Married to the Rogue (Season of Scandal #3) - Mary Lancaster Page 0,77

just been telling Mrs. Copsley about all your renovations up at the hall.”

Of course, there was a difference now from yesterday’s distant bows exchanged across the street. Here, Mrs. Copsley was with her husband and daughter, under the eyes of all her friends, and for an instant, her gaze did flicker over Deborah with dismay. However, without causing a scene, there was little for the Copsleys to do but greet her with civility. And once the civility was made, it was harder to go back on, as Georgianna had pointed out. As they talked, the Bilstons and the Letchworths walked up the path together.

“Goodbye,” Georgianna said to them cheerfully, turning with a smile to give her hand to Deborah’s mother. As the squire’s family was introduced, Deborah noticed Sir Edmund standing awkwardly beside young Ned Copsley.

“Good day, Miss Shelby,” he said.

If it was meant to be an olive branch, Lucy did not rush to pick it up. She merely curtseyed and smiled pleasantly, a gesture that encompassed Lady Letchworth and Frederica, too. Then she turned back to the squire’s son. “You were saying, sir?”

It was very well done, Deborah thought. She was being polite to both young men and favoring neither. She certainly had no intention of interrupting the squire’s son, who looked positively ecstatic. Even as Sir Edmund hesitated and then strode off, she kept listening and nodding.

Deborah felt proud of her and told her so. “He need not think he can pick you up and drop you whenever his mood changes.”

All the same, Deborah didn’t know if it was good that Sir Edmund had clearly wished to speak to Lucy alone. In her opinion, there needed to be a great deal more understanding and honesty between them before they considered marriage.

Then she thought of her own situation, about meeting Barden tomorrow without Christopher’s knowledge, and looked forward fiercely to her own honesty.

*

Lord Barden entered the village of Coggleton before dark on Sunday evening. A pleasant, picturesque kind of place, he thought contemptuously, if one didn’t have to live there. He was sure it would perfectly suit the dull Miss Shelby, whom he had only ever noticed once in his life.

“Remember, my name is Crosse, here,” he told his valet.

“I do remember,” Rogers replied, clearly bored. His moments of insolence were growing more frequent the longer Barden failed to pay him. Well, he would just have to wait until Barden’s biggest gamble of all paid off. He hadn’t meant everything to depend on the final part of his complex plan, but his disastrous attempt to acquire the hand and fortune of Juliet Lilbourne had gone so horribly wrong that he could do nothing else.

In fact, so much depended on his final throw of the dice that he had almost decided to give up the Deborah Shelby portion entirely. But if all worked out with Lady Meg Winter, then he wanted no unpleasant surprises to creep up behind him.

He knew little about Deborah Shelby beyond where she lived and the relatively humble background of her family. Her father had been a mere country vicar, and Deborah had got her place with the Prince of Wales through, apparently, the recommendation of a bishop who happened to be a family friend. Or some such.

Still, the village looked prosperous enough, and the inn didn’t seem overawed to receive one of such obvious standing as himself. He supposed that might bode well for his comfort and the stock of the wine cellar. And he might as well push the boat out a little tonight since he had no intention of paying for any of it—hence his assumed name of Crosse. Well, that and the fact that he didn’t really want anyone knowing he had spoken to the Shelby girl.

The innkeeper’s wife showed him to an adequate bedchamber and asked if he would care to partake of supper downstairs or here in his room.

He considered. “Here, I believe. Do you have a decent claret? Then send that up now.”

“Of course, sir. And how long will you require the room?”

“Just for tonight. I am on my way to London. This is Coggleton, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“I once met a young lady,” he mused. “A very charming young lady whose family lived in Coggleton. A Miss Shelby, I believe.”

“Ah, Miss Lucy Shelby,” the innkeeper’s wife said fondly. “Beautiful young lady and almost betrothed. Possibly.”

“No. No, it was not Lucy.”

“Ah, of course, silly me! If you met her in London, it will have been Miss Deborah