Fran Keighley Read online

Amanda debated how to make tactful but firm refusal. She would not have Eliza here, and she did not mean to be swayed from that stand, but how to say so?

  However, while considering means, Amanda read on, and, oh, no.

  Lord Hollingcourt had died, and by now he was buried. His death had been expected, yes. Amanda doubted that she had ever laid eyes upon the man. He had lived most quietly even before his health failed. But this meant that Isabella was now a widow. A beautiful, wealthy young widow.

  She would look beautiful in black, Amanda thought inconsequentially. Pathetically drooping, dabbing at her large blue eyes, murmuring bravely of the Lord's will and merciful releases.

  Quite. A merciful release for Isabella herself, Amanda reflected quite uncharitably. No longer tied to an elderly invalid, nor yet ruled by her parents. Free to marry again, while youthful and lovely, and an even more desirable catch. She could choose a second husband by herself, uninfluenced by paternal dictates.

  Isabella certainly would not lack suitors. Even married, she had admirers. Gerald was among them, but Amanda doubted his fortunes there. Would Lyndon have been viewed more favorably? Gossip had made him her lover, in the not-too-distant past. Now he was heir to a fortune and dukedom.

  But he was wed, and expecting an heir of his own. That made every difference.

  Didn't it?

  It kept them from wedding, certainly. Lyndon could never be granted a divorce or annulment, simply to marry a lady he preferred.

  Oh, but how ridiculous to even consider such matters, Amanda scolded herself. Her condition was making her fanciful. Lyndon was happy in his life with her. She took pains to assure his happiness, and now he had his estate, his stables. Still, Amanda could not prevent herself from eying him narrowly, when he was unaware of her scrutiny.

  She didn't share Eliza's letter with him, any of it. But did he learn of the death of Lord Hollingcourt from his own correspondence? The gazettes? Did he seem worried? Abstracted? Lost in thought, more than was his wont?

  What if he was? Managing an estate, even a small one such as Highbriars, presented problems, which he had to solve. Another of his new mares was about to foal. There was Uncle Henry's fall and now illness. That poacher.

  Yes, Lyndon had reason to seem abstracted, to frown and engage in calculations. However, Amanda reassured herself, whenever she spoke to him or he noticed that she was studying him, he was quick to smile at her, make some quip, inquire regarding her morning sickness and whether her letters contained good news.

  Good news. Thought-provoking, certainly. Hardly good.

  * * *

  Amanda stood transfixed in the doorway to the kitchen. "What was that you said, Price? Shot at? Who was shot at? The master? You never mean Mr. Lyndon?"

  Fisher scowled at Price, muttering, "Eh, now you're for it, you old looby. Didn't the master say?!" His smile at Amanda didn't manage to be convincing. "'Ere, Mrs. Lyndon, ma'am, no one was shot at, like. Just-"

  But Amanda whirled, picking up her skirts, without waiting to hear what more the groom said. She hastened to Lyndon's study, where she had glimpsed him only moments before.

  "Lyndon, what do I hear? Shots fired at you?"

  He looked up, scowling darkly. "Who told you that? I'll have his hide!"

  Impatiently, Amanda brushed it aside. "I overheard the servants talking. Surely you didn't think anything so significant would not come to my ears."

  "Oh, it's of no significance," he denied, with a dismissive motion. "Some fool was out shooting, not realizing anyone else was in the vicinity. The bullet came rather close, but I was in no danger. Nor was Fisher. We shouted, and whoever it was made himself scarce."

  "You're positive?" Amanda had to go near, to touch him, to reassure herself that he was unharmed. "My dearest love, if anything befell you-!"

  He rose, to put his arms about her, and pat her comfortingly. "Missed me by a mile. Missed whatever he aimed for, as well. Probably a lad, practicing his marksmanship, by shooting at some target on a tree."

  "You saw the target?" Amanda appealed for reassurance.

  He hesitated just too long, and had to admit, "Well, no. What were we to do, beat the woods in search for a scrap of paper nailed to a tree, or perhaps a dead branch with the bark peeled off?" He kissed her. "Just the sort of thing I did as a lad, and my reaction to being caught out, too"

  Amanda refused to be distracted. "But what if it was more than a boyish prank? The poacher, and, what if Humphrey was killed by him?"

