A Lord for Miss Larkin Read online

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I cannot like it,” said Philip Trevelyan. “I wish you will marry me.”

  Lady Emma Grant cast an affectionate glance at his serious face, intent on guiding his team through the busy traffic of Oxford Street. “No, Philip, I will not. You are only nine and twenty, far too young to despair of falling in love one day.”

  “Highly unlikely. You are the only female I know who does not bore me intolerably.”

  “I cannot think that sufficient grounds for marriage! You know I do not mind acting as a chaperon for hire. It is a respectable occupation for a widow and allows me to enjoy the Season while assuring my independence.”

  “But Great Ormond Street! None but Cits live in that part of Town. At least your previous protégées have been of impeccable birth.”

  “I need not accept Miss Larkin if I do not care for her,” she said tranquilly. “Besides, Mrs. Winkle’s letter hints at blue blood in the background somewhere.”

  Her companion snorted. “Still worse. Some noble lecher’s by-blow, no doubt. Is her name truly Winkle?”

  “The aunt’s, yes. Zenobia Winkle—did you ever hear the like? Her letter says that she is a nabob’s widow and well able to buy an abbey. To tell the truth, I am all agog to meet her though I may not accept her niece.”

  Mr. Trevelyan swung the tilbury into Southampton Row, then turned right and found himself in a blind court. Though this provided an opportunity to display his driving skill, his mood was not improved when, after asking the way, he found himself driving down a narrow street lined with drab tenements. Ragged children played in the gutters and a slatternly woman shouted something at them, probably rude but fortunately incomprehensible.

  “Cits, I said,” he remarked bitterly. “It begins to look more as if you are going to inspect some hussy from a back-slum.”

  Emma herself was nearly ready to abandon the expedition by the time they reached their destination. To her relief, the address she had been given proved to be on the north side of Great Ormond Street. If less elegant, the houses were actually larger than her own on Park Street in Mayfair, and reasonably well-kept. Philip stopped outside Number Forty-eight.

  An urchin appeared instantly and offered to hold the horses. Philip strode up the steps and knocked. The door was opened by a neat maidservant in white apron and cap, and the hall behind her appeared clean and tidy.

  Emma had not waited for his assistance in descending from the carriage. “It looks like a perfectly respectable residence,” she said, joining him.

  “I shall return for you in precisely half an hour.”

  She smiled at him. “I think I shall survive that long.” She followed the maid into the house.

  The room into which she was ushered was old-fashioned and shabby. Emma scarcely noticed the threadbare furnishings as she found herself the cynosure of six pairs of eyes. Her gaze was drawn immediately to a massive woman in an extraordinary garment of buttercup yellow with silver spangles, who was struggling to rise from her chair. From her emanated an exotic oriental perfume.

  The tall gentleman standing by the fireplace put his hand out to stay her. “I daresay Lady Emma will excuse your not rising, Mrs. Winkle.” He stepped for- ward. “Allow me to introduce myself, ma’am. I am Ralph Osborne, a colleague of the late Aloysius Winkle.” He bowed, and went on to present the rest of the company.

  He was very good-looking, with sun-bleached hair and a tanned face, and his deep voice had a calm, almost soothing quality. Emma found herself listening to it instead of heeding his words, until he named Miss Alison Larkin. The girl who curtsied to her with a cheerful, friendly smile was a veritable sprite. She had sparkling blue eyes in a piquant face, a complexion like rose petals, and a mop of black curls that would inspire the best coiffeur. Even the hideous navy-blue gown did not hide her dainty figure.

  “How do you do, my lady,” she said, and Emma breathed a sigh of relief. There was no hint of vulgarity in her speech.

  Mrs. Winkle waited with obvious impatience while the maid brought in tea and a plate of shortbread. Alison poured the tea, simply and neatly, without any pretence of elegance, which was just as well as the pot was earthenware and the cups and saucers of appallingly thick white china. Emma was agreeably surprised when she nibbled on a piece of shortbread and it melted in her mouth.

  “Delicious,” she murmured graciously. “My compliments to your cook.”

  To her horror the plump, pink-faced Miss Larkin—Miss Cleo, was it?—grew even pinker.

