by Lisa Berne
“Look, she’s gone off again,” said Helen, with a little dig in her voice. “Sleeping with her eyes open. Just like a horse.”
Gwendolyn looked at Helen. “It’s called thinking.”
Helen snickered. “Indeed.”
“Yes. Indeed.”
“If you don’t want to go to Carlton House, just say so. I’m sure we’ll manage to get by without you somehow.”
“Helen,” said the Duchess warningly.
“What? It’s true. We’ll be fine by ourselves. Maybe even better.”
“I say, old girl, that’s rather mean-spirited,” said Percy. “Carlton House is awfully jolly, and I do want Gwennie to see it.”
Helen lifted her shoulders in an ostentatious shrug, and Gwendolyn held onto her temper with an effort. After an arduous week of helping to nurse Helen, an unpleasant and recalcitrant patient at best, she had yet to receive a single word of thanks. Not that she’d done it for the sake of being thanked, of course—but still, even a brief acknowledgement would have been the civil thing to do. The truth was, she would just as soon go to Carlton House without Helen there, sneering and sniping at her. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her. “I would like to go, Percy.”
“Splendid!” said Percy, and Gwendolyn smiled at him, ignoring the loud extended sigh from Helen.
Étienne de Montmorency stood in the front room of his elegant lodgings on Clarges Street, looking at the stack of correspondence on his writing-desk. Such a very, very large stack. How clamorous his creditors had become, how impertinent. What dreadfully low, vulgar people; it was distasteful, for one so fastidious as himself, to be forced to even acknowledge their existence.
But the conclusion was, unfortunately, inescapable: his debts were many and pressing, and time was growing short.
His eye fell on a folded document next to that unpleasant stack. He gave a little grimace. The proverbial lifeline. Not necessarily how he would have preferred to resolve his difficulties, but—to employ another cliché—beggars couldn’t be choosers.
His man Pierre-Édouard came to brush at his blue long-tailed coat, then knelt to smooth out a small wrinkle in one of his expensive striped stockings. As he did so, de Montmorency felt in his right coat pocket for the little, deadly Châtellerault folding-knife he always carried with him. One could not, he thought, be too careful, especially when one was not, alas, universally liked. Tant pis; c’est la vie.
Pierre-Édouard was now fussing with the other stocking and de Montmorency, with a sudden rush of irritation, lifted his foot in its shining black shoe and gently pushed Pierre-Édouard aside.
“Enough, fool.”
“Oui, monsieur,” replied Pierre-Édouard humbly, getting to his feet and bowing very low. He was not, after all, unused to such treatment from his master. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, s’il vous plaît.”
“A suitably moving display of contrition, which I receive with appreciation. I think—yes, I think we may be going on a journey soon. Make all necessary preparations.”
“Are we to leave tonight, monsieur, when you return from Carlton House?”
“Not as soon as that. But you must be ready at a moment’s notice.”
“Oui, monsieur. Of a certainty I shall.” Pierre-Édouard bowed again, even lower.
As the enormous black carriage slowly made its way along the crowded Pall Mall, Julian, the Earl of Westenbury, realized that he was tapping his fingers on the knees of his black satin knee-breeches. He was anxious to arrive at Carlton House. Hopefully Gwendolyn would be there. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a fortnight, and it felt as if the sun had gone out of his existence, as if he was suffering in one of the lowest, darkest rings of Dante’s notorious inferno, as if he were Romeo without his Juliet. He loved her so much. So very, very much.
“Julian dear,” said his mother, resplendent in white silk and satin, “do stop tapping, it’s very déclassé.”
He stopped.
“I say, do you think Lady Helen will be there?” asked Rupert, for what was possibly the hundredth time that day.
“How lucky she is,” said the Countess, “to be held so high in your esteem, Rupert dear.”
Rupert nodded, smiling. What was a duke’s granddaughter, after all, to a Westenbury? He wondered if she would weep with gratitude when he proposed, or faint in his arms with pleasure. Maybe both.
