The Singular Mr. Sinclair Page 6

“Oh!” Frederica turned and gave Horatia’s ensemble a quick perusal. “So it is. I hadn’t noticed, but…I believe they aren’t exactly the same, are they? While the color and fabric are very much alike, your gown has Belgian lace instead of the Vandykes.”

  “That’s so small a difference as to be of no import,” Horatia said testily. Caroline was certain her friend knew that because a machine had been invented to produce netting for appliquéd Brussels lace, it was a less expensive ornamentation than Vandyke points. Miss Braithwaite had undoubtedly paid more for her version of the frock. “Barring that very small detail, the gowns are as like as two peas.”

  “But…but…” Frederica said, searching about for words of consolation. “…the color is ever so much more becoming on you, Horatia dear.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Horatia preened a bit. “I do think someone should tell her she ought not to wear yellow. Truly, it would be a kindness. That particular shade casts a ghastly sallowness over her complexion, and in all honesty, if it were me, I’d want to know and would bless the name of the one who told me.”

  The same way she’d bless someone who pointed out a carbuncle on her nose.

  “But really, the whole thing was such a nuisance. That gown ruined my entire afternoon.” Horatia picked at a loose thread on one of her cuffs. If she weren’t careful, she’d unravel the whole row of tiny knots. “As soon as I spotted Miss Braithwaite, I couldn’t even look at another painting.”

  “Why was that?” Caroline asked, deciding she should try to seem interested. It was what her friends expected. Besides, doing the expected just this once might take her mind off the wretched Mr. Sinclair and his overdone sense of oughtness.

  “I had to make sure my path didn’t cross Penelope’s, of course,” Horatia explained. “I spent the whole time slipping from one group to another, trying to make sure Miss Braithwaite and I didn’t end up standing next to each other.” Horatia gave a long-suffering sigh. “I mean, what would people think if they saw us side by side?”

  “That you give custom to the same mantua-maker?” Caroline suggested.

  “Oh, you’re right. One should lay blame where it’s due. This debacle falls squarely at the feet of Madame Fournier. Mama and I shall definitely have words with her. If she thinks she can sew the same dress for two different ladies, she has another thing…”

  Caroline stopped listening after that. Lawrence Sinclair’s words were still tumbling around too loudly in her head.

  “If the person was someone I valued, someone whose opinion mattered to me, I would certainly do my best to see that I lived up to their hopes.”

  Her parents had high hopes for her. And Mama and Papa were important to her. Caroline adored them. Perhaps that was the trouble. She didn’t want to displease them. Not really.

  But ever since she was a child, they’d tried to make her conform to their notions of what a young lady should be like. When she turned thirteen, her days of roaming about the garden collecting bees in jars or sneaking up onto the roof to gaze at the stars were abruptly over. She was expected to acquire a set of ladylike accomplishments. To that end, a number of specialized masters had been hired so that Caroline might be “finished.”

  “It is,” her mother had explained, “a program to improve your deportment, poise, and generally equip you with all the graces required for your future.”

  Which meant the scheme should improve her chances of making a brilliant match, though this was never explicitly mentioned. It was simply understood that marriage, homemaking, and childbearing loomed in her future.

  The finishing process involved, among other things, hour upon hour of fidgeting at the pianoforte. She’d learned the rudiments of the keyboard years before and could be relied upon to be more or less faithful to the musical score. But her new maestro expected more from her than merely plunking away. He expected her to make music.

  “After several weeks with no appreciable improvement,” he had regretfully reported to her parents, “Lady Caroline’s playing is still abominable. One might describe it as a battering ram to the ears, but only if one were charitably inclined.”

  At that, Lord and Lady Chatham decided Caroline’s musical abilities would only gain society’s notice for all the wrong reasons. The long hours of squirming on a piano bench ended. By that time, she was considered too old to begin the violin.

  For which both Caroline and her music master gave thanks. And Polite Society should, too. One less debutante of very little musical talent being trotted out and inflicted upon them could only be counted a blessing all around.

