The Virtuous Ward

CHAPTER Eleven

Aside from the occasional rustle of a paper, the low-voiced instructions to a waiter or the raspy clearing of a throat, the main salon of Sweet’s Racing Club was silent. Max had commandeered a deeply padded leather chair in a small alcove and was sunk in a trancelike concentration. Intruders on his refuge had scurried away, put off by the black-browed scowl he sent their way. George kept his snifter of brandy well filled, taking particular pains to avoid any noise that might disturb him.

Since early evening, Max had been ensconced in the chair, sipping brandy and staring out the window. The view was unpromising, the side of the building next door but he appeared to find the blank wall a fascinating subject for perusal. From time to time his lips moved as if he were holding a serious colloquy with an invisible friend, then he would shake his head in negation and return to his examination of the building outside the window.

Lord Devereaux Cathcart stood at the side of the room, watching the antics of his friend and a slow smile broke the ascetic quality of his face. When he had asked the faithful George if he had seen Lord Kampford, the steward had cautioned him that his friend seemed in an somewhat somber frame of mind. It was interesting to find the unflappable, methodical Max looking unsettled. Dev arranged his features in a more serious mien and approached the alcove.

"Would you mind if I joined you, sir?"

Max was so involved in his own thoughts that he did not immediately recognize Dev's voice. He emitted a low growling sound and glared up at the interloper only to be met by a familiar pair of twinkling blue eyes.

"Dev, old man!" Max exclaimed. He leaped to his feet and grasped the extended hand, gripping it with an enthusiastic shake. "Pull up a chair. Can you stay for awhile or are you on your way to an engagement?"

Dropping down in the chair at right angles to Max, Dev said, "I have the entire evening free. I am yours to command."

"Good show! I have no plans either so I will enjoy the company."

"Are you sure? When I asked to join you, I thought you might run me through," Dev said, cocking an eyebrow in question.

"My apologies. I have been blue-deviled this evening but now that you are here, I feel my spirits returning to a better humor." Max raised his glass just as George arrived with a snifter for Dev. They saluted each other and Max took a sip of the heady liquor. "What brings you to town? I assumed you were moldering in the country, awaiting the heir to the Cathcart fortune. Speaking of which, how is Jena?"

"As to your second question, my darling wife is blooming with health. She bewails the fact that in profile she appears to be carrying some misshapen behemoth but quite frankly I have never seen her look more beautiful." Dev beamed in pride at his approaching fatherhood. "There are still three months to go before the appearance of the much awaited heir and already my grandfather is demanding that we move to Waverly for the confinement."

"Will you go?" Max asked, amused as always by news of the feisty Duke of Waverly.

Dev pushed a hand through his white hair and grimaced. "I fear the old man will give me no peace unless we accede to his wishes. Jena dotes on the curmudgeon and has agreed, on the condition that we return in time for the foaling season."

"I wish you both well," Max said, his face serious. He raised his snifter. "To the health and happiness of your lady wife."

"To Jena!" Dev raised his glass then took a long swallow before he continued. "Now as to your first question, I am come to town to handle the transfer of some property. Nothing too involved but it gave me a chance to stop for a visit and bring you up to date on the latest news from the country. I am chagrined to report that my wife has been most successful in her quest. Reggie is getting married."

"Devil you say! I never imagined our friend would take the plunge. Your Jena is a matchmaker to be wary of. Do I know the girl?"

"Don't think so. Diane Farrington. Family's big in hunting circles. Father's the Hunting Vicar of Frostiglade. She's young, eighteen, and a neck or nothing rider. Quite surprising, since she's a little bit of a blond thing with great cornflower eyes and a wispy voice. On the back of a horse, she's something ferocious."

Max's eyes wandered to the blank wall outside the window as he reviewed the many escapades in which he, Dev, Reggie and the lumbering Dickon had been involved. Dev was married and now Reggie. The old days were gone.

"I'm glad for him, Dev. When you see him be sure and convey my sincerest wishes," he said.

