Chapter 13 #2
Her hair was simply dressed in a chignon of cream lace, and she wore no jewelry, save for a slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. St. Didier’s eye was drawn to her not because she was attired in the first stare of fashion or luminous with expensive gems, but because of her air of utter, confident composure.
She was not merely the lady of the manor, she was happy to be so, and St. Didier found happy women to be vastly attractive.
“Mr. St. Didier.” She rose from the sofa and extended a hand to him. “We are the first to assemble for supper. Wealtha has decided to take a tray as she continues to recover from yesterday’s outing. Aunt Orla should be down directly.”
“And Swidhelm?” The party to whom St. Didier had initially intended to direct some plain speaking. A secluded picnic along the stream did not last two entire hours because the attendees were debating the Corn Laws.
“His lordship disappeared across the park nearly an hour ago. I know not where he was bound, but trust that he’d send word if he intended to miss supper.”
Miss Fielding’s briskness was the same as St. Didier had come to expect, as was the confidence in her words, but she’d watched her swain cross the park, noted the time of his departure, and expected him to inform her of any change in his plans.
St. Didier viewed all picnics with suspicion—and apparently for good reason. Swidhelm was also not the sort to wander the property alone when there was work to be done—or he hadn’t been. His wits had been addled by that picnic, as surely as sheep grew wool.
“Did you enjoy our jaunt into York?” St. Didier asked.
Miss Fielding went to the sideboard and poured out a serving from a carafe. “Yes, and no. You?”
“Mostly yes. Swidhelm put the fear of transportation in that old windbag Wopley. I flatter myself that I abetted the course of justice while watching an expert negotiator dispatch a fool.”
“A fool who wielded a lot of authority over the Glen,” Miss Fielding said. “I wish I’d been there. May I pour you a drink?”
“You’re having cider?”
“Cherry cider. It’s quite good. Not too strong.”
“The same, then. What part of the outing did you not enjoy?”
She measured out another glass. “The same part you didn’t enjoy, though you are too much of a gentleman to say so.”
She referred to time spent in the company of her honorary cousin, Miss Wealtha Blackstock. “I am not sociable by nature,” St. Didier said. “When a young lady decides that I am her escort, I lack the conversational agility to decline the post.”
“Perhaps you lack the rudeness.” Miss Fielding passed him the glass of cider. “In any case, I am in your debt, and you gave Richard a respite from Wealtha’s nattering too. I’m sure he appreciated that.”
“Richard.” St. Didier’s tone was reproving, when he’d intended to ask a polite question.
“His lordship is my step-cousin-in-law or something. We agreed that if Aunt Orla and Wealtha are to address him informally, I should as well. Do you object?”
She was merely curious, not the least bit defensive.
“I would not object,” St. Didier said, “even if I had standing to do so. In my experience, a title can isolate a man, such that he’s cast upon the company of his so-called peers, no matter how little he might have in common with them.
He conforms to their conventions lest he be entirely alone.
You ladies can preserve Swidhelm from such a fate. ”
“You compare a peer to the new girl at finishing school.”
Well… yes. “Perhaps to anybody cast into the exclusive company of strangers.”
“Was Richard among strangers in London?”
When had Miss Fielding appropriated the role of interrogator? “You should ask him. My acquaintance with his lordship is recent.”
She sipped her cider. “Recent and thorough. You investigated every aspect of his past before you confronted him with the reality of his title. I spent enough time in Town to know that a ducal by-blow would be an object of gossip.”
Good heavens, the woman was relentless, though it occurred to St. Didier that her questions were not driven by gauche curiosity. She sought to understand Swidhelm without subjecting the man himself to painful questions.
Fair enough. “Richard Dolforth, as he was known at the time, was a minor sensation and partly by his own design.” St. Didier gestured to the French doors. “Shall we enjoy some fresh air?”
“By all means.” Miss Fielding set aside her drink, retrieved a shawl from the back of the sofa, and wrapped it around her shoulders with a graceful flourish. “Midday was positively summery, but the evenings are still bracing.”
St. Didier escorted her to the balustrade, which presented a peaceful view of shadows lengthening across the park and garden.
If Miss Fielding still had connections in Town, they would apprise her of all that he was about to tell her, or they’d at least do some nosing about on the topic of Richard, Viscount Swidhelm.
And Swidhelm had been hellbent on behaving with anything but secrecy.
“Richard told me he was something of a rogue,” Miss Fielding said, gaze on the sunken garden. “I suspect he was also something of an outcast.”
“You are correct. He occupied a perplexing status, being illegitimate but ducally connected. Swidhelm seemed to be exploring the question of how much like a spoiled younger son he could behave without being one and still be received.”
“By ‘spoiled younger son,’ you mean a well-dressed wastrel who games away the night, makes careless wagers in the betting books, and consorts with loose women when he isn’t drunk at the horse races or avoiding creditors?”
“You take my meaning.”