  “Aunt Cleo made the shortbread, ma’am,” Alison confirmed her horrid suspicion. “She is a splendid baker.”

  Perhaps Philip was right and she ought not even to consider taking on the come-out of a girl, however pretty and wealthy, from so unrefined a background.

  Emma was afraid her doubt must have showed in her face, for Mrs. Winkle made an expansive gesture and said firmly, “I only returned from India a week since, my lady. I’ve not had time yet to make everything pukka. You’ll know how to teach Alison to go on properly in Society. I daresay she’ll learn quickly, for after all, blood tells, they say, and her grandfather was a viscount.”

  Alison gasped. A viscount! Her aunts had never told her much about her dead parents and she had always assumed that her mother came from the same solid merchant background as her father. However, the elegant, dignified lady who was to be her chaperon appeared unsurprised and a trifle wary.

  “A viscount?” she enquired.

  “Yes, indeed, and all on the right side of the blanket, my lady, so you needn’t think otherwise. Alison’s mama was daughter to Lord Deverill of Ballycarrick, for all he cast her off without a penny when she married our brother.”

  “Ah, I see. An Irish title.”

  Alison’s euphoria faded. “Is an Irish title not. . .not a genuine title?” she asked humbly.

  Lady Emma’s smile was kind. “Perfectly genuine, my dear.”

  “Then please, ma’am, will you let me come and live with you, and show me how to go on?”

  “Why, if your aunt is satisfied. . .?”

  Alison looked anxiously at Aunt Zenobia, who beamed her approval. “I’d say you’re a pukka memsahib, my lady, who’ll do right by our girl. And you needn’t think I’ll be poking my nose in where I’m not wanted. There’s just the rupees and annas to be settled then. Off with you now, Alison, for it’s not proper for young girls to bother their heads with money matters. You won’t mind, my lady, if Mr. Osborne stays? He’s by way of being my business wallah since poor Winkle popped off.”

  The three unmarried aunts took the hint and trailed out after Alison.

  “You do like Lady Emma, don’t you, dear’?” asked Aunt Di. “We wouldn’t want you to go if you feel the least bit uncomfortable, whatever Zenobia may say.”

  “Even as a girl, Zenobia was apt to ride roughshod over anyone in her way,” Aunt Cleo grunted. She was not at all happy with the turmeric and coriander and fenugreek her sister had pressed upon her with instructions in their use.

  Aunt Polly nodded agreement.

  Alison flew from one to the next with reassuring hugs and kisses. “Oh, yes, I like Lady Emma. She is so very graceful and refined and composed, I am sure I cannot do better than to try to be like her. And when she smiled, her eyes smiled, too.”

  Satisfied, the aunts went about their business. Alison lingered in the hall. The talk of rupees and annas seemed interminable. She was beginning to fear that some disagreement had arisen which might spoil the whole affair, when there was a peremptory rapping at the front door.

  She started towards it, failing to remember that the household now boasted a maid, one of whose duties was to answer the door. At that moment three balls of white fur raced into view from the back of the house, yipping their joy at seeing her. Midnight followed at a more staid pace.

  Bess, the new maid, must have gone out into the garden, forgetting that the dogs were supposed to be shut out of the house while Lady Emma was there. Alison was in a quanda
ry. The terriers must be chased out, but the door knocker was sounding again, plied with a vigorous urgency that brooked no denial.

  “Sit, Drop,” she ordered. “Sit, Flake and Goose.” She opened the door.

  The gentleman on the doorstep looked her up and down with an air of cool appraisal. He was of middle height, elegantly if quietly dressed, with no more than two modest capes to his greatcoat. His features were clear-cut but nothing out of the ordinary except, perhaps, his determined chin. Alison took instant exception to the faint boredom in his brown eyes.

  “I have come to fetch Lady Emma,” he announced. “My name is Trevelyan. Be so good as to announce me to your mistress, girl.”

  “I am Alison Larkin,” she corrected him.

  The terriers decided hopefully that she was giving them permission to move. They scampered to greet the stranger, two of them sniffing suspiciously at the ankles of his gleaming top-boots while Flake, the boldest, jumped up to place two paws on his knee and look him in the face.

  “Down!” said Alison and Mr. Trevelyan with one voice.

