A Poor Relation
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Mr Lewiston tried to bring his friend into the discussion. ‘You must have seen all the sights, of course, Leigh?’
‘Too many years ago,’ agreed Lord Amburley, making no attempt to include Isabella in his remarks. ‘I am more familiar now with the great churches of Madrid than of London, I fear. I shall be forced to reacquaint myself with them, now the war is finally over.’
Isabella was incensed. She determined that she would no longer be ignored by this arrogant man. She would force him to acknowledge her. ‘Were you many years in the Peninsula, my lord?’ she asked innocently.
‘I joined Wellesley in eighteen ten, ma’am,’ he replied tersely, directing a stern gaze at Isabella.
She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. ‘And your family was content for you to go? I fancied it was more usual for the heir to kick his heels at home, and that only younger sons joined the colours. I collect your parents did not share the received opinion?’
‘No, ma’am, you are mistaken,’ he rejoined sharply. ‘The heir did indeed remain at home. I was the younger son merely, and required to make my own way in life. I inherited the title only in eighteen twelve, on the death of my elder brother.’
Isabella paled with anger at his condescending manner. How dare he? He had purposely made her simple question sound impertinent. ‘Did you leave the army then, sir?’ she continued calmly, refusing to be daunted by his hard eyes.
‘No, ma’am. I remained until Boney was sent to Elba.’
‘Even then, he was afire to be off again when Boney escaped,’ interposed Mr Lewiston, ingenuously, ‘and would have gone, had it not been for Lady Amburley’s entreaties.’
‘You allow yourself too much latitude in interpreting my motives, George,’ returned his lordship, with a generous smile that softened his features markedly. In that moment, he seemed to Isabella to reveal a character totally different from the hard, taciturn man she had judged him to be. ‘My mother’s wishes happened to coincide with my duty. I was not in a position to quit the estates again, however much I might have been tempted.’
‘But you have yielded to temptation now, my lord, have you not, in coming to London?’ Without pause for thought, Isabella had decided that, if he would condemn her for impertinence, she would give him cause. She fixed an innocent smile on her lips.
Lord Amburley turned back to Isabella and surveyed her slowly. It was exactly the same calculating look he had given to ‘Winny’ on their encounter at the Bell inn. Then suddenly, he laughed. ‘Touché, ma’am. I have indeed yielded to the delights of the London Season. Though, before you reproach me further—’ Isabella lowered her eyes, suddenly conscious of the impropriety of her outburst ‘—I should reassure you that my estates are now in good enough order to be able to survive without my ministrations for a month or two.’
Isabella raised her gaze again to discover that he was now laughing at her. Infamous! Her earlier embarrassment was replaced by righteous anger. She must—and would—find the means of repaying him in his own coin…and soon.
The door had hardly shut behind the two men, when Lewiston launched into a slightly incoherent recital of the stages of his enlightenment. ‘What the devil do they mean by entertaining Gradely? He’s the worst sort of fortune-hunter. Puts me in mind of some ravening beast, waiting to prey on the innocent and helpless. If he should make her an offer…’
Amburley waited patiently for the tirade to end before gently steering his friend back to the question of Isabella’s identity.
‘I would not have believed that they were one and the same, but for her eyes. They are a most unusual colour. I noticed that at the inn. But she did not guess that I had rumbled her, I’d swear to that,’ Lewiston added, with obvious self-satisfaction, ‘so we still hold all the cards.’ He paused. ‘It’s a devilish tricky situation, though, Leigh,’ he added uncertainly. ‘You are quite justified in saying they have practised a disreputable deception on us, yet I cannot readily believe Miss Sophia is truly guilty. She is such an innocent… In the circumstances,’ he continued, after a moment, ‘I thought it best to say nothing, at least for the present. To be honest, I wanted time to think.’
‘Very wise, George,’ agreed Amburley. ‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.’
‘What the devil do you mean, “revenge”?’ exclaimed Lewiston. ‘What need have I, or you for that matter, to wreak vengeance on that poor girl?’
‘Easy, George. Remember that they set out, quite deliberately, to dupe us. Let us consider the situation dispassionately, before we pronounce upon the appropriate retribution. The facts are simple. Miss Sophia Winstanley, the heiress, has a distant cousin, Isabella, also called “Winny”. Said cousin is only a poor companion, but has now been dressed to the nines in order to appear as an equal. We do not know why, nor who is responsible for this disreputable scheme, though I must say that it is much more likely to have originated with the rich Miss Winstanley than with the poor relation.’ He cut short his companion’s attempted defence of Sophia. ‘However, I attach the largest part of the blame to the elder Miss Winstanley. A lady of her years and experience should never have consented to such a bird-witted escapade, however tempting the bait. It was always bound to fail.