"He mentioned that he hoped you would come north for the wedding. After all, it seems fitting for the four of us to have one more Bacchanalian feast," Dev announced, grinning when Max nodded in agreement. "By the way, my friend, what of your own marital plans. When last we spoke you were heading for London with an antidote of a ward and a yearning to be leg-shackled."

For the first time in their conversation, the frown returned to Max's face. "In actual fact, old chum, the antidote ward turned out to be a butterfly of outstanding beauty. A virtuous ward to be proud of. It seems I will have her off my hands quite soon. Tomorrow I believe she will be announcing her betrothal."

Dev noted the tightness of Max's mouth as he bit off the last words. There was something wrong here and he suspected it was the reason his friend had been so Friday-faced when he arrived. "Do not leave me in the dark. I wish to know all of the details of the beauteous, eh, Endurance, if my memory serves me."

Max laughed in remembrance. "I had quite forgotten. When she arrived, we agreed that Amity would be far more preferable. Although now that I think on it, as her guardian I have had a great deal to endure."

With halting words at first, Max began to tell of all that had transpired since Amity came to intrude on his well-regulated, bachelor existence. Dev noted how his friend's voice softened when he spoke of the girl and how often Max laughed over her unusual antics. It was apparent to Dev that Max was in love with his ward, but he was not sure if his friend even realized that fact.

"What an enterprising wench," Dev said as the recital came to an end. "Jobs for soldiers. What a novel idea."

"I was sure you would appreciate that part of the story, since Jena was involved in a similar scheme. Except as I recall she hired the most disreputable specimens it has ever been my good fortune to encounter."

"Quite a scurvy lot," Dev agreed, chuckling before he continued. "And you say that despite all Amity's activities, you have managed to arrange a marriage?"

"Not arranged. She had offers aplenty which for various reasons I turned down as not being quite the thing. The last offer was from a very eligible parti. Lord Bancroft Paige. Do you know him?"

"Blond curls and the face of a cupid?"

Max snorted in amusement. "That sums it up. Good family. Pots of money. She's a lucky girl."

These last words were said with a sneering tone that suggested to Dev that perhaps there was still hope for Max. "Don't sound as though you half like the man."

Max's forehead wrinkled as a frown took possession of his face. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I have nothing against the man, Dev. He's above reproach in many ways. There's never been a hint of scandal bandied about and I suspect all things considered he would make a good husband. I just do not feel he will be good for Amity."

"In what way?" Dev asked cautiously.

Max threw himself against the leather back of the chair. "In every way," he growled. "Without knowing Amity, it is difficult to explain what she is like. She’s volatile and impetuous, obsessively curious and free-spirited. She needs a strong hand to keep her from running off on some half-baked scheme, without keeping the control so tight that it breaks her spirit or she rebels. Beyond that, she needs someone who can enter into her activities with a sense of fun."

"The Bancroft Paige I remember does not possess many of those qualities," Dev remarked. "Rather a lofty type as I recall."

"Dry as a bone, Dev. Doubt if the man has a lick of humor anywhere in his whole body. He will be appalled once he discovers the kind of girl she is. He will have no idea what a treasure he possesses but will try to bend her into a mold of convention. She will not bend; she will break."

Max's words quite unsettled him and there was a light of anguish that beamed from his eyes as he stared down into his drink. Dev was perplexed, not knowing what to do for the best. He hated seeing his friend so distraught but he was loath to interfere. For the moment he thought it was best to change the subject since he needed further enlightenment to understand the full problem.

"And how goes your campaign to find the perfect wife?"

If anything Max looked more disturbed by the question. "Devil take it, Dev! I thought I had my entire life under control. Now I wonder if I have sense enough to come in out of a rain."

"It would seem, old chum, that from the exasperation I see in your eyes, you have made an almighty hash of the whole project." Dev grinned at his friend's snort of disgust. "I told you once that men were not intended to understand women."

"To my shame I will admit that I scoffed at that statement." Once more Max leaned forward, his face set in an earnest expression. "I thought I understood what made the perfect wife. But in the last several months I find that what I want and what I think I want are not the same things."

