The Waltzing Widow/Smith Read online

  THE WALTZING WIDOW

  Joan Smith

  Chapter One

  Bishop Norris sat with his niece, Miss Lucy Percy, in her aunt’s saloon. He was sorry to be the bearer of bad news but relieved that the unsavory affair was settled. “Here is the letter Pewter signed,” he said, and handed a paper to her.

  Lucy took it and read: “I, Ronald Pewter, agree not to see Miss Percy again in return for a payment of five thousand pounds.” The rest of the message was blurred by her unshed tears, but she had read enough. She felt desolate, as if she had been wantonly abandoned by her parents.

  She lifted her dark eyes to her uncle and said in a small, disbelieving voice, “So, you were right all along. He was only after my money. I can’t believe it.”

  Bishop Norris took her hands and squeezed them. “I’m afraid that is true, Lucy. Don’t spare a tear for him. He isn’t worth it.”

  Shock robbed her of emotion. Ronald had seemed so loving, so desperate to marry her, and she had been as eager to have him. And all the time it was only her bank account he loved. Lucy looked numbly around her at the elegantly appointed saloon. Pale rays of twilight filtered through the curtains, picking out the gleam of polished mahogany, the satiny sheen of the striped sofa, and the patina of age on the Persian carpet underfoot. How Ronald had admired this room. The house in Belgrave Square belonged to her aunt, but Lucy had spent the past year there. Ronald, of course, knew it wasn’t her house. He also knew it would be hers one day.

  He knew as well the exact extent of her fortune; sixty thousand pounds. His questions, asked over the period of six weeks, had seemed innocent at the time. “With my estate in Berkshire and your cash— how much did you say it is, love? Ah, yes, sixty thousand. With our combined assets, we shall be quite comfortable. In fact, we ought to buy up the farm adjacent to Wildwood. Is the money in your own control, or must we speak to your guardian about it?”

  “I control it outright. I am not a child, Ronald. I am twenty-two years old,” she told him proudly. “Papa trusted my common sense.”

  Lucy stirred herself back to the present. Common sense—she had little enough of that. “Do you mean to tell me he doesn’t even own an estate in Berkshire?” she asked, hardly able to credit such treachery from the man she loved.

  “Pewter doesn’t own the buttons on his shirt. He owes every tradesman in London,” Bishop Norris told her firmly. “I am thankful your aunt tipped me the clue he was not quite the thing.”

  How her aunt’s slurs against Ronald had vexed her. Her aunt Percy had been a widow for eons. How should she know anything about love? “I must apologize to Aunt Percy,” she said in a humble voice.

  “It was your aunt’s catching him with his nose in your account book that made up my mind to institute serious inquiries,” the bishop continued.

  Blood suffused the elderly gentleman’s pale face as he remembered that letter from Mrs. Percy. Norris’s appearance suited the role life had assigned him. He was tall and slender, with kindly blue eyes set in a face that smiled more readily than it frowned. But in a temper, as he was now, he could look fierce.

  “I had already ascertained there is a family of substance in Berkshire named Pewter, but Ronald is only a distant connection,” he continued. “I learned through friends that the heir to Wildwood is a Clarence Pewter. He gave a shocking account of Ronald. You aren’t the first lady he’s tried his hand at fleecing. It was a similar stunt that ran him out of his home.”

  Shame, humiliation, and anger mingled with the dregs of grief in Lucy’s heart. She felt degraded to have been used so badly. “I don’t see why I should pay him a penny!” she said.

  Bishop Norris examined her and felt cheered. Her firm chin lifted mutinously. The Percy chin she had. It was going to be all right, then. Lucy always had a deal of spirit. The color was already seeping back into her cheeks, and her eyes were flashing. Such a pretty lass, she would have no trouble finding a proper beau once the fall little season began. She had wasted the spring season on Pewter. Lucy needed a quiet summer away from London, where every street would remind her of her disgrace.

