‘Oh, Mrs Stratton,’ he said, ‘if you think that after that I could possibly withdraw my attentions to you, then…’ he shrugged ‘…well, I cannot.’ The laughter lit his eyes again. ‘I am unreservedly looking forward to you cutting me dead at Lady Sally’s ball tonight, for I fear I shall approach you once again.’
He let go of her hand, sketched a bow and sauntered off up Quay Street. Deb waited until she was sure that he would not turn around and then sank nervelessly on to the nearest bench. Damn her honesty and her runaway tongue! Why had she had to tell him the truth? Why could she not simply have allowed a lie to suffice this time?
She felt shaken and confused. Her elopement, which had ended in the most disillusioning manner possible, had led her to take a private vow never to entertain the thought of love again. Further, it was against all common sense to become entangled with a man who was a reprobate. Put the two together and she had the recipe for a full-scale disaster.
Deb knew that she was impulsive and fatally outspoken. She had worked very hard in the years of her widowhood to try and achieve a coolness and composure of which even Olivia would be proud. Feeling a treacherous affinity to a dangerous, rakish gentleman was in no way part of her plan.
She put her hand to her head. It was best to forget the entire incident and to concentrate on the reason that had brought her into town in the first place. The letter from the mail office was burning a hole in her reticule. But next to it was the book of poetry that Richard had given her and when she took it out it opened not at the work of Andrew Marvell, but earlier, with a quotation from Shakespeare: ‘Then come kiss me sweet and twenty, youth’s a stuff will not endure.’
With an exasperated sigh, Deborah stuffed the book under her arm. Was even the wretched book bewitched, that it had to taunt her with the same sentiments that Lord Richard had voiced himself?
She walked slowly up the road to the inn where she had left the carriage. There was no sign of Lord Richard Kestrel in Woodbridge’s narrow streets, even though she had had a definite feeling that she would bump into him again. If she had, she knew that she would have to snub him. Even so, she searched the vicinity very carefully indeed and was disappointed that he was not there to ignore.
As soon as she reached home, Deb hurried into the study, threw herself down into a chair and opened the only reply to her advertisement. Dangling her bonnet from her hand, she read the letter once, frowned, then went in search of Mrs Aintree. She found her companion settled in the drawing room with her netting frame set up beside her. Mrs Aintree looked up and smiled. Deb handed the letter over without a word. Mrs Aintree fixed her glasses more firmly on her nose, cleared her throat and read aloud: The odd conciseness of your style pleases and intrigues me. If I should like you as well as I like your advertisement, I think I could venture to help you. If you wish for further communication, address to Lord Scandal at the Bell and Steelyard Inn in Woodbridge.
She put the letter down in her lap and looked at Deborah with great reproof. ‘I knew you would not take my advice and tell your father the truth. But advertising for a gentleman-have you run mad, Deborah?’
‘Never mind that!’ Deb said impatiently. ‘What do you think?’
‘Saucy,’ Clarissa Aintree said, shaking her head. ‘Very saucy indeed. What character did you anticipate in your…um…betrothed, Deborah?’
‘I thought of someone moderate, agreeable and open to my guidance,’ Deb said. ‘He would need to be quite biddable.’
Clarissa Aintree made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a cough. ‘Then Lord Scoundrel cannot be the man for you.’
‘Lord Scandal,’ Deb said.
‘Whichever. He cannot be the right man for this role, for every line of his communication screams arrogance.’ Mrs Aintree put the letter down on the little table beside her. ‘Throw the letter in the fire, my love. Better still, throw the entire paper, advertisement and all, into the flames. Advertising for a fiance indeed! Outrageous!’
‘I need to find myself a gentleman most speedily,’ Deb argued. She got to her feet and walked across to the drawing-room window. ‘My father expects me to arrive at Walton Hall with my betrothed.’
‘Really, Deborah, was there ever anyone like you for getting yourself into a scrape?’ Mrs Aintree said, not quite managing to eradicate the reproach from her voice. ‘Instead of solving the problem, you come up with a solution that creates a further difficulty!’
‘You do not think that Lord Scandal could be the answer to the problem?’
‘With a name like that?’ Mrs Aintree enquired drily.
‘I thought that it might be his real name.’
Mrs Aintree raised her brows. ‘And are you called Lady Incognita?’ she asked, drier still. ‘Now I consider it, I do believe Lady Incognita to be the sobriquet for one of the most notorious courtesans in London. No wonder that you have Lord Scandal answering your advertisement!’
Deb sighed and pushed the curly fair hair away from her face. ‘I suppose that you are right. No, I know that you are right. I was merely clutching at straws. Lord Scandal will not do. I shall have to wait a week or so for other replies to my advertisement.’
‘No,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘I do believe that you should give up this silly notion of a temporary fianceat once, Deborah. No good will come of it. No gentleman of respectable means would ever respond to such a notice. This is not like advertising for a butler, you know.’
Deb sighed again. She knew that Mrs Aintree, the epitome of common sense, was absolutely right. But she had hoped-expected-that there would be so many more replies from which to choose. She had been certain that there would be at least one sensible gentleman whom she might select from the crowd. Alas, it seemed that the gentlemen of Suffolk were far too conservative, too stuffy, to respond to an intriguing invitation. All except for Lord Scandal, who was clearly a rogue of the first order.
‘You are correct, as always, Clarrie,’ she said, slumping on to the window seat and propping her shoulders against the panelling in a deplorably hoydenish manner. ‘It was a silly plan. I shall forget about it and go to dress for Lady Sally’s ball. What do you do this evening?’
‘I shall sit here and compose advertisements for the newspapers,’ Mrs Aintree said calmly. ‘They will read: Mrs Prim requires new post as a lady’s companion. She is utterly unable to cope with the demands of her current place and requires a quiet life with a sober, respectable, elderly lady.’
Deb laughed and hugged her. ‘You know that you would not care for a quiet life, dear Clarrie! You would miss my hoydenish behaviour. Come now, confess it. You would be quite lost without me!’
But as she went upstairs to dress, Deb reflected that it would not do to dismiss Lord Scandal quite yet. She had not completely relinquished her plan and, unless some other gentleman came forward, he was all that she had. An arrogant reprobate…Deb paused with her hand on the banister. She knew one such man already and if it were not for the fact that she doubted he ever read the local press, she would have sworn that Lord Scandal bore a strong resemblance to Lord Richard Kestrel. That was impossible, of course. Even if he did read the Suffolk Chronicle, Lord Richard would surely never respond to an advertisement.
At any rate, it did not matter, for she would not take Lord Scandal up on his offer. Soon she would have any number of respectable responses from which to choose and in the meantime she would go to Lady Sally’s ball and greet Lord Richard Kestrel with a cool composure that would soon depress his amorous intentions. It was a good resolution, but she could not help wondering, with a little shiver of premonition, whether she would be able to keep it.
Chapter Six
P romptly at nine, the carriage from Midwinter Marney Hall drew up on the gravel sweep outside Saltires. None of the occupants of the coach was in a particularly sunny mood. Olivia and Ross had been sitting in a simmering silence for the entire journey. Deb was torn between exasperation with them and a most unfamiliar nervousness on her own account. She felt as shy and awkward as a debutante at her first Assembly. In consequence she chattered even more than usual, until Ross had brusquely suggested she save her energies for the dancing. The silence had then become even more strained and it was with relief that they arrived at Lady Sally’s ball and made their way under the arched portico and into the hall.
