Page 53 of Libby's London Merchant
She understood now, and it changed her. Libby ran her hands under the water, creating whirlpools and undertows. It was unlikely in the extreme that she would ever have the opportunity to talk to Anthony about her feelings. She had already come to know that he would only blush and stammer and bump into something in his hurry to get away, as he had done after the London merchant had made his startling revelation.
Anthony Cook was remarkably efficient in an emergency, heroic even, but he was not a man readily accessible to earnest conversation. A pity, she thought. I would like to have known him better.
She drew up her knees and rested her forehead against them. “As it is, Dr. Cook, I will not joke about you anymore,” she vowed.
Any hopes of further contemplative time deserted her while she still sat in the tub. Lydia, her face animated, her eyes bright and brimming over with good humor, eased herself into the bedroom, pulled up a hassock next to the tin tub, and waited for her cousin to ask her about Eustace Wiltmore.
That Libby had already taken high dislike to the balding man with his ever-present quizzing glass, she would never have admitted to her cousin. Libby sat in the cooling water while Lydia, in that breathless way of hers, went through the chance meeting at the Pavilion, the dance when she stood up three times to waltz with Eustace, much to her Aunt Ames’ discomfort.
“Your mama is a high stickler,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “I do not know when I have been so thoroughly wrung out and hung up to dry.”
“You should have heard her with Papa’s lieutenants when they did something she disapproved of,” Libby said, her eyes lighting up at the remembrance of those fearsome dressings-down. “I don’t believe she ever knew—such a conspiracy we had!—but she was known as Tommy’s Little Captain among Papa’s troops.”
“I do not doubt it,” Lydia said. “How does it look? What do you owe your family name?” she mimicked. “If I heard it once, I heard it dozens of times.”
She was silent then. Libby stirred the bathwater with her finger, watching the circles widen. “Did you know he was the Eustace? I remember your telling me at least once that you would never get within drawing-room length of anyone named Eustace, on the off chance that it was ‘That One, as you referred to him.”
Both cousins laughed. Libby got herself out of the tub and wrapped a large towel about her.
Lydia made a face, “It is a dreadful name, is it not?” Her eyes softened. “But he is a darling, Libby, simply a darling. Eustace Wihmore is all that is elegant and slap up to the mark.” She giggled. “And, no, I had no earthly idea. I can only suspect that he thought it better to save the revelation of his name until later. Silly boy! He told me that he found out who I was, and decided then to pursue an acquaintance he had been dreading.”
“I can understand,” Libby said. “Who on earth wants to many someone that fathers have schemed over and decided is the right choice? Even if he is,” she added, hugging her cousin. “I’m happy for you, Lydia.”
Lydia beamed. “At our first meeting, the dear boy told me that his name was Barnaby Hackwell, and I suppose he is. Those are two of his names. And he said he was the Viscount Clonmel, which he is, but it is one of those piddly Irish titles. Clever, clever lad.”
Libby nodded, thinking to herself that Eustace Wiltmore, with his pop eyes, his air of infinite superiority, and his silly voice, looked anything but clever. But he had fooled Lydia. Libby shivered and drew the towel tighter about her. And the Duke of Knaresborough obviously fooled me.
“Clever lads, the pair of them,” Lydia amended.“When Eustace told me, as we were coming here, that he had sent his friend the duke to Kent to spy me out, oh, how I laughed.”
Libby managed a weak chuckle and wrapped her arms about herself. There was nothing funny about being duped so thoroughly. Her cheeks burned at how readily she had believed the London merchant. She gave the matter rational thought and decided, in fairness to the duke, that the issue rubbed both ways.
He had assumed she was the heiress. She had no doubt that he had mistaken Lydia’s name for her own when Eustace had hatched the deception back in London. He had probably been foxed at the time, she thought. He probably planned a minor accident on the road in front of Holyoke Green that would have been just enough to get him into the house and then out again in a day. Surely he had not intended to hurt himself so badly.
But perhaps he had every such intention. Libby stalked about the room, her towel tight around her. I do not think it would have mattered greatly to him if he had died then, she thought. How sad! Tears came to her eyes again, with only the greatest force of will making them go away. It would never do for her cousin to know how deeply involved she was. Maybe she had not really known it herself until now, when the duke was suddenly far removed from her sphere by Lydia’s artless disclosure of his title.
Libby rested her forehead against the window glass, savoring its coolness. She knew that she and Anthony Cook had done the Duke of Knaresborough a great favor. Anthony had doctored him and counseled with him, and she had held his hand through gloomy days and nights. They had helped him chase away the banshees that had followed him, shrieking and swooping, since Waterloo.
She knew he had only told her the smallest part of his miseries there, and she realized with a sudden shock that he must have been the major commanding, and not the sergeant, as he had led her to believe.
“Libby, come away from the window,” Lydia scolded. “If you aren’t behaving like the funniest stick.” Lydia was beside her at the window. “I still haven’t told you why we are here. Eustace is taking me to London tomorrow to meet his family. Can you imagine? Me in London.” She threw herself on Libby’s bed, arms outstretched. “He has told me I shall have a town house, a country estate, and carriages. Libby, imagine the parties! Think of the quarterly allowance. I shall go distracted with the mere thought.”
“He stopped here to collect his friend?” Libby asked, keeping her voice casual.
“Oh, I suppose,” Lydia said, her dimple showing. “And isn’t the duke a handsome devil? I wonder that you have not fallen deep in love with him, Libby. But then, you were already so practical, and besides, we know it would never do.”
Libby looked sharply at her cousin, who was examining her fingernails. Lydia, you are so heartless, she thought, even if you do not mean to be. You have no idea how your words wound. You would be appalled if I told you.
Libby said nothing, but pulled on her nightgown quickly as Lydia lay on the bed, listing all the treats in store for her that Eustace would provide. “We shall see all the sights in London, he assures me. His mama knows all the dressmakers and Papa has given me leave to spend and spend.”
Libby did smile then. The idea of Uncle Ames making such a statement was so far removed from the truth that she could only marvel at Lydia’s gift of imagination. As she listened with half an ear to Lydia’s list of elegant necessities, Libby hoped that when the bills from milliners, cobblers, modistes, and mantua-makers avalanched into the book room, her mother would be on hand to provide Uncle Ames with the restorative jellies and soups that his enervated constitution would require.
I have to change the subject, Libby told herself. It becomes too painful.
But Lydia had already chosen another tack. She rolled over and rested her chin on her hands, her eyes bright. “Libby, I told Eustace how quiet things were around here. ‘Dead dog dull,’ I told him. And there you were, soaking wet and filthy, with that ridiculous doctor. I do not know when Anthony Cook has appeared to less advantage. I wonder that you could stand there with a straight face.”
“I wonder, too,” Libby said, her voice soft.
Lydia stared at her. “Libby Ames, what is the matter with you? You would have been in whoops on any other occasion.”