  It was a pity her father had sold up Fernbank before his death. That was where she would want to be now. It was her brother’s death in the Peninsula two years before that had caused the mischief. Foolishness for an only son, to go joining the army, but try to tell a Percy anything! You might as well shout into the wind. Old Mr. Percy fell ill with grief and was unable to run the place. With only a daughter to inherit, he thought cash would be easier to handle. And perhaps there were too many memories for him ever to be content there again.

  Lucy had gone to her aunt Mary Percy in London, and when her period of mourning was up, they decided she should make her debut. Nothing had come of it but grief. The girl took up with Pewter and his set at her first ball and hadn’t met anyone worth knowing all season. Never set a toe in Almack’s, nor attended the first-rate balls. Fresh from the country, Lucy was too green to be onto the tricks of the world and so heartbroken from the loss of her father and brother that she accepted the first offer that came along.

  “You should have consulted me before paying him five thousand pounds, Uncle,” Lucy said.

  “My dear child, how could I pay him five thousand pounds of your money without consulting you? I didn’t pay him a sou. He was so greedy to get the blunt, he signed the letter and accepted a check. The check was drawn on my account. I had already told the bank not to honor it.”

  Lucy looked at him in astonishment. “So sly! And you a bishop!” she said in wonder.

  “Our mission is to tend our flock,” he explained. “To protect the lambs from the wolves. A man can’t do that job without having his head screwed on straight. Well, my dear, I have a meeting with some colleagues this evening to prepare the agenda for the archbishop’s conference in a week’s time, and I must be returning to St. Giles early tomorrow morning, so I shall take my leave of you now. But first I shall have a word with your aunt. You’ll be all right, Lucy?”

  “I shall get over it,” Lucy said. Her trembling lips had firmed to anger, which was only natural. “I’ll call Aunt Percy.” She left the room. When her aunt went below, Lucy sat dry-eyed and alone in her chamber, reviewing the past weeks in light of her new knowledge. She was beyond tears. Ronald, that handsome paragon, was a scoundrel. Her brilliant future lay in dust and ashes before her.

  As she sat, her thoughts turned to the real future. Everyone would be laughing at her. How could she show her face in public? If only she could go back to Fernbank ... In any case, she wouldn’t stay in London. And she would not announce her status as an heiress wherever she went. She would go as an anonymous young gentlewoman of modest means. If ever she loved again, it must be a man whose fortune equaled her own.

  Belowstairs the discussion touched on a similar topic to that which occupied Lucy’s mind. Mrs. Percy’s most outstanding characteristic was common sense. She had never possessed much of beauty, and at fifty years, the last remnants of it were fast fading. She was a thin, gray-haired lady who looked like a dragon and had a heart of cotton wool. It was crushed now, to consider Lucy’s sorrow.

  “I shall take her away for a holiday,” she said to the bishop. “Some place deep in the country, where her story is not known.” This was a sacrifice on Mrs. Percy’s part, though she would never say so. London was her home, and since removing there upon her marriage to Elmer Percy thirty years before, she had seldom left.

  “The talk will be all over town, I daresay,” the bishop worried. “There is a pack of hounds like Pewter who will be sniffing after her, trying to learn where she has gone. There aren’t many unencumbered fortunes of such a size to be had. You must guard her carefully, Mary, as you did this t
ime, and let me know if trouble arises. By the autumn little season she will be recovered and have another run at finding a husband. It is not easy for you, being saddled with such a responsibility.”

  Mrs. Percy drew a deep sigh. “Truth to tell, I am fagged to death with all the worry of these past weeks. To see that grinning jackal making up to her, and Lucy not awake to his sort. I wish I could just crawl into a hole somewhere and pretend I am someone else.”

  A quiet smile hovered on the bishop’s lips. “Do it, then,” he said. “Get out of town and change your names. Contact an estate agent, or buy a newspaper. There are always furnished houses to let this time of year. Plenty of families want to go to Brighton, and have to rent to pay the grocer.”

  “It seems a little irregular,” she objected.

  “It’s an irregular situation.”

  “I shall discuss it with Lucy.”

  When the plan was discussed the next morning, it met with Lucy’s approval. It was decided that they would remove themselves from London and travel anonymously.