"Perhaps they are, Max. There was a time in my life when I was convinced that marrying Jena was the worst of disasters. I began to realize that if I stopped fighting the inevitable, the greatest happiness would be mine. Love caught me unaware but now I believe in its power."

Dev was silent for a moment as he gauged his friend's reaction. He knew that with Max's background he had tried to create an oasis of order and method in his life. Love was irrational and as such would be difficult for Max to come to terms with. Listening to his friend's description of his dealings with Amity, Dev had sensed a core of happiness that had been totally absent before.

"What do you think you want?" Dev asked.

"I think I want Honoria Waterston. It is very strange however, I have begun to wonder if in fact she is only a lady in appearance. For me a lady should have goodness, honesty, humor and moral strength. Because Honoria looked the part of the lady, I assumed she possessed all of these qualities but in actual fact I suspect she has none. I sensed she would conform to convention and never give me a reason to worry about her conduct unless I looked too closely at her activities. I think I was delighted with the restfulness I felt in her presence, a freedom of emotional involvement. Now I wonder if I will not die of boredom with that sort of relationship."

"What do you want, Max?"

"Damn it all, Dev. I want Amity!"

"Ah ha, my friend. At last you are honest with me," he grinned across at his disgruntled friend. "When you described Amity, I did not feel that her actions were vulgar or tasteless."

"That is the confusing part of this whole thing. She is the exact antithesis of my idea of a proper lady and yet in her I find all the qualities of a real lady. The servants adore her and you know how starched up my staff is. She is strong and fine and good." Max sounded as though he had just listed all her worst characteristics.

"Are you in love with her?"

"Yes, damn it! She makes me laugh," Max snapped, glaring at Dev as if to dare him to sneer at such an illogical statement. "She came bursting into my well-ordered life and invaded all the rooms of my house like a horde of avenging Berbers. I grumbled and grumped but discovered an ability to laugh that I have not had since I was a child. She's like sunshine, quicksilver and I find the thought of losing her to some starched-up, stick of a man quite unbearable."

"It would seem to me, Max, that you ought to make some push in her direction. The man of action I used to recall would not sit all evening at his club, swilling brandy and feeling sorry for himself." Dev's face took on a haughty expression and he stared at Max. "Have you mentioned your feelings to the girl?"

"Of course not, Dev! That would be most improper since I am, as you recall, her guardian." He shifted in his chair and a flush invaded the whiteness of his face. Dev raised an eyebrow in question. "It was nothing," Max said hastily.

"Stubble it!"

"All right. All right. I kissed her, if you must know." Max raised a hand palm outward in defense. "It happened when we fell in the water trying to rescue a cat. It meant nothing. It was the excitement of the moment and it was forgotten right afterwards. Of course I apologized. Amity was flustered but she puffed it off as just a kiss between friends."

"And you bought that? Good Lord, Max. You have got straw in your cockloft," Dev crowed. "So you will let your ward marry an unsuitable man while you do nothing to prevent it. Strange actions for a guardian. By the way, I find it hard to believe that the inventive Miss Amity you have described is in love with the unexciting Lord Bancroft Paige. Why is she marrying him?"

"Because I told her to," Max growled. "As her guardian it is my duty to advise her. She trusts me. I told her I thought it would be an excellent arrangement." Dev stared down his nose in condemnation of such stupidity. "What could I say? I was not aware of my feelings at the time. Besides she does not think of me in any way other than as her guardian."

"Are you sure? Did she seem horrified when you kissed her?"

"Well, no. On the contrary, she appeared to quite enjoy the incident," Max said, a momentary glimmer of hope in his eyes. Then he shook his head in rejection. "She has not had much acquaintance with lovemaking so I expect it was the novelty of the experience."

"Believe me, Max, if she did not have some feeling for you, she would have reacted with either horror or affront."

"Do you think so?"

There was a look of such expectation on Max's face that Dev was hard pressed to restrain his laughter. "At least give the girl a chance. Besides it matters not whether she can love you. As her guardian, you cannot sit back and let her betroth herself to that stiff-necked Paige. You cannot ignore the situation."