  Then her mother undertook to teach Caroline the homely art of sewing. It was a womanly pastime, providing for creative expression as well as practical application. Mastering the craft in no way reflected poorly on a wellborn lady, provided she took no payment for her work.

  However, no one would pay for Caroline’s stitchery. It only resulted in crooked seams, pricked thumbs, and bloodied shirts. To save on the extra laundry and bandage expense, even embroidery lessons ceased.

  But there were a few ladylike things at which Caroline excelled. She became fluent in French, and, thanks to Teddy’s secret tutelage, read Latin tolerably well. She was a nimble dancer, but only because she enjoyed it. She could do a creditable job of serving a proper tea by the time she was fourteen.

  When she turned sixteen, her parents appeared to give up on further improving curricula. All that could be done had been done. Caroline was deemed a pleasant young lady who was bound to marry well.

  If her father had had his way, he’d have arranged a brilliant match for her by now. However, her mother had encouraged him to allow her a dazzling London Season. During the whirlwind of balls and dinners, Caroline would surely strike a love match with a suitable gentleman.

  After all, a presentable earl’s daughter with a jaw-dropping dowry would not last long on the marriage mart.

  “So long as no one asks her to play the pianoforte,” her father had said irritably before agreeing to allow his countess to have her way.

  It all might have gone as they planned, if, shortly after Caroline was presented at court, she hadn’t attended Mrs. Birdwhistle’s lecture on the joys of independent travel. The freedom, the adventure, the idea of seeing the world as all her brothers would see it someday was so beguiling; nothing else could compete in Caroline’s imagination.

  It was as if her soul took wing that day. No one could coax it back into its cage.

  “…with Mr. Sinclair, weren’t you?” Horatia’s mention of the horrid man’s name pulled Caroline out of her wool-gathering. Both of her friends were looking at her expectantly, waiting for Caroline to give an account of her conversation with said horrid man.

  “We exchanged greetings in passing.”

  “Excuse me, but it was much more than that,” Horatia said, “The pair of you practically promenaded around the hall before you came to rest before a canvas in a corner for a cozy tête-à-tête.”

  Caroline frowned at her. “I thought you were keeping an eye on Penelope Braithwaite all afternoon.”

  “Whatever my personal troubles, what kind of friend would I be if I hadn’t taken a moment or two to see to your welfare?” Horatia shot her a sly look. “Now, what did you and the decidedly uncommunicative Mr. Sinclair find to talk about for so long?”

  “It wasn’t that long.”

  “It was half an hour, at the least. I’m certain of it. I heard the nearby church bells chime the hour, the quarter, and the half before you and he parted company,” Horatia said. “It was quite possibly longer because I didn’t see how the two of you happened to meet. How did you meet?”

  “We met in my father’s parlor a couple of weeks ago,” Caroline said. “As you well know, since the two of you were there.”

  Horatia rolled her hazel eyes. “I meant today at the exhibition. As you well know.”

  “Plea
se, Caro. Mr. Sinclair looked ever so debonair as the two of you were walking side by side. Why, I thought you made quite an amiable-looking couple actually, and—” Freddie stopped suddenly. “Why are you frowning so?”

  “Am I? It must be the sun.” Caroline glanced sideways at her chaperone and noticed that Anna’s eyes were open just a crack. This was definitely not the time to rehash her distressing conversation with Mr. Sinclair.

  Make that the upright, poisonously good Mr. Sinclair.

  Even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t a fair assessment. It wasn’t that he was so good, but that he made her judge herself to be so bad.

  “We’re waiting, Caro,” Horatia prompted. “Do tell us about Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Only if you need a nap. The fellow is no life of the party.” It wasn’t an entirely truthful statement. Caroline hadn’t been at all bored while talking to Mr. Sinclair. When he was describing his time in France, she’d been terribly drawn to him. He was a sensitive soul in a warrior’s body. As to the rest of the conversation, it was difficult to be bored and irritated at the same time. “But what about you, Freddie? How did you enjoy the exhibition?”

