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  “Only consider poor Amelia. She is next oldest after Miles and had so many handsome beaus when she came to town. But Miles married her off to the dullest man who is quite elderly. Why he must be five-and-forty if he is a day!”

  “Must he?” Phoebe found herself floundering. “Perhaps she cared for him?”

  “How could she? Only he is in the government, you must know and will be given a title for his services so Miles thought him an excellent match. And I dare say he never so much as consulted with Amelia about it.”

  Phoebe cut to the chase. “And is she dreadfully unhappy?”

  Lucy considered, frowning. “Well as to that she seems content enough. Amelia was always the serious one. But how could she possibly prefer Mr. Brompton over her other suitors? And some of them were so very dashing! Pray do not say it is because Brompton is excessively rich for I cannot believe Amelia to be so—so mercenary. No. Miles must have forced it upon her.”

  “I see. Poor Amelia. It must have been dreadful with her crying throughout the wedding ceremony.”

  “Oh but she didn’t do that!” Lucy assured her quickly. “At least not that I ever heard. It all happened nearly eleven years ago, you must know, so I don’t really remember any of it.” She fell into a brooding silence.

  Phoebe allowed it to continue until it seemed safe to change the subject. “Do you attend the Reardons’ ball next week?”

  Her attempt to divert Lucy’s mind failed. “Harry had more spirit,” the girl said suddenly, “but even he did as Miles bade in the end. He was the next eldest after Amelia, you must know but he was killed at Salamanca. He’d married an heiress the year before and Miles must have arranged it for she was quite fubsy-faced. And they had known one another since they were in their infancy for her estate bordered ours and Miles always said how suitable such a match would be.”

  “I thought Lord Ashby’s—” Phoebe began.

  “The other side,” Lucy explained as if to a dullard.

  “Of course, how silly of me. But perhaps there had been an attachment of longstanding between Harry and his bride,” Phoebe suggested.

  Lucy wrinkled her nose. “I told you, they grew up like brother and sister, just like Ashby and I have. One cannot possibly fall in love under such circumstances.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Then there is Juliana. She agreed to the marriage Miles arranged for her but only because the Earl of Falmouth offered for Miss Hartley rather than her and she was so very chagrined. But she has quite reconciled herself to it since her husband is a leader of society and she so very much enjoys being a notable society hostess. She would have brought me out but of course you know all that. And then Susanna—she is my next sister and only three years older than I am—she never wished to marry at all but Miles insisted and so she accepted a naval captain who is away for years upon end and so she has both her independence and the protection of being married, though she cannot be in love.”

  “I see.” This family portrait fascinated Phoebe. And always Miles managing the affairs of his siblings. “Your father died when you were quite young?” she hazarded.

  “When I was still in leading strings. He and mamma both together in a carriage accident. I always thought how very romantic that must be to die in the arms of the man you love.”

  Dying in a carriage accident didn’t sound the least bit romantic to Phoebe but she held her tongue. Sir Miles Saunderton might be autocratic but it began to sound to Phoebe as if there might be some cause. It could not be easy inheriting the responsibility of a large and hopeful family at what must have been a very young age. He could not have been any older than Lucilla, if that much.

  Her companion cast her a sideways glance. “No one ever believes how managing Miles truly is. You see, he can be so very affable—the best of brothers in fact—when the matter is trivial. But when one’s heart is involved he can turn into the greatest beast in nature.”

  “But not out of any sense of malice,” Phoebe pointed out.

  Lucy frowned. “No,” she agreed at last. “Out of a sense that he knows better than you. He just doesn’t understand!”

  On this plaintive note they reached the park. Sir Miles had already entered the gate and now walked his roan in circles, waiting for them to join him. Lucy hung back and Phoebe, with an apology made unnecessary by the curvets of her mare, left the girl to the care of the grooms.

  “I fear you had a slow time of it,” Sir Miles said as she joined him.

  “It was a pleasure.” She brought Macha abreast of him and the two horses quickened their pace.

