Anne Barbour Read online

  “Ah, Henry lacked a title, I take it.”

  “Yes, miss, and he was poor as a churchmouse, besides. A few months later, you met Andrew Mortimer, and you was real taken with him. I thought maybe your papa would relent this time, for Mr. Mortimer had plenty of brass. His father was a mill owner. But, no, your—”

  “But Papa held out for a title,” finished Amanda. “Even so, surely Lord Ashindon can’t be the first peer to fall for Amanda’s—that is, my big blue eyes.”

  “Oh, no, miss, but—” Hutchings halted uncertainly.

  “Yes, I see,” said Amanda. “The daughter of the Brass Bridge must, of course, be completely beyond the pale.” She experienced an unexpected and quite unwarranted twinge of anger.

  “Yes, miss,” replied Hutchings simply. “There was Sir George—last year, but he was only a baronet, and your papa said that nothing less than a viscount would do for his little girl.”

  “Like he really gives a twig about his little girl,” Amanda muttered. A thought struck her. “If the Bridges rank so low on the totem pole, how is it that we are invited to the Marchfords’ ball? It sounds like a fairly posh function.”

  “Posh? You mean tonnish? Yes, it is. The Marchfords aren’t in the uppity upper of the haut ton, but they’re considered one of the nobs, even though Sir Ralph ain’t—isn’t a peer. It’s ‘cause of your mama that you’re invited. Mrs. Bridge’s granddad was an earl, you see.” Hutchings continued chattily. “I hear it caused quite a stir at the time, even though Mrs. B.’s pa was only a third son. Her family didn’t exactly cast her off when she married Mr. B., but things was pretty stiff for a while, I apprehend. When your mama and papa moved here to Upper Brook Street, your mama began to take up with some of her old school friends, and since she’s so rich now, they decided to be nice to her.”

  “I see,” said Amanda, her eyes narrowed in comprehension. “Mr. and Mrs. Bridge hover on the fringe of society, hoping by their daughter’s marriage to gain access into the inner circle.”

  “That’s about it, miss. You’ve got some nice friends—some of them even the daughters of the nobility—’cause of where you went to school, but you’ve never been inside Almack’s. Your mama says, though, that now you’re betrothed to Lord Ashindon, you’ll receive vouchers.”

  “Almack’s,” repeated Amanda thoughtfully.

  Hutchings nodded. “It’s a place where they hold assemblies, miss.” She breathed the words as though she were describing the Ark of the Covenant to a rabbinical student. “Six of the highest ladies of the ton have a sort of club, and they hold dances there every Wednesday and Saturday. You can only come if you’re invited, and they don’t hardly invite anybody unless their umpty-great grandpas came over with William the Conqueror.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember reading about it. Good grief, how ridiculous.”

  Hutchings shot her a curious glance, but said nothing more. With a lift of her eyebrows requesting dismissal, she bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room.

  Amanda sank down on the chair before her dressing table and stared once more into the mirror. This was the first moment she’d had alone since returning from her encounter with the flower woman, and resolutely she drew the image of the old lady before her. That her appearance in Oxford Street held some significance was indisputable, but what?

  All right, let’s be logical about this. First, she met an old man in an old church, and shortly thereafter fell unconscious. When she awoke, she found herself in a dreamworld, where she inhabited Regency London, where, in turn, she met an old woman who closely resembled the old man. She could only assume that her meeting with the elderly gentleman had impressed her more profoundly than she realized at the time, thus he showed up, transformed in gender and station in life, in her hallucination. Yes, that must be it. This would also account for the old woman’s seeming knowledge of Amanda’s situation. Although, on reflection, the flower woman’s words could have been uttered innocently, merely a part of her sales patter.

  Or ... A small voice whispered in the back of Amanda’s mind. Or, her own presence in Regency England was not a figment of her imagination, but was real, and the old man and the flower woman represented an outside force of some sort—a force that had purposely uprooted her from her comfortable life as a professor at a prestigious university to cast her adrift in another time.

  No! Such a thing was impossible, and she was mad to so much as consider it.

