Page 3 of Misfit Maid

Maidie watched him with interest. He was not at all what she had expected. She had anticipated there might be a trifle of explanation required, but not to have her identity called in question. Why Lord Delagarde should make such a piece of work about a simple matter she failed to comprehend. He did not look obtuse. Quite the contrary. One might not call him handsome, but it was a strong countenance—if a trifle jaded at present; she could not think he had always such a pallor—with a firm line to the jaw, a straight nose and a broad brow from which dark locks waved back into a long crop. Whether the dishevelled look of this style was deliberate, or due to the gentleman’s current state, Maidie could not say. He certainly had the air of a man of fashion. She knew little of such things, it was true, but even to the untutored eye, there was an unmistakable elegance to the cut of the cream breeches and the blue coat.

From the point of view of appearances, he would certainly do, and his establishment was eminently suited to her purpose. A house in the best part of town, with a deliberate decor influencing even this small room, the simplicity of which impressed her. Nothing elaborate. Warm-shaded wallpaper, its apricot picked out in the faint stripe of the cushioned seats. Maidie approved the slim lines of the furniture, the plain brown carpet, and the sparse decoration to the mouldings about the fireplace.

She was less satisfied to have discovered Lord Delagarde to be a creature of uncertain temperament. It did not augur well for her plans. But it was possible he was not always so. Had her timing, perhaps, been unfortunate? He had been abed on her arrival, and had kept her waiting quite forty minutes—really, could one take that long to dress?—and the traces in his face of a late and dissipated night had been evident to the meanest intelligence. Even Great-uncle had become crotchety of a morning after indulging too freely in his favourite port. Perhaps Lord Delagarde might respond more readily if his head were not aching so badly.

Maidie leaned forward a little, and addressed him in a tone of solicitude. “Shall I send for some coffee?”

Delagarde started. Was she still here? For a brief moment of silence, in which he had allowed his seething brain to subside a little, he had almost succeeded in forgetting her unwelcome presence. Dropping his hands, he gripped the wooden arms of his chair and braced himself to look at her again.

What had she said? “Coffee?”

“I would strongly advise it. My great-uncle used to say it was the best cure for your sort of condition.”

Delagarde opened his mouth to consign her great-uncle to a place of great heat, and instead drew a steadying breath.Be calm, he told himself resolutely,be calm.

“I do not want any coffee,” he said, enunciating with care.

“I assure you—”

“No!” A pause, then pointedly, “Thank you.”

She relaxed back. “As you wish.”

Resolute, Delagarde sat up. “Now then, Lady Mary, let us be sensible.”

Come, this was an advance, Maidie decided. He had used her name at least. “Indeed, I wish for nothing better.”

“What you wish for is quite out of the question. Surely there must be some other person than myself more properly suited to the task of bringing you out?”

Maidie spoke with finality. “There is no one. You, Lord Delagarde, are my nearest male relative, other than Shurland, and it is nothing less than your duty.”

“But I don’t know you from Adam! As for being your nearest male relative, I have no recollection of even the remotest connection with the Hopes.”

“Who said anything about the Hopes? The relationship is on my mother’s side. She was one of the Burloynes.”

“I have never heard of them,” said Delagarde, not without relief. “Which proves they can have nothing to do with the Delagarde family.”

Maidie clicked her tongue. “Did I say so?”

“You said…” Delagarde paused, realising she had set his mind in such confusion he could no longer untangle one thing she had said from another. “It matters little what you said. The point is—”

“The point is,” she cut in, “that even if you refuse to recognise the relationship, you cannot escape the obligation.”

Delagarde stared at her with a good deal of suspicion. What new ploy was this? “What obligation?”

Maidie shifted in her seat and produced the reticule which had been hidden under her pelisse. Searching within it, she brought forth a folded sheet of yellowed parchment, upon which he glimpsed the remains of a broken seal. Maidie got up and held it out to him.

“This will explain it.” As he rose automatically to take it from her and open it out, she added, “It is from your mother. You see there the name of Mrs Egginton, to whom it is addressed? She lived nearby and very thoughtfully befriended me, and sent to Lady Delagarde after my father died. You will notice Lady Delagarde promises to lend me countenance when I should at last come out.”

Delagarde ran his eyes rapidly down the sheet. It was indeed a letter written by his mother to this effect, for he recognised the hand. But what obligation did this constitute?

“What possible reason could this Egginton woman have for choosing to batten upon my mother?”

“Your mother was born Lady Dorinda Otterburn, was she not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, then. The Burloyne connection comes through the Otterburns. So you see, we are related.”

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