The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers Page 4

  This was not true at all. Emma was an excellent seamstress and played the pianoforte beautifully, although she preferred to play in private. And Melinda had a quick mind when anybody bothered to challenge it— which, in this place, they seldom did. Both her good friends, in Georgiana's proud opinion, were two of the brightest and most promising young ladies in the school, but their talents were overlooked by Mrs. Lightbody because she took a personal dislike to them and could not winkle any more money out of their fathers.

  The headmistress took pleasure in the misfortunes of others, liked to lecture at length on subjects about which she knew nothing, and snidely criticized work that she herself could never emulate. She had been known to tear apart finely wrought embroidery or throw it into the fire, simply because the girl who made it once looked at her the wrong way, or her corns were playing up, or she'd been given the cut by someone in the street. All this considered, today's rant was no different to one on any other day. Until she said,

  "Since this afternoon's debacle I have decided to seek a governess post for Chance as soon as possible."

  In horror, Georgiana looked at her friend, but the girl did her brave best to show no emotion. Unclaimed by either parent— left at the school like lost baggage— Emma had long dreaded the day when she must become a governess to repay Mrs. Lightbody for these "years of charity".

  The headmistress continued, "As for Miss Goodheart, she can go home to her father at the first opportunity. I've let that old scoundrel's bills slide long enough and with all the aching she causes my spleen...unless she wants to stay on as an unpaid assistant to work off her debt to me, she can pack her trunk and be gone."

  Georgiana wondered which of those options her friend would choose. There was little advantage to either, and Melinda's father had made it clear in every letter he wrote that she was not to come home again, even to visit, until she'd found a rich husband.

  The headmistress was not yet done, of course. "And then we come to you, Miss Hathaway." Her head twitched with every syllable of the name. "Her ladyship, quite rightly, demands recompense for the destruction you caused today."

  "I wish I had the opportunity to apologize to Lady Bramley, but we were removed from the house so swiftly—"

  "Do you think she wanted to see your wretched, unsightly face a moment longer, girl?"

  "But I might have explained—"

  "The less chance you have to speak out loud the better, Miss Hathaway. You are certainly unworthy to address her ladyship directly in any matter. You're a little nothing, no more to her than a speck of dirt on the street."

  Georgiana's mind scrambled to calculate the cost of the damaged property. She knew her brother Guy would help if he could, but she did not like to ask him for money and he had already been generous enough. Besides, he was away at sea and her letter might not reach him for months. Her sister Maria, now a married lady, had no patience or sympathy for the "Wickedest Chit", and her other elder brother, Edward, a curate and extremely frugal, would only give her a lecture. Her remaining siblings were all younger and could not help. As for her father, he was too busy to bother with Georgiana, and now he had two new daughters by his second wife — as Mrs. Lightbody had so kindly pointed out— bringing his total offspring to nine, with no sign of abatement.

  She was, therefore, on her own and at the mercy of Lady Bramley's demands, whatever they might be.

  "I shall, of course, repay her ladyship," she said, her mind working frantically on the problem.

  "Indeed you shall. I only await Lady Bramley's decision on what the debt shall be. You're a wicked girl. I have never, in all my years, encountered such a graceless...ungrateful..."

  Georgiana's gaze drifted to a painting above the mantle in that small parlor. It showed a white-wigged Julia Lightbody from her younger days, when she had a fine complexion and a pert, well-upholstered bosom. Although the eyes in that face remained the same dark crevices, devoid of empathy, little else rendered in paint by the artist was recognizable today. The portrait stood as a chilling testimony to the ravages of time. And gin.

  For Georgiana this terrible transformation explained some of that lady's vile moods, even excused the vinegar remarks with which she berated and bullied many of the hapless girls under her roof. A glance at that picture, followed by comparison with the bitter, angry, disappointed woman that image had become, helped cool Georgiana's rising temper and replaced it with pity. If one tried hard enough, one could always find something worthy of sympathy, even in the most trying subjects.