  On the other hand, continued the insidious voice, the concept of such a transference would explain a great deal. The verisimilitude of her surroundings, the complexity of the lives of her “family,” and their intricate relationships.

  No. This was absolute nonsense. And even if her maniacal suppositions were true, why her? Why should plain, unremarkable Amanda McGovern be chosen to make a journey through the centuries to be placed in the body of a young woman who had lived a hundred and eighty years ago? Why would Amanda Bridge’s life be cut short in order to provide a receptacle for that of someone else?

  No. The whole idea was too ludicrous to contemplate. She leaned her head on her hands, still gazing at the girl in the mirror, and was aware of a dull throbbing behind her eyes. Not the stabbing pain of the headache she had experienced in Grosvenor Chapel, just a common, garden-variety, this-is-all-too-much-and-I-can’t-think-about-it-anymore headache.

  Rising swiftly, she hurried from the room.

  * * * *

  The ladies of the family dined alone again, and once more Amanda was treated to a catechism of the persons who might be expected to appear in the Bridge drawing room that afternoon. Serena made no reference to her daughter’s earlier insubordination beyond a lachrymose declaration that she might well be driven into an early grave if this sort of behavior were to be repeated.

  The first visitor appeared shortly after luncheon in the form of a Mrs. Fordham, and her daughter Cordelia. Amanda recognized her instantly from Hutchings’ description, and when the plump young woman settled herself with a little twitch in a settee near the fire, Amanda indeed felt herself in the presence of a very nice, pink-nosed white rat.

  “How are you feeling, Amanda?” asked Mrs. Fordham in a tone of matronly concern after she had been plied with tea. “I heard you have been a little under the weather.”

  Amanda exchanged a quick glance at Serena and elected to let Mama field this one.

  “Yes, we have been rather concerned about our little one.” Serena issued a bright smile that indicated the concern had been short-lived. “She swooned yesterday—trotting too hard, as I’ve told her many times—and she hit her head when she fell. Her memory has been a bit vague ever since, but the doctor said we have nothing to worry about, and she’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  “What a dreadful thing to have happen to one!” exclaimed Miss Fordham, her watery eyes wide with concern. “And how awful not to remember things. You do remember me?” she exclaimed anxiously.

  “Of course,” replied Amanda, laughing. “How could I forget one of my dearest friends in the world?”

  This encomium seemed to please the young woman. She glanced quickly at Serena, who had engaged Mrs. Fordham in conversation, and rose to seat herself next to Amanda. She grasped her friend’s arm and hissed in a sibilant whisper, “But what happened yesterday morning? I vow, I was on pins and needles all day, expecting to hear that you’d flown with Mr. Satterleigh. There was no news, though, even though I stayed at home all day, waiting, and then to hear you had taken to your bed! Well, I’ve been near expiring. You must Tell All! I can’t stand it another minute!”

  Amanda sucked in a startled breath. It appeared young Amanda had not kept her plans a secret. This was not surprising, she supposed. A girl planning an elopement would no doubt feel the need for moral support from her friends. She would rely on the age-old determination of the younger generation to keep its secrets against the older.

  After a few seconds of internal debate, Amanda sighed heavily. “Oh, it was so dreadful, Cordelia! I manage
d to creep out of the house unobserved. With my heart in my throat, I entered Grosvenor Chapel and sat down to wait.” She shivered dramatically, warming to her subject. “Unbeknownst to me, Lord Ashindon came to call here at the house, and when I was nowhere to be found, they coerced Hutchings into revealing everything. I had only been in the chapel a few moments, when he and my parents came roaring in.”

  Her audience was hanging on every word. “Ooh,” breathed Cordelia. “Was Mr. Satterleigh there?”

  “N-no. He had not yet arrived, I expect. At any rate, Lord Ashindon actually put his hands on me!”

  Cordelia’s pale eyes grew round. “No! Oh, the wretch!”

  “Yes.” Amanda lifted one graceful hand and pressed it to her brow. “And that’s when I came all over faint. I fell, and must have hit my head on the pew. When I regained consciousness, I did not recognize Lord Ashindon—or Mama or Papa, either.”

