Lie by Moonlight by Amanda Quick

“Yes, Miss Glade,” Edwina whispered.

  Hannah’s mouth quivered. “Yes, Miss Glade.”

  Phoebe bit her lip.

  Theodora inclined her head unhappily. “We’re sorry, Miss Glade. We only meant to help.”

  Concordia softened immediately. “I know that. But rest assured that nothing occurred between Mr. Wells and me last night that need cause any of you the least bit of concern. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Wells?”

  “I would remind everyone present that in a situation such as this, there is more than one person’s reputation involved,” Ambrose said.

  They all looked at him.

  “I beg your pardon?” Concordia said. She sounded as though she spoke between clenched teeth.

  “It is true that Society is concerned primarily with the reputation of the lady, but there is also the not insignificant matter of the gentleman’s honor,” he said quietly.

  Concordia’s expression turned stony. “Mr. Wells, this conversation appears to have lost direction. I suggest that we all repair to the breakfast room immediately.”

  He ignored the interruption. “Given that I am the gentleman in question, I cannot help but feel that I have some rights in this matter.”

  “I fail, utterly, to see how your rights have been in any way affected, sir,” Concordia said. Her voice had become very tight.

  “Naturally, I would not wish you to think that I do not fully respect your modern sensibilities, Miss Glade,” he continued. “So I believe that a compromise is in order. I would like to offer an alternative to the usual method of dealing with this sort of situation.”

  Phoebe, Hannah, Theodora and Edwina began to look quite interested.

  “What are you talking about, sir?” Concordia asked, spacing each word with ominous emphasis.

  “It appears to me,” he said, “that there is a very modern, indeed, an extremely unconventional approach that might be employed in this matter that should suit all parties concerned.”

  “Mr. Wells,” Concordia said darkly, “you are not making any sense. Perhaps you did not get enough sleep last night.”

  “I slept very well, thank you,” he assured her.

  Hannah took a step forward. Her face was alight with curiosity. “What is this modern, unconventional approach you mentioned, sir?”

  He smiled directly at Concordia. “I believe it would satisfy everyone involved if we leave it up to Miss Glade to decide whether or not to propose marriage to me.”

  Concordia stared, evidently rendered mute by the shock of his suggestion.

  Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora reacted with astonished delight.

  “Letting the lady propose to the gentleman is a very modern notion, indeed,” Phoebe declared.

  “Excellent plan, sir,” Edwina said to Ambrose.

  “Thank you,” he said, trying to appear modest.

  Hannah glowed. “Just think, if Lucinda Rosewood had been able to insist that Mr. Thorne marry her, she would not have been ruined.”

  “Very clever,” Theodora enthused. “It solves the problem quite brilliantly, does it not, Miss Glade?”

  Concordia finally found her tongue. “There is no problem to be solved.”

  No one paid any attention to her.

  “It is certainly a very original notion,” Phoebe said. “I wonder if it will catch on in the future?”

  Hannah pursed her lips. “But what if Miss Glade does not ask Mr. Wells for his hand in marriage?”

  Theodora’s brows bunched together. “Or what if she does ask him but he refuses?”

  That brought an abrupt halt to the conversation. The girls looked at Concordia.

  She released her grip on the door frame and made a show of checking the time on the face of the little chatelaine watch she wore at her waist.

  “Gracious, it is really quite late, isn’t it?” She gave everyone a polished grin. “I, for one, am famished. If you will excuse me, I believe I will go have my breakfast.”

  She turned around and walked off down the hall. The heels of her shoes rang lightly on the polished floorboards.

  When she was gone, the girls swung back to confront Ambrose with accusing eyes.

  He spread his hands. “That is the one troubling aspect of doing things in a modern, unconventional style, I’m afraid. Granted, it makes for an interesting change. Unfortunately, one cannot always be assured that, when all is said and done, one will find that one is any better off than when things were done the old-fashioned way.”

  31

  Concordia adjusted the black glove on her left hand with a snapping motion of her fingers and peered at Ambrose through the black net veil that concealed her face. She was very conscious of the chaotic mix of strong emotions that was still twisting through her. She did not know whether she was unsettled, angry or depressed.

  She decided in favor of anger. It seemed the safest course.

  “I cannot believe that you allowed that conversation in the library to become so outrageous this morning,” she began. “Don’t you know that when one is dealing with young people, one must take great care to remain firmly in control of the subject matter of the discussion at all times?”

  Ambrose regarded her from the opposite seat of the cab. He was wearing whiskers, a mustache and spectacles. Together with a frumpy coat that had been padded around the midsection, a stiff, high collar and conservatively cut trousers, he appeared every inch the unfashionable man of affairs.

  “I regret to say that my own experience with persons, especially young ladies, of that age is considerably more limited than yours,” he said.

  It worried her that she could not tell if he was teasing her. She should know if he was amusing himself at her expense, she thought.

  They were on their way to Mrs. Hoxton’s residence. This was the first time she had been alone with Ambrose since the disastrous meeting in the library before breakfast. She had convinced herself that she had regained her composure, but now she was discovering that her nerves were still distressingly unsettled.