  “Let us go as mother and daughter,” Lucy suggested. “We’ll use an alias—Jones or Smith.”

  “We will want to keep in touch with friends and business people. It will only cause undue curiosity and talk if we notify them we have changed our names. I think we had best remain who we are and trust to luck.”

  Lucy drew her brows together in a frown. The idea of a masquerade appealed strongly to her. It lent some excitement to what promised to be a long, dull summer. And it gave her protection from fortune hunters. How could she trust her judgment after this fiasco? “I decided last night that I would pose as a married woman,” she mentioned idly.

  Mrs. Percy considered it and found the idea had merit. Best of all it relieved her of the heavy task of weeding out suitors. With Lucy there would be suitors, even deep in the country, and even if she posed as a lady of slender means. Had it not been for Ronald Pewter, Lucy could have made a stunning match.

  Her eyes were her most outstanding attraction. Long lashes curled away from lustrous dark eyes. Without those eyes, she would be only pretty, but with her lively manner, she would never have been called plain.

  “You be Mrs. Percy then, and I shall become a spinster,” the aunt suggested. “You can be married to my younger brother, and that will account for our names both being Percy. The mail will bear the right names, and we can sort out the letters between ourselves. I’ll have to let the servants in on it, but they are totally trustworthy.”

  Lucy liked the idea but found a little problem. “How shall I account for being apart from my husband all summer? The Peninsular War is over, so—”

  “But Wellesley—the Duke of Wellington now, if you please—is back in the Peninsula in his new role as ambassador to France on some diplomatic mission. We shall say your husband is with him. And to account for the sudden appearance of two ladies in a new neighborhood, we shall say you are suffering from a lung infection, which is why we had to go into the country. You do look a trifle peaky, my dear. We shall live simply, keep country hours, go to bed early, and have a nice rustication to get you back in looks for the autumn.”

  This simple life appealed to Lucy in her present mood, and she agreed. “Let us have a look in the Observer and see if we can find a nice quiet cottage somewhere....”

  Chapter Two

  Lord Avedon was considered quite the eighth wonder of the world in Kent, where he reigned supreme over the neighborhood. This noble paragon customarily spent the season in London, but that spring he had been deterred by the amorous exploits of England’s premier fool, his nephew, Tony Carlton.

  What must the boy do but go imagining himself in love with a highly ineligible widow of thirty years, with two children. Tony was twenty years of age— going on ten, according to his impatient uncle. Lord Avedon was Tony’s guardian, and an onerous chore he found it, riding herd on a young buck hot from Oxford. Tony—more formally known as Baron Bigelow—was born to the purple, like his uncle. It seemed a cruel trick of nature to put the brain of a linnet into the head of such a wealthy man. Tony was the owner of impressive estates in two counties.

  Tony’s mama was Avedon’s older sister, and the estate Tony considered home ran adjacent to Avedon’s in a beautiful pocket of country between Canterbury and Ashford. This proximity was a mixed blessing. It threw the mismatched pair together more than was comfortable for either, but it made the chore of guardianship more convenient at least.

  Bigelow would be coming into his majority in six months, and his uncle held the optimistic hope of inculcating some notion of dignity, thrift, and horse sense into him before that time. On the matter of dignity he was fairly despondent, but of the latter two he had still some hopes. Tony enjoyed a large allowance, more than enough to hold house and tend to his personal needs, but even with five thousand a year, he still pestered his uncle for more.

  “I know the income from Fossecourt alone is five thousand,” Bigelow whined, “and Fossecourt is the smaller estate.”

  “You appear to forget Fossecourt is mortgaged,” his uncle said curtly.

  “Ain’t mortgaged to the tune of five thousand,” Tony replied. He lounged at his ease in a petit point chair in Avedon’s study, his blond curls falling over his forehead and his white hands dangling loosely. He had a somewhat girlish face, white with blue eyes and a petulant mouth. Being a prime parti, however, he was invariably called handsome.

  His uncle provided a startling contrast. His coal-black hair was severely barbered and as straight as straw. Beneath that jetty cap, a pair of brilliant blue eyes stared from a rugged, swarthy face. Angles of nose, chin, and jaw lent a geometric air to the whole.