  Cordelia’s reaction was all that a budding thespian could hope for. She bounced in her seat, her face quite pale with excitement. “Did they beat you? Did they put you in your room on bread and water? Did they—”

  Much as Amanda hated to throw cold water on her own climax, she felt matters had probably gone far enough. “No, of course not. They could hardly berate me when I did not even know who they were. Of course,” she added hastily, “I have recovered mostly since then, though a lot of things are pretty fuzzy.”

  “But what about Lord Ashindon? He must have been absolutely furious. Is he still—that is, is he going to—?” Cordelia dropped her eyes and flushed.

  An image of the rage in Ash’s dark eyes as he lifted her from the chapel floor sprang before Amanda’s eyes. “Yes, he was angry, but he came to the house again later that afternoon and we—we made up.”

  “And what about Mr. Satterleigh? Has he contacted you? Oh, my gracious, if this isn’t the most romantical situation!” Cordelia said with an expressive sigh.

  Or the most absurd, thought Amanda. The conversation was beginning to bore her, and when she heard Serena say to Mrs. Fordham, “... and his lordship will be accompanying us to Lady Marchford’s ball next week,” she nodded significantly at Cordelia and then turned to draw her young friend and herself into the conversation between the two older women.

  A few minutes later, more guests arrived, and again, Amanda was able to guess their identity from Hutchings’ trenchant descriptions. A small quiver of surprise flew around the room when a young woman whom Amanda recognized instantly as Charlotte Twining entered the drawing room. Her expression as she greeted those already in the room was a blend of offended dignity and blatant curiosity, and the smile she turned on Amanda was one of candy-coated venom.

  “Dearest!” she cooed. “I heard you were ill and I had to come over immediately to assure myself that your indisposition is not serious.”

  Amanda pasted a welcoming smile on her lips and rose to greet the newcomer. Hutchings had been correct in her assessment of Miss Twining. She was an attractive young woman, although inordinately thin and somewhat sharp-featured. Her pale blond hair was curled and crimped so that she looked a lot like a frazzled Q-tip. Amanda put forth her hand. “Charlotte! How very nice of you to call. Yes, I have been a trifle unwell, but I am nearly recovered.”

  Serena opened her mouth, but before she could proffer the authorized version of Amanda’s indisposition, Cordelia interrupted excitedly.

  “Oh, Charlotte, it’s the most dreadful thing. Amanda has lost her memory!”

  Not unnaturally, this statement garnered Charlotte’s complete attention as well as that of her mother, who hovered in the background. Charlotte hurried to Amanda and seated herself in a nearby chair.

  “But, my dear,” she breathed, leaning forward with an expression of avid curiosity on her face, “you must tell me all about it.”

  Once more Amanda spun her tale of the swoon and the bump on her head and her subsequent fuzzies. Charlotte seemed to accept the story and smiled slyly. “And what about Cosmo Satterleigh. Surely you have not forgotten him?”

  Amanda shot a glance at Cordelia, but received no help from that damsel’s blank visage. Lord, was Charlotte in on the Satterleigh elopement plot? Probably not, if she and Amanda had been on the outs for the last week or so. She took a deep breath and assayed a careless laugh.

  “Of course not, although I have not seen him since—well, to be truthful, certain details of my, er, friendship with him are a little hazy, but I’m sure that when I see him again—”

  “Oh, but have you not heard?” Charlotte’s high-pitched titter was tinged with malice. “Mr. Satterleigh has left town!”

  Charlotte clearly expected a reaction other than Amanda’s casual, “Oh?” and her face fell ludicrously. “Yes,” she continued, regrouping, “Mama and I encountered Mrs. Throgmorton on our way here—she is Mr. Satterleigh’s aunt, you know—and she said that Mr. Satterleigh was called unexpectedly to his family home in—” She turned to Mrs. Twining. “Where is it, Mama? Shropshire, or some such place.”

  “Yes,” replied Mrs. Twining repressively. “Although, I am sure the young man’s whereabouts are of no interest to Amanda.” She shot a propitiatory glance at Serena, who had swollen visibly during this exchange.

  “No, indeed,” snapped that lady, “we—that is, Amanda has no interest in the young man’s direction, as he has been told.”

