Lady Lu: Regency Romance

LADY LU

Elisabeth Kidd

Chapter 1

It really is deplorable, the way Richard Wetherell is continually adding to his fortune, observed Mrs Rutledge, fixing her eye unerringly on the only column in the Morning Chronicle of real moment, particularly when most of us have a continual struggle simply to hold body and soul together. It really is too unjust.

Maria Rutledge’s butler, taking this to be a rhetorical remark, declined to comment and went on with the delicate task of removing his employer’s soiled breakfast dishes from under the heaps of letters and assorted papers with which, and two plump orange cats, she customarily shared her leisurely breakfast. Mrs Rutledge absentmindedly raised her saucer to allow Travers to wipe the crumbs from under it with a white cloth, and tucked a stray ringlet beneath her lace cap.

It says here, she went on, "that Mr Wetherell’s cousin, the one who died in Yorkshire, left him fifty thousand pounds—fifty thousand, and Richard told me distinctly that it was but a modest legacy!—as well as his estate near Harrogate.

No doubt it is a large, unencumbered one, she added darkly. "That should confirm Delphinia Bromley’s opinion of her accomplishment."

Travers was well accustomed to his employer’s habit of conversing with herself while pretending to direct her remarks to some other person. Mrs Rutledge, a lady of middle years and declining, if not yet faded, comeliness of face and figure, lived alone—apart from the cats—and this conversational habit was so well established that it had long since ceased to be noticed by members of her household. Outside the house, of course, she found a more than sufficient number of persons with ears to bend, for she had been resident in this part of Kent for some years and was generally liked, or at least tolerated, by her neighbours.

Travers was even more keenly aware of his employer’s state of finances. A widow for some years who had no family other than her likewise widowed sister-in-law, Mrs Rutledge was not what anyone would call plump in the pocket—certainly not in comparison with Mr Wetherell, whose estate bordered Oakleigh to the east. Travers was paid his quarterly wages on time and in full, which was all the assurance he needed that his employer was unlikely to be removed to debtors’ prison and that his position was secure.

To be sure, his wages were paid only after Monsieur Claude, Mrs Rutledge’s treasured and highly reputed French chef, received his exorbitant salary. It was also true that the turnover of maids and footmen at Oakleigh was unusually swift, but Travers did not concern himself with underlings. The Oakleigh pantries were well stocked—Mrs Rutledge would never dream of depriving anyone, least of all herself, of a minimum of three ample meals a day—and the staff’s quarters were unusually spacious and comfortable.

When her butler had departed, bearing a well-laden tray and followed hopefully by the more optimistic of the two cats, Maria sat back in her chair—which, although in need of reupholstering, was undeniably a superior Hepplewhite—and sighed. Really, what did Richard do with all his money? He made no pretense of being at the forefront of fashion, he kept no extravagant number of carriages and horses, and he had no family to support—although that would, presumably, very shortly change.

Maria had never cared to ask Richard point-blank about money, for he had always been more than generous to her. She had developed over many years a manner of asking him for favours in an oblique way that was really no more than a hint that she would be grateful to borrow his second footman, or his barouche, or a basket of strawberries from his home garden. She had no wish to interrupt this flow of largesse in her direction by indiscreet inquiries into its source.

In return, Richard occasionally borrowed Maria’s house, for although Archers was huge and more than adequate for any social occasion, Richard disliked giving parties, and he was in town or at one of his other houses most of time in any case. Maria adored playing hostess, however, and with Richard’s money to spend freely on any sort of entertainment she cared to sponsor, she indulged in dinner parties and ridottos whenever an even remotely appropriate occasion arose.

Now, of course, there was a wholly appropriate occasion near to hand, and if Richard had not already thought of it, Maria had every intention of reminding him.

This very evening, indeed, she was giving one of her little dinners, as she liked to call them, for a small party of neighbours. Its real purpose was to point out to Richard how much more suitable it would be to celebrate his happy news with a proper party—dare she even think of a ball?— with hired musicians and proper dancing and a champagne supper with no less than a hundred guests. After all, Richard Wetherell was an important person in the county and invitations to a ball at Archers were as much prized for the honour of receiving them as for the rarity of their being sent out. Indeed, the last occasion that Maria could recall was Richard’s niece’s come-out ball, and that had been three years ago if it was a day. Emily had married and produced a child since then.

Maria’s eyes positively sparkled in anticipation. She must make up a tentative guest list to present to Richard tonight. Her mind thus pleasantly occupied, Maria went to her writing desk to make lists, at which task she was occupied for some two hours. She then went downstairs again to consult Travers about accommodations in the village in the enviable event that the number of overnight guests should exceed the number of rooms available at Oakleigh and Archers. But as she descended the stairs to the hall, the figure of a woman in the bright doorway brought her to a halt.

