He followed her in, hoping she had some more information about that wretch Bamber. He and Heffernan kept coming up against dead ends. Heffernan was widening the search, tracing Lucy’s background in the hope that it would lead to something, some hint that would lead them to Bamber.
He’d started with the place he’d met her, on the Brighton road. There couldn’t be too many Frenchwomen there—comtesses or not—who had a pet goose.
“Dear boy,” Alice said as she seated herself in her favorite chair. “I want to thank you for taking the trouble of introducing your friends to Lucy. I must also apologize for thinking you meant the introductions spuriously.”
Gerald blinked. He had meant them spuriously. “What do you mean, Aunt Alice?”
She smiled at him. “It seems to have answered after all.”
“Answered what?”
“Mr. Frinton wishes to court Lucy.”
“What?” For a moment he couldn’t breathe. “Are you telling me that Corney Frinton, the man who cannot string two words together within twenty yards of any pretty female—no, make that any female—has plucked up the courage to court a girl? To court your goddaughter?”
Alice nodded vigorously. “Yes. He asked my permission.”
“Intending marriage?”
“Well, of course, intending marriage, what else, you foolish boy?”
Corney Frinton. Gerald sat down heavily on the sofa, as if his legs had suddenly given way.
“He’s a very sweet boy, of course, perfectly eligible and very rich.” Alice paused, a slight crease between her brows. “Though if she took him, I suspect it would be for my sake, to get me out of her father’s clutches. I hope she won’t make such a sacrifice.”
Sacrifice? If Lucy married Corney Frinton, she’d be rich, would have the best of everything, fine clothes, a position in society—Corney might be as articulate as a rock, but he was very good-natured and very well connected. She’d be set for life.
“It won’t do,” he said firmly. “It would be a very unequal match.”
The faint crease turned into a decided frown. “Gerald Paton, I never dreamed you could be as horridly toplofty as your mother. I’m disappointed in you, really I am. Lucy might not be born to the aristocracy, but she’s a perfectly lovely girl, and any gentleman ought to be—”
“I meant,” Gerald interjected hastily, “unequal in personality. Old Corney is a fine fellow, but he’s not up to scratch with women. Your goddaughter would run rings around him.”
His aunt just looked at him, her soft blue eyes seeming quite flinty.
“Besides,” he added, dredging up another reason why the match would be all wrong, “she’s probably the first female Corney’s ever been able to talk to. It would be a mistake to marry only because of that.”
She considered it, then nodded. “Perhaps Sir Heatherington Bland would be better.”
“What? You mean Bland is also—”
“He asked my permission at the Carter-Higgins ball,” she said smugly.
“But damn it all, the fellow’s titled! I thought she refused even to look at a lord.”
“Language, Gerald.” He muttered an apology, and she continued, “It’s a fine line, I admit, but Sir Heatherington’s a knight, not a baronet, and therefore not really a member of the aristocracy. But it might be sufficient for her father to accept, though he did say a baronet was as low as he was prepared to go. And you must admit, Sir Heatherington is quite good-looking and very rich.”
Gerald didn’t have to admit anything of the sort. “But good God, the man stinks.”
“Oh, a wife will soon fix that,” his aunt said placidly, then added after a moment, “Gerald dear, your mouth is hanging open.”
He shut it with a snap.
* * *
* * *
James called on his reluctant lady again the following day. Alice received him with a blank look of surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought . . .”
“You thought I’d go away and stay away?”
“Yes.”
“But we agreed to be friends, didn’t we? And friends don’t abandon each other—not in my world.”
A crease appeared between her silky arched brows. “But we can’t be friends, not since . . .”
“Since I proposed marriage?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Does that ban extend to my daughters? I must say, they’ll be very disappointed not to be allowed to visit you or play in your garden. They haven’t stopped talking about it ever since you climbed that tree with them.” She gave him a troubled look, and he added sadly, “I would have brought them today, but I was worried you’d send them away.”
“I would never send them away!” she said, shocked.
“So you would still welcome their visits?”
“Of—of course.” She’d finally perceived his trap.
He glanced out the window. “Perhaps we could talk in the garden?”
“In the garden? Why?”
“Because it’s spring, and the sun is out, and who knows how long that will last?” And because he wanted her to lose a little of the tension that currently held her as tight as an overwound clock. He presented his arm, and, with a bemused expression, she allowed him to escort her into the garden.
They strolled along, the woman on his arm pretending to enjoy the delights of the garden in the intermittent mid-spring sunshine and filling the silence with determinedly inconsequential chatter. They admired the flowers, picked some catmint for the kitten’s basket, observed the budding lavender where she explained, in detail and rather desperately, how she made lavender bags to keep her linens fresh and fragrant, a subject in which he wasn’t the slightest bit interested.
Since the garden wasn’t doing the job, James decided to get straight to the point. “You know, marriage with one man might be unbearable, but it could be quite different with another—with me, in fact. Because you must admit, as friends we’ve done quite well.”
“Yes, but there is . . . a distance between friends that makes it . . . easier.”
“And that’s what troubles you about marriage? Its intimacy?”
She flushed and looked away. “I wish you would not—”
“I’m fighting for my future happiness here,” he said. “Our future happiness. And I don’t wish to distress you, but if some plain speaking will help—” At that moment large raindrops started to fall. He glanced up. Where had the sun gone? It was all dark clouds and—blast this wretched climate!—rain, getting heavier by the minute. He glanced around. “Here, that summerhouse.”