Chapter Thirteen #2
“That’s why he looked so panicked,” the dowager said.
“Now, I do like the duke exceedingly so I will not breathe a word of this. I suspect that something kicked it all off. You know how people sympathize with Lord Landry, especially women. I think perhaps she sympathized with him over something and that led to an encounter. Something got out of hand.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I saw it. Now listen, I do not wish to harm Lady Winsome in any way. The lady has made a mistake, I am sure she feels terrible about it and I would not wish to ruin her future. That future, however, cannot involve this family.”
“You will speak of this to nobody, not even Miss Price. I do not wish word of your absurd ideas to travel through the household. Do you understand?”
“I understand. I just hope you understand. You must be sensible about this.”
They traveled the rest of the way home in silence. What in the world had gone on? He did not believe his grandmother’s version of events. That was not the Lady Winsome he knew. It was certainly not Landry. That fellow was terrified of women, not a leering lothario.
Something had gone on, though. Lady Winsome’s hair was mussed and her manner was one of unease when she’d returned to the garden.
Had she been accosted in some way? Not by Landry, which was ridiculous, but by someone else.
Should he have insisted on escorting her inside when she’d gone to check the clue?
But then, it seemed most improbable that a lady would be accosted inside Sir Jonathan’s house.
He would have to get to the bottom of it. He would not see Lady Winsome until Lady Darlington’s masque in three days’ time. Perhaps his first stop must be to see Landry. He had been on the scene and would have better information than his grandmother and her wild speculations.
Whatever had gone on, he could not bring himself to believe the lady had been at all at fault. As well, he could not believe that Landry would be at all capable of attempting a seduction—the fellow could barely attempt a conversation.
So what had happened?
*
The day following Sir Jonathan’s scavenger hunt brought rain. It was the sort of pouring rain that admitted no breaks, the skies had opened and let out a torrent. The streets had been transformed into fast-running, muddy streams and the windows were grayed with foggy mist.
Winsome was perfectly sanguine over the weather. It was the type of day when all sane people stuck to their houses and did not venture out. It suited her mood.
She had fretted long into the night, going back and forth over what had happened at Sir Jonathan’s house. One moment, it was some despicable plot she could not unravel. The next moment, it was a child playing at a joke.
Just now, she, Valor, and Mrs. Right were cozy in the drawing room.
A fire had been lit to beat back the chill and candles flickered, warming the light in the room.
To entertain Valor, Winsome had had written and cut out the letters to Sir Jonathan’s clues so she might work to unscramble the word that was the solution.
Winsome already knew what it was, as shortly after Lord Manderbey and the dowager had departed, a winner had been announced and the answer given.
“Oh wait,” Valor said. “There is an I and an N and a G. ING is the ending of a lot of words. That leaves the E and the S.” Valor tapped her chin. “Sewing! It must be sewing!”
Winsome smiled. “That is right, Val. As well, it makes perfect sense, as that is what Sir Jonathan’s charity is all about. Young girls are trained to be seamstresses so that they have an independent means of support.”
“Because they do not have a kind Papa like we do that will buy all their dresses?”
“Something like that,” Winsome said. It was apparent that her youngest sister had not yet reached the age when her eyes were fully open to the world and saw it for what it was.
At Valor’s age, Winsome had herself thought that everybody in their little village did just what they liked.
If a man was a shepherd, it must be because he’d rather spend all his days with sheep than any other thing.
It was not until she was older that she began to question why that shepherd would not rather live in a fine house as she did.
And then to eventually understand that he could not, even if he wished it.
“Well,” Valor said, “I suppose teaching people to sew is a very good idea. They can sew their own hostessing clothes. Should I write Sir Jonathan and describe how I designed my hostessing clothes so he can show them how to do it?”
“No, no that would not be at all necessary, he will already know all about it,” Winsome said.
Valor’s letters were notorious for setting people’s backs up and it would hardly be appropriate for him to receive a letter from a girl he’d never laid eyes on, even if he did develop an interest in hostessing clothes.
Mrs. Right suddenly sat up straight. “I’ve heard the door, I’m sure I have. Who would come out in such weather?”
Winsome smoothed her dress and very much hoped it was Lord Manderbey. They had not had a moment to speak before he’d left Sir Jonathan’s to escort the dowager home. She’d said she would be gone for a moment and then had been gone for over a half hour, with no explanation. He must think it so odd.
Of course, the reason for it was even more odd. She’d been locked in the ladies’ retiring room. It sounded absurd. It was absurd.
The drawing room doors were flung open and a very wet Lady Marchfield strode through it.
Winsome’s heart sank. It was not Lord Manderbey. But why on earth would their aunt come out in such weather?
Lady Marchfield gave a withering glance to Mrs. Right. Then she said, “Valor, please take that housekeeper elsewhere. I will have a private word with Winsome.”
Both Valor and Mrs. Right looked to Winsome. Mrs. Right said, “I’ll stay if you need me to, Poppet.”
Winsome had rather not cause some sort of contretemps between her aunt and her dear Mrs. Right, they already were oil and water.
In any case, she was all but certain Lady Marchfield had arrived to deliver the same lecture she’d been handing out for years—the household must be regulated and their behavior modified, or they were heading toward disaster.