Lady Helen FitzClarence, walking into the high-ceilinged entrance hall to Carlton House and from there into an immense and brightly lit octagonal chamber, was unmoved by the massive yellow marble columns, the monumental curving staircase ahead, the artwork everywhere. What did she care? Francis was gone, she had failed, and her life was over.
Before they’d left the townhouse, Grandmother had made her go upstairs to say goodnight to her mother, who, although over the worst of the influenza, was still weak and feverish; one of a rotating shift of hired nurses had been there. It was embarrassing how Mother clung to them. Just like a little baby.
Mother had said from her sickbed, How lovely you look, my dear Helen! I do hope you have a marvelous time tonight.
What a perfectly foul and idiotic thing to say. As if she would ever again have a good time, let alone a marvelous one.
A few steps behind, Percy burst out laughing and she turned reflexively at the sound. He resembled Francis so closely that it nearly killed her just to look at him. He and Gwendolyn were standing side by side; Gwendolyn was saying with a smile:
“I know it’s a silly ambition, but I promised myself that I’d go up and down that staircase at least twice. I’ll be right back.”
Off she went, lightly and easily up the stairs, and Helen watched her with bitter venom in her heart. Dashing away without a care in the world. Her life was perfect, it was all rainbows and unicorns, she had a fiancé who’d been sending her flowers every single day. And she, Helen, had nothing. Oh, she hated Gwendolyn—hated everyone. She wished she could disappear somewhere. Disappear forever.
Suddenly Helen noticed that Grandmother had been drawn into a little knot of chattering acquaintances, and that Percy was moving toward some ghastly-looking woman with the largest bosom she had ever seen and wearing an extraordinary quantity of jewels.
Now was her chance to disappear—if only for a little while.
She drifted toward the next chamber, moving slowly because of the dense mass of people surrounding her. She would have liked to shove them all aside. Because she hated them too.
Bored, the Honorable Rupert Durant fidgeted, yawned, tapped his shoe on the marble floor, and idly glanced around while his mother and Julian blathered on to some people they had come across. What a stupid room this was. Why an octagon? Was the Prince Regent so high and mighty that a respectable four walls wasn’t enough, he had to have eight of them? Damned pretentious foolishness, if you asked him.
His eye caught a flash of red—of bright red hair, in fact—and all at once his gaze sharpened. Damn if it wasn’t Lady Helen there ahead of him. Hey ho, he thought, time to bag his prey.
Rupert took a little crablike step sideways, and glanced slyly about to see if Mummie and Julian noticed. No, they were busy rattling on to their friends.
He took another surreptitious step, and another, and so managed to slip away.
Well, it really was quite a staircase, with its broad, shallow marble steps that curved up and around, the intricately designed balustrade, the classical statues in the enormous wall-niches. It would not, Gwendolyn thought, be difficult in the least to pretend one was a princess in disguise. Cinderella, say, making a grand entrance, with the handsome prince below, staring up at her with his heart in his eyes.
She was coming down the staircase on her second lap, thinking about glass slippers and wondering just how comfortable they really would be to wear, when, halfway down, she spotted Rupert Durant amidst the crowd below. How intent he looked, how purposeful, thought Gwendolyn, pausing as she followed his line of sight. She saw that he was staring at Helen—the back of her, at least—as
she moved away.
It occurred to Gwendolyn that she didn’t like Rupert’s expression at all. It was nothing less than predatory. Suddenly she remembered Christopher saying to her, as he was leaving Helen’s disastrous birthday party:
Don’t let him get you alone.
Very serious he had been, too.
Gwendolyn also remembered Helen throwing the portrait she had made for her—the portrait over which she had labored so painstakingly—into the fire. She remembered the slights and the insults Helen had been lobbing her way, the incessant unkindness and complete lack of civility.
Why should she care if Rupert got Helen alone?
She considered it.
There was no reason in the world to trouble herself.
No reason in the world, except for the fact that she did care. She certainly hoped that if Rupert was stalking her, someone would worry about her, too.
Which meant that there was no time to lose.
Already Rupert was moving past her view.