  Lyndon pulled a face at her. "Next you'll be imagining some vast scheme against the entire Lyndon family, villainous poachers behind every bush and tree, to shoot us, or to bring down our horses."

  "A vast scheme against the entire-!" Amanda stared at him in horror, the opposite of reassured. "Lyndon! Gerald was set upon by footpads, in London. Their words led him to suspect they were employed to do him harm, as well as rob him! Do you suppose- ?"

  "Here, now. None of that. You lived in Town for years. You must know the dangers there. It was coincidence only. Why should anyone plot against the entire family? That's nonsense. I would not have mentioned it, had I realized you would take me seriously. Never fret, love. I've heard that ladies in your most interesting condition become fanciful, but you must not distress yourself. I promise you, I was never in the slightest danger."

  Amanda made herself smile back at him, even as she felt indignant he would blame her pregnancy for making her overly imaginative. Fanciful! Her husband was shot at, one cousin was shot dead and another attacked, his uncle's horse brought down by a trip-wire, and she was to remain unconcerned?

  Did that maligned imagination make her feel that he was less confident than he attempted to sound? Thoughtful of him to attempt to comfort and shield her. But all the same...

  After a few more pleasant words, she left him to his paperwork, and went in search of Fisher.

  "The master has told me all about it. You didn't see anyone? At the time, or even before or afterward?"

  The groom scratched his head, looking worried. "Nay, ma'am, but I wasn't right with the master, don't you know? Him and Jem and me was out hunting for that dapple mare that keeps on a-finding ways to get out of the pasture, and we was all spread over the fields to look. The master, he cut through that little wood. First off, I was afeared that was him shooting."

  "He had a gun?" Amanda's mouth went dry.

  Fisher nodded. "Yes, ma'am. There's always the chance we'd find the mare had stepped in a hole, or such, and crippled herself so she'd have to be destroyed. But she was right enough. Come back to the pasture on her own, she did."

  To the groom, that made everything fine. The mare was unharmed, and the bullet hadn't struck anyone, or their mounts.

  Amanda could not view the matter so lightly. A shot had been fired, striking uncomfortably close to Lyndon. Suddenly the countryside no longer seemed so tranquil, so safe and peaceful.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amanda stared in lively amazement, and a touch of disbelief, at the veritable procession of sporting vehicles that came tooling up the Highbriars drive, to halt in milling confusion on the carriage sweep in front of the house.

  Curricles, one high-perch phaeton, no, here was a second, gentlemen on horseback, oh, and a closed carriage, with ladies leaning out the windows to call and wave. Moreover, here came a second group, this one of coaches laden with trunks and valises and what appeared to be servants.

  Plainly, Highbriars was receiving visitors, but who? Why? Not a single person among them was familiar to Amanda. But wait. Surely that was Gerald Lyndon, at the rear of the first set, his neat curricle dust-covered.

  Merciful heavens above, Isabella Hollingcourt was even now bending to thrust her head from a carriage window, to speak, laughing. To speak to Lyndon, who strolled down the front steps to greet them, smiling and showing every sign of pleasure.

  Had he known of their imminent arrival, then? And failed to tell Amanda?

  He handed Isab
ella Hollingcourt from the carriage. Her gown might be black but it was most daringly cut, neckline low, and clinging to every line of her excellent figure, and the bonnet rakishly tilted on her golden curls was laden with ostrich plumes. Again, all black but in no other way resembling mourning. Nor was her manner in the least grief-stricken.

  Here was a very merry widow.

  Amanda hurried to join them, incongruously feeling like an intruder in her own home. She was reluctant to push into a group of laughing strangers, and yet she knew that as mistress of the house, she must give them a proper welcome.

  Encountering Price and Mrs. Price in the front hall, she spread her hands, shrugging, eyebrows rising. She knew no more about this than they themselves, so how could she enlighten them?

  "Should they mean to stay? Perhaps they merely make a stop on their way elsewhere?" Amanda prayed the latter was the case, and from Mrs. Price's expression, so did she. "Are there rooms which can be readied for them?"

