Lady Palmer was in the drawing room with Edward’s grandmother and mother, the Reverend Martin, and Mr. Briden. It took all of Edward’s willpower to smile and greet everyone and wait for an end to the discussion on the merits of remaining in the country all year as opposed to spending parts of it in London or at one of the spas. It took all of his willpower to speak quietly to Lady Palmer.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I will be riding over to Norton Park, if the absence of yet another of your guests will not seem a great discourtesy. I did not want to crowd Windrow’s carriage, but I did say I might follow after it.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know that, Lord Heyward. And I am happy for you young people to have an excursion you will enjoy. I am even secretly happy that you have decided to go too, for my numbers are now even again and the dining table this evening will not look sadly lopsided.”
She laughed, as did everyone else in the room. His grandmother, Edward noted, waved her lorgnette in his direction and actually winked at him.
“Lady Windrow will be so pleased to have company,” Lady Palmer said. “She suffers with rather delicate health and rarely leaves Norton. But she loves to have visitors. Let me not delay you, though. It is a longish ride.”
So Windrow’s mother was at Norton, Edward thought as he hurried from the room and upstairs to change into riding clothes. Perhaps Eunice’s fears were quite ungrounded, then. But there was still that matter of a stop at an inn on the way, and Edward certainly did not trust Windrow at inns. He was going. And let Windrow just try something. Edward almost hoped he would. His long-held conviction that a gentleman did not need to resort to violence to make a point was all very well on occasion, perhaps even on most occasions.
But this was not any occasion, or even most.
This concerned Lady Angeline Dudley. Whom Edward loved. How had Alma phrased it? Without whom he could not contemplate living. That was it, or something very like it. And what else had she said?
You must do something very decisive to convince her.
Right.
Right!
Ten minutes later, having saddled a horse himself, he was moving away from the stables at a gallop.
Chapter 19
MISS GODDARD AND Lord Windrow were engaged in a spirited discussion of Mr. Richardson’s Pamela, which Angeline had never read, partly because it had always looked disconcertingly long and partly because she had never found its subtitle, Or Virtue Rewarded, even the smallest little bit enticing. Miss Goddard was of the opinion that the hero was the most worthless villain in all of literature—and that included Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello—while Lord Windrow argued that a reformed rake made the most steadfast and worthy of heroes for the rest of his life.
Since Lord Windrow expressed himself with lazy wit and Miss Goddard’s earnest opinions were frequently punctuated with bursts of laughter, Angeline felt she really ought to enjoy just listening. She ought indeed to offer an opinion of her own, even if she had not read the book. After all, she did have something to say on the subject of rakes and the possibility—or impossibility—of their ever being reformed.
But she could not concentrate.
She felt a little sick, if the truth were known. They had been here at the Peacock Inn far longer than they needed to be just to change the horses on Lord Windrow’s carriage and partake of tea in the private parlor. They had all had two cups of tea, and what remained in the pot must be cold. They had eaten all the cakes on the plate.
And still Lord Heyward had not come.
Angeline had given her letter—it had turned into something longer than a note after the second paragraph—to Miss Goddard, who had gone off to hand it to the butler with clear instructions to put it into Lord Heyward’s hands and no other’s at four o’clock. Lord Heyward could not have mistaken the danger she had described. She had felt when she had finished composing it, in fact, that she really ought to write a Gothic novel. She certainly appeared to have the talent for lurid hyperbole. He must be consumed with anxiety for Miss Goddard.
But he had not come yet.
She had mentioned the inn in the letter, though she had not known its name at the time. But surely he would not have driven right on past. It was a small inn with a small inn yard. And the gates were open wide. Even if he had not known about the possible stop here, he surely could not have missed seeing the carriage in the yard as he passed.
She just hoped that when he came—if he came—Miss Goddard would not be laughing. And if she, Angeline, could only have some advance warning of his arrival, she would slip off to use the necessary so that he would find Miss Goddard and Lord Windrow alone together—Miss Goddard’s maid was taking refreshments in the kitchen.
Oh, would he never come? This was like waiting for Tresham at the Rose and Crown all over again. Except that then she had been excited and exuberant in anticipation of her come-out and the Season and beaux and marriage and happiness, while now she was mortally depressed. For if he came, it would be because he loved Miss Goddard, and it would be such an extravagant gesture that there would be no going back from it.
Nothing could make Angeline happier.
She felt as if every part of her—even her eyelids when she blinked—were made of lead.
Waltzing under the stars ought to be outlawed. It really ought. And so should rolling down hills. And so should … Well, everything ought to be outlawed.
“Ah, fair one,” Lord Windrow said, addressing her directly, “you simply must speak up in defense of rakes. In my defense, that is. I am a man who visits his mother on her birthday. Would a heartless villain do that?”
Despite herself Angeline laughed. And oh, goodness, she had depicted him as just that—a heartless villain—in the letter she had left behind. Yet she could not help liking him. Conscience smote her, as it ought to have done much sooner. She really ought not to have used him in such a dastardly way to arouse Lord Heyward’s jealousy, for his behavior toward Miss Goddard had never been improper. And even to herself it had been improper only that once.
As if she needed guilt to be added to all her other burdens.
She hoped Lord Heyward would not come. Perhaps Cousin Rosalie’s butler had forgotten to deliver the letter. Perhaps he had not read it. Or perhaps he had merely laughed at it and dismissed its contents as the ravings of someone who had read too many Gothic novels.
“I believe the word rake needs to be defined,” she said. “Or at least it needs to be established what a rake is not. As I understand it from what the two of you have been saying, the hero of Pamela is not a rake at all, for it seems he tried on a number of occasions to take Pamela’s virtue by force and quite against her will. That man is an out-and-out villain, who ought not to be dignified with the name of rake. A rake, though capable of all sorts of wild, debauched, silly behavior, is still first and foremost a gentleman. And a gentleman never ever deprives a woman—and I speak not just of ladies—of her virtue against her will.”
“Oh, bravo,” Lord Windrow said.