Gwendolyn hurried down the rest of the staircase and around the newel-post and barreled into someone—a great round person—a middle-aged man, richly dressed, smelling pungently of pomade, cologne, and brandy—and hastily Gwendolyn said, “I do beg your pardon, sir, please forgive me,” stopping only long enough to see him smile and bow. Humpty Dumpty! she thought, and as she rushed away she wondered if she really had heard a faint creaking sound when he bowed.
She made her way down a hallway crowded with fellow guests. Several times did people she knew try to engage her in conversation, which to her frustration slowed her progress considerably, but didn’t stop her from peeking into the various rooms she passed. Drawing-rooms. A music room. More drawing-rooms. Red velvet, blue velvet, gold leaf everywhere. Sculptures and paintings in abundance. The extravagance of it all was rather stunning, and Gwendolyn would have liked to linger before some of the artworks, but hurried on to the next closed door.
She pushed it open and peeped inside.
A magnificent library.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of books.
Such a room would, quite possibly, be Helen’s least favorite room in Carlton House. So, of course, there she was—and in Rupert’s arms.
Gwendolyn paused, not wanting to intrude if this was, in fact, a mutually pleasant tête-à-tête. But then she saw that Helen was struggling—then Helen exclaimed, “Stop it, let go of me!”—and Rupert only laughed, then hooked a leg around the back of Helen’s knees and brought her roughly down onto the carpet on which they had been standing. Helen gave a muffled scream as Rupert brought himself on top of her, and Gwendolyn, appalled, frightened, furious, said in as loud a voice as she could muster:
“Stop it! Rupert, stop!”
He lifted his head, saw her, laughed again. “My beautiful sister-to-be! I do like an audience. Maybe you’ll let me watch you and Julian.” And then he turned his head back to Helen and forced his mouth on hers.
Fury now replaced every other emotion in Gwendolyn and quickly she looked around the library. On a marble-inlaid side-table stood a tall, exquisite crystal vase. She hurried to the side-table, snatched up the vase—hoping it wasn’t some priceless antique—and went to where Rupert was grappling with Helen, then smashed it against the back of his head.
This precipitous act produced exactly the desired result.
Rupert, groaning, went limp, and Helen was able to push him off her. She scrambled to her feet, shivering, and retreated like a scared animal to a corner of the room.
“Are you all right?” Gwendolyn asked her, and Helen, her golden freckles standing out in sharp relief against her white face, only pointed at Rupert with a shaking hand.
He was rolling over. Groggily shaking his head. Then his eyes focused on Gwendolyn where she stood over him, and into them came such a virulent look of rage that involuntarily she took a step back.
“You—you—” he choked out, and for a crazy second Gwendolyn found herself wondering if he was going to call her a varlet. Or even a brazen-faced varlet. She might have giggled wildly, but just then Rupert hauled himself to his feet and began moving toward her, black murder in his eyes.
Gwendolyn backed away. She could easily turn and run for the door, but she didn’t want to leave Helen alone with Rupert again. So she retreated, step by step, until she bumped up against a bookcase. He was still coming toward her, and swiftly she reached behind her, feeling for a volume she could pull out, something large and heavy, and wouldn’t it be satisfying to clout him with a book—an object, she was sure, entirely repellent to him.
“Mon cher Rupert, I suggest you stop where you are,” said a languid voice, very gently.
They all looked to the doorway.
Étienne de Montmorency had come into the library and shut the door behind him. He looked so calm, so unperturbed, that Gwendolyn felt again that nearly irrepressible desire to giggle.
“Stay out of this, Étienne, it’s none of your concern,” growled Rupert, and took another step toward Gwendolyn.
“There, mon ami, I fear you are mistaken,” answered de Montmorency in that same gentle voice, and strolled forward until he stood between Gwendolyn and Rupert. Angrily Rupert brought up balled fists, as if to strike out, and with complete sang-froid de Montmorency, half a foot shorter than Rupert and considerably slighter in build, drew from the pocket of his jacket a small object. Casually he pressed an indentation in its carved silver haft and a blade whipped out.
A sharp and extremely lethal-looking blade.