  Her brother Guy had once teased her that she had a weakness for troubled souls and a propensity to look for the best in folk, even when their behavior gave her no encouragement. But as a young woman often at the receiving end of an accusatory finger herself, Georgiana believed no one was beyond hope, no one beyond rescue, no one beyond the right of a fair trial. Perhaps this optimism was merely wishful thinking for her own wicked soul— as her sister Maria would remark.

  "Now be gone from my sight!" The headmistress reached for her fly squasher again. "Good riddance to the lot of you."

  The friends slipped out and as they closed her door, the proprietress hollered, "Mark my words, the three of you will come to no good. You are this academy's biggest failures. By far the most unlikely to make good matches. You'll be three debauched old ladies huddled together, probably living a life of crime, not a decent husband between you."

  What exactly would be wrong with that? Georgiana mused. As Melinda often said, who wanted a "decent" husband in any case?

  Hmmm. The Ladies Most Unlikely. She rather liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Four

  "Henry! Wake up, Henry!" His aunt's strident tones broke through his daydream like an axe through his skull. "Pay attention! I didn't invite you to my garden party yesterday so that you would spend the afternoon skulking about inside the house, avoiding my guests. You might have been civil to the young ladies and mingled."

  "Mingled?" Looking up from his study of the hissing coals in the fireplace, he scratched his temple with one finger. "Madam, had one of them not bowled me over like a skittle, I'm sure I could have attempted conversation, but your list of appropriate subjects dries up rather promptly when one is hurled flat on one's back by a strange young lady's careening nether regions. Forgive me for mentioning that part of her, but I feel now as if I have some familiarity with it."

  His aunt stared crossly. "As a gentleman you might still have made an effort, Henry. The mark of good manners is an ability to retain aplomb even in the most uncomfortable of situations."

  Harry exhaled a hefty sigh and stretched his legs out until he was almost sliding out of the seat, his frame trying the limits of that dainty chair in which it was constricted. Accustomed to the dark paneling, heavily-leaded windows and sturdy medieval beams of his own house, he felt uncomfortable in these surroundings— airy pastel shades and graceful furnishings. A restlessness had overtaken his limbs that day, but he had nowhere to expend it and this did not improve his mood.

  "I fear, madam, that you are destined for disappointment if you continue in this idea of developing and improving me like one of your prize-winning vegetables."

  "Don't be foolish, Henry. A champion gourd takes a vast deal more care and trouble to cultivate than a man. Although it is usually a more satisfactory enterprise, I must say."

  "Your methods don't seem to have worked with me."

  "Henry dear, I haven't even begun with you."

  As those ominous words echoed around his mind, he heartily regretted bending to the lady's wishes by staying the night in Mayfair as her guest. By now he could have been safely back at Woodbyne Abbey, but with both her sons away and after the terrible events at yesterday's garden party, his aunt had declared herself in want of company. "Even yours, Henry, is better than none," she'd assured him. So he had agreed to stay the night until she was recovered from the atrocity committed against her person and property. Using her knowledge of Harry's soft spots, she had guilted hi
m into it, he realized now. She had cunningly trapped him there as her guest.

  Even twenty-four hours later, however, there was no fading of her injuries and no end to her complaints. They moaned onward like a dreary winter wind, reliving again and again the events at the party.

  "Every year one of those wretched girls tries to steal my owl. I had Filkins move it upstairs out of the way this time, but even that precaution was not enough."

  "I suspect that young woman would have found the object wherever you had it hidden. She seems the resourceful sort." He couldn't help his lips forming a slight smile, as he remembered a fishing rod once put to such unexpected but efficient use, and the horrified expression on the face of that ass, Wardlaw Fairbanks. Couldn't have happened to a more deserving fellow.

  His aunt blinked rapidly. "It almost sounds as if you admire the troublemaker, Henry."

  "I can appreciate ingenuity," he admitted reluctantly. "Had it not been for that hairy reticule with fangs,"— he glanced over at the dog in her lap— "I daresay Miss Hathaway would have got away with it."