‘By the way, George,’ he added, ‘I think you owe me an apology, for doubting my ability to detect a fraud.’
Lewiston’s jaw dropped momentarily.
‘Do not bother to beg my pardon, old fellow,’ Amburley said, with a sardonic smile. ‘I understand that you are much more concerned about Miss Sophia’s feelings than mine.’
‘Leigh, you are quite outrageous,’ returned his friend. ‘Yes, of course you were right. But what are we to do?’
‘For the moment, I think, we shall simply wait and observe developments. We could easily spread the tale now, of course. Nothing simpler. But I think—not yet. I confess to being intrigued by this potentially disastrous make-believe of theirs. I should like very much to know what occasioned it. Indeed, I intend to find out. Then I shall decide what is best to be done.’ He paused. ‘I beg your pardon. You, of course, will take whatever action you think is right. It is not my place to make decisions on your behalf.’
Lewiston shook his head. ‘I have no present intention of betraying them, Leigh. Indeed, I rather think we should not unmask them at all, unless it is clear that mischief is afoot. To be honest with you, I cannot believe it is more than a silly prank.’
‘Ladies of Miss “Winny’s” age and background should not become involved in pranks,’ declared Lord Amburley flatly. ‘I may yet bring her to rue it, I dare say. However, I agree that, for the present at least, we should simply watch and wait.’
They turned the corner and approached his lordship’s door. ‘Are you bidden to the Duchess of Newcombe’s ball tomorrow, George?’ Lewiston nodded. ‘Doubtless both the Misses Winstanley will be there. We shall have ample opportunity for spectator sport. It promises to be better than a prize-fight.’
Chapter Five
Sophia awoke early next day, the day of her first ever ball. She made no attempt to go back to sleep, scrambling out of bed and into her dressing-gown without ringing for her new maid. Then, eyes shining with excitement, she hurried along the corridor to Isabella’s room, where she knocked briefly and entered, without waiting for an invitation.
‘Isabella, forgive me for…’ Her words trailed off, and she looked at her cousin in astonishment. ‘Good God,’ she exclaimed, ‘whatever are you doing, dressed like that at this hour?’
Isabella was not best pleased at the interruption to her plans, nor was she prepared to indulge Sophia’s curiosity. With a stern look, reminiscent of Lady Wycham at her most haughty, she replied sharply that her private business was of no interest to her young cousin.
‘But those are the clothes you wore to visit the orphans,’ protested Sophia, refusing to be silenced. ‘If anyone were to see you, there would be a scandal. Surely—’
‘Sophia,’ interrupted Isabella sharply, ‘I shall thank you to allow me to be the judge of what I may or may not do. And where I go is of no interest to anyone but myself.’ She turned to her maid. ‘Have you my gloves, Mitchell? Thank you.’ Drawing them on, she spoke more gently to Sophia. ‘Now go back to bed, my dear. It is much too early for you to be about. Even on the day of your first ball,’ she added, with a slight smile. ‘Say nothing to anyone about what has happened here, even to me. And ask no questions. They will not be answered.’ With a quick nod, Isabella opened the door and was gone.
It was still quite early when Sophia entered the breakfast room. Even so, Isabella was before her, now dressed in a light morning dress of cream cambric trimmed with green velvet ribbons and calmly pouring coffee. Sophia’s mouth formed an O, but no sound came out.
‘Good morning, Sophia dear,’ beamed Isabella. ‘I hope you slept well, for it will be a long night, I fancy. Will you have some coffee? Or shall I ring for chocolate?’ Isabella was quite determined that no allusion to their earlier encounter would be permitted, but Sophia surrendered with only token resistance.
As the day wore on, Sophia’s excitement visibly increased, until Isabella at last managed to persuade her to rest in the late afternoon. Relaxing on her own chaise-longue, Isabella abandoned herself to thoughts of her own attempted début, nearly ten years before. Then, with her father still alive, she had been viewed as a potential heiress, but it had not brought happiness, merely a train of grasping fortune-hunters. She shuddered at the memory. She and her brother had been wise to pretend that everything had been left to him. Better to be an old maid than to be pursued for money alone. Isabella had no regrets, now, about pretending to be dependent on Aunt Jemima. Her life was her own, and she could live it in comfort, even though she would die a spinster.