  He shot her a penetrating glance. “Perhaps I can make it up to you with a gallop? Lucy will be all right with the grooms.”

  “A delightful idea.” Phoebe loosened her rein and her mount broke into a controlled canter. Sir Miles kept pace and Phoebe allowed Macha her head. They raced forward with the great roan half a nose in the lead. They might have continued indefinitely had they not come upon a gentleman and two grooms obviously engaged in the early stages of introducing a set of young and flighty animals to the park. Sir Miles reined in a second before Phoebe and they slowed to a prancing walk long before they would pose a threat to the other riders.

  “Cuthbert isn’t finished,” Sir Miles said, patting the roan’s neck that bore only the faintest flecks of sweat.

  “We could race back,” Phoebe suggested.

  “I would rather have a chance to speak with you.” He turned the discontented Cuthbert around.

  Phoebe followed suit, aware of a sudden unease. But whether it came from herself or from him she couldn’t be certain. She remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “Perhaps Lucilla has already confided in you that I took your advice.” He spoke the words stiffly as if such an admission came only with difficulty to him.

  “I should thank you for not ignoring it simply because it came from me.”

  That brought a smile to his lips. “I acknowledged your experience in dealing with romantic young ladies.” He rode in silence for a long minute then added, “I only hope I have done the right thing.”

  “I gathered your other sisters were of a more practical turn of mind.”

  “Lord yes. Did Lucy tell you that? I thought her bent on turning them all into tragic heroines, doomed to loveless marriages by my machinations.”

  He said this with such a wry tone that it forced Phoebe to laugh. “Something like that,” she admitted.

  “Lucy will tell you I haven’t a romantic bone in my body and it is probably true.”

  It dawned on Phoebe she was beginning to have trouble remembering how very angry she was with him. He had in fact a disturbing ability to disarm her. She found that unsettling. The last thing she needed in her life was a meddling managing gentleman who had already caused her a great deal of trouble.

  Ahead of them Phoebe caught sight of Lucy. But the girl no longer rode under the escort of Limmer and the Saundertons’ groom. Those two had dropped behind, allowing her to ride at the side of a gentleman whose scarlet coat proclaimed him to be an officer. And not just any officer, Phoebe wagered. Somehow Lieutenant Gregory Harwich had joined Lucy.

  She felt the force of Miles’ glare even before she turned to look at him.

  He sat rigid at her side, his glower fixed on her rather than his sister. “I hope, Miss Caldicot,” he said through clenched teeth, “I will not have cause to regret your meddling.”

  Chapter Six

  Over the course of the next week Miles saw very little of Miss Caldicot. Twice she appeared in time to join him for his morning ride but she remained aloof as if only the politeness due to a neighbor kept her from refusing his escort. She did not display any of that reticence when she spoke to other gentlemen though. On Wednesday night he’d glimpsed her taking part in a country dance at Almack’s with Viscount Wolverhampton and they had seemed to be upon excellent terms.

  Nor did she drive alone in the park during the hour of the Promenade. Once he’d seen her up beside his good friend, the el
egant Mr. Charles Dauntry and another time her escort had been none other than the Marquis of Rushmere. The lady, it seemed, did not lack for eligible suitors.

  Lucy thought it a rare joke that the leaders of society flocked to pay homage to her erstwhile deportment mistress. She even went so far as to write a letter to her dear friend Miss Hanna Brookstone, still incarcerated at the Misses Crippenham’s Academy, informing her of their dear Miss Caldicot’s stunning success with particular reference to Rushmere. This resulted less than a week later in Miss Brookstone’s eruption upon the town in the tow of a matchmaking mamma of formidable experience and determination.

  Lucy greeted the arrival of Miss Brookstone with delight and bore her next door upon a morning visit to their former instructress. There, as they later informed Miles in awed accents, they had encountered Rushmere himself along with Viscount Wolverhampton. There could be not a doubt of it, they exclaimed. Miss Caldicot was destined to contract a brilliant alliance. Miles could only hope Lucy would succumb to a determination to emulate her and abandon her passion for uniforms.