  "You know her name? How on earth do you know her name?"

  He pushed his heels into her carpet and sat up a few inches, adjusting his pose to reach for a book laid on the nearby table. "I believe I encountered her some years ago. From a distance. Very briefly." Even across the hearth, and with his face now hidden behind that hastily procured book, he could feel his aunt's curiosity stretching like the claws of a cat about to pounce. "We were not formally introduced."

  "And yet you remember her name? That's not like you, Henry. You never pay attention to young ladies."

  "It was...a memorable occasion."

  She huffed. "Whatever her name, she could not possibly have any explanation for her behavior at my party. Hoisting up her petticoats and descending my stairs in that undignified manner! I have never heard of such a thing. Why would you attempt to defend the deplorable actions of that wayward creature?"

  Had he tried to defend her? "You know me, madam. One never knows what I might say or do next. Is that not why the Navy retired me at the grand age of twenty-eight and I sit here two years later with a bloody Knighthood that hasn't been any damned use for anything since the days of jousting and long-toed shoes."

  Clearly his aunt was too perturbed even to comment on his language. She rambled onward, "That girl is a soul in need of guidance and direction. She was quite dreadfully unrefined in appearance. I have never agreed with so much outdoor exercise as Julia Lightbody advocates, and this girl in her charge is an example of the tragedy that can occur from too much exposure to sun. One seldom sees such a freckled complexion. Surely you agree, Henry."

  "She could have been lime green for all I noticed or cared."

  "Don't be tiresome, Henry. You are not completely unobservant or you would not have recognized the girl."

  "But it was her derriere that greeted me and, I confess," he smirked at his book, "I saw absolutely nothing amiss there."

  "Don't be coarse, Henry."

  "I was unaware that freckles had become so reviled, in any case."

  "Because you have no idea of the standards to which any woman must be held. You live quite in your own world."

  "Thank goodness." He remembered, just in time, that he liked being alone in his world. But as he looked down at the book again, the printed words melted away to be replaced by a sensual vision — of her fingers in his, the softest thing he thought he had ever touched. At least, it seemed that way.

  He should have worn gloves, of course. But where were hers?

  During this discussion, the distant ringing of a bell had evaded his aunt's notice. Too caught up in recounting her troubles, she continued to be unaware of any visitor, or even that the drawing room door was opened, until Filkins, the butler, cleared his throat loudly and attempted an introduction.

  "My lady, there is a—"

  The very subject of their discussion barreled forth into the drawing room with the flushed cheeks and windblown demeanor of a villain on the run from justice. Stumbling to a brief halt on his aunt's Axminster carpet, she dropped to a curtsey and exclaimed, "I will not bother you long, Lady Bramley, as I am meant to be discharging the tasks for which I was let out— errands at the post office and the haberdasher— but I suffer so under the weight of my guilt that these duties cannot be fulfilled until I have laid my conscience bare before you. I must apologize for the incident of the owl and the marrow."

  Lady Bramley's spaniel, formerly curled upon her lap and emitting a steady rhythm of contented snores, now lifted his head, twitched his damp snout and let out a low growl. But the lady herself seemed utterly lost for words and could only comfort the tiny beast with a plump hand on its back.

  Meanwhile her butler fussed after the intruder, sputtering in outrage, "How dare you throw yourself at her ladyship! Stop at once and wait to be introduced." He gripped her skirt between his fingers, hauling her backward, away from Lady Bramley.

  "Mind my frock, sir. This cost seven shillings a yard! Have an appreciation for good muslin, if you please."

  "I wouldn't care if it's spun gold. You cannot confront her ladyship in this manner."

  But the sound of ripping stitches caused the butler to release his grip and the young woman dodged nimbly out of his reach. "I must be allowed to plead my case, before judgment is proclaimed. I must have my right to a fair trial."

  "Right? Right, girl? You have no rights."

  "Indeed I do."

