A Sister's Secret Page 13

  ‘I cannot stay,’ said Caroline gently, ‘I am on my way to lunch with Mr Wingrove and his mother.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I shan’t detain you.’ Hester brushed away her tears and smiled mistily. ‘Mr Wingrove is so exceptionally pleasant, and such an upright gentleman. He’ll be delighted to see you looking so ravishing. We must value gentlemen like him, and fight the weaknesses we have for the other kind. Oh, Caroline, how very, very grateful I am to you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Lunch with Mr Wingrove and his mother, Lady Wingrove, was, as usual, an agreeable occasion for Caroline. Lady Wingrove personified the cheerful kindness of her sex; she had been among those friends who had given Caroline tactful and sympathetic support during her years of marital disillusionment. On the death of Lord Clarence, she had remarked that the deceased gentleman, having earned his place in hell, would give the devil himself a run for his money, as would Cumberland when his turn came. Mr Wingrove never spoke of Caroline’s late husband, for he could not bring himself to speak ill of the dead. In his honesty, he could have said nothing that was complimentary.

  Lady Wingrove had an endearing charm, and the personable Mr Wingrove an easy flow of conversation. So, since the lunch was excellent and the atmosphere so agreeable, Caroline could not think why she kept losing her way in the table talk. Naturally, she did have Hester’s letter on her mind, and just as naturally she was curious about how Captain Burnside had laid his hands on it. Even so, it was ridiculous that Mr Wingrove frequently had to repeat himself to get a response from her. It was also discourteous. She was compelled to excuse herself on the grounds that she had something on her mind.

  ‘Ah, the mind,’ smiled Mr Wingrove, ‘how it can run away with us when we would prefer it to remain close by. But who can define the mind in all its complexities? It is the voice of the soul, of course, and I dare say nothing is more abstract than the soul.’

  ‘La,’ said Lady Wingrove, ‘to concern oneself with one’s soul is a hopeless essay. I am much more addicted to people, who are fascinating in their variability.’

  ‘We are, of course, all individuals,’ said Mr Wingrove. ‘How say you, Caroline?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Caroline, wondering if Captain Burnside was yet back from his appointment. What appointment? Was it with his present fancy, that covetous serving wench, Betsy, who worked in Cumberland’s household? ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mr Wingrove, what was it you said? I have my sister on my mind. She is delaying her return to South Carolina and my parents write me in concern about this.’

  ‘From my observations of Annabelle,’ said Mr Wingrove, ‘I doubt if she means to return. She has taken London’s Corinthian scene to her young and impressionable heart, and one can only sympathize with your parents. I fear too that she is developing a fondness for your friend, Captain Burnside, whom I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting.’

  ‘Do you fear for Annabelle, Gerald, because you haven’t met the captain?’ asked Lady Wingrove. ‘But I am sure Caroline can vouch for him as a wholesome gentleman.’

  ‘Annabelle is friendly with him, that’s all,’ said Caroline, and felt a perplexing restlessness, as if this entirely sociable lunch was becoming too drawn out in the face of a wish to return home and examine her hireling. But it was not until well after they had risen from the table that the arrival of her chaise was announced. By then she was all too ready to depart. Mr Wingrove said a lengthy and fluent goodbye, having accepted her invitation to meet Captain Burnside on Friday evening and to join him at the card table with the Duke of Cumberland and Mr Robert Humphreys.

  Stepping into her chaise, she said, ‘Off you go, Sammy, at a spanking trot,’ to her young coachman.

  ‘Yes’m,’ said seventeen-year-old Sammy, son of her previous coachman, retired on account of crippling rheumatism.

  Caroline would have liked to drive herself, but in town it was simply not the thing for a lady to take up reins. In Sussex, life was less conventional, and there she drove every kind of vehicle with dash and elan. She had learned to handle a pair in South Carolina, even though conventions there could be stricter than in London.

  As Sammy took the chaise through the streets at a smart trot, she thought of Sussex. Why should she not take Annabelle there for a while? It would remove her from such easy contact with Cumberland. Captain Burnside could accompany them. He could conduct his own devious pursuit of Annabelle in the quiet countryside. Indeed, Annabelle would probably refuse to go unless she had the company of a man she liked.

