capable of doing that ourselves as well.” Jenny stood there indecisively, and Mary remembered how the earl had dismissed the butler that afternoon. “That will be all now.”

  “Yes, my lady.” She bobbed another curtsey and left the room.

  “Thank goodness!” Rose exhaled a sigh and let her dress drop. “When she told me she was here to help me undress, I didn’t know what to say to her! I didn’t want to be unkind, but how can I take off my clothes in front of a complete stranger?” She bent and picked up the frock, carefully folding it and setting it aside before she began to undo her petticoats. “I don’t understand these people. They don’t even brush their own hair!”

  “It is a very different place.” Mary turned so that Rose could unfasten the back of Mary’s dress. “If we are helped to dress and undress, they certainly will not stand for our sweeping the floors or even dusting. It is nice not to have to work, but … what are we to do all day?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, Mary …” Rose’s voice caught. “I wish we could go home!”

  Mary turned and hugged her sister. “Rose! Dearest, don’t cry. Are you so unhappy here?”

  Rose swallowed hard and stepped back, giving Mary a small smile. “No, of course not. I’m being foolish. No doubt I am a bit tired. It is all so strange.”

  She went over to sit down in front of the vanity and take the pins from her hair. Mary shrugged out of her unfastened dress and changed into her nightgown, watching her sister closely.

  “It is strange,” Mary admitted. “But I am sure we will become used to it after a while.”

  “No doubt.” Rose sighed. “It’s just that I miss home.”

  “I know. I do too.”

  “Here everything we do is wrong. Our clothes are out of fashion—no, worse than that. We looked like Quakers tonight compared to those other women.”

  “Mmm. Poor Quakers, at that.”

  Rose smiled faintly at her sister’s wry comment. “Yes. Very poor Quakers. I know it’s vain of me, but I don’t think I can bear to look dowdy everywhere we go! Even the men dress more elegantly than we do.”

  “You could never look dowdy,” Mary assured her. “Even in rags, you would far outshine the other women there.”

  “You, of course, are not at all prejudiced.” Rose flashed a fond smile at Mary. “You are far prettier than any of them, too, but still … weren’t you embarrassed? I felt like a fool; I know they thought we were so provincial we didn’t know how to dress.” She sighed, then added, “Of course, I guess we are. Even after what Mama told us, I never dreamed they went to supper looking like they were going to the Governor’s Ball.”

  “I felt out of place,” Mary admitted. “We are out of place.”

  “The servants think we are odd,” Rose went on. “Nothing looks familiar. I’m scared to touch anything in this house for fear I might harm it. Our relatives hate us and wish we had not come.”

  “I am sure they do not hate you. Cousin Fitz seems quite nice and friendly. He didn’t act proud or offended. Indeed, I am quite certain he was laughing during our … performance.”

  Rose met her sister’s eyes in the mirror, grinning. “It was awful of us, wasn’t it, to horrify them so?”

  “Terrible,” Mary agreed, grinning back. “But I could not keep from … exaggerating.”

  “Exaggerating! I am quite certain that you did not carry the rifle into the fields to ward off Indians. Why, you were no more than ten when we left the farm. And I don’t recall any Indians.”

  “That may have been a bit of a lie. Still, we did live above the tavern and work there. And there were fights from time to time.”

  “I can’t be sorry we said those things,” Rose admitted. “I could not resist when I saw the shock on their faces.”

  “I know. Still, one of them was not so awful. Aunt Cynthia actually smiled at us, and she seemed to wish she’d heard from Mama.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Perhaps the others are not as bad as they appear. We should try harder—be more civil to them. Once they get to know you, I am sure that even our aunts will come to love you. Everyone does, after all.”

  Rose grimaced. “Don’t be silly. Not everyone.”

  “Well, perhaps there is some person whose soul is so shriveled that he cannot love you. But I do not know who he might be.”

  “Sam Treadwell’s father,” Rose said with a touch of bitterness.

  Mary glanced at her sister, surprised by her tone. “The mill owner? Pah! He scarcely knows you.”

  “He knows me well enough to say that a tavernkeeper’s daughter is not good enough for his son.”

  “What?” Mary went over and knelt beside her sister. “Did he actually say that? Did Sam Treadwell ask you to marry him?”

  “No, of course not. He knows his father would not allow it. And Sam would never go against his father.” Rose began to yank her brush through her hair with a good bit more force than was necessary.

  Mary gaped at her sister. Sam Treadwell was one of many men who always seemed to be hovering about Rose back home. He was a good-looking, good-natured fellow, but he had never stood out in any way to Mary. And while she could remember Rose talking about Sam now and then, relating some bit of news he had told her or some witticism he had made, she could not recall Rose ever stating a preference for him.