  Flake obeyed instantly, leaving two muddy paw prints on the hitherto immaculate dove-coloured inexpressibles. A flush of annoyance stained the high cheekbones, which lent the gentleman’s face a sensitivity at odds with his manner.

  Alison succeeded in smothering a giggle, but before she could apologize, Midnight sauntered up. Mr. Trevelyan stood his ground.

  “I trust your Newfoundland has better manners,” he said grimly.

  “Oh, yes.” She favoured him with a sunny smile. Anyone who recognized the breed could not be all bad. “If Midnight were in the habit of doing that, people would go over like ninepins. The terriers are very intelligent too, but quite irrepressible. Won’t you come in, sir? I daresay Lady Emma will be ready to leave shortly.”

  “I trust she is ready now, Miss Larkin, for I will not leave my cattle standing in this chill.”

  “Who is holding them?” Alison glanced into the street. “What a splendid rig. Is it a tilbury? And I do think chestnut horses are quite the prettiest. Oh, that’s Bubble at their heads. You can trust him with them. Bubble!” she called, “walk the horses for the gentleman.”

  “Ri’chare, miss.” The boy grinned, gap-toothed.

  She noticed that Mr. Trevelyan was staring at her in astonishment. Doubtless it was less than decorous behaviour to shout to ragamuffins in the street, but she was only trying to make sure his horses were well cared for. He need not look so disapproving.

  She repeated her invitation, with less enthusiasm, and he stepped into the house, doffing his glossy beaver. It seemed to Alison that his very presence made the hallway shabbier than ever.

  “I shall inform Lady Emma that you have arrived, Mr. Trevelyan,” she said with what she hoped was dignified formality. Then a horrid thought struck her. “You are not a lord, are you? You did not say.”

  “No, Miss Larkin, I am not a lord.”

  “Good.” She breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped into the parlour—the drawing-room, as Aunt Zenobia insisted on calling it—careful to shut the dogs out. What a great pity it would be if the first lord she ever met proved to be so odiously toplofty.

  “Pray excuse me, Aunt Zenobia. A gentleman has called for Lady Emma.”

  “Philip here already?” The silver-grey ostrich plumes on Lady Emma’s charcoal velvet hat bobbed as she stood up. “We are agreed then, Mrs. Winkle. Your lawyer will draw up the papers and Alison shall come to me on Monday. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Osborne.”

  Ralph Osborne had also risen to his feet, and now he bowed over her ladyship’s hand with a polished politeness that surprised Alison. He had visited several times in the past week without showing the slightest sign of a penchant for gallantry, which was scarce surprising at his age, of course. She was beginning to think of him as an honorary uncle.

  As soon as Lady Emma, Mr. Trevelyan and Mr. Osborne had departed, Aunt Zenobia summoned Alison into the drawing-room to explain the arrangements that had been made for her Season.

  “Her ladyship’s a sensible young woman,” she informed her niece, “for all she’s daughter to an earl and widow of a baron. She’ll see you have a bit of fun without coming to grief. Mrs. Colonel Bowditch has never steered me wrong yet.”

  Alison kept to herself her opinion as to who did the steering in that relationship. “I am to go to Lady Emma’s on Monday?” she asked.

  “The sooner the better, for the Season’s none so far off and there’s gowns to be bought and all sorts of fal-lals. All the bills will be sent to me, my dear, for I don’t want you troubled with such things. I can stand the nonsense, so you needn’t worry your pretty head. And you’ll have two pounds a week in your pocket for pin-money.”

  “Two pounds! I’m sure I could not spend half so much, Aunt.”

  “I doubt you’ll find any difficulty there. You are not to be skimping and saving, mind. You’ll be getting all I have one of these days, and you’ll be a wealthy woman after I’m gone.”

  “Oh, Aunt!”

  “In the meantime, as I’ve told Lady Emma, I’ve set aside something for a dowry. Now I don’t want you thinking you have to find yourself a husband in a hurry. There’s always Ralph.”

  “Mr. Osborne?”

  “Why, yes. Didn’t I tell you he’s come home to find himself a bride and settle in England, and he’d be glad to make a match of it with my little niece?”