  Amanda dropped her gaze demurely to her lap, and in a few moments Serena had turned the talk to a more innocuous subject. More visitors arrived and left and Amanda, with Serena’s support, was able to converse without committing any irretrievable blunders. Cordelia and Charlotte remained for another half hour or so and Charlotte maintained a semblance of brittle cordiality that continued until she and Mrs. Twining rose to depart.

  “We really must return home now,” said Charlotte prettily, “for I am obliged to change for my drive in the Park this afternoon with Lord Glendenning.”

  Serena sent a sharp glance to her daughter before saying hesitantly, “His lordship is becoming quite particular in his attention, is he not?”

  Amanda caught the message. It was time for a little fence-mending. She smiled widely. “Oh my, yes. Why, when we danced together recently, all he could talk about was you, Charlotte. I’d say he is quite smitten.”

  Charlotte’s surprise was unconcealed by the gratified flush that spread over her sharp features. She said nothing, but indulged in a bit of simpering, and the warmth of her farewell to Amanda indicated to those present that all was forgiven.

  It was another hour before all the guests had gone, and the door knocker was silent once again.

  “Well,” said Amanda with a sigh of relief, “I think we brushed through that fairly well, don’t you?”

  Serena’s relieved smile spoke volumes.

  “You were wonderful, Amanda. A couple of times you were almost caught out, but I don’t think anyone suspects you of—of—”

  “Of having skidded round the bend?” finished Amanda. “I believe you’re right. Besides, it’s wonderful how much conversation can be carried on by simply smiling and nodding a lot.”

  “You see?” said Serena, beaming in satisfaction. “I told you you would be right as rain in a few days. By the time of the Marchford ball, I just know you’ll be completely recovered, dearest.”

  Amanda stared blankly at her. Good God, did the woman really believe in the charade they had pulled off this afternoon? As for the ball—well, her bluff had been successful so far, and surely she had overcome her worst obstacle. If Lord Ashindon should ask her about it again, she would assure him of her intention of making an appearance. She was aware of a guilty tingle of anticipation at the thought of her next meeting with the enigmatic earl.

  Chapter Seven

  As it happened, Lord Ashindon did not put in an appearance in Upper Brook Street for some days.

  Having returned his betrothed to the bosom of her family after the expedition to Oxford Street, Ash returned to his lodgings to find a missive awaiting h
im. He held the note in his hand for some moments before breaking the seal and opening it, for he recognized the flowing script adorning the elegant stationery. It was with a sense of dread, mixed with a guilty delight and the familiar ache of betrayal and defeat that always accompanied the thought of his cousin’s widow that he perused the casually scrawled lines.

  Ash,

  I am come to town and would appreciate your attention, when and if it is convenient to you. You will find me at our old town house in Cavendish Square. Lianne

  Why had she come? was his first, anguished reaction to her words. It did not surprise him that she would send for him almost immediately on her arrival, for she knew he would make it his first priority to see to her needs, just as he always had. He recalled the last time he had seen her, the bleakness of her widow’s weeds serving only to accentuate the whiteness of her skin and the purity of her features.

  “Do not worry about me, my love—my first and only love,” she had whispered, crystal tears filling her green eyes. “I shall live out my days here in solitude and loneliness—and I shall never forget you.”

  With this mournful farewell, she had kissed him once on the cheek and hastened into the fastness of her parents’ home. He had known she would not stay there forever, of course. A nun-like life of solitude and loneliness was not for one so vital and pleasure-loving as Lianne Wexford, née Bonner, the Countess of Ashindon.

  Ash sighed heavily. He should reply with another note, informing the countess that he was unable to wait upon her but that he would remain at her service. Yours, etc. etc.

  Even as this laudable intention formed itself in his mind, he called for his curricle to be brought round again, and a scant half an hour later he found himself knocking at number 3 Cavendish Square, his hat in his hand.

  He was ushered into a small sitting room at the back of the house, a shadowed chamber, heavy with an atmosphere Ash could not name. Lianne was alone in the room, seated in a small, satin-striped armchair near the fire.