  Mrs. Price looked blank, almost panicky. How many rooms would such an entourage require? They would surely have to share, and even so, there were still the ladies' maids and gentlemen's valets- A house this size lacked numerous bedchambers, nor were the servants' quarters commodious.

  Lyndon, at least, seemed pleased Amanda emerged to join them, and he made introductions. She might know Isabella and Gerald, but the rest were strangers. A few names proved familiar, and she had occasionally glimpsed others in London, particularly in the park.

  This redheaded lady (well, lady by courtesy, and by title!) in a shockingly low-cut tight near- transparent gown of broad green-and-white stripes was the notorious Lady Rakeham. All London knew of her scandalous exploits and liaisons. The Corinthian atop a high-perch phaeton was her lord, whose reputation was no better. They were perhaps the elder members of this set, he in his thirties, and she not yet out of her twenties though the hardness of her features made her appear older. The others were much of the age of Lyndon and Amanda herself, though one blonde girl seemed very young, but also very common. Was she the wife of one of these men? The ring on her finger hardly resembled a wedding band, but surely he would not bring along his mistress on a visit?

  The gentlemen (again, gentlemen by courtesy; they seemed quite lacking in gentility though expensively clad and accoutered, and their fashionable drawls had aristocratic accents) outnumbered the females, and were quite dandified.

  Lyndon, in his well-cut coat, moderate cravat, riding breeches and boots, looked far more the thing than these fops, Amanda thought with wifely pride. Gerald Lyndon did, as well. Elegant, but not appearance-conscious to excess.

  "You see us here on a mission of mercy!" Lady Rakeham explained to Lyndon in shrill tones. "We seek to cheer our dearest poor Isabella..." who at that moment gave a peal of laughter at some quip from a gentleman, which Amanda suspected was improper; Amanda had never seen anyone who seemed less poor or in need of cheering, "and enliven you during your enforced rustication."

  "Told you we should," a man-milliner drawled. "So here we are."

  Gerald Lyndon eased to Amanda's side, to say for her ear only, "Dearest cousin, I did my utmost to prevent or delay them, but it was quite impossible. Once the idea was in their heads, well, you may judge for yourself. So I thought it best to come along to attempt to ease the situation."

  Amanda cast him a glance of gratitude. If only he had been successful. To send warning in advance of their arrival, at the very least. "Thank you, Cousin Gerald. I fear you may be required to play host to some of them. Highbriars is hardly of a size to accommodate so many, and there are no inns nearer than the town, I believe."

  He grimaced in acknowledgement. "Whatever I may do to be of service. There is, of course, room and to spare at Devonridge. However-!"

  That idea was unthinkable. Amanda could visualize how Lord Devonridge, Sir Humphrey, and Lady Mathilda would react to this company. If only they would not hear of it. But that, she knew, was a fruitless hope. In the country, with servants back and forth between Highbriars and Devonridge, gossip of these rare birds would spread like wildfire. Not only to Devonridge, but all over the county. Nesbitts and all others would hear. And the more tongues which relayed the tale, the more exaggerated it would become.

  * * *

  The unwanted guests-unwanted by Amanda, at least; Lyndon seemed happy to have them, laughing and joking with them-scattered out all over the house, examining and quipping; even when they made compliments, those sounded insincere, as if making fun of her beloved home. Isabella's were particularly lavish yet tongue-in-cheek, with joke-sharing glances at the others.

  Amanda smarted, resenting the veiled ridicule of her choices, of herself, in fact. No, she did not belong to their set. She lacked the slightest desire to do so, and this feeling increased quite rapidly upon acquaintance with them. Doubtless Highbriars lacked the opulent grandeur of the Hollingcourt townhouse and estate, just as it did Devonridge. But still!

  She went through the motions of being a well-bred hostess, but no matter how she told herself that their behavior reflected far more upon their breeding (no matter how well-connected they might be, if indeed they were, which she was coming to doubt) than upon her and Highbriars, their false compliments rankled.

  The very young blonde seemed the most sincere, and she did possess an endearing charm. Amanda found herself liking the girl, at least as much as it was possible to like anyone who chose to be part of this company. Possibly it was not of her own choosing, but because she had been married off, just as Amanda herself had been, to a member of it.

