To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(76)

The entire situation was enough to give her a headache. And while the last thing she needed at the moment was yet another complication to her scheme, she also couldn’t stand being in the dark—and nothing about Lady Helen’s behavior at the moment made sense, if Diana’s suspicion was correct. She was determined to speak to the lady before the day was out—the only question that remained was, how?



* * *




As it turned out, fortune conspired in Diana’s favor that afternoon. The gentlemen of the party were absent by the time she had breakfasted, dressed, and made her way downstairs; the fine weather was too appealing for them to remain indoors a moment past breakfast, and a hunting party had departed on horseback in apparently high spirits. The ladies of the party, being forsaken by their gentlemen companions, had gone on a walk after breakfast, declaring that if the gentlemen were going to take advantage of the sunshine, so, too, should they.

Diana, however, made her excuses and absented herself from the party. She gathered her sketchbook and a packet of pastels and took herself to the gardens, settling on the same bench she had sat upon with Jeremy and Lady Helen the day before and beginning a detailed rendition of the roses growing nearby. So absorbed was she in her work that she did not hear the footsteps that signaled the approach of another person, and it was only when a shadow was cast upon the page before her that she glanced up in surprise.

Lady Helen stood above her, peering down at her sketchbook with an expression of surprised interest on her face. “That’s remarkably good,” she said, a tone of mild astonishment in her voice. “I’d never heard you were an artist.”

“Oh,” Diana said, feeling uncommonly flustered. Having others look at her artwork always made her feel rather as though she were naked and on display, and having Lady Helen of all people being the one staring down at her did nothing to lessen this sensation. “I’m not. I just dabble a bit.”

Lady Helen frowned. “I’m no expert, but this looks like more than dabbling to me. When you compare it to the bland watercolors that most ladies of our class produce… well, it’s astonishing.”

“That’s because it’s a pastel, not a watercolor,” Diana said with what she felt was admirable patience. “They look entirely different—pastels allow you much bolder colors, and to compare them is… well, it doesn’t make any sense at all. They’re two entirely different mediums.”

“You don’t sound like a casual hobbyist,” Lady Helen said, giving her a speculative glance. It was a glance that made Diana distinctly uncomfortable, in part because it was such a far cry from the idea of Lady Helen Courtenay that she had built over the course of her entire acquaintance with the lady. Diana disliked having to revise her assumptions about people—it was so tiresome to have to admit that she’d been wrong. But, she supposed, in this particular case that ship had already sailed.

“Can I help you with something?” Diana asked, shading her eyes against the sun as she gazed up at Lady Helen. Would she never remember a hat? This was why she had those accursed freckles across her nose that never seemed to fade, even in the dead of winter.

Freckles that, she suddenly recalled with a rush of heat, Jeremy had trailed his lips over the evening before.

Giving herself a stern mental shake, she leveled an even stare up at Lady Helen, who was looking down at her in an assessing fashion. Seeming to come to some sort of internal conclusion, Lady Helen seated herself on the bench next to Diana and said, “I heard that you were asking your maid about me.”

Diana’s jaw did not literally drop, but it was a very close thing. “How could you possibly have heard that so quickly? It couldn’t have been more than two hours ago.”

“I have my ways,” Lady Helen said primly, then added, “I believe your maid ran into mine on the stairs. She was evidently in the midst of a fit of pique, and nearly talked Sutton’s ear off before she was able to make her escape.”

Diana heaved a sigh that, heavy as it was, still did not feel out of proportion to the situation. “I really must find a new lady’s maid,” she muttered.

“I would if I were you,” Lady Helen agreed.

“I’ve grown rather accustomed to her, after all this time,” Diana confessed. “And I somehow find her complaining more comforting than any simpering prattle I could receive from another maid.”

“It is possible to employ a maid who lands somewhere in between those two options,” Lady Helen pointed out, and there was something in her tone as she said it that made Diana—metaphorically—sit up and take notice.

“I suppose you’re correct,” Diana conceded. “But yes, to return to the topic at hand—Toogood mentioned something about you that I found rather interesting, and I inquired a bit more of her. I didn’t think it enough to warrant gossip, but I suppose I should never underestimate the ire of a grudging maid.”

“What was it that had you curious, my lady? My maid was not very specific regarding the details.” Lady Helen’s voice was as cool as ever, but there was something in her tone that made Diana think she might be the slightest bit nervous. She was certainly watching Diana with rapt attention, as though whatever her answer would be was of the utmost importance to her.

“Well,” Diana said, drawing the word out for no other reason than to be difficult, “Toogood mentioned that you were in the habit of napping every afternoon.”