Good heavens—Luisa! What are you doing here?

Lady Luisa Ingram, who had just introduced herself to the new footman, was directing the disposition of the several pieces of luggage which were standing in the hall with her customary tactful efficiency. When she heard her sister-in-law’s voice, she raised her veil and smiled as she reminded her, I was invited.

You were?

Indeed yes, Luisa said, stripping off her gloves in a manner indicating confidence in her welcome. I distinctly recall that when we last parted, I said good-bye, and you said do come back soon, and I said I was not certain when that would be, and you said it did not matter, for I was welcome whenever I cared to come.

Luisa smiled in a way that had caused one literary-minded admirer to say that she must have been born under a dancing star, and her grey eyes twinkled. But her late husband’s sister was in no mood to be teased. Really, Mrs Rutledge thought in exasperation, Luisa did have the knack, invited or not, to breeze into one’s house and one’s life with no consideration at all of whether it was convenient.

Furthermore, Luisa’s appearance had brought Mrs Rutledge’s mind forcefully back to several other unpleasant matters she had been considering before being happily diverted into planning a party—very likely the last party she would ever preside over, she realized now, with a sinking heart. For when Luisa discovered the reason for it, she would doubtless do something dreadful and Richard would never allow Maria to indulge in her one talent again. The future looked bleaker by the moment.

Lady Luisa’s grey eyes narrowed slightly in puzzlement, but before she could ask the obvious question, Maria dithered, Oh, but, I never thought you would—I mean, weren’t you going to Peasmarsh?

In point of fact, Luisa said, steering her reluctant hostess into the drawing room and seating her on the sofa before lowering herself gratefully beside Maria, I have come all the way from London without a stop, and while my carriage is an excellent, well-sprung vehicle, I began by Sevenoaks to be aware of every bump and hole in the road. I wonder if thirty is the beginning of middle age? I am sure I was not so sensitive to physical discomfort in my youth.

You are twelve years younger than I, may I remind you, Luisa.

Lady Luisa gave her merry laugh and leaned over to give her sister-in-law a hug. I do beg your pardon, my love. You must know I always think of you as a giddy young girl. Although why on earth you think I should go to Peasmarsh I fail to comprehend.

Well, you and Geoffrey lived there, after all, Maria said. Luisa gave her a quizzical look.

Geoffrey is dead, dearest. Are you telling me I should have buried myself in Peasmarsh churchyard beside him?

Luisa!

The younger lady sighed. I’m sorry, love. I’m just peevish from the journey. I do not tolerate being cooped up for hours on end very well, I’m afraid. I should have driven myself."

Indeed, Lady Luisa was dressed, Mrs Rutledge noticed now, quite as if she had intended to drive herself, in a severely cut but comfortable-looking grey gown with frogged closings. The hat she had removed in the hall had been a tall one which, despite its veil, looked very like the one her own coachman might wear. And Lu had not brought her maid with her, which, Maria recalled, was inevitably a harbinger of mischief afoot.

Oh, Luisa—you aren’t going to start doing that again, are you? I thought Geoffrey had convinced you that driving yourself everywhere and making people stare isn’t—well, ladylike.

"At the risk of repeating myself, Maria, Geoffrey is no longer here to chastise me in that maddeningly soulful way he had which I could never resist. To please him, I put off doing all those unladylike things I used to do and was a good girl for seven whole years. But now that I may please myself again, I have every intention of taking up my old pursuits—if only to prove to myself that I can.

Besides, she added, deliberately unheeding of the horrified look in her sister-in-law’s eyes, since my father was so obliging as to be a duke, I shall always be a lady, however ungentlemanly my behavior. Isn’t that a comforting thought?

Maria thought it a perfectly appalling prospect. Lady Luisa—known to her intimates and to stableboys and to the local merchants alike as Lady Lu—had been a hoyden in her girlhood, but Maria had comforted herself, apparently with little justification, with the idea that marriage to her usually sober brother Geoffrey had finally made Luisa grow up.

It was true that she had behaved with perfect propriety during her marriage, and she always looked as calm as a windless day, but Maria knew from experience that Luisa’s angelic looks were deceiving. There was no telling when she might do something outrageous, even if she had given up such private habits as going barefoot in the house and driving herself about alone—but only in the country, dearest, where no one cares a rap! If Luisa were to resume such habits now, there was no telling ...

With a start, Maria recalled one old habit of Luisa’s which she would not be able to resume—at least, not without causing no end of scandal. If she were to begin teasing Richard again in that peculiarly intimate way she was accustomed to, what would people think? No, it must not be thought of.

I did write to you, she said. I suppose the letter did not reach you.

Luisa raised her shapely, discreetly darkened eyebrows. What, to dis-invite me?

Well, not precisely .. .

