and making it difficult for him to see her face without craning forward. But her sarcasm had produced an angry flush and a sparkle to her superb eyes that Lord Elyot could only guess at until his brother moved the horses forward a step. Then he was better able to judge the passion behind her droll revelations and to see that she was not quite the amenable obliging creature he had met the day before, nor was she the misguided woman whose reticule he now possessed.
Equally significant was the expression of dismay on the pretty niece’s face at the scuppering of her hopes. So this was the reason why they had kept out of the social scene for five weeks and why the young lass was so keen to make contact with the first half-decent beau to speak to her. His laughter had stopped well before Amelie had finished her explanation.
‘With difficulty,’ he said, in answer to her question. ‘But am I to understand that Richmond approval is what you desire, my lady?’
Her voice lost its flinty edge. ‘Not for myself, my lord. I did not come here to seek high society and there is no one’s approval I need. I have more interesting matters to keep me occupied. I bid you both good day, my lords.’
Giving them no time to recover or to say a proper farewell, she called out to Riley to let the horses go, cracked the whip above their heads with astonishing precision, and set them off so fast that the poor tiger had to take a flying leap at the back of the perch as it passed.
‘Whew! You in an ‘urry, m’lady?’ he gasped.
‘Yes. How do we get out of this place?’
‘Thought you was going to Kew, m’lady.’
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. Left or right…quick, man!’
‘Left! Steady, for pity’s sake, or we’ll all be in the ditch.’
‘Rubbish! If you can’t stay aboard, get off and walk.’
Riley grinned. ‘Yes, m’lady.’ He would rather have been seen dead.
Amelie’s sudden reversal, however, was heartily disapproved of, and had done more than bring a mild disappointment to the young breast at her side, for now there were tear-filled lashes and a voice husky with broken dreams. Turning round after taking a last lingering look at the classy phaeton’s driver, Caterina rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief and dabbed, reserving her questions for the privacy of the breakfast parlour at Number 18 Paradise Road. Travelling at Amelie’s speed, it did not take long.
Caterina was a vivacious but not unreasonable young lady, even at times like this when her desires had been thwarted, and such was her admiration for her aunt that the explanation and assurances she was given were accepted without argument. If Aunt Amelie said that the men would not be put off, then she must wait and hope it would not take too long, though privately she could not see why they should have been so positively rejected in the first place if they were expected to try again. Did Aunt Amelie hope they would?
The rest of the day was not wasted, for Caterina’s weekly singing lesson with Signor Cantoni used up an hour after noon, then there was piano practice to be done followed by a thorough search through back copies of the Ladies’Magazine to find some day dresses for the mantua-maker to reproduce. After which she read all the advertisements for cosmetics, hair colourants, rouge for lips and cheeks, mouth fresheners, skin softeners, soaps, pills and whalebone.
Amelie protested. ‘You need no stays, my dear,’ she said. ‘You have a beautiful youthful figure that needs not even the shortest corset. Nor does your hair need extra colour.’ It was no flattery—Caterina was exceedingly pretty and trim, and Amelie was convinced that, with an overhaul of her somewhat childish wardrobe and some practice of womanly ways, she would soon be a beauty. Her naturally curly red-gold hair would respond well to the dishevelled look, so they set about experimenting, there and then, with the Grecian style, with bandeaux, plumes, combs and knots, twists and coils. The next time Lord Rayne saw her, Amelie predicted, he would be astonished by the transformation.
Next morning, the mantua-maker and her young assistant arrived to measure Caterina for new gowns. It had rained heavily again during the night and well into the morning, damping the dressmaker and chilling her helper to such an extent that, although one of her roles was to model some of the gowns they had brought with them, her emaciated and shivering body stuck through the sheer fabrics like a grasshopper’s knees. Amelie resolved to mend that problem before the coming autumn sent the child to an early grave.
While they were merrily draping themselves with new muslins and silks, Henry the footman came to announce that Lord Elyot and Lord Rayne were below, hoping to be allowed to see them.
‘Oh, please, Aunt,’ Caterina said, clutching at her unstable toga. ‘Do say we’re at home. Don’t send them away.’
If she wondered, fleetingly, how far Lord Elyot’s enquiries had led him into the workhouse affair, Amelie concealed it well; she had no heart to disappoint her niece again so soon, even though she felt herself to be wading in rather deep waters.
‘The morning room,’ she said to Henry. ‘Leave your hair just as it is, Caterina. It looks most becoming like that, and they must take us as they find us, mustn’t they?’ Nevertheless, the advice was amended in her own favour as she passed the long cheval mirror brought downstairs for the fitting, and the darkly tumbling curls bound with lilac ribbons were tweaked into place. As a married woman she would have worn something over them, but any inclination towards convention had grown less attractive after Josiah’s death. Yet at the back of her mind was a nugget of satisfaction that there was someone in this town who, in full possession of the facts, had not been so easily put off. Indeed, a timely show of her very comfortable life without Richmond’s friendship might be no bad thing. Even now they would be looking around with some interest at the fine white and gilded entrance hall and the Axminster carpet, while in the morning room were two views of Venice by Canaletto that would impress them more.
The visitors were shown into the room only moments after Amelie had seated herself at the rosewood pianoforte with Caterina standing by her side, a sheet of music in her hand. Despite herself, it was an impression she wished to convey, though she could not have explained why.
‘Lady Chester. Miss Chester.’ The men bowed as the door closed behind them, their reflections disappearing into the shining oak floor.
Caterina smiled, but Amelie chose not to while resisting the temptation to continue her former irony. ‘You are welcome, my lords. May I enquire how you knew our address?’ She stood to meet them, inclining her head gracefully.
‘From the man who delivered the heroic silver tea urn from Rundell’s this morning,’ said Lord Elyot. ‘I made a point of asking him so we could offer you our thanks in person.’
‘Ah…I see.’ Amelie sat on a chair newly upholstered with her own embroidery and saw how Lord Rayne sat near enough to Caterina to admire the glossy red curls he had not seen before. Against the simple gown of white muslin, the sight seemed to hold his attention most satisfactorily.
Lord Elyot went to sit in a corner of the sofa, his arm thrown across the scrolled end, his long legs crossed as if the creasing of his tight buckskins was of no consequence, and it was this relaxed manner and his study of her face that made Amelie suspect that her choice of gift for his sister had been recognised for what it was, for now he must have caught a flavour, at least, of her excellent taste in all things domestic. Other than the tea urn, that is.
There was something more to be seen in his steady regard, however, that kept Amelie’s eyes upon his face longer than at