  It pleased him, for some obscure reason, when he emerged from the house two mornings later with a yawning Lucy at his side to find Miss Caldicot seated atop her mare, adjusting the folds of her voluminous skirts. The thought flashed through his mind that the emerald of her habit suited her, She greeted Lucy with her usual warmth. He himself though earned no more than the coolest of good mornings.

  She accepted their escort as far as the park but once within its gates she moved ahead to meet a gentleman on a lanky chestnut. Charles Dauntry, Miles noted with disapproval, then wondered at such negative feelings for one he considered a good friend. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that although they remained a foursome, Miss Caldicot chose to ride at Charles’ side, leaving Miles to bring up the rear with Lucy.

  When at last they returned to Half Moon Street—free of Mr. Dauntry’s company—it occurred to Miles that everything seemed oddly quiet considering that Lady Xanthe would give a musical soirée that evening. None of the usual signs of activity engulfed her abode. Miles regarded it with the perplexity of a gentleman whose own home frequently had been thrown into chaotic disorder while the designated hostess ruthlessly prepared for an invasion by society’s elite. Miss Caldicot, he noted, eyed the tranquil scene with complete unconcern.

  “Where are the tradesmen?” cried Lucilla who had been riding in silence beside Miss Caldicot. “Ought there not to be an army of them bustling down your area steps right about now? There always is every time we entertain and starting with first dawn,” she added with feeling.

  “Is there?” Miss Caldicot looked from one to the other of them, her expression arrested. “But then it is only a small party after all.”

  A sudden smile tugged at the corner of Miles’ mouth. “The size of the gathering rarely seems to matter,” he explained.

  “Oh.” She considered a moment. “Well you might as well enjoy the quiet while you can then. I feel certain the storm of activity shall break at any moment.” She jumped lightly from her saddle before Miles could move to help her, bade them both a good morning, thanked Limmer as she handed over the mare and hurried up the stairs.

  Miles swung to the ground then lifted his sister to the paving at his side. “She seems remarkably calm for her first party,” Miles said.

  Lucilla waved it aside. “She is always calm. It is a great pity you cannot like her better. Indeed, she is the best of good—” She broke off as a rumbling of wheels started and one after another half a dozen carts and wagons trundled around the corner and down the street toward them. “There,” Lucy pronounced. “All the tradesmen you could wish.”

  As the entourage pulled up before them, several windows of Lady Xanthe’s house flew wide and servants appeared, aproned footmen shaking small carpets, mobcapped maids discharging the contents of their dusters. Two more footmen emerged from the front door, polishing buckets and cloths in hand. Miles and Lucy beat a hasty retreat into the sanctuary of their own home.

  The chaos next door continued throughout the morning. Miles sought refuge at his club and was relieved to discover when he returned at last that calm had once again reasserted itself. This left him free to dress for dinner, to which Lady Xanthe had invited his family, in peace. In honor of the occasion he astounded his man Vines by requesting, in the most casual voice possible, his late father’s heavy fob and the emerald stick pin for his neckcloth. Armed with both of these, he descended to the salon to find for once both his Aunt Jane and Lucy there before him.

  Aunt Jane looked up from her glass of negus and her eyes twinkled. “Very elegant, Miles.”

  Lucy, who had been peering into the gilt-framed mirror over the hearth, spun about then ran to throw her arms about him, exclaiming, “Thank you, dearest of brothers.”

  “Do you want to ruin my neckcloth?” he demanded, disentangling her with care.

  “Not for worlds! Oh Miles, you do like Miss Caldicot. I was so afraid— But that is neither here nor there. She is the greatest dear, is she not? And so very lovely.”

  “A veritable rose,” came Miles’ prompt response. “Complete with very long and very sharp thorns.”

  Lucy fell back a step. “But I thought…I hoped…”

  “A waste of time, my dear.” He had not donned the fob and pin for Miss Caldicot’s sake. It had merely pleased him to wear them this night. Whether that young woman liked them or not was a matter of complete indifference to him.