  Captain Burnside had achieved wonders in laying his hands on that letter. She could not now doubt he would be entirely successful in winning Annabelle’s affections.

  Caroline frowned.

  On arriving home, she looked for her hireling. Neither he nor Annabelle were in the house. Her secretary informed her that Captain Burnside and Miss Annabelle were out on an afternoon drive.

  That left Caroline definitely restless. She was burning to know exactly how he had procured the letter. Had Cumberland given it up in exchange for the standing IOU? It was, after all, for a considerable amount of money. Yet she did not think that likely, for Cumberland was bent on cancelling it out on the return game. Wait. His house, and that baggage called Betsy, one of his servants …

  A thought seized her and shocked her. Captain Burnside had been inside Cumberland’s residence, through the agency of the maidservant. Had he committed an act of burglary? He was quite capable. He was a smooth, polished professional, and probably accounted thievery as useful to his ends as trickery.

  For some reason, her heart sank.

  Captain Burnside, at the reins of Caroline’s handsome carriage, drove at a leisurely pace to Cumberland’s residence. Annabelle, beset by quivers, hid them under light observations of the London scenes. The traffic itself was colourful, a slow-moving procession both ways in the vicinity of Horse Guards Parade. Spanking traps and other two-wheelers vied with stately carriages for possession of the thoroughfares. Kitchen boys darted in and out on domestic errands.

  ‘I’ll deliver you at the door of your majestic swain, Annabelle,’ said the captain, ‘though I’ll be reluctant to part with you. You’re a picture, young lady, a delicious picture.’

  ‘Oh, you surely do your best to convince a lady she’s irresistible,’ said Annabelle. Her parasol was up lest the humid sun laid its spoiling light and heat on her complexion. In a blue and white bonnet, and a turquoise blue day gown, she looked very pretty, very charming and very innocent. Bucks on horseback on their way to parks paused in their cantering to raise their hats to her, thus suggesting they had met her somewhere and would not say no if she invited them to renew the acquaintance. But it was not done, of course, for any young lady to fall for such a ploy. ‘It’s flattering to be looked at,’ she said.

  ‘Annabelle, the strength of young ladies, don’t you see, is that each is irresistible in some way, which is a fact of life and a principle of nature.’

  ‘But, Charles, I never feel irresistible, only unsure. Are my eyes the right colour? Is my face in fashion? Is my hairstyle a triumph or a disaster? Is my nose a little too retroussé? Oh, how can one’s self-confidence be assured when one’s self-doubts are so profuse?’

  ‘Your nose is faultless, your eyes are finely blue, your hairstyle is delightful, and your face will always earn you kisses,’ said Captain Burnside.

  ‘I vow you a dear man. But I am not the magnificent beauty that Caroline is.’

  ‘You are young and delicious.’

  ‘And you are cutting a superb dash,’ sighed Annabelle. Captain Burnside had donned his uniform. His red jacket, high blue collar, thigh-hugging white breeches, shining black boots and cavalry officer’s cap made her eyes linger. Of all things military, she adored a redcoated soldier, for no other colour gave a man more dash. And a redcoated cavalryman, could any soldier come more bravely to the eye? ‘Charles, I declare, you have the eye of every lady we pass. Even Caroline will sigh when she sees you.’

  ‘
Will she?’ Captain Burnside avoided a collision with a badly handled cabriolet by drawing up his pair into a sudden halt. ‘Tut, tut, sir, you should learn to walk before you ride,’ he called.

  The driver of the cabriolet, a fop of frills and flounces, smiled at him with sweet malice. ‘Damned, sir, if your head ain’t remarkably like a cannonball,’ he said, and drove on, heedless of his lack of skill.

  ‘The pretty sprigs of London are very petty,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘H’m,’ said Captain Burnside. ‘Now, young lady, in a few moments we shall arrive. I enjoin you to take care. Your sister won’t think too kindly of me for delivering you to Cumberland, nor will she like the thought of your being alone with him in his house – for if he seizes you, I fancy you’ll not be able to count on help from his servants.’

  Annabelle’s laugh was a little nervous, a little excited. ‘Seizes me? Charles, how melodramatic.’