She smiled with sad irony at the memory of her come-out. White and pastels were all very well for brunettes like Sophia, but pale-complexioned blondes tended to look merely insipid. And gentlemen were unlikely to be enamoured of a lady who looked them straight in the eye, or worse, overtopped them when she rose from her seat. Lord Amburley, now, was a much better partner for a tall lady. She would not even reach his shoulder. Dancing with such a tall gentleman—waltzing, perhaps?—might be delightful. She would put her hand on his shoulder, where the warmth of his body could be felt through the fine cloth of his coat. His gloved hand would rest in the middle of her back—perhaps even against her bare skin—while he guided her firmly through the throng of dancers. She would feel his warm breath on her face as he complimented her on the lightness of her dancing. His dark eyes would…
Isabella checked herself severely before her musings advanced even further into the realm of daydreams. A man should not become the subject of missish fancies just because he happened to be rather taller than the ordinary. He certainly had little, other than height, to recommend him. Unless, perhaps, that underlying sense of humour which had betrayed itself when she taunted him? Resolutely, Isabella put his lordship from her thoughts and rose to begin her preparations for the ball.
Madame Florette’s jade creation was a wonder of expensive simplicity, allowing the beautiful shot-silk overdress to fall in graceful folds from a high waistline below a deeply scooped décolletage. The neckline and the tiny sleeves were edged with the aquamarine satin of the underdress. The open edges of the overdress were similarly trimmed and finished with tiny aquamarine satin buttons and loops.
Isabella was more pleased than she was prepared to admit. She had almost persuaded herself that she was now past the age when a lady hoped to be admired, and that she should settle quietly into spinsterhood. But faced with the fairy-tale gown, she knew a moment of youthful excitement ill-suited to an ‘ageing spinster’. Let us see whether he can ignore me now, came the unprompted thought.
Soon Isabella was standing in front of the pier glass, critically assessing her reflection. Mitchell’s new way with her hair was most becoming, she decided. The rather looser knot of curls on top made her look very young. And Mitchell’s suggestion of aquamarines was right too, mere trumpery though they might be.
Answering a light tap at the door, Mitchell admitted Lady Wycham’s maid. ‘Can you come to my lady, please, miss? She’s took bad.’
Isabella immediately hurried to Lady Wycham’s apartments. She found her great-aunt lying on her bed, partly dressed for the ball, but with a silk dressing-gown over all. She was very pale, and a hand was pressed to her throat.
‘Oh, Aunt,’ gasped Isabella, ‘is it one of your spasms? Shall I send for Dr Ridley?’
‘I shall be well again in a moment. Parsons should not have fetched you.’ She looked severely at her faithful maid, but it had no visible effect. ‘Only I fear I may not be able to accompany you tonight.’
‘But we shall stay here with you,’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘We cannot possibly go when you are unwell.’
‘Nonsense, Isabella. I am quite recovered now.’ She attempted, unsuccessfully, to sit up. ‘Perhaps not quite enough to accompany you, but certainly enough to be left in Parsons’ care. I insist that you take Sophia to the ball. You must simply make my excuses to the Duchess.’
Isabella was torn between her duty to her aunt and her desire not to disappoint Sophia. Her indecision must have been apparent.
‘Isabella,’ said Lady Wycham curtly, ‘what is the matter with you? Have you windmills in your head, child? I take it you will do as I ask?’
‘Dear Aunt, I should rather stay here to see to your comfort—’ Lady Wycham drew breath sharply, as a preliminary to another biting retort ‘—but I know that you will not tolerate it. So, if you insist, I shall chaperon Sophia to the Duchess’s ball.’
‘I do wish it, my dear. Thank you. I know I can trust you to ensure she behaves as she ought.’ A sudden look of concern shadowed her face. ‘You will make sure she does not waltz?’
Isabella smiled reassuringly. ‘Have no fear, Aunt. I have been drilling Sophia for weeks on the subject of the waltz. She knows she may not dance it until she has received permission at Almack’s. And that is one rule she will not dare to break.’
Lady Wycham gave a sigh of relief and smiled lovingly at Isabella. ‘You look quite beautiful in that gown, my dear child. Do not waste your looks among the chaperons tonight. Promise me that you, too, will dance.’
Isabella knew that, if she was to be Sophia’s chaperon, it would hardly be proper for her to dance. Chaperons did not do so. A small voice whispered that chaperons did not dress in gowns of shot silk either, but she pushed that thought to the back of her mind, while she grappled with Lady Wycham’s request. She could not refuse without upsetting the old lady, so she agreed, consoling herself with the thought that, at her age, she was unlikely to be asked to dance at all.
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