A Poor Relation. Joanna Maitland
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continued doggedly. ‘Kenley has told me all about the Misses Winstanley. Your man Peveridge was right about her being an heiress. Apparently Lady Wycham is very well-to-do, and Miss Winstanley is her nearest relative. She is expected to inherit everything. I dare say she will be the catch of the Season—beauty, breeding and a fortune into the bargain.’
‘With Kenley involved, she will certainly become the centre of attraction—he is a gossip-monger of the first order. I have never understood why he spoils his own chances of winning heiresses by spreading the news all over London. After all, everyone knows he’s mortgaged to the hilt. But you mean to be first in line yourself, I collect?’
Lewiston glowered in response. ‘I have no need of her fortune, as you know perfectly well. I mean only to further my acquaintance with her and, perhaps, to warn her about some of those who may have mercenary motives.’
This was serious, Amburley realised. And there was an edge in Lewiston’s tone that suggested… ‘I trust you do not include me in that category, do you, George?’
Lewiston laughed. ‘Why, no, of course not. I know you are not hanging out after an heiress for a wife…or indeed any wife at all, as far as I can see. And even if you were, I doubt you would choose someone of Miss Winstanley’s tender years. The cousin, now, might be more to your liking. I’d say she is past five-and-twenty, but she is very well-looking, none the less. I gather she is a poor relation of some kind, though, and totally dependent on Lady Wycham’s generosity, so you couldn’t really afford to—’ Lewiston broke off at Amburley’s dark frown. ‘What is the matter, Leigh?’
‘I will thank you not to interfere in my private affairs, George. I know you mean well… However, what is important at present is that I prevent you from making a complete ass of yourself in this case.’ Lewiston gave an audible gasp. ‘As I said, an ass,’ repeated his lordship. ‘You clearly did not look closely at Miss Isabella Winstanley. If you had, you would have recognised the “malign” companion of our earlier encounter.’ Lewiston now looked as if he had received a blow in the solar plexus.
‘I chanced to meet both ladies at Lady Bridge’s soirée last night,’ continued Lord Amburley evenly. ‘Miss “Winny” is attempting to pass herself off as a lady of fortune, no doubt in the hope of catching a husband. Your Miss Sophia, probably abetted by Lady Wycham, has clearly put quite some investment into her companion’s appearance, for she appeared as a very fine lady indeed. Miss “Winny’s” manners are irreproachable, of course, but then that is often the last resort of the impoverished. It’s a pity she is indulging in such a shameful masquerade. She would have been better to take honest employment as a governess. She is certainly well qualified for that. She plays and sings delightfully.’
Lewiston put his cup down with a clatter. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he gasped.
‘What other explanation can you offer?’ countered his lordship grimly. ‘We both met Miss “Winny”. There can be no doubt of her lowly station in life. Unless I am mistaken in my identification of her as Miss Isabella—and I assure you I am not—there can be no other explanation. Your Miss Sophia is not only rich, frivolous and spoilt, she is also prepared to perpetrate a disreputable fraud upon you and other unsuspecting gentlemen of the ton. I have to say I am not surprised. Heiresses tend to have little regard for morality.’
He rose from the table and strode to the window, frowning out on to the busy street. ‘I see that you doubt me. It is understandable, perhaps, that you think my judgement has been swayed by my own experience of society ladies. However, once you have paid your respects in Hill Street and looked upon Miss Isabella Winstanley with new eyes, you will doubt no longer, I promise you.’
‘I am sure you are wrong, Amburley,’ said Lewiston coldly, making to rise from his chair, ‘and I shall take pleasure in telling you so, as soon as I may. Such a delightful and well-bred girl as Miss Sophia would never be party to so base a deception. It is not possible.’
‘As you wish,’ replied Amburley calmly. ‘But since my opinion cannot be put to the test for some hours yet, let us turn to happier pursuits. I was intending to take a turn in the ring at Jackson’s parlour this morning. Will you join me? It might improve your temper to plant me a facer.’
‘No doubt it would, if I could do it,’ admitted Lewiston, forced into unwilling laughter, ‘but I know very well that I cannot. You are much too skilled for me, and I prefer not to suffer your left again, thank you. I will gladly accompany you, though.’
Good humour temporarily restored, they left for Gentleman Jackson’s boxing parlour.
Although Mr Lewiston’s dress was the height of fashion and his coat owed its immaculate fit to the artistry of Weston, he nevertheless looked nothing out of the common way by comparison with the tall and imposing figure of Lord Amburley at his side. Mr Lewiston kept fingering his cravat—a mathematical that he had laboured over for nearly two hours. It felt too tight. ‘I think, perhaps, we should not go in, Leigh,’ he suggested, tugging at it yet again.
‘Do you tell me you do not care to catch Miss Sophia in her outrageous behaviour, George?’
‘What? Oh, heavens, no! This cravat of mine. It’s not, I fear, quite what I should like. Perhaps I should—’ At that moment, the great door swung open to reveal the uncompromising stare of Lady Wycham’s butler. Retreat became impossible.
Lady Wycham greeted them amicably from her place on the sofa in the blue drawing-room. ‘Sophia has told me all about your gallant rescue, Mr Lewiston. Believe me, we are most grateful to you both.’
‘It was nothing out of the ordinary, ma’am, I assure you.’ Mr Lewiston blushed. ‘I was glad to be of service,’ he added with a smile for Sophia, sitting beside Lady Wycham.
The elder Miss Winstanley was seated on the other side of the room, entertaining another guest. Mr Lewiston could hear her voice fairly clearly, but was unable to study her face without turning round. Surely this voice was different—lighter, younger?
After a few minutes, Lady Wycham asked Sophia to present Mr Lewiston to those other callers with whom he was unacquainted. ‘Forgive me if I do not rise to make the introductions myself, sir. I am afraid I am no longer as spry as I once was.’ While Lord Amburley, looking faintly amused, remained in conversation with Lady Wycham, Mr Lewiston accompanied Sophia to the window where Sophia performed the introductions, first to Miss Isabella Winstanley, with the reminder that they were ‘distant cousins, you will recall’, and then to the Earl of Gradely, who bowed and left.
Mr Lewiston appraised Miss Winstanley with some care. She was the same height, pretty much, he admitted, but ‘Winny’ had been thin, while this lady, though slim, was elegantly formed. No. Amburley must be wrong.
‘Is this your first visit to London, Mr Lewiston?’ enquired Isabella, looking into his face and determined to maintain the bright, youthful character that had successfully deceived him so far.
He did not immediately reply. For a moment, Isabella fancied his mind was elsewhere. She hastened to fill the silence. ‘Have you visited Westminster Abbey since you arrived in London, sir?’ she said quickly. ‘I assure you it is a magnificent edifice and repays a journey. Sophia and I attended divine service there on Sunday last. It was truly moving. The music in particular was most beautiful.’
Mr Lewiston looked suddenly nonplussed. He stammered a little as he made to answer Isabella. Then he paused for a moment, as if trying to collect his wits, before finally responding to Isabella’s inconsequential conversation in much the same vein. When Lord Amburley strolled over to join them, some minutes later, the conversation was still centred on such delights of London as might properly be discussed before ladies.
Mr Lewiston tried to bring his friend into the discussion. ‘You must have seen all the sights, of course, Leigh?’
‘Too many years ago,’ agreed Lord Amburley, making no attempt to include Isabella in his remarks. ‘I am more familiar now with the great churches of Madrid than of London, I fear. I shall be forced to reacquaint myself with them, now the war is finally over.’