Winsome was well able to stand up to it.
She just did not know what could have set her aunt off this time as she’d not seen her all that much this season.
“It’s all right,” Winsome said. “Mrs. Right, perhaps you could help Valor with her knitting? She’s been determined to make Sir Galahad a blanket for his bed, but has not got far with it.”
“It’s very hard, that’s why,” Valor said, scooping up the dog in question.
Mrs. Right rose too. “I’ll ask Charlie to arrange for a tea tray.”
“Not necessary,” Lady Marchfield said curtly.
Goodness, the lady was exceedingly out of sorts. She was usually only a regular amount of out of sorts.
The door shut behind Valor and Mrs. Right. Lady Marchfield sat down and took her by the hands. “I pray you will tell me you are engaged.”
“Engaged? No, I am not.”
“Your father must force him to it, then.”
“Force him? Why?” Winsome was mystified.
Why on earth would her father attempt to force Lord Manderbey to make a proposal?
The duke was in the habit of cajoling and gently pushing forward with his invitations to dine and jocular hints.
But he would never go so far. Why would Lady Marchfield think he would? Or that he should?
“Why must he be forced to it?” Lady Marchfield said. She sounded as if it were the most absurd question ever asked her. “Winsome, if Lord Landry will not speak, your reputation is tarnished forever. Nobody will have you.”
“Lord Landry? What does he have to do with anything? I can assure you, he is quite set on Lady Edith.”
“He is set on another lady and behaves in such a manner?” Lady Marchfield said, dropping Winsome’s hands. “He is a rake through and through. I would not have believed it of him.”
“Lord Landry? A rake? Aunt, that is ridiculous. Please do tell me what this is about. I can hardly understand what you are saying.”
“It is not what I am saying. It is what society is saying. Everybody is abuzz with the story—Lord Landry and Lady Winsome stole off together at Sir Jonathan’s scavenger hunt, were gone for an extended period, and then were discovered, both of them appearing exceedingly disheveled.”
Winsome sat back. What a story. She supposed she had looked a bit disheveled. She had been on hands and knees all over the retiring room looking for a secret door. Then, when she heard the sound at the door to the corridor, she raced to it with nary a look in the glass.
She had encountered Lord Landry in that corridor, the gentleman being somehow upset over an unknown lord in the billiards room. But how on earth had anybody jumped to the conclusion that something had gone on between them?
The drawing room doors opened and the duke entered the room. “I was informed you had darkened my door again and that you were in high dudgeon. What is it about this time, Misery?”
“I see you have not been to your club, Roland. Else you would have noticed something amiss when the other members turned from you in embarrassment.”
“Nonsense, I haven’t set anybody’s curtains on fire this season. Not yet, though I make no promises.”
“Papa,” Winsome said, “there is a ludicrous story going round that, oh I can hardly say it—”
“That your daughter has been compromised by Lord Landry,” Lady Marchfield said. “They were both missing at Sir Jonathan’s scavenger hunt and then discovered disheveled.”
The duke took that moment to erupt on laughter.
“Landry? Do not be absurd. My daughter has not been compromised by anybody. I know that because if she had I would be the first person told about it and I happen to know precisely where she was during the time in question. Furthermore, Lord Landry could not catch a trout who leapt out of the water, waved to him, and jumped into his net.”
Lady Marchfield rose. “I have done your daughter the courtesy of informing her of what is being said. I imagine you will handle it in your usual haphazard and ineffectual manner. I will warn you, though. This is serious and if Winsome does not wed, if an announcement is not made quickly, all will be lost.”
Lady Marchfield took her leave.
“Papa, what can this be about? Why would anybody think that I have been compromised? By Lord Landry of all people? Can it be that if a lady is missing for a half hour, suddenly she’s done something shameful? Can society really be that pernicious?”
“Now, do not get overly alarmed by this. After all, you know how your Aunt Misery proceeds in life, she’s a pole cat forever sticking her nose into other people’s henhouses and then sending up an alarm for no reason.”
“But if people are saying these things, what should we do?” Winsome paused. “Papa, Lord Manderbey will hear of it. You do not think—”
“That he’d believe it? Not if he is the man I think he is.
I will go see Landry. I suspect he’s got more information on this confusion.
You know what a collection of nerves that fellow is.
I would not be surprised if he panicked over some small matter and then blurted out something ridiculous and somebody within hearing misunderstood his meaning.
” The duke snorted. “Maybe it was the hoi polloi again.”
“Oh, Lady Edith! What will she think of it?”
“Winny, calm yourself. Do not allow yourself to imagine we are heading into some kind of disaster when I am sure that is not the case. I will be on my way, and I will send Mrs. Right in to keep company with you. Do not worry, my dear, all will be well.”
Winsome curled up on the sofa. She dearly wished her father was right.
Could this terrible rumor have something to do with why she’d been locked in the ladies’ retiring room? That had been the cause of her delay in returning to the garden. Could someone have done it deliberately so they might say she’d been missing so long that she must have been compromised?
But then, they would have had to have Lord Landry on hand too. One could not be compromised by oneself. That part did not make sense, as Lord Landry had not mentioned anything about having been locked in for any amount of time. He had said that there was another lord there.
Who was the other lord? Did that signify? Why would someone wish to damage her reputation?