Encounter with Venus (4 page)

“Elaine is a silly flibbertigibbet,” Leyton muttered, snuggling into his pillow. “Livy is worth ten of her.”

“Yes, I know that, but she’s not in Georgie’s style. Besides, she’s too old for him.”

“Right. We’ve pinned our hopes for Livy on Horace, haven’t we?”

“You
have.” Felicia heaved a heavy sigh. “I no longer have hopes in that direction.”

“No?” He turned round and raised himself on his elbow. “Why not?”

“Really, my love, your friends the Thomsetts are not at all what I expected. I don’t believe Livy will take to Horace at all.”

“How can you say so? Horace is the best of fellows, I assure you.”

“Perhaps he is, among the fellows you associate with, but I don’t think my friends will find him so.”

“Come now, my love,” Leyton objected, “you barely know him.”

“I know enough.”

“Do you indeed?” Leyton, irked by her attitude, pulled himself up to a sitting position again. “What makes you believe your judgment is superior to mine, when I’ve known him for five years and you’ve known him for five minutes?”

“Because, my dear, women often notice things that men miss altogether.”

“You don’t say! And what exactly did you discover in five minutes that I’ve missed all these years?”

“I discovered that his own brother finds him overbearing.”

“Humph!” Leyton snorted. “Discovered by feminine intuition, no doubt. I don’t suppose you can give me any logical evidence for that supposition, can you?”

“I certainly can. For one thing, your friend Horace gave all the orders. And, for another, little Algy complained that Horace never let him answer for himself.”

“That’s just not—” Leyton stopped himself in midsentence. Something in what his wife had said rang true. He thought the matter over for a moment. “Perhaps you’re in the right of it,” he admitted finally. “Horace does have the habit of speaking for Algy sometimes.”

Having won her point, Felicia refrained from gloating. “Well, never mind,” she said, leaning over and bestowing a kiss on Leyton’s brow. “This party will probably be a disaster, but we shall make the best of it.” She blew out the candle and slipped down under the counterpane. “Thank goodness my invitation was only for the weekend.”

“Yes,” her husband agreed, putting a comforting arm about her shoulders, “it’s fortunate you didn’t invite them for a sennight!”

“That would
certainly
have been a disaster.” She nestled into his embrace and sighed. “I hoped that at least one romance might blossom as a result of this gathering.”

“Don’t give up hope, my love. Perhaps Elaine will take to Horace.”

“I don’t think so. She seems already to have set her sights on Georgie, worse luck.”

“I wouldn’t despair, if I were you,” Leyton murmured, his hps against her hair. “You may yet be surprised. Beatrice may set her sights on Horace, or Livy may astound us all and take to Algy.”

“I doubt it,” Felicia said mournfully. “Besides, I was thinking of Algy for Beatrice. Dash it all, if Georgie has no interest in Elaine, my entire plan for the weekend is bound to fail.”

Leyton gave up. “Well, good night, my dear,” he murmured.

His wife lifted her head. “Good night?” she cried. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What else can I say? Except that it’s quite plain to me that neither you nor I has any talent for matchmaking.” With that, he pulled her back into his embrace and asked plaintively, “Now may we please go to sleep?”

SIX

Back in London, Bernard woke on Friday morning with a feeling of alarm without knowing why. Then he remembered. George was gone! He’d left yesterday for Yorkshire. His best friend had deserted him just when he most needed support.

Of course, there was not yet any cause for alarm. The Renwood ball was still five days away, and George had given his word to return in time. But anything might happen to keep him from fulfilling his promise. There were all sorts of possibilities for delay. It was winter. The weather might make travel difficult. A snowstorm could make the roads impassable. An accident to the carriage could occur in an unpopulated place. An unexpected illness could strike. Or George could become infatuated with his mysterious lady and forget his promise.

Feeling decidedly depressed, he heaved himself up and, supporting himself by the bedpost, rang for his man. “After all,” he muttered aloud, “he did say she was very lovely. It’s quite possible that he could become besotted.”