  ‘Very,’ said the captain drily. ‘But a prince so dark of brow and so enamoured ain’t averse to seizing enchantment and making off with her.’

  ‘Making off?’ Her laughter bubbled. ‘Dear Charles, how amusing you are, and not at all boring, like Mr Wingrove, who is so constantly agreeable that he comes close to sounding like a single note of a flute. Whatever else is said about the Duke of Cumberland, no one could accuse him of being boring.’ Annabelle laughed again. Thoughts of Cumberland always excited her, and London never failed to exhilarate her. Before her and around her, all was a colourful panorama of carriages and people, handsome brownstone buildings and uniformed soldiers. A troop of Horse Guards rode by in jingling panoply, every horse a sleek, shining black. ‘Please do not forget the duke and I are meeting only to converse.’

  ‘About his intentions or your irresistibility? To be sure, Annabelle, it’s plainly time you determined whether you are being lovingly courted or passionately pursued.’

  ‘Passionately pursued?’ Annabelle blushed, thought of the pleasure the duke took in caressing her bosom, and blushed again.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Captain Burnside, fully aware that this sweet but naive young lady was going to stand or fall according to the amount of instinctive feminine caution and common sense she could bring to bear. ‘Cumberland don’t lack passion, nor purpose. So be strong, dear girl. Ask him quite plainly if he has marriage in mind. If not to you, then whom.’

  ‘But it’s so difficult to be strong when he’s so formidable.’

  ‘The first thing you must do is forbid him your lips.’

  Annabelle hid herself under her parasol. ‘Charles, I beg you not to embarrass me so.’

  ‘Cumberland has stolen some sweetnesses from you, I’ll wager.’

  ‘Oh, land sakes, must I discuss such intimacies?’

  ‘What you must do is remember that gentlemen who deny a lady honest answers to honest questions must be denied favours in return. Point out to Cumberland that you’re a guest of his country, and that he, as a royal duke, should at least be truthful with you. Tell him some men have been assassinated for playing false with young ladies.’

  ‘Assassinated?’ gasped Annabelle.

  ‘Yes, mention assassination by all means. You’ve hit on a powerful argument there, Annabelle. Point out that his brother, the Prince of Wales, has wronged so many ladies that he may yet be assassinated before he inherits the Crown. See how Cumberland reacts.’

  ‘Charles, you are making me quake and quiver,’ breathed Annabelle. ‘I am to imply I might assassinate the duke unless his intentions are honourable? I vow he will burst out laughing.’

  ‘I fancy, if you speak firmly enough, you won’t hear him laugh. I fancy he might look as if he’s in serious admiration of you.’

  ‘It’s true he is contemptuous of weak people. Oh, dear, I pray I shan’t be miserably weak.’

  ‘You’re a sweet gift from America, dear girl, and not to be trifled with. I ain’t intending to let anyone trifle with you, not even Cumberland. Well, here we are. I’ll wait not far away, and will give you thirty minutes. Out of respect for Lady Caroline, your sister, I can’t give you more. It won’t do to let you linger with His Magnificent Highness.’

  Annabelle, escorted upstairs by the senior flunkey, a Mr Pringle, was shown into the drawing room of Cumberland’s private suite. It was a room of spacious, high-ceilinged splendour. Patterned carpets proliferated, and the walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings, some depicting scenes of peaceful nature, others scenes of battle and strife. The furniture was large and opulent. Cumberland was not present, and the flunkey left her to await the duke’s arrival. Annabelle, her excitement a distinct nervousness, seated herself. Her fan fluttered.

  A door opened a little, and through it she heard Cumberland’s deep voice. ‘Comfortable he may be, but is he still secure?’

  ‘As secure as you could wish, Your Royal Highness, and, in his own mind, for his own sake.’

  ‘And ye’re sure ye alone among my staff know he’s where he is?’

  ‘Only you and I—’

  ‘Myself, I know nothing, ye hear?’ Cumberland’s voice was swift and harsh.

  ‘Indeed I know. My apologies, Your Highness.’

  ‘There’s still a watch on him?’

  ‘There is, Your Highness. I shall be going later to look things over, as usual. I suggest, sir, we must consider the importance of silence.’

  ‘Well, ye have the responsibility, not I.’

