Someone to Wed
Page 64

Her mother-in-law, coming up behind them on Alexander’s arm, drew in a sharp breath, though she did not say anything.
“His shock was greater than mine yesterday,” Wren said. “My greatest shock was knowing he is Lord Hodges. My father was alive when I left home. So was my elder brother.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said.
“I am going to see her,” Wren said as they entered the drawing room.
“Lady Hodges?” Her mother-in-law looked shocked. “Oh, my dear. You are going with your brother?”
“No,” Wren said. “He has no dealings with her and has strongly advised me to stay away.”
“But you are going anyway?” her mother-in-law said. “Wren, is it wise?”
Elizabeth released her arm before they sat down. “I can understand that she must go, Mama,” she said. “I do not know your story, Wren, but I can perhaps imagine some of it, for I do know a bit about—But she is your mother and the least said the better. Yes, of course, you must go, and I applaud your courage. Alex is going with you?”
“Kicking and screaming,” he said, looking from one to the other of them, a frown on his face. He had not sat down. “This must be a woman’s logic at work. To both Hodges and me it is madness. And I do know Wren’s story, Lizzie—or some of it anyway. I daresay there is far more. Yes, I am going with her. Tomorrow morning if the lady is at home. And then I am going to miss what remains of the parliamentary session. I am going to take Wren home. No, correction. Wren and I will be going home together. To Brambledean.”
“With my blessing,” his mother said. “And home is the right word. Wren will make it home for you, Alex.”
“Now if you will all excuse me,” Alexander said, “I have some business to attend to.”
Wren went to see him on his way.
Lady Hodges lived with her eldest daughter and son-in-law on Curzon Street, in a home owned but not inhabited by her son. She did not go out a great deal, and when she did it was to a place, like the theater, where she would be fully on display but not exposed to sunlight or direct light of any sort—and, preferably, where she would be set a little apart from her beholders. At home she occupied rooms in which the curtains were drawn permanently across the windows and the lights, though many, were artfully arranged to give an impression of warmth and brightness and to twinkle off jewels without illumining the lady herself. She surrounded herself there with beautiful young men who were drawn by the gifts she lavished upon them and by the fame of her beauty, which had persisted for more than thirty years and become legend. Her eldest daughter, still lovely though she was now in her middle thirties, had stayed with her, though the others had left for various reasons, her elder son by reason of death. She liked to have Blanche with her so that people might flatter her by believing they must be sisters.
Her vanity knew no bounds. When she looked in her mirror—and she did so only after spending a couple of hours each day in the hands of a small army of maids and wigmakers and stylists and manicurists and cosmetics artists—she saw the seventeen-year-old who had once taken the ton by storm. She had captivated a dozen or more gentlemen, most notably a married duke who had offered her carte blanche and riches galore and a wealthy, handsome baron who had offered her marriage. Her only regret when she chose the latter had been that she could not switch the ranks of the two men. She would have liked to be a duchess.
She was at home and in the middle of her toilette when a footman tapped on the door of her dressing room and murmured a message to one of the maids who then informed a more senior maid who informed my lady that the Earl and Countess of Riverdale had called and asked to pay their respects to her.
She was surprised. Indeed, she was amazed and not at all pleased. It was the very last thing she had expected. She had heard—who had not?—of the ugly woman with a purple face whom the Earl of Riverdale had been forced to marry, poor gentleman, because his pockets were sadly to let and she was fabulously wealthy. She had looked curiously at the woman when she had seen her in the box across from her own at the theater, as no doubt everyone else had done. And at first she had wondered, with a twinge of disappointment, why the reports of the woman’s looks had been so inaccurate.
Then during the interval she had seen the countess full face. Blanche had seen her too. And Lady Hodges had felt a great unease. For the woman’s face was indeed purple—on the left side. And she was not unlike … But she preferred not to see the resemblance, which was doubtless imagined anyway.
But that night while she lay in bed memories flickered to life. Lord Riverdale had married Miss Wren Heyden, heiress to the Heyden glassware fortune. Megan had once shamed the family by taking employment as companion to an invalid—a Mrs. Heyden, wife of a very wealthy man. At least, she believed the name had been Heyden. The woman had died after a few years. What if …?
What if anyone ever suspected that the hideously ugly Countess of Riverdale had come from her body as a punishment because she had ranted and railed against Hodges for burdening her with yet another pregnancy and because she had tried everything within her power to abort it?
Her first instinct was to deny her presence. But what if the rebuff set them to talking out of sheer spite? The woman surely was not expecting to be welcomed with open arms and kisses, was she? Had she come to make trouble? Was she really Rowena? Had plain, dumpy Megan really snared a wealthy husband? And kept Rowena and even changed her name? What sort of name was Wren? Was Megan still alive? Lady Hodges had neither seen her nor heard from her since that night when she had gone marching off with Rowena, all righteous indignation, the day before the child was to be taken to the asylum, where she ought to have been confined since her infancy.
“Have them shown into the rose salon and inform them I shall be down directly,” she said.
She was still no more than halfway through her toilette, but let them wait. She was certainly not going to urge anyone to hurry. This was the most important part of her day. “And have Sir Nelson and Lady Elwood instructed to be ready to accompany me. And Mr. Wragley and Mr. Tobin too as soon as they arrive.”
They sat side by side in silence, Alexander’s fingers resting lightly on her wrist as her hand clasped the other in her lap. Wren would not turn her head to look at him. Her mind was focusing, as it did when she went to work on anything to do with her business. It was not going to be allowed to admit distractions.
And Alexander was a distraction—supportive and silently disapproving. No, that was not quite the right word. Caring would be more accurate—silently caring. She knew he feared for her and wished with all his being to protect her from hurt. She knew too that he would not interfere, that he would let her do what she must do, that he would support her no matter what.
It was endearing. It warmed her heart. But it was a distraction.
She felt a little as though they had stepped onto a stage set. The room was in semidarkness—just as her own sitting room had been when she summoned the first three gentlemen on her list of potential candidates for husband. But because the curtains were a rose pink, so was the room, lit by many candles set in gilded candelabra and wall sconces. There were a number of other chairs in the room apart from the sofa to which they had been specifically directed by the butler, but one of them stood apart from the rest. It could be described, Wren thought, only as a throne. It was lusciously upholstered in rose-colored velvet, but its arms and back and legs were intricately carved and gilded, and the legs were longer than those on the other chairs. Two low velvet steps led up to it. It was quite extraordinary. Somehow the light gleamed off the gold, but left the chair itself in shadow. It all seemed uncannily familiar, though how it could when she had spent most of her childhood in her room Wren did not know.