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An hour later, when she climbed into the soft, wide bed, she meant to write in her notebook. Instead, her weighted limbs carried her down, down into sleep.
She dreamed she was at Weston Hall, but not now, decades ago. A warm summer day. Both of her parents sat in the garden, taking tea with the duke and duchess, and George was there too, lounging by the fountain, and Anthony and Effie chased each other through the hedges.
She was peering down at them all from a secret perch in the trees, giggling as the game began.
Where’s Lavinia? Have you seen her? All of them, up and roaming, calling out. Lavinia! My Vinnie! Lavinia!
She woke briefly when sun streamed through the gap in the curtains, but then, as no roosters crowed, she drifted off again and slept without dreams.
Chapter Sixteen
“But by God, man—you’d never seen a picture of her?” Alan’s ringing laugh rose to the rafters of the gardener’s cottage. He’d listened to Neal’s account—expurgated account—of the two Mrs. Pendrakes with transparent absorption. A rare occurrence. Alan tended to anticipate and interrupt, his thoughts running dizzying laps around his interlocutor’s. It was a habit that had made him unpopular during their school days.
Neal was already regretting telling him anything.
“Of course I hadn’t seen a picture.” He leaned back in his chair, threw a boot onto his knee. A well-fitted, modern boot. With apologies to his grandfather, he’d tossed the Hessians in the dust cart.
Alan’s eyes were glinting behind his pince-nez. Just like him to stick on the point that made a chap feel a bloody fool. But dammit, it wasn’t Neal’s fault that he’d been tricked. How was he to know his ignorance of Muriel Pendrake’s appearance would be exploited by a deceitful debutante?
“Muriel is a botanist,” he added, too testily. “Not a toothpaste model.”
“Heaven forfend,” murmured Alan with mock horror. His tone, and cocked brow, left no doubt he was remembering Neal’s past entanglements. “Since when are you prejudicial to a pretty smile?”
“Since now.” Neal scowled. “Wipe that Cheshire cat look off your face. It’s bad for your image.”
Alan flashed more of his teeth, a very fine set. None of them pointed and dripping venom as the caricaturists would have it.
“You remember Gareth Bidmead?” he asked. “I wrote the notice for his new opera—one-act musical comedy, absolute rubbish. Spare yourself a dire evening.”
Neal grunted. “No danger there.” His taste didn’t incline toward light opera, but if it did, the name Gareth Bidmead was more than enough discouragement.
“If he ever talks to me again,” continued Alan, “which I doubt, I’ll have to tell him the whole story, to make it up to him. I won’t use any names.” He raised a hand as though to ward off objection. “Mrs. Pendrake will be protected. But it’s too good to waste—a readymade libretto. Even Bidmead can’t butcher it.”
“Kind of you,” said Neal dryly. “Make a tragedy of a man’s career, then offer him a farce in compensation.”
“Well.” Alan leaned back in his chair. “He is a friend.”
Now it was Neal’s turn to laugh. “What of your own masterpiece?” He stood, stretching, and angled around the furniture to open the door. Sweet air rushed in. He propped his shoulder on the doorframe, reflexively patting his pockets.
His brain always caught up a moment too late.
No cigarette case. He’d given it to Lavinia.
“Finished.” Alan stroked his side-whiskers with studied nonchalance. Even at Oxford, he’d insisted on styling himself like a septuagenarian wit from the Age of Reason.
Neal thought the venerable man of letters routine a tad overcooked. His was the minority opinion, based on more than a decade of friendship. The public took a different view.
“On to the next.” Alan’s voice flexed with its characteristic blend of arrogance and irony. He was gazing at Neal narrowly, all speculative intensity. Suddenly, he rose.
“So.” He drew out the word to complement his saunter. “The first Mrs. Pendrake returned to her husband.” He joined Neal in the doorway. “And the second—she’s still in want of one.”
Neal shrugged and looked away from Alan’s smile at the vast garden: pink and white and green. Roses and poplars. “That’s my understanding.”
Lavinia had left only a brief note with Mrs. Lampshire.
I’m wanted in London. Happy plant hunting.
How he’d stared at those Ps.