"You're right, Dev," Max said with conviction, but then his face took on an anguished look. "She told me once that she wanted to get married in order to have a baby, if you can believe that kind of nonsensical reasoning. She understands little about love because she has had so little in her life. Besides she is convinced that I am about to offer for Honoria. I have given her no reason to expect otherwise, so I am not sure she will believe that I have had an abrupt change of mind. Worse than that she has already accepted Bancroft. Even if I tell her I do not think he is the right man for her, she will still feel honor bound to defend his suit. I understand her well enough to know she will never cry off and risk hurting Paige, despite the fact that he will make her most unhappy."

"In that case you will just have to convince Paige that she would make a very poor wife," Dev concluded.

"That's just what I'm trying to tell you. She will make a wonderful wife. Only a dolt and a dunderhead would not be able to see that!" When Max looked up, he noted the gleam of roguery in Dev's eyes and he blinked in sudden awareness. His mouth pulled wide in a devilish grin. "I say, old bean, are you suggesting that Lord Bancroft Paige might be a dolt and a dunderhead?"

Dev spread his hands in a gesture of innocence and his blue eyes were guileless as he returned Max's glance. A deep chuckle rumbled up from Max's chest and he raised his snifter in a final toast.

"To Paige."

"Hear! Hear!" responded Dev.

For Max it was like a return to the old days and he wished Reggie and Dickon were here to join forces. He moved his chair closer to Dev's and they began to consider possible strategies.



"Oh Betta, I shall shrivel up under Ophelia's disapproving eye," Amity wailed. "Whatever will I do if Bancroft's sister cannot like me?"

"Iffen you don't hold still, she will take one look at your hair and run screaming from the room," the harassed abigail said as she tried to anchor a hairpin in her mistress' coiffure. Her plain face was set in disapproval since she was not partial to Lord Bancroft Paige. She had had other ideas as to whom Miss Amity should marry.

"I'm sorry, Betta," Amity apologized, smiling at her friend in the mirror above the vanity. "I am just so nervous."

"Ye have no reason to be nervous, Miss Amity. Iffen she can't take you the way you are then there's no point in worriting. Better you should wonder what is wrong with her if she cannot like you."

Amity giggled. "I wish I had your good sense, my girl. I always feel better for telling you my troubles."

Betta noticed the dark circles under her mistress' eyes and suspected that she had not shared all her troubles. She was very curious as to what had transpired on the picnic when she had returned all wet and disheveled but Miss Amity had been quiet ever since. More curious still, Lord Maxwell Kampford had been absent since that day, almost as if he were avoiding his own townhouse. Betta jammed the last hairpin into place none too gently and stood back eyeing her charge.

"How do I look?" Amity asked, rising and turning before her abigail.

Despite an unusual subdued air about her, Amity looked magnificent. Her gown was a heavy moss green silk which softened the red tones of her hair and brought out the gold highlights. There was a wide band of cream-colored lace at the high neck, repeated again at the wrists and along the edge of the hem. The lines of the dress were simple. The bodice was made up of flat pleats to just beneath her breasts, then the skirt fell to the floor in a shimmer of silk. She wore no jewelry except a string of pearls which Betta knew had been given to her by Lord Kampford. Her hair was dressed in a Psyche knot and its simplicity accentuated the exotic beauty of her crystal blue eyes.

"I expect you'll do," Betta said dryly. "Especially if Lord Paige is expecting a princess."

"What a good friend you are," Amity said, hugging her in a burst of enthusiasm. Then her eyes flew to the clock and she gasped. "They will be here any minute. Oh I wonder if Max and Lady Grassmere are ready."

"I almost forgot," Betta said, reaching into the pocket of her apron and extracting a note. "Lord Kampford said I was to give this to you when you were ready."

Amity snatched the paper and with shaking fingers ripped open the note. A smile was forming on her face at the thought of her guardian's kindness until she read the words of the note: "Just remember to take a deep breath every quarter hour and then everything is sure to go well." Oh why did he have to remind her of her habit of knocking things over in her nervousness. Just the mere mention of it gave her a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach and she crumpled the note in annoyance.