  Finding a moment alone with Lyndon was difficult, but by persevering, Amanda managed. "My love, I do not know how we shall manage to house and feed so many guests, far less their servants as well. Gerald will take some, he assures me, but nonetheless-!"

  He gave her a careless hug and kiss. "Oh, never fear, sweet. These things have a way of working themselves out. Like enough, some will drink themselves under the table and they can be left to sleep where they lay. Here, I want you to meet Wickes, the best of good fellows."

  Amanda, tugged along willy-nilly, found the prospect of drunken guests even less alluring than those same guests sober. At Cousin Cordelia's parties, she had learned that over-imbibing often led to vomiting it all up again, and not often making it to the street, garden, or any sort of basin.

  Not here.

  Amanda felt she couldn't bear to have her newly refurbished home degraded in such a way.

  Oh no. Lyndon's "best of good fellows" was a man whom she had noticed as having a particularly contemptuous eye and sarcastic tongue. At least Mr. Wickes was a sporting man, a Corinthian, which meant he was less foppish than the dandy-set. Still, she smiled and said everything which was proper, and felt sure he scorned her as a drab little sparrow. So she was, alongside the flashy females of this set.

  The afternoon wore on. Amanda felt frazzled, between attempting to be a courteous hostess, and trying to soothe Cook and the Prices.

  "We could send to Devonridge for extra provisions, in the ordinary way, I suppose, but do you think, ma'am?" Amanda's glance back was despairing. No, she decidedly did not consider that advisable. This was far from an ordinary situation. No wonder her queasiness revived and threatened to overcome her. Lord Devonridge would heartily disapprove of these friends coming here. Amanda was well aware that he hoped marriage would wean Lyndon from wild companions.

  Friends. Oh, dear lord, was this how Lyndon himself was wont to behave? Associating with women who were, well, there was no other word for such behavior than cheap. Vulgar, perhaps, yes. Men who, the phrase came to her, half flash and half foolish.

  Could he possibly view her as they did, but conceal it better? Amanda had felt he had an affection for her, even though theirs was not a love match. This day made her question all that she believed. Nevertheless, it did not give her any desire to abandon her own values in favor of adopting theirs.

  Offers of tea and lemonade were laughingly waved away in favor of al
e, wine, and even brandy, by the women as well as the men. Drink did not improve their manners or behavior.

  Amanda felt particularly shocked by Isabella. Previous encounters with her had been at balls and routs, or seeing her at the theater, the opera, or driving in the park, when she had conducted herself with perfect outer decorum. But now!

  Isabella openly flirted with Lyndon, not caring who saw them, their friends or even his wife. She touched him, leaning against him so that her breast pressed his arm, whispering into his ear. When he said something, shaking his head, she squealed with laughter. And did she say, "You share a room? How very provincial"!

  Amanda could only hope that she had misunderstood those words of Isabella's. She could only interpret them as having suggested a midnight rendezvous. Lyndon must have declined because he and Amanda did not follow the fashionable pattern of separate bedchambers. Had they not slept together, how would he have responded? Certainly his manner toward Isabella was warmer than any wife would appreciate.

  What, Amanda considered despairingly, could be done about this situation? This was one thing which Cousin Cordelia had never thought to instruct her daughters and Amanda about. Unless the repressive statement that husbands' little peccadilloes must be overlooked would cover this. Although Amanda had, upon occasion, heard Lady Cordelia with upraised voice, in reproof of Sir William.

  All Amanda could think to do was to retreat to that bedchamber and boudoir as soon after dinner as courtesy allowed. She could not think that she would be missed. They hardly talked to her, and their chatter washed over her, barely registering. Her presence among them would hardly prevent accidents and damage to carpet and furniture.

  "Mrs. Lyndon, that-that-I cannot call him a gentleman. The one in the extraordinary waistcoat-he made advances to Rosie!" Mrs. Price reported, scandalized. Rosie was the youngest housemaid, not even especially pretty or shapely. "I'm sure I can't bring myself to speak where he put his hands on her."

  Amanda could imagine. Her glance back matched Mrs. Price's. "But what can we do, other than keep the maids out of the way as much as possible? Let Price and the footman and our guests' own servants tend to their needs."