“It would be discomfiting, mon cher Rupert, to be obliged to sink this into you, as you are, bien sûr, a very old friend of mine. But if you persist in your attempt to perpetrate violence against Mademoiselle Penhallow, having already, I am deeply sorry to see, troubled Lady Helen, be assured that I will not hesitate.”
Rupert stood very still, then slowly lowered his fists. All the anger was draining out of him, and Gwendolyn watched as onto his handsome face came a look of great fear.
“I—I say, Étienne,” he stammered, “you won’t tell Mummie, will you, or—or Julian? It was just a—a bit of fun, you know. Why, I want Helen to marry me.”
De Montmorency looked pensively at him, then at the knife he was holding. “Do you know, Rupert, there’s really no telling what I might do if sufficiently annoyed. Eh bien, you may wish to find a quiet withdrawing-room where you might repair the ravages to your person. You look—if you will forgive my bluntness—quite plebian.”
Here again Gwendolyn wanted to laugh. De Montmorency could have delivered no greater insult to the Honorable Rupert.
“I suppose—yes, I suppose you’re right. Well—well—goodbye then,” said Rupert lamely, and without looking at either Gwendolyn or Helen, left the library in a way that, Gwendolyn thought, could only be described as skulking. When the door closed behind him, Étienne de Montmorency folded his knife and in a leisurely manner returned it to his pocket.
“Thank you for your timely arrival, monsieur,” Gwendolyn said to him.
He gave a small, graceful bow. “I have no doubt, mademoiselle, that left to your own devices you would have very capably—what is the word in English?—yes, you would have coshed cher Rupert with that book I saw you reaching for.”
“How kind of you to say,” answered Gwendolyn, hearing in her voice the slightest tremble of laughter.
“Not at all. Mademoiselle, may I trouble you to fetch for Lady Helen a glass of water? I shall stay with her until she regains her composure, and to guard against any unwise return on Rupert’s part—unlikely as I believe that to be.”
Gwendolyn looked to where Helen had gone to a chair and now sat rather limply. “Is that all right with you, Helen?”
“Yes,” Helen replied without hesitation, and so Gwendolyn left the library and went back into the hallway toward the octagonal room where footmen had been circulating with their trays. When she got there she saw Percy coming toward her, a champagne flute in one hand and looking very merry.
“I say, Gwennie, do you realize you nearly knocked Prinny over a little while ago?”
“What?” She looked at him rather blankly, then comprehension came to her in a flash. “Oh, my goodness, when I was coming round the stairs! That was him? I was in a dreadful rush, you see, and—oh, Percy, I think I heard his corset creaking when he bowed!”
He laughed. “Just so.”
A footman went by and Gwendolyn said to him, “Could you bring me a glass of water, please?”
“Of course, miss.”
“Water?” said Percy. “Whatever for? Have some champagne instead.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for—” Gwendolyn broke off. What had happened in the library was Helen’s business, and not for her to broadcast. Hastily she went on, “How did you know I—ah—bumped into the Prince Regent? Did you see me doing it?”
“No, I was talking with Prinny just now, and he wondered if the mysterious young lady who looked so much like me was any relation.”
“Is he very much upset with me?”
“Not a bit of it. He said he wished you’d do it again.”
“Ugh.”
Percy laughed again. “You needn’t worry. Prinny likes his women on the plump side.”
“It’s still a repulsive remark. Why, he’s old enough to be my father.”
“In a way, it’s a compliment, you know.”
“Not one I care for.”
“Which shows how unusual you are. Most women would trample their grandmother underfoot just to have Prinny flirt with them.” He smiled at her in his charming way. “I’m awfully glad you came tonight, Gwennie, as we won’t be seeing each other for a while.”
“What? Oh, Percy, why not?”
“Prinny’s decided to go to Brighton tomorrow, to see how the work’s coming along with his Pavilion. They’ve started on the Banquet Room—he says he wants to make sure they’re putting in the right chandeliers.”
“The right chandeliers? Doesn’t he have anything better to do? Like running the kingdom, for example?”