"Blast!" she swore.

"Miss Amity!"

"Oh, I know. I shant say it again." Amity dropped the paper on the vanity and called to Muffin who was as usual ensconced on the chaise longue. "Come on, old boy. It's time to put in an appearance."

The dog slid to the floor and followed his mistress to the door. She dug her fingers into the fur at his neck, grateful for the comforting contact with the animal. As if marching in a funeral parade they walked through the hallway and down the stairs to the salon. Lady Grassmere and Max were already present.

Max rose to his feet and Amity flushed at the gleam of appreciation in his eyes. He came forward and with a chivalrous gesture, raised her hand to his lips. A shiver ran down her spine as his lips touched her skin and she strove to control the rush of feeling that pounded along her nerve endings.

"My dear, there is little question that neither Bancroft nor Ophelia will find anything to criticize," Max said, his deep voice full of praise. "You are exquisite."

"Thank you, Max," Amity said. She snatched her hand away but still felt the touch of his lips as if they had marked her forever. Unable to meet his eyes, she turned to her chaperone. "How elegant you look, Lady Grassmere. Is that a new dress?"

"Why how clever of you to notice, child," Hester said, flushing as she straightened the grey folds of her dress. "I thought this occasion deserved something special."

At this point the conversation came to a halt and Amity sat down on the silver and white striped settee, Muffin sprawled at her feet. She fidgeted with her reticule and prayed that Bancroft and his sister would arrive soon. Her nerves felt overset; she had a sudden urge to giggle but dug her nails into the palm of her hand until she was able to overcome such an idiotic notion. When she looked up, Max was leaning against the back of the high backed chair next to the settee, his face quite expressionless.

Amity stared at him, wanting to imprint the memory of him on her mind. He looked well in black, she decided, for it brought out the unusual green in his eyes and made the chestnut color of his hair seem richer. His cravat, the work of the indefatigable Wilberforce, was tied far more ornately than usual. Oh, how handsome he is, she thought as her eyes studied him.

A small furrow creased her forehead as she looked more closely at her guardian. Today there was something different about him. Although he appeared relaxed there was an air of tension to his body, almost as if he was prepared to do battle. He glanced across at her and there was a blaze of intensity in his green eyes that she could not read. Then his mouth flashed in a wide grin that transformed his face and there was such a feeling of happiness apparent in his smile that Amity was quite taken aback. She was saddened that he was so pleased to have her off her hands. When Putnam announced Lord and Lady Paige, she had to force a smile of welcome to her trembling lips.

While they were greeting Max and Lady Grassmere, Amity had a chance to study Ophelia. Her first impression was not promising. The thirty-year-old spinster was wearing a gown of dun-colored sarcenet devoid of frivolous trim or ornamentation. A small round cap of worked muslin covered her hair, except for a thin braid of mousey hair which was bound in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Ophelia might have been considered a neat and trim woman but for the look of disapproval she wore like a banner on her face. Her mouth was pinched into a thin discontented line and her dark eyes held little softness.

Amity trembled as Max led Ophelia over to the settee and waited as he seated her, asking if she were quite comfortable.

"My comfort is of little importance to me," Ophelia said, her voice a heavy monotone.

"My sister is known for her ability to withstand great physical inconvenience," Bancroft stated, pride in his voice. "She has a toughness of spirit that is much to be admired. She will be an excellent example for my future wife," he finished, reddening as he stared at Amity.

"As Brother says, I would hope to be not only an example but a guide for the young lady he favors with his attentions," Ophelia in her turn avoided looking at Amity, her eyes fixed on Bancroft. "We live a simple life, free from the debilitating corruption of luxuries. A lady must learn to live with discomfort."

"A lowering thought, Lady Paige," Max said, his expression very serious although Amity caught a twinkle in the green depths. He seated himself in the high backed chair, cocking his head as if listening. "Ah, here is our tea."