“Who’s besotted?” came a voice from the doorway. It was Pratkin, his valet since his college days. After all the years of service, there was little formality between master and man.

“No one,” Bernard said shortly. “I was only thinking out loud.”

“About Lord Frobisher, I have no doubt,” the valet said, handing Bernard his crutches. “He said he’d be back, and he will. His lordship is not the type to go back on his word.”

Bernard eyed his man for a moment and then nodded. Pratkin’s words were reassuring. They made him remember that George was the sort who’d overcome every obstacle to keep his word.

“Yes, you’re right,” he admitted at last. “He wouldn’t forget a promise. Not George.”

However, he remained uneasy. After all, the best laid plans, as the Scottish poet Robert Burns warned, often go awry.

Later, to cheer himself, he decided to take luncheon at Brooks’ club. He could have chosen White’s or Boodle’s, where he was just as well known, but the fellows at Brooks’ were more Whiggish than Tory and thus more congenial to him. He set off in his carriage in passably good spirits, but the chill of the air changed his mood again. It was stingingly cold and smelled of snow. If it did snow, then all the dread possibilities he’d imagined earlier could come to pass. “Drat!” he cursed aloud. “Must we have a storm at just this time?”

Pratkin, perched up on the box beside the coachman, heard him. “There won’t be any storm,” he said as he helped Bernard down from the carriage in front of Brooks’.

“Much you know about predicting weather,” Bernard snapped, but he added more kindly, “Don’t wait out here in the cold. Just come back for me at three.”

The coach drove off. Bernard swung himself about on his crutches with the expertise of ten years’ experience, and he started toward the club’s entrance in firm control of his movements. At that moment, however, a strong gust of wind swept down St. James’s Street, dislodging his tall beaver hat from his head and sending it rolling along the pavement. “Damnation,” he swore as he made an attempt to follow it. After three awkward heaves on his crutches, however, he knew it was hopeless. The hat was already dozens of yards beyond his reach.

Suddenly a seedy-looking fellow appeared from round the comer and made a dive for the beaver. He caught it with hands covered by shabby, fingerless gloves. The fellow eyed the tall hat with admiration and brushed the dust from its brim with loving care.

“Oh, I say, my good man, I do thank you!” Bernard shouted gratefully.

The fellow looked over at the crippled Bernard and grinned. “Ye’r welcome, sir, I’m sure,” he shouted back. Then, clapping the hat on his own head, he laughed heartily, thumbed his nose at Bernard, and took off in the opposite direction, rounding the comer at Pall Mall and disappearing from sight.

Bernard’s lips tightened in helpless frustration.
How,
he wondered,
can I be such a damned fool?
Ordinarily, he was quite comfortable with his handicap, having become accustomed to dealing with the difficulties it presented, but on occasions like this one, the awareness of his limitations cut him to the quick. Waves of frustration and self-disgust washed over him. He stood trembling in fury until an inner voice reminded him that the poor wretch of a hat-robber had a great deal more need for a warm hat than he had.

Thus consoled, he heaved a sigh of acceptance and turned back toward the club’s doorway. But with a hand on the doorknob, he hesitated again. If he made an appearance without a hat, there would surely be questions. He’d feel even more the fool than he already did if he had to explain ...

Then he remembered that Dock’s, the hat shop, was just down St. James’s, only a short distance from where he stood. Since he could get there without too much effort and buy himself a new beaver, he promptly set off in that direction.

He’d gone but a few steps and was passing Berry Brothers, a fashionable shop for wines and imported spices, when a pair of females emerged from the doorway and started across the pavement toward a waiting carriage. Bernard took only the slightest notice of them, but they noticed him. “Sir Bernard!” cried one of them.

He turned his head and, to his horror, recognized Lady Renwood and her daughter. He felt himself go pale. “Lady Renwood! M-M-Miss Harriet!” he stammered, turning about awkwardly and putting his hand up to lift the hat that wasn’t there. “Er ,. . ah .. . good d-d-day.”