  “Really, sir, what were you thinking to put that notion into their heads?”

  “What notion was that?” he asked.

  “Do not try to play the innocent with me. You know very well that I am referring to that extremely poor joke you made in the library.”

  He somehow managed to appear crushed by the accusation. “I do not recall making any jokes this morning.”

  His bold-faced denial was too much. She lost what little remained of her temper.

  “I am talking about your ridiculous comments regarding the appropriate behavior of a lady and a gentleman following . . . following . . .” Words failed her. She was obliged to resort to waving her gloved hands about in an embarrassing manner. When she realized what she was doing, she quickly clenched them together in her lap. “You know very well what I mean.”

  “Following a night of inspired passion that left the gentleman in question too enchanted, enraptured and enamored to be able to think clearly the next day?”

  “Any man who can insert enchanted, enraptured and enamored together in one sentence is thinking with perfect clarity.”

  He sank deeper into the cushions. “I thought you, of all people, would appreciate how deftly I handled that awkward scene with your pupils.”

  “You consider the suggestion that it is up to me to do the right thing by you an example of deft handling?”

  “Well, you must admit that it was, at the very least, quite a modern way of dealing with the matter.”

  She sighed. “You are impossible, sir.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Would you have preferred that I did the traditional thing?” he asked neutrally. “Should I have asked you to marry me this morning?”

  She tensed and fixed her attention on the view outside the window. “Because of a single night of passion in which we engaged as equals? Of course not. You did not take advantage of me, sir. There is no need for you to atone with an offer of marriage.”

  ??
?What if I were to make the offer?” he said.

  She scowled. “I would refuse it, of course.”

  “Because you are so very modern and unconventional?”

  He was deliberately goading her now, she decided.

  “No,” she said brusquely. “I would refuse it because I would know that it was your own sense of gentlemanly honor that had obliged you to make the offer. I will not marry any man for such a reason.”

  He gave her an unreadable look. “I believe that you may be overestimating the degree to which I am guided by my gentlemanly honor.”

  “Nonsense. You are a deeply honorable man, Ambrose. I sensed that much the first night we met. And that is why I would be forced to refuse any offer you made. I could not marry you under that sort of duress.”

  “Duress,” he repeated. “What an unpleasant word.”

  “Yes, well, there you have it. A marriage contracted for reasons of old-fashioned, misguided notions of honor or to appease the dictates of respectable Society is all too likely to result in a lifelong sentence in a prison without walls for both parties.”

  “An opinion held by your parents, I presume?”

  She could not respond to that comment. It was the truth. How often had she heard her parents take precisely that stand? Indeed, she had grown up with that admonition ringing in her ears.

  “You fear that if you were to contract a marriage for those reasons it would be a betrayal of the memory of your parents and all that they taught you, do you not?” Ambrose asked gently.

  She collected herself and raised her chin. “I would not subject either of us to a miserable marriage.”

  “Are you certain, then, that we would be miserable together?”

  Her mouth went dry.

  Fortunately, the cab rumbled to a halt at that moment. Ambrose reached for the door handle.

  “Given your obviously devout feelings on the subject,” he said, “it appears that we are left with my ingeniously modern, unconventional approach.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “As I told you this morning in front of your students, I shall leave the matter of marriage up to you. If you decide to ask me for my hand, you know where to find me.”

  HE WAS WELL aware that he had gone too far with that last remark and that he would no doubt soon regret it.

  It had been obvious all morning that Concordia was balanced on some internal tightrope fashioned of inflamed nerves. In hindsight, it had clearly been a mistake to raise the subject of marriage in the first place, let alone suggest such an unconventional approach to it.

  But what was he supposed to do after Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora cornered him in the library?

  At the time it had seemed a positively brilliant way out of an untenable situation. He knew very well that if he had asked Concordia to marry him that morning, she would have refused. For his part, he was grimly aware that he would not have tolerated the rejection well. By placing the burden of proposing on her shoulders, he had attempted to ease them both out of a potential quagmire.

  It only went to show that for all its emphasis on self-control and calm, logical thinking, his Vanza training had its limits. Two generations of Colton family wisdom had not been of much use, either. But then, in spite of their larcenous ways, his father and grandfather had both been hopeless romantics. Evidently it was a family characteristic.

  HE WELCOMED THE interview with Mrs. Hoxton. It was an excellent excuse to focus his attention on something other than his increasingly complex relationship with Concordia.

  The door was opened by an imposing butler who, after a brief consultation with his employer, showed them into a heavily over-furnished drawing room.

  It was apparent that Mrs. Hoxton’s decorator had been intent on incorporating every fashionable element. The result was a murky kaleidoscope of colors, patterns and textures.

  Plum-colored drapes pooled on a carpet of gigantic blossoms of blue, lilac and cream. The heavily bordered wallpaper featured a profusion of massive pink blooms against a maroon background. Every piece of furniture was upholstered in chaotic prints. Large urns filled with artificial bouquets stood in the dark corners. Framed pictures were hung from floor to ceiling.

  Concordia sat down on one of the velvet-covered chairs. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice today, Mrs. Hoxton. Very kind of you.”

