“Miss Deverill’s virtue,” he muttered with a sigh, “might be a different matter entirely.”
Irene decided it was probably best if she avoided Henry for the remainder of the day. When they docked at the yachting station at Kew, and journeyed to the pavilion, she walked with Clara, behind him and his mother. The more formal rules of seating that applied at dinner were not followed for a picnic luncheon, and she was glad of it, for that meant she did not have to sit at the duke’s right hand, and she chose the very opposite end of the table. No doubt, he was as relieved as she.
When they took a stroll through the famous gardens after their meal, they had only been walking for a few minutes when the duchess moved to fall in step beside her. “Now, Miss Deverill,” she said, taking Irene’s arm, “we are approaching the Italian knot garden, and that is where Torquil arranged for Ellesmere to be after luncheon so that we shall run across him. The viscount is amenable to the introduction, Torquil has assured me, so when the moment comes, I shall introduce him to you and your sister. He may only bow, accept the introduction, and go on, or he may wish to converse for a bit. He was of two minds on that when Torquil met with him.”
“If he does wish to converse with me, I shall have to let him,” Irene said, making a face. “And for Clara’s sake, I shall be all that is polite. But I hope you do not expect me to like him.”
The duchess laughed and patted her arm. “Of course not, my dear. I have many relations I don’t like. Ah, there he is.”
The man coming toward them along the path was old, and though Irene had expected his appearance to reflect that, she hadn’t expected him to be so thin and frail. He moved slowly, making good use of a cane, and leaning on the arm of a man perhaps two decades younger. His son George, Irene supposed, Mama’s brother.
The approach was leisurely, but when they were abreast, the duchess took a step forward. “Ellesmere, how delightful to see you,” she said. “And your son, too. How lovely.”
She turned, drawing Irene and her sister forward. “Viscount Ellesmere, Lord Chalmers, please allow me to introduce you to my friends, Miss Irene Deverill, and Miss Clara Deverill. Ladies, Lord Ellesmere, and his son, Lord Chalmers.”
The viscount sniffed, looking them over as they bowed. “I shan’t bow to you,” he said as they straightened, and Irene glanced over her shoulder at Torquil, still several yards behind them, wondering if all his good work had been for naught. If the man wouldn’t even bow—
“Getting too old for that sort of thing,” he went on gruffly, regaining her attention. “Hurts my back. Bad enough I’m walking around on this hard ground.”
He turned to the duchess. “I’ve never met your friends, Duchess,” he said gruffly, “but the Miss Deverills and I are actually related.”
“Indeed?” She made a show of surprise, then one of enlightenment. “Oh, good heavens,” she added with a little laugh, “I do believe you are. I’d forgotten.”
Irene watched this little exchange with mixed feelings. They all knew the facts, the whole meeting had been prearranged, and yet, they all had to pretend it was a happy coincidence. A week ago, she’d have condemned such a charade as hypocritical, even downright silly, and yet now, as she was taking part in it, she had to admit that such pretenses probably made things easier on everyone. Perhaps some of these social rules weren’t as useless as she’d thought. Sometimes, she thought, sliding a glance at her shy sister, they might even be useful.
The old man gave a cough, bringing her attention back to him. He was peering at her sister, and Irene tensed as he gave a harrumph. “You look like your mother, girl, you do, indeed.”
Fully aware the viscount might think that fact something for which to denigrate his younger granddaughter, Irene moved to jump in, but to her astonishment, she saw his face and stopped. His pale blue eyes were watery, but not, she realized, because of his advanced age. Astonished, she stared as he blinked several times, then looked away, out over the gardens.
But if she thought that sign of tender sentiment would extend to her, she was mistaken. When his gaze swerved to her, he gave another sniff, one she suspected was less favorable. “You, young woman, look far more like your father. He was a handsome fellow.”
As was her custom, Irene took refuge in a pert reply. “Was that a compliment, Grandfather?” she asked, pasting on a smile. “I shall take it as one, for no girl can have too many compliments.”
“You’ve a saucy tongue in your head, girl,” he said, but somehow, she fancied that he didn’t seem to mind. For Clara’s sake, she was glad. Nonetheless, when he returned his attention to the duchess, Irene couldn’t help being relieved.
“Your friends seem a genteel pair of girls,” he said grudgingly.
Irene resisted the impulse to express the hope he’d recover from the shock.
“Duchess,” Lord Chalmers said, entering the conversation, “my father doesn’t entertain much anymore, and prefers to remain at his house in Brentford, but I am thinking to give a house party once the Twelfth sends us all to our estates. Mine, as you may know, is in Surrey. If you would honor me, I shall send your family an invitation.”
Upon the duchess receiving that idea with favor, the viscount glanced over Irene and Clara, and gave his son a nudge with his elbow. “Invite her friends, George,” he added. “Girls need society. It’s good for them. Now, if you will forgive us, Duchess, we must return to our guests.”
He turned, and leaning heavily on his son’s arm, he walked away. Her party did the same, turning in the opposite direction.
As they walked back to the pavilion, the duchess once again fell in step beside her. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Irene turned her head, looking back over her shoulder at the frail old man who had disinherited his daughter for running off with a man whose family printed newspapers, and she couldn’t help wondering how long Ellesmere’s good opinion would last if she managed to keep her paper and continue publishing it. “It went well for now.”
Word of Ellesmere’s acknowledgement spread, and over the next two days, as Irene and Clara were taken to the theater and the opera and to various other engagements, they were introduced to more people than either of them could possibly remember. Their days were long, and full of activities, and amid that social whirl, even Irene was grateful for the help and valuable advice of her new lady’s maid, Mrs. Holt.
She continued to supervise the paper, making liberal use of telephones and messengers. She missed her work, but it was nice, she had to admit, to have a holiday. She did not refer to her profession while in company, and thankfully, no one asked her about it. As Henry had said, even if one had to have an occupation, one could be discreet about it. Irene managed to be discreet.
Henry avoided her as much as possible, which was the proper thing to do under the circumstances. He seldom accompanied them as they mingled with his acquaintances in society. What he did with his time, to the best she could determine, was go to his club, conduct business of one sort or another, and stay away from the house in Upper Brook Street for as many hours a day as possible. He was, no doubt, happy to steer clear of her, but for her part, Irene was frustrated. His avoidance of her made things less awkward, certainly, but despite his efforts to absent himself from her company, his erotic confession still haunted her, and his kiss tormented her.
As the days went by, however, she became obsessed by a different, much more serious problem.
She was running out of time.