  Lucy sighed. “At least you will refrain from arguing with her?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “When I am a guest in her home? Thank you but I should hope I would not be guilty of such a want of conduct. Shall we go?”

  A few minutes later Lady Xanthe’s major-domo opened the door to them, relieved them of their wraps and ushered them across the entry hall. To the accompaniment of his ringing voice announcing their names they entered a spacious salon decorated in tones of muted green, ivory and gold. Fresh flowers clustered in bowls on every surface, giving the impression of a garden.

  He greeted his hostess then turned to her protégé. For a moment he simply stared. Then he recollected himself and stepped forward to greet her. It took an effort though to keep his expression bland. The pale blue crepe of her flounced gown set lights dancing in her misty eyes while the filmy white of the undergown which ended in single flounce provided just the right touch of elegance to one of her slight build. He didn’t normally pay much heed to feminine fashion and furbelows but he could recognize a perfect effect when he saw one.

  She’d finished herself off with the right touch too. A strand of creamy pearls hung about her throat, a small grouping of pearls clustered at each ear and she had arranged her copious amounts of coppery brown hair in vastly becoming curls. As he drew closer he detected the delicate scent of violets that clung to her. The result went to his head like a fine brandy.

  She took his hand with aloof detachment. “As you see,” she said, her voice as cool as a shady stream, “we have been quite as busy as you could wish.”

  “You have indeed. You are to be congratulated.”

  Her brow creased and a faint color tinged her cheeks. “I did not seek a compliment.”

  No, she wouldn’t. Not from him at least. She made that clear enough. He inclined his head but before he could speak again Lucy swept toward them.

  She clasped her former instructress’ hands. “Oh Miss Caldicot, I have never seen you look so lovely. Is she not beautiful, Miles?”

  “You must not place your brother in so awkward a position,” Miss Caldicot responded before Miles could speak. She then led his sister off to discuss the merits of the ball gown Lucy had ordered that afternoon.

  Dinner passed with surprising ease, mostly because he and Miss Caldicot exchanged only the merest commonplaces. They finished barely minutes before the first carriage pulled up in the street and his hostesses made their way to the top of the stairs to greet their arriving guests. Miles escorted his aunt
and sister to the elegant drawing room where a large harp, a pianoforte and a cello held positions of prominence.

  A cello. Miles strolled forward to examine the instrument, running his fingers along the gleaming wood. He hadn’t played in months. He touched the strings and a haunting tune filled his mind, a humming that wrapped its melodic threads through him. He took the chair, rosined the bow with an abstracted frown, checked to find the instrument perfectly in tune then sought the chords and notes that would reproduce that remarkable song.

  He held the final tone, drawing it out until it at last fell silent. For a long moment he sat wrapped in his music until an odd discordant noise smote his ears. He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed and saw perhaps a score of people sitting about the room, applauding. He hadn’t meant to play for anyone’s entertainment but his own. He stood, laying the instrument aside, bowed and retreated to the back wall of the room.

  “That was wonderful,” a soft voice said at his side. “I had no idea you played.”

  He looked down to see Miss Caldicot, her eyes glowing, an odd searching expression in their depths. It caught at him, holding him immobile, wiping every conscious thought from his mind. He saw only her beautiful mist-colored eyes, felt only the responding tug of a bond forging between them. Awareness filled him of her scent, of her tentative smile, of her.

  And then she was gone, slipping away to greet more new arrivals and the spell broke. The impulse lingered to follow her, to speak to her but now with so many people about did not seem the time. Nor did he know precisely what he wished to say. Instead he leaned against the wall and listened to the elderly Lord Grantley who had brought a violin and a pronounced taste for ballads and convinced himself his imagination ran riot where Miss Caldicot was concerned.

  Yet as if of its own volition his gaze strayed back to her. She sat on the far side of the room—and not alone naturally. The tall arrogant figure of the Marquis of Rushmere occupied the place at her side. His head bent toward her and he spoke words that seemed intended for her ears alone.