Tangled Reins. Stephanie Laurens

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      Early next morning, before the appointed time and without further incident, the Grange party set off from the Three Feathers, watched, appreciatively, by Jim Hitchin.

      The day was cool but the thaw had set in. The roads improved as they neared the capital, so the motion of the coach was more even and their progress noticeably more rapid. Dorothea was in a subdued frame of mind. On her return to their chamber the evening before she had been subjected to a barrage of questions from Cecily and Betsy. Her head still swimming, she had let the tide flow over her, knowing from experience that silence would more effectively stop the inquisition than any argument. This time, her normal stratagem had failed. The questions had continued until she lost her temper. ‘Oh, do stop fussing, both of you! If you must know, I had an encounter with an extremely impertinent gentleman on my way back from the coachyard, and I’m quite vexed!’

      Cecily, piqued at her subsequent refusal to recount the incident, had only been diverted by the appearance of their meal. In August, in a moment of ill-judged candour, Dorothea had told her sister of her impromptu meeting with Lord Hazelmere in the woods. The memory of the tortuous explanations she had had to fabricate to conceal from Cecily’s avid interest the full tale of that encounter had ensured that this time she easily refrained from blurting out the name of the gentleman involved. In no circumstances could she have endured another such ordeal. Not when she was feeling so unusually exhausted.

      She had had little appetite, but to admit this would only have reopened the discussion. So she had forced herself to eat some pigeon pie. After the brandy she had not dared to touch the wine. The meal completed, she had pointedly prepared for bed. Cecily, thankfully without comment, had done likewise.

      A light sleeper, Dorothea had found it impossible to even doze until dawn, when the racket in the inn finally abated. She therefore had had ample time to reflect on her second encounter with the Marquis of Hazelmere. His calm assumption of authority irritated her deeply. His arrogant conviction that she would do exactly as he wished irked her beyond measure. The knowledge that, despite this, he possessed a strange attraction for her she resolutely pushed to the furthest corner of her mind. The last thing she felt inclined to do, she had sternly told herself, was to develop a tendre for the odious man! In all probability he would spend the night enjoying the favours of some doxy elsewhere in the inn. For some reason she found this thought absurdly depressing and, thoroughly annoyed with herself, had tried to compose her mind for sleep. Even then, when sleep finally came, it was haunted by a pair of hazel eyes.

      Once they were under way, the swaying of the chaise quickly lulled her into slumber. She woke when they paused for lunch at a pretty little inn on the banks of the Thames. Only partially refreshed, she forced herself to consider how she was going to handle the coming interview with her grandmother. How, exactly, was she to broach the subject of Hazelmere and his promised visit? Back in the carriage, she dozed fitfully while her problems revolved like clockwork in her mind. She came fully awake when the wheels hit the cobbled streets. Gazing about, she was astonished by the hustle and bustle of life in the capital. As the carriage moved into the areas inhabited by the wealthier citizens the clamour was left behind, and both sisters were soon engaged in examining and pronouncing sentence on the elegant outfits they saw.

      After asking directions, Lang finally drew up outside an imposing mansion on one side of a square in what was clearly one of the more fashionable areas. In the centre was an enclosed garden in which children and nursemaids were taking the late-afternoon air. The sun’s last rays were gilding the bare branches of the cherry trees there as the sisters were assisted from the carriage by the stately butler who had answered Lang’s knock.

      Relieved of their cloaks and escorted to the upstairs drawing-room, the sisters made their curtsy to their fashionable grandmother. Lady Merion surged towards them, enveloping them in a mist of gauzes and perfume. Her blonde wig was perfectly set above a face still graced by traces of the pale beauty she had once been. Sharp blue eyes watched her world, set above a long straight nose and a mouth only too ready to laugh at what she saw.

      ‘My dears! I’m so glad to see you safely arrived! Now sit down and let me give you some tea. My chef, Henri, has sent up these delicacies to tempt you after your journey.’

      Drawing them to sit around the fire, already burning brightly, Lady Merion noted that neither sister was looking her best. ‘Tonight we’ll have a very quiet time. You must both retire immediately after dinner. Tomorrow morning we’ve an appointment with Celestine, the most fashionable modiste in London. You must have recovered from your journey by then.’

      As soon as they had eaten the delicious pastries and drunk their tea, Lady Merion rang the bell. It was answered by Witchett, a tall, angular woman with sparse grey hair whose peculiar talent in life lay in being able to turn out her elderly mistress in the most suitable of the currently fashionable styles. She was burning with curiosity to view the latest challenges to her skill. A quick glance at the Misses Darent told her that Mellow, the butler, had not exaggerated. In spite of their tiredness, their potential was apparent. The younger, properly dressed, would be a hit. And Miss Darent had that certain something that Witchett, a veteran campaigner, instantly recognised. The sisters were therefore favoured with a thin smile.

      ‘Ah, there you are, Witchett. Please conduct Miss Darent and Miss Cecily to their rooms. I suggest, my dears, that you rest before dinner. Witchett will see your things are unpacked, and she’ll take charge of your dressing until we can find suitable maids. Off with you, now.’ She dismissed them with a wave of one heavily beringed white hand.

      They followed Witchett to two pretty bedchambers, obviously newly refurbished, Dorothea’s in a soft pastel green and Cecily’s in a delicate blue. Everything was already unpacked, and Witchett helped them undress. ‘I’ll return to assist you to dress for dinner, Miss Darent.’

      Dorothea sank thankfully into the soft feather bed and immediately fell asleep.

      Lady Merion had instructed her chef that a light and simple meal was all they required that evening. Consequently there were only three courses, each of some half a dozen dishes. Luckily both Dorothea and Cecily had recovered their appetites and were able to do justice to their first experience of the culinary delights of London.

      Their grandmother was pleasantly surprised to find them considerably restored. Throughout dinner she monopolised the conversation. ‘First and by far the most important task is to have you both suitably gowned. For that, Celestine’s is first on our list. She’s the best known of Bruton Street’s modistes for good reason.’