I should think not. You know that would only make me the more eager to come, to discover what you were hiding. She offered a suggestive pause, but Maria did not fill it. "What are you hiding?"

Not quite routed by this direct attack, Mrs Rutledge was able to conceal at least half of what Luisa would find out eventually anyway. It would be easier on all concerned, she reassured herself, to break the news gradually.

Richard is stopping at Archers, she said, in the tone of one expecting an explosive response. She did so dislike loud noises.

But Luisa only said mildly, Yes, I expected he would be.

Have you seen him recently, then—to speak to?

Oh, yes, Luisa said, rising and shaking one of Maria’s cats out of her lap. Augustus let out a yowl of protest and leapt into the window seat, where he pointedly turned his whiskers away from his human companions. Maria wished she could be equally insouciant, but she bravely stood her ground, even convinced as she was all at once that Luisa was Up To Something.

We ran into each other in town last month, Luisa was saying in an indifferent way, as she gave Augustus an apologetic rub behind the ears, then picked him up and began pacing the room with him. Augustus seemed to thrive on this treatment, but Maria could not help but think it another bad omen. "Not literally, I should say, although Richard is as clumsy as ever with a pair of reins in his hands—but all he did was rail at me for not looking where he was going. I never knew such a man for covering his own dull-wittedness with bad manners."

For a dull man, he has always been capable of arousing you to an extraordinary degree of wrath, Maria remarked.

Luisa tossed her lovely blond head. Irritation merely, my love—simple vexation that a man of Richard’s wealth and position should squander them on pastimes at which he will never be more than ordinarily proficient.

Maria did not trouble to defend Mr Wetherell on this point, since she had been pondering a similar question herself just that morning. In any case, she had grown accustomed to Luisa’s practice—indulged more from custom than real conviction for several years now—of thus maligning the man to whom she had once been betrothed. After one of their quarrels—about what, Maria knew not, but she suspected it was the only serious one they’d ever had—Lu had broken the engagement and three months later had married Maria’s brother Geoffrey, a man as different from Richard Wetherell as could have been imagined.

Geoffrey had been dead for nearly a year now, and his only female relations had left off their heavy mourning. They still did not go about a great deal in society, however, and did not yet wear colours, a circumstance which did not flatter the dark-haired, olive-complexioned Maria, but which undoubtedly brought out Lady Luisa’s best looks.

In fact, Maria thought, observing her sister-in-law with no trace of envy, Luisa was decidedly lovelier at thirty than she had been at twenty, when she had not quite got over the gawkiness of her tomboyish youth. Now, however, the more mature fashions she had affected became her slim figure to perfection, and her large grey eyes shone in her delicate, high-cheeked face, where before they had seemed too large, too hollow, in that thin, intense countenance. She had learned to control her flyaway blond curls in a becoming knot, letting just enough silvery wisps hang loose to create an effect of ethereal vulnerability which contrasted strongly—if only to those who knew her well—with Luisa’s forceful character. It was no wonder that her normally clear-headed brother, who had escaped matrimony into his forties, should have fallen under Lady Luisa Kendall’s spell.

Whatever are you staring at? Luisa asked, depositing a besotted Augustus on the carpet with a last pat of his head.

I was only wondering, Maria lied, if you are ever sorry you did not marry Richard.

Luisa gave a hoot of laughter. Good gracious, no! I assure you, I have been grateful ever since for my narrow escape! We should have been forever at each other’s throats—a most uncomfortable position even for short periods of time—or have finished our days, if we had not murdered each other at a younger age, living in separate houses as far removed from each other as possible.

She laughed again, a little falsely, Maria thought. Do you know, she said daringly, I once fancied that you were afraid to marry Richard.

Luisa frowned and, apparently forgetting her professed concern for life and limb, asked, Why?

I think you were too much in love with him. I think you were afraid he would disappoint you—as your family had done.

For a few seconds, Maria thought she had hit on something, but the strange look that came into Luisa’s eyes disappeared again before Maria could identify it, and Luisa exclaimed, "You are too romantical, my dear! I assure you, I never enjoyed anything so much as crying off. And Richard has certainly suffered no decline from the disappointment.

Besides, she added, leaning over the back of Maria’s chair to hug her shoulders, if I had married Richard, I should not have married Geoffrey, and I would not have you for my sister!

Maria was quite unable to resist this argument, particularly since, whatever sisterly virtues Lu possessed aside, it was true that she was Luisa’s nearest female relation—or rather, the only living relation to whom she felt close. Luisa’s mother had died at her birth, and her father soon after in a carriage accident. She had never got on with her considerably older brother, even as an infant—George swore that when Luisa said her first word, goat, she had looked directly at him.

When George inherited the title, Luisa was shipped off to be reared by her grandparents, and at their deaths, she had begun to be passed around from aunt to cousin to distant connection between ever shorter visits to her brother’s family. At last, at