A Lady in Name by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

received a flash from the dark eyes. ‘I cannot think I would have the slightest influence upon him, under any circumstances.’
    Stefan was surprised to discover in himself a wish to deny this assertion. What in the world was the matter with him? If she only knew, he had been shocked at his own vehement insistence on her remaining under his charge. What had possessed him he could not imagine. The last thing he needed in dealing with his uncle’s complicated legacy was the addition of the man’s illegitimate daughter into his household.
    When Lucy had rushed from his study, he had stood in a state of blank incomprehension at himself for the space of several seconds. When he tried to account for what had prompted him, he was unable to do so. Yet the moment he thought of abandoning the purpose, he realised he could not. How, with honour, could he repudiate the girl after all he had said? Besides, there was in truth a question of honour involved. He had pledged himself to make good his uncle’s depredations and mistakes. This was another of them. He could not escape it. Perhaps that had been all his reason at bottom. Stefan hoped so. For if not, he was in danger of believing he must have taken leave of his senses, just as Lucy had accused him. A thought so unpalatable, he made haste to change the subject.
    ‘Where is Corisande?’
    ‘I have no notion. Hawkesbury must have sent to her as usual. You know what she is like. She will have meant to come, and then remembered some fragment or other she wanted to consult.’
    Stefan glanced at the clock. ‘I had better go and fetch her, or we shall have Cook up in arms again.’
    He moved towards the door as he spoke, but it opened before he could reach it, and his mother walked into the room.
    ‘I am so hungry, I could eat a horse. Why are we not yet dining?’
    Lucy rose automatically from her seat as the older woman moved towards the sofas, her eye shifting to encompass the newcomer. Mrs Ankerville was also attired in silvery grey, but with an incongruous yellow woollen shawl draped over her shoulders, which set off her auburn locks.
    ‘Why, who is this?’
    Dion leaped in. ‘She is Lucy Graydene, Mama, a member of—’
    The girl broke off, a hand flying to her mouth, her eyes flicking to Lord Pennington. A hollow appeared in Lucy’s chest as Dion’s belated realisation brought a further reminder of her invidious position.
    ‘Lucy is a relative, Mama,’ said his lordship calmly, stepping into the breach. ‘She has suffered a recent bereavement, and so I have brought her to stay with us. Lucy, allow me present our mother, the Honourable Mrs Ankerville.’
    Despite everything, Lucy could only feel gratitude for his smoothing over the moment. She made a prim curtsy.
    ‘How do you do, ma’am?’
    ‘More to the point, how do you do?’ said Mrs Ankerville. ‘I am sorry for your loss, though to my mind we make altogether too great a matter of death. Our medieval ancestors took the thing a great deal more for granted, although in the case of heroes, of course, they would use the occasion for versifying, enshrining the deeds of his life in—’
    ‘I thought you were hungry, Mama,’ interrupted Dion without ceremony. ‘Stefan, do you take Mama’s arm and I will follow with Lucy.’
    Mrs Ankerville was still talking as Lord Pennington led her out, and Dion giggled as she tucked her hand into Lucy’s arm.
    ‘You will think me excessively rude, I dare say, but once Corisande starts, she will go on for hours. There is nothing for it but to cut her short the instant she launches into her wretched Middle Ages.’
    Lucy began to feel as if she had strayed into a madhouse.
                  * * *
    True to her daughter’s prophecy, Mrs Ankerville maintained a flow of remarks throughout the first course, interrupted only when she was obliged to put her spoon into her mouth and swallow a portion of asparagus soup. She ranged over a bewildering plethora of odes and