“Do you, now?” He stroked his chin, still regarding her with lazy amusement.
Lucy glanced quickly between them. Most of the time Julian treated Tamsyn with a careful, almost distant, politeness, and it was very difficult to believe what she and Gareth had seen in the corridor. Sometimes, though, as now, there would be something about their conversation or the way they looked at each other that hinted at some shared secret.
“Tamsyn couldn't possibly disgrace you,” she said a little awkwardly. “And I will stay beside her the whole evening and show her how to go on if she has any difficulties.”
“Then it seems the matter is settled,” her brother said, his voice once more cool and matter-of-fact. “Just don't expect me to make any of the arrangements. You may tell Hibbert to provide the wine and champagne from the cellars.”
“We must have an iced punch,” Lucy declared, leaping to her feet. “It was all the rage in London last Season. Annabel Featherstone has a wonderful recipe I'm sure I wrote it in my pocketbook. I'm certain Mrs. Hibbert will be able to make it up.”
She headed for the door, her usual indolence vanished. “Tamsyn, come and help me decide on the supper menu. And you could help me with the invitations, if you don't mind. It's tedious work writing them all out, but if we can do them all this evening, then Judson shall deliver them in the morning.”
“When are we to have this party?” Tamsyn inquired, reluctantly abandoning her plan for an evening gallop on Cesar.
Lucy paused to consider. “Next Saturday. Would that be all right, Julian?”
“Oh, perfectly,” he said. “With any luck I should be able to wangle an invitation somewhere else.”
“Oh, no!” Lucy exclaimed, horrified. “We cannot have a party at Tregarthan if you're not here to host it.”
“I believe St. Simon was jesting, my dear,” Gareth said, standing to peer into the mirror to make a minor adjustment to his cravat.
Lucy looked a little bewildered. “Come, Lucy,” Tamsyn said, taking her arm firmly. “You can show me exactly how one organizes a Society party. The only parties I have ever attended have been-”
“You attended parties in that convent of yours?”
Julian interrupted in swift warning.
Tamsyn kicked herself. She'd been about to describe the glorious almost tribal affairs in the mountain villages, where they roasted whole sheep and goats and the festivities could continue for three days.
“No,” she said. “But before I went to the convent, before my mother died, I did once attend a birthday party.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Lucy exclaimed, shocked to her core at such a pathetic memory. “And you haven't been to a party since?”
“No,” Tamsyn said soulfully, glancing at the colonel.
“Pobrecita, “ he murmured, eyelids drooping over the mocking glint in the bright-blue orbs.
“Will you wish to examine the guest list, Julian, when I've made it out?” Lucy asked, still intent on the matter in hand.
“No, I leave it entirely in your more than capable hands,” he responded, pointedly picking up the newspaper.
Lucy nodded complacently. “I have a talent for organizing social events. We gave a very grand reception last Season, do you remember, Gareth?”
“Oh, yes, my dear,” he agreed, remembering also that he'd pronounced it a great bore and had taken his leave at the earliest opportunity, fleeing to Marjorie's cozy little house. Lucy had wept bitterly for most of the next day, but not a word of reproach had passed her lips. Guilt, as a result, had made him storm out of the house, saying he couldn't be expected to spend time with a watering pot.
The recollections were uncomfortable, and he resumed his seat as Tamsyn and Lucy left the room. Restlessly, he picked up his wineglass. It was empty. He peered into it for a moment, trying to recover his usual composure. He'd make it up to the pretty little thing, he decided. She was such a sweet innocent, and he hadn't taken that into account when they'd married. Couldn't expect her to perform like Marjorie… stupid of him to have thought she could. In fact, now that he gave the matter some thought, he didn't want his wife behaving with Marjorie's knowing ways. Quite shocking, it would be.
“I doubt your glass will fill just by looking at it, Fortescue.”
His brother-in-law's cool tones broke into his mussing, and he looked up, startled. Julian stood over him with the decanter, one eyebrow raised. “Deep thoughts, Gareth?”
Gareth's countenance took on a ruddy hue. “Nice for Lucy to have something to plan,” he said. “Makes her happy when she's got something to do.”
Julian merely raised an eyebrow and returned to his newspaper. Presenting Tamsyn formally to local society under his sister's auspices would be more convenient and more conventional than doing it himself. Lucy knew all the intricacies of the local family networks, and he could trust her not to step on any toes with her invitations. She would ensure that the old tabbies like the Honorable Mrs. Anslow and Miss Gretchen Dolby would be included, as well as the younger set. And it was always possible that someone of that generation might remember a disappearance over twenty years ago.
Tamsyn was still an exotic flower in this country backwater, but if she didn't talk too much and kept herself in the background, she should be able to muddle through an evening with Lucy and himself to steer her.
It was interesting that she and Lucy had become such good friends, the constraint of that first evening vanished. Gareth still attempted some heavy-handed flirtation, but Tamsyn skilfully turned it aside and Lucy no longer seemed troubled by it. In fact, she seemed happier altogether. It was one less thing to worry about. But it wasn't enough to lift his depression.
He knew perfectly well that he was depressed because he was stuck here while his friends and his men were enduring the broiling heat of the summer campaign. Unless some miracle happened, he would stay stuck until October, when he would leave Tamsyn to whatever life she'd made for herself here and sail back to Lisbon, hopefully rejoining the army before they went into winter quarters.
But dwelling on that prospect didn't lift his spirits either, and he knew why. He was not looking forward to bringing his liaison with the brigand to a close. In the dark reaches of the night, when she slept beside him curled like an exhausted puppy against his chest, he had allowed himself to imagine going back to Spain with her. Setting her up as his established mistress. She would have no trouble following the drum; campaigning was in her blood. But he'd have to persuade her to give up this plan to find her mother's family, and what would he be offering in its place? A liaison for an indeterminate length of time, trailing after the army over a country ravaged by war. And when the war was over, he'd have to come back here, take himself a wife, and set about building a dynasty.
It wasn't fair to ask her, and Tamsyn showed no signs of suggesting such a thing herself
In a small parlor at the rear of the house, Lucy drew a sheet of paper toward her. “I'll make a list of all the people we should invite. I'll explain who they are to you as I do it, so you'll learn who are the really important families. “
Tamsyn sat down beside her. “How many are you going to invite?”
Lucy tapped her teeth with her quill. “We really have to invite everyone,” she said. “Unless it's to be a very small, intimate gathering.”
“Which it isn't going to be.”
“No,” Lucy said with a chuckle. “What's the point of going to all this trouble just for twenty people? Julian won't mind so long as we don't trouble him with any of the arrangements.” She began to scribble a list of names, rattling through a description and titbits of gossip attached to various people as she compiled the list.
“There, now.” She sat back, shaking her wrist at the end of fifteen minutes of busy scribbling. “I think that's everyone who is anyone, from as far away as Truro. A few of them won't come, of course, but they'd be bitterly offended if they didn't receive an invitation.”