  Ambrose was impressed with the smooth manner in which she had slipped into her role. If he hadn’t known better, he would have believed her to be exactly what she purported to be—a wealthy, fashionable widow.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Nettleton.” Mrs. Hoxton’s round face glowed with an ingratiating smile. “Any friend of Lady Chesterton’s is, of course, welcome in this household.”

  The association with the wealthy, socially powerful Countess of Chesterton was extremely tenuous. Ambrose had, in fact, invented it a few minutes ago when he had jotted the lady’s name on the card that he handed to the impressive butler.

  The gossip he had picked up in his club concerning Mrs. Hoxton’s social-climbing aspirations had proved accurate. She had been unable to resist the lure of entertaining a “close personal friend” of Lady Chesterton’s.

  “This is my man of affairs.” Concordia waved a black-gloved hand somewhat vaguely in Ambrose’s direction. “No need to pay any attention to him. I brought him along to take notes. He deals with all the boring details associated with my rather extensive financial affairs.”

  “I quite understand.” Mrs. Hoxton gave Ambrose a cursory glance and instantly dismissed him as beneath notice. She turned eagerly back to Concordia. “What did Lady Chesterton tell you about me?”

  “Cynthia gave me your name and assured me that you could advise me on the matter of establishing a charity school.” Concordia accepted a cup of tea from the maid. “She mentioned that you have successfully undertaken a similar philanthropic project.”

  The maid disappeared discreetly, closing the door of the drawing room softly. Ambrose realized that no one was going to offer him any tea so he took out the little notebook and pencil he had brought along and did his best to fade into the floral-print upholstery of his chair.

  “Lady Chesterton, I mean Cynthia, is aware of my philanthropic efforts?” Mrs. Hoxton could scarcely contain her delight. “I hadn’t realized.”

  “Yes, of course,” Concordia said. “She has heard about the good works you are doing at the Winslow Charity School for Girls.”

  Mrs. Hoxton nodded happily. “I see.”

  “My late husband left me a rather large sum of money,” Concordia explained. “It is my dearest wish to use a portion of it to establish an academy for orphaned girls. But I am not quite certain how one goes about that sort of thing. I hope you can give me some practical guidance in the matter.”

  Mrs. Hoxton’s expression went blank. “What sort of practical guidance?”

  “Well, for example, how much of your time must be devoted to managing the charity school?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” Mrs. Hoxton brightened. “No need to concern yourself on that point. I find that being the school’s benefactress requires very little time. I give out a few gifts to the girls at Christmas and allow them to express their gratitude to me, but that is the extent of it, I assure you. One extremely dull afternoon a year is all that is required.”

  “I don’t understand,” Concordia said. “What about hiring the staff ?”

  “One leaves that sort of thing in the hands of the headmistress, of course.”

  “But who hires her?”

  Mrs. Hoxton appeared momentarily perplexed. Then her features cleared. “In my case, there was no need to hire anyone. The Winslow Charity School for Girls was already established when I chose to become its benefactress. Miss Pratt was the headmistress at the time and there was no reason to let her go. Every reason to keep her on, in fact. She is an excellent manager. Maintains a very close eye on expenditures. Never a penny wasted.”

  “What happened to the school’s
previous benefactor?” Concordia asked.

  “He died. Heirs didn’t want to be bothered with the school. As it happened, I was looking around for a suitable charity project at the time. It was all quite convenient.”

  Concordia sipped tea. “How did you discover that the school was available, as it were?”

  “That was a simple matter. My very good friend Mr. Trimley learned of the situation and recommended that I consider becoming the benefactress.”

  Concordia paused, her cup in midair. It was impossible to see her expression through the heavy veil, but Ambrose knew that she was watching Mrs. Hoxton closely.

  He was doing the same but making very sure not to reveal his interest.

  “I don’t believe I am acquainted with Mr. Trimley,” Concordia said delicately.

  “He is a very charming, very elegant gentleman,” Mrs. Hoxton said. “I am entirely dependent on him when it comes to matters of fashion and taste.”

  “Fascinating,” Concordia commented. “How did you meet him?”

  “We were introduced at the Dunnington soiree last year.” Mrs. Hoxton assumed an air of polite inquiry. “I expect you were there, also, Mrs. Nettleton. I don’t recall meeting you, though. But then, it was a dreadful crush, wasn’t it?”

  Damn, Ambrose thought. He had not prepared Concordia for this sort of question.

  “I was not going about much at the time,” Concordia said smoothly. “My husband was enduring his last, fatal illness. I felt that it was my place to be at his side night and day.”

  Ambrose felt a small tingle of admiration. The lady was very fast on her feet.

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Hoxton said quickly. “Forgive me. I did not stop to think. Well, as I was saying, I became acquainted with Mr. Trimley on that occasion. We got along famously.”

  “You see a great deal of him, then?” Concordia pressed gently.

  “Indeed. He will be escorting me to the Gresham ball tomorrow evening, in fact.” She smiled proudly. “I assume you received an invitation?”

  “Yes, of course. Unfortunately I do not yet feel up to attending that sort of thing.”

  “I understand.”