  “Rose! Do you—do you have feelings for Sam?”

  Color rose in Rose’s porcelain cheeks and she glanced away from Mary. “No. I mean, well …”

  “You do like him! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t any use. I knew his father would never allow it. Sam said he was trying to win his father over to his way of thinking, but I know Mr. Treadwell isn’t the sort to change his mind. I didn’t want to tell you; I was afraid you might say something to his father.”

  “Indeed I would—as if you were not good enough for his son! You are good enough for any man.”

  Rose chuckled. “You see my point, then.”

  “Yes. But I wish you’d told me anyway.” Mary paused, considering. “Rose… did you not wish to leave him? Would you rather we had stayed?”

  Rose
shook her head firmly. “No, of course not. Sam said a lot of splendid things, but he didn’t ask me to marry him. I doubt he would ever have gotten up his courage to do so. His parents are horridly snobbish.” She let out a little giggle. “They should see how our cousins live!”

  Mary smiled. “No doubt. I’d like to see Mr. Treadwell say you’re not good enough for his son now.”

  Rose shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not about to grow old waiting for Sam. And Mama was right. This was the best thing for us to do. Lily and Camellia will have a better life. And I know that if we had stayed, Cosmo would have somehow forced me to marry Mr. Suttersby, and I could not! You know how in Lily’s books, the women are always declaring that they would rather die than endure some man’s advances?”

  “Yes, and a more muddle-headed lot I cannot imagine. It seems to me far preferable to do away with him rather than oneself.”

  Rose let out a chuckle. “No doubt you would. But that is how I feel about Mr. Suttersby. I think I would rather kill myself than have to marry that awful man. His hair is gray, and his teeth are brown, and when he looks at me …” Rose shuddered.

  “Well, you shall not have to do either,” Mary told her stoutly. “We left him far behind us. Good riddance to Sam Treadwell, too, if he is that weak-kneed. You will find someone far better to marry here.”

  “Oh, Mary!” Rose reached out and hugged her sister. “Do you think we will really find any man like that here? Everyone seems so—so stiff and cold.”

  Mary’s mind went immediately to Royce. She remembered the feel of his arms around her, of his lips upon hers. No, he was not cold, she thought, a secretive little smile hovering on her lips. She would not call Royce Winslow cold at all.

  But she said only, “We have met few men here, after all. I am sure that you will be bound to find one to your liking.”

  “Of course. You are right. And the earl does seem to have accepted us as his family. Everything will be fine. It seems strange to us now, but in time we will become accustomed to it all.” Rose straightened her shoulders and smiled at her sister as she rose from the vanity, braiding her hair into a single thick plait, her fingers quick with long practice.

  Mary knew Rose well enough to be aware that the smile was forced. But she was also sure that Rose would try her hardest to make her words a reality. Because of her shyness and her sweet, compliant nature, people often mistook Rose as weak, but Mary knew that there was a quiet strength inside her. Their starched and prosy aunts would surely come to accept Rose.

  It was Camellia and Mary herself, she knew, who would be the problems. Mary sighed as she took her sister’s place at the vanity, unpinning and brushing out her own hair. She would speak to Camellia tomorrow about the need for diplomacy and tact, especially in the beginning. But she would also, for all her sisters’ sakes, have to put a curb on her own unruly tongue. However much it might go against the grain, she would try to get along with these people.

  It was some time before she finished her evening toilette and, rousing herself from her thoughts, turned to see that Rose was already sound asleep. Mary was tired, but as was often the case, she was too restless to sleep. Slipping on her dressing gown over her night rail to keep the chill at bay, she curled up in one of the chairs before the fireplace. But her thoughts did little to make her drowsy, filled as they were with apprehension about the future.

  A book would help keep her mind off such thoughts. They had had to leave all their books behind; they were far too bulky to take to England. However, there must be a library somewhere in this house. Mary hesitated, reluctant to go creeping through a strange house this late, clad in night rail and dressing gown. What if she met someone? But surely the guests had all gone by now, and the earl would have retired to his own bedchamber.

  She lit a candle from the lamp on the dresser and slipped out of the room. It was a little surprising to find that the sconces still burned at a low level, casting a dim light through the corridor. She went quickly across the hall and down the stairs, her footsteps in her soft slippers almost noiseless.

  She turned down the hallway they had taken when they went to supper, thinking that it was likely the library lay along it. Mary peered in the first doorway and saw another elegant gathering room, even larger than the one they had been in this afternoon. As she walked on, she became aware of the murmur of voices. She stopped, listening. Were there still servants about? Then came the sound of rich masculine laughter, and Mary realized that it issued from the dining room. The door was ajar, and light spilled from it onto the hall floor.