  A smile dimpled Frederica’s round cheeks. “Oh, I had just the most wonderful time. And you’ll never guess who I happened to meet. No, never, never. Not if you guessed for a million years.”

  “Since we haven’t that much time,” Horatia said dryly, “perhaps it would be best if you just tell us.”

  “Very well. I was minding my own business, contemplating a really fine Reynolds. It was the new one, no, not new exactly. I mean the one that was recently discovered by his heirs,” Frederica said, her words coming slowly at first. Then it was as if someone had shouted tally-ho! and she was off in a rush to get her thoughts out. “Isn’t Sir Joshua just the finest English painter of the age? Of course, I mean the previous age, I suppose. He’s been dead for some time now, more’s the pity, but his paintings live on, don’t they? And don’t you love how the subjects in his portraits seem to look back at you? Why, I’d swear the eyes were following—”

  “Freddie, you’re waffling on,” Horatia interrupted. “Who did you meet?”

  Frederica looked at first one of them, then the other.

  To be sure we’re attending properly. Caroline sneaked a glance at Anna, who had opened her eyes and was hanging on Frederica’s words as well.

  “It was Lord Rowley,” she announced with the same giddiness she’d have had if she’d met the prince regent in front of the wandering eyes of a Reynolds portrait.

  “Really?” Even in that press of people, Caroline was surprised she’d not noticed Oliver was there. After all, she’d fancied her brother’s friend when she was younger. But to be fair, after spending that half hour or so with Mr. Sinclair, she wasn’t exactly seeing straight. “I didn’t even know Rowley was in town. I believe Edward said he’d gone straight to his country estate after they parted company at Wapping Dock.”

  “I thought Lord Bredon said he had an appointment,” Horatia countered.

  “Perhaps the appointment was at his estate,” Caroline said, still a little miffed that Oliver hadn’t bothered to show himself at Lovell House once since he’d returned from his Grand Tour. He always told the most amusing stories, and ones set in Nice or Naples were bound to be even more engaging than his usual fare. “Now that his father’s gone, Rowley does have obligations to the viscountcy, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, wherever he’s been, he seems to be in Town now,” Horatia said. “So tell us, Freddie, did Lord Rowley smile and tip his hat to you?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed he did.” Frederica nodded several times to emphasize her words. “Very proper it was, too, because we’d been introduced before, you see.”

  “Really?” Horatia gave her a slant-eyed gaze. “When?”

  “It was before he and Lord Bredon left on their Tour. I was staying with Caro for a fortnight, you see, and Lord Rowley came to collect Lord Bredon so they could make their way to the ship and—”

  “So he was polite enough to vaguely remember you in passing?” Horatia said.

  “Oh, no.” Frederica shook her head.

  “Rowley wasn’t polite to you?” Caroline demanded. Whether Oliver was a friend of Teddy’s or not, whether her infatuation with him could truly be labeled a thing of the past or not, if Lord Rowley had disrespected her friend, she intended to give him a proper tongue-lashing the next time she saw him.

  “No, no. He was a perfect gentleman,” Frederica assured her, “but he wasn’t at all vague. Lord Rowley knew exactly who I was, who my father is, and where we’d met. And our conversation wasn’t just in passing, because then he…well, he asked me a question or two and we talked for oh! most of the afternoon. It must have been hours, because he didn’t leave my side until I told him it was time for me to meet you and Horatia so we could ride home together.”

  “What on earth did you find to talk about all afternoon?” Caroline asked, not caring if their chaperone heard the juicy details as well. If Anna had been on point, she’d have already been aware that Freddie had spent a good deal of time with Lord Rowley in the exhibition hall.

  “First, he offered to escort me around the hall and tell me about painting techniques and various schools and such. Mostly explaining things about the artwork I didn’t understand.”

  “That could take hours,” Horatia muttered crossly.

  Frederica didn’t seem aware of the snideness in her friend’s remark and went on serenely. “Lord Rowley had seen so many wonderful museums during his travels, you see, and could name the artist simply by looking at the painting instead of having to read the placard. He’s quite brilliant in that way.”

