Page 52 of His Lordship's True Lady
“Good evening, Miss Ferguson.”
“Ma’am. You have me at a disadvantage.” Lily loathed being at a disadvantage. Her first year in London had been one tense encounter after another. Every new face had been potential disaster, every introduction a chance to blunder.
“I am being forward, aren’t I?” The woman slowly waved a painted fan. She held the fan too low to send a breeze over her face, low enough to call attention to her bodice. “But then, I knew your mother, and in all the years I’ve seen you out and about in London, I haven’t taken the time to introduce myself.”
Polite society frowned on people who introduced themselves, and yet… this woman had been Mama’s friend.
“Should I recognize you?”
“Oh, my gracious, no. I was out several years after your dear mama made her bow, but we became friends and correspondents. I’m Roberta Braithwaite, widow of the late Colonel Hilary Braithwaite. Your mother wrote me of you often.”
No, she had not. “Thank you for introducing yourself, Mrs. Braithwaite. I hope your memories of my mother are cheerful.”
Lily allowed that observation to stand alone, for she’d learned that silence was her friend. Let others prose on, leaving hints and details for Lily to stash away in memory. She’d keep quiet and avoid mistakes. Then too, Hessian had taken Mrs. Braithwaite into dislike, for the widow had she’d attempted a sneak attack on him as well.
“Your mama was very dear,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, setting her drink aside untouched. “She was also very lively. I note that you are not plagued with her sense of adventure, shall we say?”
The innuendo was unkind and the scent of Mrs. Braithwaite’s neroli perfume overwhelming.
“We must not malign the departed,” Lily said. “Particularly not the dearly departed. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Braithwaite, I appreciate the introduction, but my uncle—”
A manacle in the form of Mrs. Braithwaite’s gloved hand closed around Lily’s wrist. “Walter Leggett was the bane of your mama’s existence. In your grandparents’ eyes, he could do no wrong, while your mother was judged for every witticism and glass of wine. Her marriage was an escape, and I do believe it was a happy one.”
Lily had barely known her mother. Periodic visits that never lasted long enough, an hour or two while Lily was supposed to play with a sister she’d found more fascinating than likeable. A few letters written to a child that conveyed equal parts loving concern and self-indulgence. Lily kept Mama’s letters with her money, and if she’d had to choose, she would have parted with the coins first.
“Uncle says little about his sister other than to remark her high spirits.”
Mrs. Braithwaite’s fan moved faster. “And he probably says they were her undoing, though I can tell you from experience, a widow goes slightly mad when the grief becomes too much.” She leaned closer, using the fan to shield her words. “I know about your sister, my dear—your half-sister—but your secret is safe with me.”
Nobody, not even Uncle Walter, had ever spoken the wordsyour sisterto Lily. They sent a prickling sensation over her skin, part dread, part rejoicing.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Braithwaite?”
“Maybe Walter thinks you’re too delicate to hear the truth, but he’s a man. What do they know of the strength women claim? You have a half-sister.”
Lily heard Hessian’s laughter, warm and relaxed, amid the chatter coming through the French doors.
“Mrs. Braithwaite, this is not the place to make such an allegation. My mother was the much-respected widow of Lord Alfred Ferguson. I will not hear her maligned by a supposed friend.”
Mrs. Braithwaite closed her fan and tapped Lily’s forearm with it. “I mean nobody any harm, Miss Ferguson, though you deliver a very convincing set-down. Your mother was merely lonely, and some handsome rascal sought to comfort her grief in the most intimate manner. These things happen.”
Lily turned from the view of the garden below, which was lit with torches and occupied by strolling couples, any pair of whom might overhear the wrong words.
“You’ll excuse me, please. My uncle does not like to keep late hours.” She must put distance between herself and the temptation to learn more of her mother, for Mrs. Braithwaite had had years to make Lily’s acquaintance.
This was a carefully planned ambush, and Lily should have known better than to remain anywhere private with this woman.
Mrs. Braithwaite snapped her fan open. “I have letters. From your dear mama, revealing the extent of her indiscretion. One cannot fault her for half measures. Your sister, if she survived, would be little more than two years your junior.”
Oh, Mama. “That is preposterous.” And very close to the truth. “Take your allegations to my uncle if you seek to gain by them.”
Through a sheer curtain, Lily could see Hessian in earnest discussion with the evening’s pianist, a ducal son turned composer. The pianist had his lordship’s whole focus, as did any matter—or person—to whom Hessian gave his attention.
Daisy, for example, and on a few precious occasions, Lily.
She had never expected a fairy-tale future. Food, clothing, shelter, a measure of safety in exchange for hard, hard work had been her fondest dream. Then Walter Leggett had come along, making promises and threats, and more promises.
“You are a sensible creature,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “So am I. We women must manage as best we can, and your uncle has nothing I want. You, however, do.”
