The carriage rolled to a stop beneath his window. The footman hopped down from the back, went round, and opened the carriage door and let down a small flight of steps and assisted the lady to alight. She held up the skirts of her flounced muslin gown, exposing one delicate ankle to Lord Arthur's gaze.
She furled her parasol, then stood and looked about her.
Lord Arthur caught his breath. For this young lady was not the fashionable beauty of the baron's miniature. She was slim, dainty, and very young-definitely under twenty, he thought. She was wearing the very latest thing in “transparent” hats-that is, a wide-brimmed frivolity of stiffened gauze through which her red hair gleamed like living fire.
With a feeling of excitement, Lord Arthur turned from the window and made his way downstairs.
“He is a bad landlord, this baron,” said Felicity, stabbing the dry earth with the point of her parasol. “If he is as rich as you claim, why does he not put some money into his estates? He must be almost as clutch-fisted as you are yourself. But at least, Mr. Palfrey, it is only your tenants’ houses you let go to rack and ruin. Lord St. Dawdy treats his tenants with equal unconcern, but also, unlike you, prefers to live in a slum.”
Mr. Palfrey turned pink with outrage.
“Guard your tongue, miss. Oh, if only you had dyed your hair.”
“My dear stepfather, is it not well over time that you told me why you wanted me to dye my hair brown?”
Mr. Palfrey looked sulky. “I sent the baron Maria's miniature.”
Felicity started to laugh. “Choice,” she said. “Very choice, Mr. Palfrey. You have indeed gone and shot yourself in the foot. Let us go in and get this charade over with. I am relieved I am not what the baron expects. For I would not be married to a miser.”
“You will behave, d'ye hear,” hissed Mr. Palfrey, “or I will have you whipped.”
Felicity paled slightly before the venom in his eyes and face. Then with a toss of her head, she moved before him into the darkness of the house.
The old housekeeper held open the door of the drawing room. Felicity went inside. Two gentlemen rose to meet her. The third remained sitting.
Felicity recognized Lord Arthur immediately. Her eyes, a polite blank, her face guarded, she curtseyed and then looked hopefully at Dolph-for surely her fiancé could not be that disgusting old wreck by the table.
“My dear,” said Mr. Palfrey unctuously after Lord Arthur and Dolph had introduced themselves, “here is the baron.”
“What's this?” cried Lord St. Dawdy, glaring awfully at Felicity. “Who's this red-haired chit? Where's my beauty?” And he pulled out the miniature.
“You have been sent the wrong picture,” said Felicity, striving for calm. Why did Lord Arthur have to be here? She could easily have extracted herself from this painful situation quite calmly had he not been looking at her with those amused eyes. “That is a portrait of my elder sister Maria, who married the Bishop of Exeter last year.”
“Oh, it is, is it?” raged the baron. “Well, let me tell you, Palfrey, the wedding's off. You cheated me. You promised me a beauty, not… not this.”
Long afterward, Lord Arthur was to wonder why he had not remained silent. As it was, he said in glacial tones, “My dear baron, your wits must be wandering. Miss Felicity has a very rare beauty-quite out of the common way.”
Mr. Palfrey brightened. All might yet be saved. “Perhaps, my lord,” he said with a genteel cough, “you might consider marrying my stepdaughter yourself. Her dowry is…”
“You vulgar little man,” said Lord Arthur in tones of contempt. “Why don't you take her to Smithfield Market and put her on the block? How dare you treat any gently-bred miss in this common manner?”
“Now you mention it,” said the baron with a wicked gleam in his eyes, “she's quite a filly. Walk up and down a bit.”
“I am not in the ring at Tattersall's,” said Felicity, gritting her teeth. “No!”
“Suit yerself,” said the baron. “Sit down. Sit down. Here's tea.”
The little company arranged themselves round the table at which the baron was seated. It was not covered by a cloth, and because of the sloping floor it sloped as well so that guests and host were kept busy catching their teacups as they slithered to the edge of the table. The tea was weak and tasted dusty. The sandwiches looked as if they had been made some time ago, which indeed they had, the baron having entertained the vicar to tea two days before. He had ordered the housekeeper to keep the leftovers so that they might be served up again.
For once, Mr. Palfrey and his stepdaughter shared the same thought, but for different reasons-if only Lord Arthur Bessamy were not present!
Dolph began to chatter nervously about the Prince of Wales's recent appointment as Regent and of the splendid party he had given in Clarence House. The baron's brooding and lustful eyes fastened greedily on Felicity's rounded bosom.
Felicity began to feel faint. The room was close and warm, and the smell from the baron was something quite dreadful. Lord Arthur's exotic and unexpected presence upset her. If only he had kept quiet! Then the baron might have continued to be disappointed in her appearance.
But one thing sang in her head. She would not marry the baron, no matter what happened. She had dreamed of an old and fatherly man, not this horrible, gross creature. She longed for Miss Chubb's reassuring company.
While Dolph rattled on, Mr. Palfrey and the baron exchanged looks and then the baron winked and nodded his head. Mr. Palfrey heaved a sigh of relief.
There was a smash as Dolph's teacup hit the floor. The rest were managing the peculiar exercise of leaving their cups for a moment, then catching them just as they slid to the edge of the table.
“You'll pay me for that,” said the baron. “Why don't you take Miss Felicity outside for a walk, Dolph?”
Dolph jumped to his feet. Glad to escape, Felicity rose and accepted his escort. Lord Arthur followed them out.
They walked in silence through the sunny, tangled grounds, Felicity in the middle, Dolph on her left hand, Lord Arthur on her right. It was so bright, warm, and rose-scented that Felicity wondered bleakly why some of the sunshine could not light up the darkness in her soul.
“The weather is very fine, is it not?” ventured Dolph. Felicity lowered her parasol and withered him into silence with a look of contempt. Here she was, about to be forced into marriage with an old lecher, and this London fool was babbling on about the weather.
“Tell me,” said Lord Arthur, “have you ever met a tailor's boy called Freddy Channing?”
“No, my lord,” said Felicity loftily, as if such a person were definitely beneath her notice.
“Strange,” he murmured, “in such a sparsely populated region, I felt sure you would know everyone hereabouts.”
“I do not go about much,” said Felicity repressively.
“Perhaps after your marriage…”
“You are in error. I shall not marry, and certainly not Lord St. Dawdy.”
“But your stepfather seems very determined.”
“So am I,” said Felicity. “What brings you here, Lord Arthur?”
“I came with my friend, Mr. Godolphin. He is Lord St. Dawdy's nephew.”
“And do you visit your uncle often, Mr. Godolphin?” asked Felicity.
“From time to time,” said Dolph, struggling with his stock, which appeared to have become very tight. He thought this ferocious little girl was proving to be an uncomfortable companion.