  “Rowley has always been clever,” Caroline said, remembering the scrapes Oliver used to get Teddy into and how he usually managed to wiggle away scot-free. “How did he seem? Did you find him changed?”

  “He’s as handsome as ever, if that’s what you’re asking,” Frederica said, then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized Anna was paying close attention to their conversation. “Of course, I didn’t really have a close acquaintance with him before he left, so—”

  “In fact, your previous acquaintance could be measured in the space of one or two heartbeats,” Horatia said. Caroline glanced at her sharply, wondering if Horatia had harbored a secret tendresse for the dashing young viscount as well.

  As if she had not been rudely interrupted, Frederica continued, placid as a duck on a pond. “I can’t judge whether or not his character has changed from before his travels. But although Lord Rowley was very pleasant today, he did seem to be the melancholy, brooding sort. He’d look at a painting and just sigh. It was plain the art affected him deeply, which anyone would tell you means he has a great soul. And after seeing how tanned your brother and Mr. Sinclair were after their sojourn in the south, it surprised me to see Lord Rowley looking so pale.”

  “Oliver has always been fair-skinned,” Caroline said. “It goes along with the Rowley red hair.”

  “Yes, but he was even paler than I remembered. Of course, perhaps he was simply careful to always wear a hat. Indeed, that must be it,” Frederica said with a satisfied nod. “I have a cousin in Surrey who has red hair, and if she doesn’t wear a bonnet every time she steps from the house, her skin turns the most frightful shade of scarlet. Then she blisters up and peels.”

  Caroline grimaced at that unpleasant thought. Then a worse one struck her. “Lud, let us hope that’s the case with Oliver. They do say consumption makes a body pale. Surely he didn’t contract the disease during his travels.”

  “But how marvelous if he has. It’s all the crack now, you know,” Horatia said. “Even Lord Byron says he’d like to die of the disease, suffering nobly and leaving gently but with deep sorrow.”

  “Noble or not, suffering doesn’t sound very nice to me,” Frederica observed.
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  “That’s because you haven’t a romantic bone in your body,” Horatia said. “It’s well known that suffering from consumption marks one as interesting and artistic and intelligent.”

  And dead, sooner rather than later, Caroline thought but didn’t say. Far be it from her to contradict Byron.

  “Well, there’s more,” Frederica said, turning pink from her rounded chin to the tips of her ears. “Before we parted, Lord Rowley asked if I was planning to attend Lord and Lady Frampton’s ball.”

  “You are, aren’t you?” Horatia asked.

  “Yes, of course. We all are, Horatia,” Caroline reminded her. “We have ball gowns on order at Madame Fournier’s, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. Our final fittings are scheduled for tomorrow.” Horatia’s eyes turned heavenward. “How on earth could I forget an event that requires a new gown?”

  “Now who’s being a goose?” Frederica said, scoring a point against Horatia for the first time since the girls had started wearing stays. Then, to soften the blow, she added sweetly, “The confusion with Penelope Braithwaite’s gown must still have you flummoxed where Madame Fournier is concerned. At any rate, I’ve saved the most exciting news for last. Lord Rowley begged me to pencil in his name on my dance card. For the supper dance,” she added with significance. “Isn’t that too delicious?”

  “My word,” Caroline said, trying not to let her surprise show. In whatever company he found himself, Oliver had always been a flash of brilliance, drawing people to him with no effort at all. Frederica was very sweet and pleasing, but people tended to shy away from her in droves when she started on one of her verbal torrents. Before he’d left on Tour with her brother, Rowley had cut a wide swath through the ton, leaving a trail of broken hearts bobbing in his wake. For Freddie’s sake, Caroline hoped Oliver had grown up while wandering about the Continent and had learned to have a care for others.

  “Asking for the supper dance means Lord Rowley wants to spend the whole meal at your side,” Horatia said in wonderment.

  Frederica would be nervous because she was clearly excited over Rowley’s attention. That meant she’d be chattering away from the white soup to the blancmange.