  Lord Avedon, being even richer than his nephew, was accustomed to hearing his appearance described as “striking.” He did not suffer fools gladly, which made it difficult for his nephew.

  “The balance goes to pay your gambling debts,” Avedon replied. “How you managed to get into the hands of the moneylenders for eight thousand pounds is beyond me, with the size of your allowance.”

  “Only borrowed five thousand,” Tony excused himself. “The rest is interest.”

  “I hope those two sums tell you something, Tony.”

  “Yes, they tell me I need an increase in my allowance.”

  “If you had an atom of brains beneath those guinea curls, they would tell you to stay away from the cent percenters. If you want more income, earn it.”

  Tony straightened up from his lounging posture and said indignantly, “I hope you don’t expect a man in my position to sell turnips from a barrow at the side of the road.”

  “No, I would expect a cattle raiser to sell milk.”

  Tony just looked blank. Irony, jokes, insults—they none of them meant much to him. “You’re always telling me to be dignified. How can I be dignified with my pockets to let?”

  “Oh, dignity! I’ve given up on that,” Avedon scoffed. “To see you dawdle through the village with one of Mrs. Lacey’s brats on either hand, dripping ice all over your trousers.”

  “You can’t use that old excuse. Mrs. Lacey’s gone away.”

  “Yes, and a good part of your income is gone with her and her brood to Tunbridge Wells, where they belong.”

  Tony looked infinitely bored. “How can I earn some money, then?” he asked.

  “Use your head,” Avedon said impatiently. “There are a dozen ways. Keep a sharper eye on your steward. Make better use of your farms. You have a lovely cottage on that little triangle of land where our two properties meet. Rose Cottage has been standing idle these three years since Cousin Hanna died. Bring it into shape and rent it. It would bring five hundred a year easily.”

  “Pooh, five hundred. What good is that? Cost more than that to fix it up.”

  “It wouldn’t cost five. It only wants cleaning and weeding.”

  “Anyway, it’s half yours. Mean to say, Papa built it on your land. I don’t consider it mine in the least. Often wondered why you don’t let
it.”

  “Because it is yours, ninnyhammer!” Avedon’s patience broke at this lack of interest in important estate matters. “The land was not signed over to your father, but he built the house, and it is yours to do with as you wish. Send Jobber down to clean it up, and rent it.”

  “You might have told me!” Bigelow said with an injured air. But as the realization that there was money to be had sunk in, he cheered up. “By Jove, I’ll do it. I saw the dandiest little curricle-hung rig, Uncle. Yellow, with straw seats and backs. All the crack for summer.”

  “Grow up, Tony. You have a curricle, a gig, and a whiskey, along with your traveling coach and your town carriage and over two dozen horses. What do you want with another rig?”

  “I wager I could get it for a hundred pounds. It’s a summer carriage.”

  “We don’t have summer in England,” Avedon said comprehensively, though it struck him that he was feeling excessively warm at the moment. “You can console yourself with the thought that the money will help to finance Mrs. Lacey’s sojourn at Tunbridge Wells.”

  “That’s small consolation to me. She was a fine-looking woman. Nice red curls.” A fond smile hung on Tony’s lips.

  “And rouged cheeks to go with them, vulgar creature! Next you will be calling her a lady. When you rent Rose Cottage, make demmed sure it is not to a widow with a dozen screaming brats to destroy our peace. The place is nearer to my house than yours. In fact, I shall put the advertisement in the paper myself. We’ll advertise in London and hope to get some genteel retired couple.”

  “Excellent. And about the rattan curricle—”

  Avedon speared him with a sharp stare. “If you must have a straw carriage for summer, use the hay wain. Now I’m busy—”

  “I’m practically gone.”

  Avedon said, “Good day,” pulled a sheaf of papers toward him, and batted his hand to indicate the meeting was over.

  Bigelow unfolded his slender frame from the petit point chair and stalked from the room in a state of high dudgeon. Avedon, glancing in the mirror, thought his nephew strongly resembled an irate rooster.