The doors to the salon were thrown open and Putnam entered followed by several footmen bearing trays. Max indicated that the tea tray should be set before Amity whose hands were clenched in her lap. She raised agonized eyes to her guardian and he raised his pocket watch, taking a deep breath to remind her of his note. She ground her teeth at his conspicuous prompting, knowing only too well that his kindness in reminding her, made her aware of her penchant for knocking things over. Blast Max's good intentions! she muttered under her breath. Steeling herself, she reached for the first cup.

"How would you like your tea, Lady Paige?" Amity asked, hoping the woman did not hear the distinct rattle of the china.

"Plain," was the uncompromising answer. "I have not always been able to convince Brother"-she nodded to Bancroft who shifted under her censuring gaze.-" to give up his sweets. I find that most of the younger set cosset themselves with all sorts of confectionaries that do little to improve the health or teach them abstemious ways."

"How true, Lady Paige," Max said. He leaned against the cushioned arm, his hand tapping the cover of the wicker sewing basket beside the chair. "I have warned my ward that a diet of sticky buns will do little to enhance her figure. But then it is an innocent enough vice."

Amity stared daggers at Max but managed a smile as Ophelia, mouth pinched in disapproval, turned to her. "Lord Kampford will have his little joke. In point of fact I abhor sticky buns," she said, drawing in a deep breath before she filled Lady Paige's cup. She passed it without incident, wanting to wipe her perspiring hands on her skirts before attempting another.

"Will you be leaving town soon, Lady Paige?" Max asked, his eyebrows raised in interested question. "Now that the summer heat has arrived it appears to be quite uncomfortable."

"Brother and I will be going to Bath," she said, her words sparing as if she begrudged the use of each one. "As a child, Bancroft was a puny thing but each year I have seen to it that he takes the waters. As you can see, he has benefited from such an efficacious cure."

"Ophelia has been lucky to find rooms near the Crescent," Bancroft said, smiling at his sister. "She is able to walk to the Pump Room each day for her morning glass. Since I am never quite sure how long I will be staying, I have been putting up at the inn. But Sister, prefers to stay as long as the company is interesting."

"I was never a great believer in drinking medicinal waters," Max said, earning a look of condemnation from Ophelia. "Believe me, Lady Paige, you are far braver than I. I was in Bath for a week a year ago and availed myself of the much-vaunted cure. One taste and I poured out my glass into the nearest potted plant. By the end of my stay, the plant looked decidedly peaky and was beginning to turn brown."

Bancroft chuckled at the joke as he leaned over the tea table, accepting the cup for Lady Grassmere and carrying it across to the chaperone who was busy with the needlework in her lap.

"You look exceptionally well, Amity," he said when he returned to her side.

Before Amity could thank him for the compliment, Max leaned over to Ophelia and whispered in a voice that was quite audible to all, "You will be quite pleased that Amity has such a nicety of taste. She never stints on her wardrobe but the extravagant prices are well worth it for the savoir faire of her ensembles."

One look at Ophelia's face, sent Amity's heart plummeting to her satin slippers. The woman did not sniff but it was apparent she could not applaud either extravagance or savoir faire. A tremor invaded her arm as she extended Bancroft's cup. She was saved from disaster when he removed it from her hand and she heaved a sigh of relief.

"I must agree that your ward is always dressed in the first stare of fashion," Bancroft said into the heavy silence of the room.

For a moment Amity had an overpowering urge to stick her tongue out at Max. He was oblivious to her beau's ready defense, concentrating his attention on the ceiling while his hand played with the lid of the wicker basket beside his chair. She could not understand what he was about. His conversation thus far had been both outrageous and provocative. He must be aware that his comments were not easing an already tense situation.

Amity's fingers felt wooden as she poured her own tea and raised the cup to her lips. She took a sip, hoping the soothing brew would calm her rattled nerves. Wanting to signal Max her distress, she raised her eyes to glare across at him, but she was caught by the sight of the wicker basket which seemed to be moving of its own volition. It was only when the top inched upward and a ginger-colored paw snaked over the rim that Amity dropped her cup.