  “With me? But he is quite middle-aged!”

  “Nonsense, child, he has no more than five or six and thirty years in his dish. I don’t mean to push at you but he’s a pukka sahib and a rich man, and kindhearted to boot. You’ll do well to consider his offer, for you could do a deal worse.”

  “I’m sure it is very obliging of Mr. Osborne to want to marry me, but he is not even a Sir or an Honourable. Indeed, Aunt, I think I should prefer to marry a lord.”

  “A lord! Here’s high flying, if you like. I tell you straight, you’ll do better to stick to your own kind, my dear. Much good it ever did your poor papa taking a wife above his station. Bless your heart, you’ve been addling your noddle with too many novels, I make no doubt,” she said indulgently. “Well, I shan’t stand in your way, but I daresay a couple of months cavorting with the hote tong will make you appreciate a fine, honest fellow like Ralph Osborne.”

  Try as she might. Alison could not reconcile Mr. Osborne with her image of a romantic hero. Though admittedly quite good-looking for his advanced age, he lacked both the fiery passion and the delicate sensibilities necessary to a rescuer of damsels in distress. She was a reasonable girl. As she was by no stretch of the imagination in distress she might have settled for one or the other requisite, had he possessed a title. Alas, he was not even a member of the untitled aristocracy.

  Her thoughts turned to Mr. Philip Trevelyan. Both his friendship with Lady Emma and the haughty disdain of his demeanour proclaimed him a gentleman of the ton—the “hote tong,” as Aunt Zenobia would say. It was a pity that he was both disagreeable and dull.

  Alison’s opinion of Mr. Trevelyan might have sunk still lower had she been privileged to listen to the conversation as he drove Lady Emma to her home.

  “Surely you do not mean to go through with the business,” he expostulated.

  “Yes, I found her charming, modest and sweet-tempered. Of course her manners need polishing, but I expected that. She has a splendid portion, and is the nabob’s widow’s heir besides. And if I do not miss my guess, a little judicious pruning will turn her into quite a beauty, and not in the usual style.”

  “Not in the usual style indeed! I grant you she’s a pretty enough child, but it will take more than a little polishing and pruning to render her acceptable, whatever her wealth.”

  “She has another string to her bow, though I do not mean to make use of it unless it proves necessary. Her mother was Lord Deverill’s daughter. Apparently he cast her off when she married a Cit.”

  “An Irish connexion—doubtless th
at explains why she put me in mind of a mischievous leprechaun.”

  “Be charitable, Philip! Elfin is the word that sprang to my mind.”

  “You did not see her shouting to an urchin in the street, like the veriest hoyden. What is worse, she appeared to be on familiar terms with the brat. ‘Bubble,’ I believe, was the name she addressed him by.”

  “Oh, dear! Still, she seems amazingly eager to learn and I daresay a word in her ear on that subject will suffice,” said Lady Emma optimistically.

  “She is a vulgar, impertinent chit. I fear you will regret this.”

  They dropped the subject, but Philip failed in his attempt to dismiss Miss Larkin from his mind. He had distinctly heard the girl mutter “good” when he told her he had no title. What the devil had she meant by that?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I look just like mama.” Alison gazed entranced at the vision in the gilt-framed mirror on Lady Emma’s dressing-table. The unruly mop of black was gone, and in its place a cluster of soft, glossy curls framed her face. “Thank you, Miss Carter, you have cut it splendidly. If you will tell me where to find a dustpan and brush I shall clear up this mess.”

  Though seeming pleased by the compliment, the abigail raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That won’t be necessary, miss. The chambermaid will see to it in a trice.”

  “Let us go to your chamber and decide what you are to wear today,” said Lady Emma hurriedly.

  “Oh yes, ma’am.” Alison’s smile revealed a dimple hitherto hidden by her locks. “All my new gowns are so pretty, I vow it will take an age to choose.”

  Though small, Alison’s chamber was a delightful place, decorated with frivolous frills and ruffles of primrose-and-white muslin. A coal fire glowed in the grate, before which there was just room for a pair of elegant rosewood armchairs upholstered in pale yellow brocade. Lady Emma motioned Alison to one of these and sat down in the other. She leaned forward with an earnest expression.