“What a pleasant surprise to run into you this way,” her ladyship gushed. “But where is your hat?”

Now he felt himself flush. “It blew away, I’m afraid. I’m just on my way to purchase another.”

“What a shame!” the younger lady exclaimed, putting a hand on his arm in a gesture of sincere sympathy.

The little gesture touched him. He looked down at the girl, his heart clenching in his chest. She was quite lovely, her eyes laughing up at him, and the reddish curls of her hair peeping out from the brim of her feathered bonnet. The warmth of her expression was enough to embolden him. He smiled shyly down at her. “I fear I make quite an unpresentable appearance.”

“Well, your hair’s a bit windblown,” Harriet said, grinning back at him, “but it makes you look—how shall I say?—sort of Byronic. Rather dashing, wouldn’t you say, Mama?”

“Byronic is just the word.” Lady Renwood nodded, smiling fondly.

Bernard, unable to picture the vibrant Lord Byron on crutches, couldn’t help snorting. “Oh, yes, Byronic indeed.”

But the young lady would not be contradicted. “Since you can’t see yourself, and we can, you must take our word for how dashing you look.”

Before Bernard could reply, Lady Renwood took a step forward and poked his chest with an indignant finger. “You naughty boy,” she scolded, “are you aware that you haven’t yet sent your reply to our invitation? You are coming to my ball on Wednesday, aren’t you?”

Bernard stiffened. “I hope to, your ladyship, but, you see, Lord Frobisher has gone north, and I’m not sure he’ll return on time.”

Harriet stared at him, her smile fading. “What has Lord Frobisher to do with it?”

“I rely on him, you see.”

“I’m afraid,” the girl replied, stiffening, “that I
don’t
see.”

Her mother poked her with an elbow. “Of course we see! It is perfectly reasonable, in your circumstances, to want someone with you. We must hope that Lord Frobisher returns on time.” With a glance at her daughter, as if advising her that the conversation had gone on long enough, she started toward her carriage. “Come, Harriet, we mustn’t keep Sir Bernard standing about in the cold.”

Her ladyship gave him a good-bye nod, but as the footman was about to hand her up into the carriage, she turned again to Bernard. “We shall put you on the guest list,” she said kindly, “but if you don’t come, we shall certainly understand.”

Bernard forced a smile. “Thank you, your ladyship.”

Harriet, who’d slowly followed her mother, suddenly shook off the footman’s arm and marched back to where Bernard stood leaning on his crutches watching her. She stood before him, arms akimbo and hands on hips. “Mama may understand,” she said in a strangely ominous tone, “but I won’t.” With that, she stomped back to the coach, sloughed off the offer of help from the footman, jumped in, and pulled the carriage door closed with a slam.

Bernard stared after them as the carriage rumbled off.
What did she mean by that?
he asked himself. Did she mean that she didn’t see why he needed George’s company? Or did she mean she’d be unforgiving if he didn’t make an appearance—that, in other words, she
wanted
him to come? If she was suggesting that she wished for his company, that would be very good news. But she was angry when she said it. Could she be angry at him and wish for his company at the same time?

He sighed in utter confusion. Harriet’s brief remark had put him decidedly out of countenance. Without George to explain the subtleties of the feminine mind to him, he would worry himself over those few words for the remaining five days.
Oh, blast!
he cursed inwardly,
blast Harriet, blast her mother, and blast the whole female sex!

SEVEN

In Yorkshire, shortly after dawn on Friday morning, three men gathered for the shooting expedition— Leyton, Lord Stoneham, and George. But just as Kelby appeared with a tray of hot toddies to warm the hunters before they set off, Horace Thomsett clamored down the stairs. “Oh, good!” he chortled. “You haven’t left yet!”

Leyton was surprised. “Well, well, Horace, old fellow, I’m glad to see you,” he greeted. “After your late arrival yesterday, I didn’t expect you up so early.”