by Cheryl Bolen
He feigned interest in what Lady Heffington said and even took her hand in his a time or two. He displayed excellent thespian skills when he could gladly throttle the lying redheaded baggage for telling his guests he had invited her. Had he not been a gentleman, he would have shown her the door.
Before she left tonight, he vowed, Lavinia would know better than to set foot in his wife's home again.
"I say, Richard," Twigs said from the duke's right, "when did that bloody doctor say I could ride again?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Miss Carlisle wants to know when I can trot in the park."
Radcliff's gaze flickered to Cressida. "I daresay you could manage a phaeton by next week. Riding a horse will be quite a bit longer."
"I did so want to see Mr. Twickingham at the ribbons," Cressida said. "For I am sure he is very skillful."
The duke lifted his wineglass and gave Cressida a knowing glance. "To be sure."
After dinner the men took their port and smoked cigars in the salon, where Radcliff made himself a very agreeable host, inquiring into Mr. Miller's job as a barrister, speaking of Northumbria to Barbara's uncle David–Lord Landis– and talking about mutual friends with Alfred.
"Believe I remember where the facilities are," Stanley said, slipping from the baroque room.
Indeed, he remembered everything about Radcliff House, where he had spent so much time when he came up from Oxford. He mounted the marble staircase, running his hand over the bronze banister, his discerning eye taking in all the treasures within his view. When his grandfather had built the house, it was said to be the finest mansion in London.
Stanley crept past the unused ballroom. If only he could have seen the room when its huge crystal chandeliers cast bright lights over the most select members of the ton.
Well, when he was master here, it would once again be the grandest address in all of London. And the balls he would give! The undeserving Richard did not appreciate what he had.
Without having to think about where he was going, Stanley let his legs carry him to the duchess's room. He wondered if the new duchess had changed the decor. He could almost see his aunt sitting there at her gilded dressing table in the ivory-and-gold room.
Before he opened the door, he turned to make sure no one was watching him, then he entered. He was pleased to find the room well lit from twin torcheres flanking the dressing-table mirror, a candelabra on the mantel and another candlestick beside the bed. The room remained exactly as he remembered it.
The jewels must be in here, he thought, walking to the dressing table and opening its small drawers. In the very top drawer he found a velvet case and took it out. His breath grew ragged as he held the box in his hand and slowly opened it. Brilliant emeralds caught the light of his candle. The Radcliff Jewels. Now they would be his. He fingered them lovingly, then placed them in the deep pocket of his coat, replacing the velvet box in the drawer.
His hands sweat and his throat grew parched. Damn, but he needed a drink. He crept from the room and down the stairs.
Evans always liked to wait up for his master. A gentleman needed the assistance of a good man, he thought smugly. While he waited for Radcliff, he took inventory of the duke's dressing room. Surely it was time to replace some of the breeches that had straddled one horse too many.
As he busied himself in the dressing room, he thought he heard the duchess's door open. He tiptoed to the adjoining door and ever so slowly eased the opening wide enough to peek into her grace's chamber.
At first he did not recognize who was snooping into the duchess's things, but as the man turned his face toward the candlelight, Evans remembered Stanley Moncrief. Never cared for the boy, he thought. Stanley did not admire his master, and if there was anything Evans did not like, it was someone who did not like Radcliff. No woman could ever have had a better son than his grace. No bride ever had a better husband. And no valet ever had a better master.
But that sly Stanley Moncrief had always been jealous of the duke.
With anger, Evans watched Stanley pocket the Radcliff Jewels. I knew it! He's not only coveting his cousin's goods, he's stealing them. Evans almost burst into the room to apprehend this reprobate thief when he stopped himself.
If the jewels turned up missing, who would be blamed? Whose room were they in?
A slow smile spread over his sagging face. He did not care for that chit the master had wed. God, but things had been so much better before she came. She and that prattling maid of hers. This house had been so lively when it had been filled just with bachelors and their never-ending escapades. Oh, the times those young men had!
While the men took their port after dinner, the women retired to the drawing room. To avoid having to speak to the odious Lady Heffington, Bonny asked Emily to sing, and when Emily finished performing, Bonny invited Cressida to entertain with her sweet voice. By the time she finished singing, the men had joined them.
With Cressida on one side of her, Mrs. Miller sat on one of the satin settees, locked in conversation with Lady Landis over mutual friends. Twigs had asked Bonny to be his partner in a game of whist with Stanley and Alfred. Lord Dunsford shyly looked up from his highly polished boots to ask Emily if she would play cribbage with him, while Lord Landis and Mr. Miller went on the balcony to smoke.
At this time Radcliff said, "Lady Heffington, there is a book I would like you to see." He took her across the room, where he opened a picture book and spoke to her in soft tones.
"Oblige me by listening very carefully, Lavinia," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't know what game it is you and Stanley play, but I vow I will have you physically removed from Radcliff House if you ever have the gall to show your face here again. Is that clear?"
"Pray, don't be mad at me, Richard dear. It is only that I love you too dearly, mon chéri."
He gazed at her with eyes like hot coals, slammed the book shut and said, "I am a married man." Then he stalked across the room.
Her face red, Lady Heffington pretended to be interested in the book for a long time after he left.
Radcliff walked to the game table where his wife played and looked over Twigs's shoulder.
"Would you care to take my place, Richard?" Bonny asked.
"No, my dear, I fear Twigs would box my ears if I deprived him of your most excellent partnership. I am happy to watch."