  Annabelle experienced a little uneasiness, for the conversation had unappealing nuances, and she knew there were people, unkind people, who spoke in whispers of the dark soul of the Duke of Cumberland. She shook herself free of the uncomfortable thoughts as the partly opened door was pulled wide and the duke entered. He came to an abrupt halt as he saw her, his brows drew together and his muscular body seemed to tighten. He loomed, silent, dark-faced and intimidating. Then a smile came, creasing his scarred face.

  ‘I am mortified,’ said Annabelle, ‘you have forgotten this arrangement.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said Cumberland, ‘but devil take whatever servant of mine left ye waiting and unannounced.’ He refrained from saying that various ladies who called were merely brought quietly up to his drawing room and never announced. Some ladies preferred not to hear their names spoken.

  ‘Oh, I’ve only this minute arrived,’ said Annabelle, and came to her feet, lashes nervously flickering. In his presence, she was invariably afflicted with palpitations.

  ‘I naturally wish I’d been able to greet ye, but I needed to speak to my private secretary,’ said Cumberland, his sound eye searching.

  ‘Oh, I surely know you to be a man who never has time to sit and wait,’ said Annabelle, defensively ambiguous. ‘I managed to come, as you see, Your Highness, but should not have wanted to interrupt you.’

  ‘Oh, a small formal matter. Yes, formal, but not important. And by no means as important as ye, my sweet.’

  Cumberland advanced then. His brown suede knee breeches moulded his powerful thighs and shaped his loins. His tailed black coat was buttoned tightly over his broad chest. His movements reminded Annabelle of a pantherlike creature about to spring. His face twisted itself into another smile.

  ‘We are to talk?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Talk?’ His eye was still searching, his smile a teeth-gleaming façade. ‘Does one talk to roses, or does one cosset them? Well, one at least acknowledges the tenderest of them.’

  If Annabelle had arrived full of resolution, most of it began to run from her as he lifted her hand to his lips. He took her parasol from her, and gently freed her bonnet, placing it, with the parasol, on a table. For a man whose uncompromising maleness was legendary, he could be surprisingly gentle and frequently was. Like a woman mesmerized, Annabelle watched his every movement, his aura of arrogant, infallible masculinity holding her in thrall.

  ‘Sir,’ she said as bravely as she could, ‘as a rose, am I to be placed in a vase among others, to become merely one of many, and all of us discarded when we fade and our
petals drop?’

  ‘Ye gods,’ said Cumberland, voice guttural with Germanic undertones, ‘one of many? D’ye think I collect young ladies to make a bouquet of them? I’m content with one rose, fresh and sweet and unblemished. Come, we’re to talk, I believe, and I swear ye’ll be far more entertaining than Erzburger, my secretary, who has only just finished plaguing me with his dullness.’ His low laugh vibrated, but the searching glint in his eye did not relate to amusement.

  Annabelle sensed he was inviting her to disclose what he suspected, that she had overheard his conversation with Erzburger. Uneasy again, she simulated a light, inconsequential smile. ‘Oh, I’ve no knowledge of your secretary or his dullness,’ she said. ‘I am only concerned with how you regard me.’

  ‘Ye’re not aware it’s a warm and loving regard?’ said Cumberland. ‘How could it not be when ye show fresher than September’s morning dew? How d’ye sustain such an unspoiled look in a city that nurtures pretty men and enamelled women?’

  ‘Your Highness, I sustain myself as I am by my belief in God and the honourable conduct of gentlemen.’

  His smile was brief and mocking. ‘D’ye say so?’ he said.

  ‘I do, sir.’ Annabelle thought of Captain Burnside and his support and advice. ‘I am not to be trifled with.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Cumberland, vastly amused.

  ‘I have a proud family, Your Highness, and proud blood. My sister has a temper, and so have I.’ Annabelle drew on her courage, all for the purpose of making him declare himself, one way or the other, as Captain Burnside had advised. ‘I have heard, sir, that even the sons of a monarch can stand in fear of assassination when the circumstances concern dishonour.’

  Cumberland’s face darkened, and his powerful frame stiffened. His mouth broke apart and his teeth gleamed. His look frightened her for a moment. ‘Ah, is innocence not so innocent?’ he said. ‘Who has been talking to ye?’