A Poor Relation. Joanna Maitland

Sophia? She reminded herself sternly that he had shown no sign of recognition—with luck he had completely forgotten his encounters with ‘Winny’.

      Sophia drew Isabella into a shadowy alcove, desperate to know what had happened. ‘What did he say? Did he recognise you, do you think? Oh, what are we going to do?’

      ‘Be calm, Sophia,’ answered Isabella, doing her utmost to appear so herself. ‘There is no reason to be agitated, I am sure. Lord Amburley did not know me. We were introduced by Sir Thomas, that is all.’ She cut Sophia’s protest short, lest the child fret herself into an attack of the vapours. ‘He will, of course, recognise you when you meet, and you must acknowledge him, as you would any other gentleman. Remember that your “companion”—“Winny”—has gone to stay with her family. You may say, quite truthfully, that you are staying with your godmother and your distant cousin Isabella. Can you do that, do you think?’ She laid a gloved hand gently on Sophia’s arm.

      ‘I shall try,’ promised Sophia, looking pale and strained.

      The inevitable meeting with Lord Amburley took place at supper, towards midnight, just when Isabella had begun to hope that he might have left. Isabella and Sophia were seated in the midst of the same group of young people they had joined earlier, and all were enjoying Lady Bridge’s generous hospitality.

      Isabella felt, rather than saw, Lord Amburley’s entrance. Turning her head fractionally so that she could observe the doorway out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was lounging near the door, apparently engrossed in discussion. She clenched her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking.

      Let him not notice us, she prayed silently, and if he does, I will not blush. Heavens, why cannot I have more self-control? What can it be about that man that oversets me so? He may be used to intimidating others, but I refuse to let him do so to me.

      Trying to hide her confusion, she sipped gingerly at her champagne flute.

      ‘Miss Winstanley,’ said the well-remembered voice immediately behind her, ‘how delightful to meet you again—’ Isabella started and turned, only to find that he was clearly addressing Sophia, not herself ‘—I beg your pardon,’ he corrected himself, ‘I should have noticed that both Misses Winstanley were present. Miss Sophia, I hope you are well after your ordeal on the North Road? Are you fixed in London for the Season?’

      Sophia answered with commendable self-possession that she was. A short, polite exchange ensued, after which Lord Amburley quickly withdrew. Sophia visibly relaxed.

      Isabella noted that his lordship had not enquired after ‘Winny’, nor had he favoured her with any further conversation at all. She concluded that he had not given her another thought. Unaccountably, she felt piqued.

      ‘Lord Amburley is not much given to light conversation, it seems,’ she said softly to Sophia. ‘Perhaps that is just as well, in the circumstances.’

      ‘I am glad he is gone,’ confided Sophia. ‘There is something about his eyes that frightens me. I felt as if he could read my very thoughts.’

      Isabella’s eyes widened in sudden recognition—for that was exactly how she had felt earlier, at the pianoforte. Then, she had not been able to put it into words. Now…now she had to admit that Lord Amburley would be a very dangerous man to cross.

      Chapter Four

      While society ladies were sleeping away the exertions of their late night, Lord Amburley was much occupied. He had never lost the soldier’s habit of rising early, though nowadays he used the time to exercise his horses rather than to inspect his troops. He revelled in the solitary beauty of the park and the freedom he enjoyed there in the early morning. Later in the day, there were always too many prying eyes for his comfort—the rigid etiquette of the ton sat very uneasily on the shoulders of the man of action that he had been.

      It was a beautiful, late spring morning, but Amburley barely noticed the birdsong or the budding trees. The huge grey he rode seemed to be itching to gallop across the fresh, dewy grass but was held to a sedate walk by an iron hand. The horse tossed his head in protest.

      Lord Amburley was still in Sir Thomas’s drawingroom, listening to a heart-stoppingly beautiful voice—and worrying at the riddle of the woman behind it. He had observed her closely while she sang. She was remarkably handsome—her glorious golden hair and her glowing complexion were a revelation to him. Only those unforgettable grey-green eyes confirmed her double identity—and her duplicity. She had been totally in control, too, until she caught sight of him. From then on, her agitation—and Miss Sophia’s—had been apparent, though she had masked it well in the supper room. A good actress, he supposed.

      But what—in truth—was she? On the road, he had met a poor relation with a sharp tongue and more concern for poor Jonah than for polite behaviour. Now, she was transformed into a lady of the ton. One guise must be false, of course—and, remembering her guilty reactions of the previous evening, he knew which it must be.

      None the less, he found he could not help admiring her. She had more than beauty—she had spirit. No shrinking violet she, in spite of what she was. And yet, her inexcusable behaviour must surely be condemned by any right-thinking man?

      The grey shook his head again, more forcefully. ‘All right, old fellow. You’ve made your point. You think I’m good for nothing this morning, don’t you? Well, we’ll see about that.’ He let the horse have his head. The grey needed to shake the fidgets out of his legs. If only Amburley’s own concerns could be so simply resolved.

      Around ten o’clock, while Lord Amburley was partaking of a light breakfast in his rented house in Jermyn Street, Mr Lewiston was announced. ‘Good God, George, you are up betimes,’ exclaimed his lordship, waving his friend to a chair. ‘I have not known you to emerge before noon, unless there was a prize-fight to attend. What brings you here at this hour?’

      ‘I have some news,’ replied Lewiston. ‘I must tell you that I encountered Miss Winstanley yesterday, quite by chance. You recall the young lady we rescued on the North Road? Well, it was she. And I have discovered her direction in London. Quite wonderful luck! I mean to call on her today. Will you accompany me?’

      Lord Amburley did not immediately reply. ‘Did you, indeed? And was she still in looks?’

      ‘Indeed she was. She looked quite lovely. And so animated, more so than before, I fancy. I think that that dowdy companion we met up north had a malign influence on her. Miss Winstanley seemed in much brighter spirits without her louring presence.’

      ‘Miss Winstanley was alone?’ asked Lord Amburley sharply.

      ‘Of course not,’ snapped Mr Lewiston. ‘She was accompanied by a distant relation—a Miss Isabella Winstanley. She is much older than Miss Sophia and a perfectly proper chaperon. Though I should perhaps warn you that she is a most elegant female herself, not beautiful exactly, but certainly striking.’

      Lord Amburley raised an eyebrow. Isabella Winstanley was much more than striking, surely? But that was not a subject for discussion with Lewiston. ‘And what has become of the poor companion? “Winny”, was it not?’

      ‘I have not the least notion. In any case, what has she to say to anything? You are not about to have another attack of philanthropy, are you, Leigh?’

      ‘No. Merely curious.’ Lord Amburley busied himself with the coffee-pot as he spoke. ‘Tell me about your encounter, including the distant cousin.’

      ‘There is little more to tell. Miss Winstanley— Miss Sophia Winstanley, I mean—almost collided with me outside Florette’s. We exchanged a few words. Miss Sophia introduced me to her companion, and then she told me she was staying with Lady Wycham in Hill Street. Lady Wycham is her godmother, you know.’

      ‘Well, no—in fact, I don’t know her ladyship, I’m afraid,’ responded his lordship flippantly.

      ‘Sometimes, Leigh, you are quite exasperating. I did not expect you to know Lady Wycham, dammit; I was simply explaining