  For a moment she wondered if the guests could possibly still be here. But no—it was far too late. There was no other sound or movement of servants, and the lights were out at the back of the house. It was, she thought, only the brothers, probably talking over brandy or port. Mary turned to go back upstairs, ready to abandon her search. But curiosity got the best of her, and after a brief hesitation, she moved quietly down the hall, closer to the slightly open door.

  To Royce’s relief, the aunts and uncles had not lingered long after the Bascombe sisters retired. After the others left, Stewkesbury had dismissed the servants, and he, Royce, and Fitz had settled down at the table with their port and cigars. For a while, they sat in the companionable silence of long custom, sipping their drinks.

  Fitz cut his eyes toward his eldest brother. “Well, Oliver, it appears that you are going to take on the role of father now.”

  Fitz glanced toward Royce, and they exchanged a grin.

  Oliver scowled. “Easy for you two to smile about it. You haven’t had a set of marriageable cousins plopped in your lap.”

  “Especially these girls,” Fitz responded, chuckling. “Did you see Aunt Euphronia’s face when Miss Bascombe was talking about carrying a rifle to defend them from Indians?”

  “I thought Kent’s eyes might pop right out of his head,” Royce added.

  “Yes, well, it’s all very amusing to tease the aunts,” the earl said somewhat sourly. “But I am going to have to do something with these girls.” He turned toward Royce, fixing him with a hard gaze. “How the devil did you come up with them, anyway?”

  “I didn’t ‘come up with them,’” Royce protested. “It was sheer happenstance. They were chasing some fellow down the street, and I stopped him. Seems he’d stolen their satchel. I could see they weren’t the sort one would normally find wandering about down by the docks.”

  “The docks! Good Gad, it just gets worse.”

  “They had just arrived from America and clearly had no idea where to go or what to do. So I took them to an inn and settled them there. But I still didn’t know who they were. This morning when Mary told me she had been here knocking on your door, I was sure she was cutting a sham. That they had arranged to run into me. But I couldn’t see how that was possible. They couldn’t have known I would be at that den of thieves, chasing down Gordon.”

  “Gordon!” The earl’s brows flew up. “Aunt Euphronia’s Gordon? What the devil was he doing there? He’s supposed to be at Oxford.”

  “Bloody hell!” Royce grimaced. “I forgot. I told him I wouldn’t let on to you if he went to his father and confessed.”

  “Sent down from university, eh?” The earl sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Let his parents see to him. I have enough problems with my new cousins.”

  Royce paused, studying his stepbrother. “Are they really your cousins? Are you sure they’re legitimate?”

  The earl sighed and took another drink. “I’m afraid they are. After our meeting with the girls, I went to the nursery and searched for my aunt’s old books.”

  “So you did check up on their mother’s handwriting!” Royce exclaimed, remembering Mary’s taunt to the earl this afternoon.

  “Of course I did.” Stewkesbury raised his brows. “You didn’t think I would simply take her word that my aunt wrote that letter? Aunt Flora’s name was written in several books, and there were a number of her old composition books
as well. The dratted letter matched them all.” He stared down broodingly into his brandy snifter. “I also looked at the portrait of Grandfather’s children that hangs in the second-floor gallery. Aunt Cynthia was right—Rose Bascombe looks a great deal like Aunt Flora.”

  Fitz raised his brows. “So they really are our cousins.”

  Oliver nodded. “I believe so. The only possible question would be whether the marriage and birth certificates are legitimate. They could be forged, I suppose, and I would have no way of knowing.”

  “If they were forged, the girls could have been born out of wedlock.”

  “Yes. But it seems unlikely. Aunt Flora disobeyed her father, but that does not mean she would have entirely flouted convention and not married Miles Bascombe. Indeed, the whole point of contention was her marrying the man, so I would presume that she did so once she was out from under her father’s hand.”

  “Isn’t one of the birth certificates missing?” Royce asked.

  “Yes, but to my way of thinking, that makes it even more likely that they are telling the truth. If one were planning to gull someone into believing that several illegitimate children were legitimate, it only stands to reason that one would forge all the birth certificates. Why leave one out? It creates doubt. Why make them each come from a different place? It’s a great deal of work to no purpose. No, I fear this tale bears the messy hallmarks of reality.”

  Oliver reached over to pour them another drink.

  “What do you intend to do with them?” Fitz asked, taking a sip.

  “Clearly, I have an obligation to them. They are Talbots, after all.”

  “And, of course, that is what matters,” Royce murmured.

  The earl frowned at him. “Well, I would think it is when one is talking about providing for four people. I have no interest in taking in every stray orphan off the street.”

  “Don’t get on your high ropes, Ol,” Fitz drawled. “You know Royce cannot pass up the chance to point out that he is not a Talbot.”