  Lady Bramley twisted around in her chair, first one way and then the other, raising a lorgnette to inspect the remarkable performance.

  Harry closed his book now that he had better entertainment. Probably ought to remove all potential weapons from her reach, he mused. After all, he had witnessed her in action twice now. But at that moment he was too interested in watching her dance circles around the butler and an occasional flash of shapely ankle added to the excitement. Not that he was supposed to notice and if he were a proper gentleman he would have averted his eyes. If.

  Miss Hathaway certainly brought a breath of fresh air into that drawing room. He supposed it was her ability to cause a stir with every entrance that made him take note and remember her, for there was nothing otherwise remarkable about her appearance— except for the much-maligned smattering of freckles across her nose, of course. A rare but welcome sight, as far as he was concerned. Whatever his aunt would say of how a lady should groom herself, Harry preferred a natural "imperfection" to an artificial virtue.

  "I promise you, madam," the girl continued breathlessly, "yesterday was not meant to turn out the way it did. I am thoroughly, deeply mortified by the disaster I caused."

  How, exactly, was it meant to turn out, he wondered wryly, moving his feet before she tripped over them. Clearly she had planned to wreak havoc one way or another yesterday, and liven up an otherwise unbearable afternoon.

  Suddenly her eyes met with his. Her color deepened.

  It was speckling with rain outside, and she was slightly damp about the edges. This, combined with her yellow straw bonnet, wide eyes and parted lips, gave her the look of a newly hatched chick.

  "Well, goodness gracious," his aunt exclaimed finally, gesturing for the butler to halt his pursuit. "I'm quite sure no indiscretion merits this theatrical entrance, girl. Has no one taught you that running is unseemly conduct for a young lady? And speaking before you are spoken to reveals a want of good breeding?"

  The girl snapped her lips shut in apparent consternation. Only to open them again a moment later. "Lady Bramley, if I waited to be addressed by anybody of importance, it might be a very long time before I had the chance to speak. I may as well be mute and purely decorative."

  "There is nothing objectionable about that idea, young lady."

  "Perhaps there would not be if I was, in any way, ornamental."

  Harry chuckled at that, and both women glowered at him until he managed to contain his amusement with a series of sputters. "Good lord, look at that," he mutte
red, pretending to find something amiss with his waistcoat buttons.

  "There was a great deal of damage done at the garden party, your ladyship," the intruder soldiered on, "and I, Georgiana Hathaway, am solely to blame. I did not want you to think there was anyone else involved. Nobody else need be punished, no matter what Mrs. Lightbody may tell you. I alone am responsible. I, a wretched, pitiful creature, must throw myself upon your mercy."

  Although no longer pursued by an angry Filkins, the young woman still danced from one foot to the other, glancing nervously at the carpet, as if hoping that by balancing on only one set of toes at a time she might ameliorate the mess she made.

  His aunt, he saw, was beginning to melt a little inside her stays, not that anyone unfamiliar with the subtlest change in her expression would know it.

  "I am solemnly resolved to accept the burden of any punishment you see fit to place upon my unworthy shoulders, Lady Bramley. Although I fear no single act of contrition, however demeaning, will ever fully erase the stain of my wickedness."

  "Indeed," his aunt muttered. "I see the enormity of the task before us. How on earth did you get here, girl? Surely not entirely on foot."

  "Partly, your ladyship, but for a good distance and only a small sum I managed to procure a seat on the back of a delivery cart."

  Apparently a fishmonger's cart. The insidious odor was unmistakable by then, causing his aunt to drop her lorgnette and fumble for a handkerchief to hold against her nose.

  It seemed as if Miss Hathaway was something of a magnet to misfortune, even when her intentions were good.

  Suddenly Lady Bramley's spaniel escaped her comforting hand, leapt from her lap, bared its teeth, and quivered with excitement.

  "But I could not let another hour go by, your ladyship," the young woman continued, eyeing the little dog warily, "without assuring you of my regrets, explaining that my friends are not at all to blame, and expressing my sincerest apology."