"I fear my play has been most poor tonight," Bonny said. Indeed, twice Twigs had kindly rebuked her for not following suit.
As the game continued, Cressida, too, came to watch. "How I should love to be a skillful player."
"Perhaps you can come more often to Mr. Twickingham's sickroom, and he could teach you," Bonny offered, wondering how she had the presence of mind to have heard any of the conversation around her.
Since seeing her husband escort Lady Heffington across the room. Bonny had felt as if she were bleeding inside. If she hadn't been to the heavens in Radcliff's arms, this hell wouldn't hurt so deeply.
Now her hand balled into a fist as she saw Lady Heffington approaching the table.
"That's a capital idea," Cressida said. "Would I be a wretched bother to you, Mr. Twickingham?"
"Not at all," Twigs mumbled, more intent on his game than on her. "Deuced rotten luck that you pulled that king from my hand, Landis."
"Stanley," Lady Heffington snapped, "I fear I have a dreadful head and need you to see me home."
Stanley looked at Richard. "Take my place, old boy."
Radcliff shrugged, then exchanged places with his cousin, after which Stanley and Lady Heffington bade farewell.
Bonny joined the others in saying goodbye to Stanley but refused to speak to that contemptible widow.
Radcliff was so absorbed in the cards, he neglected his hostly duties and completely ignored his departing guests, much to Bonny's satisfaction.
When their guests left, Bonny glared icily at her husband, then mounted the stairs to her chamber, where Marie awaited. The abigail deftly removed t
he pins from Bonny's hair and brushed it out, then assisted Bonny into a simple muslin nightgown.
With Marie gone and her head clear, Bonny thought back over the night's events. She could stand the humiliation. Where Richard was concerned, she had little pride. But worse than his bringing that woman here was the picture burned in Bonny's mind like a recurring nightmare of Richard's broad hand gently lying over Lady Heffington's as they strolled across the drawing room to have a private tete-a-tete.
The more Bonny remembered, the madder she got. No matter if she hadn't been raised to be a duchess. No matter that her husband might not be in love with her. She was Richard's wife, and he had absolutely no right to bring his mistress into her house.
Bolstered by her mounting anger, Bonny stormed from her room and down the stairs to her husband's study, throwing open the door. The sight of her manly husband looking so wretched completely disarmed her. His cravat had been thrown off, along with his coat. His eyes were red and glassy, the look on his face forlorn. Was he so terribly unhappy with her?
Perhaps, then, she should free him. After all, their marriage could not continue like this. "Richard, I came to tell you that I think it a contemptible practice to invite your former mistress to dine with your wife, and I won't have it."
His eyes caught the light from the fireplace as he lifted his gaze to her. "And who is supposed to be my former mistress?''
"That odious Lady Heffington."
The corner of his mouth lifted, deepening the dimple in his craggy cheek. "When you quit inviting unmarried gentlemen, I will quit inviting unmarried ladies."
"What are you talking about?"
Radcliff glared at her. "Lord Dunsford."
"I invited an unmarried man, hoping to make a match for Em. I did not know you disliked him."
Radcliff lifted the decanter and poured a bumper of straight scotch. "Go to bed," he commanded. "I wish to drink alone."
Bonny stomped her foot and left the room.
Chapter Eighteen
His clothes were much too fine to expose to the elements, Stanley told himself as he rode his mare through Bloomsbury. One day he would have his own four-horse carriage. Too damned expensive to keep stables and a driver now. If only he could come into money while he was young enough to enjoy it. Because of his cousin's intercedence, Stanley held a thousand-a-year post that offered a comfortable living. And he could always hope for an heiress. Trouble was, all the heiresses out this season were bloody ugly, and not one of noble birth.
He thought again of how he would have thrown away his hopes for an heiress if Bonny Barbara Allan had so much as given him a kind word. Despite her lack of fortune, she was, after all, the granddaughter of an earl. With him being the grandson of a duke, their marriage would have been looked upon quite favorably by the ton.
But it was Richard who had won Bonny Barbara's heart. Always it was Richard. Richard who got the title and the properties. Richard whom the cursed servants revered. Richard who distinguished himself at Oxford. Richard who was damned near worshiped by his parents while Stanley was left in the constant care of his nurse, then later his bloody governess.
While his thoughts were thus engaged, Stanley caught sight of Richard's fine barouche parked in an unfashionable square in Bloomsbury. He reined into the square and drove alongside the barouche, where the driver and tiger prattled.
"I say," Stanley interrupted, "I believe this is my cousin's carriage. Is the duke within?" His glance indicated the house the carriage was in front of.
"No, sir," the driver replied. "And it's her grace, the duchess, we're driving. She likes to walk in the square by herself."
Stanley looked past the iron gate to the square, which was hedged in chest-high yews. "But I don't see her grace. Do you know where she is?"
The driver shook his head. "I couldn't say. I'm not paid to snoop into her grace's activities."
"She went out the opposite gate and turned left, like she always does," the tiger said.
Stanley tossed a shilling to the tiger. "Thank you."
Turning his bay around, Stanley went to the other end of the square and turned left. One block down, he beheld a curious sight. Parked in front of a slender little row house was another crested barouche. For the life of him he could not remember whose crest it was, although he knew he had seen it recently.
He rode a short distance past the house and dismounted, positioning himself behind his horse so that he could peek over the saddle to see who came out the door of Number 17 Kepple Street.
He didn't have to wait long. Very soon he saw Bonny come through the doorway alone and scurry down the stairs. At the end of the block, she turned toward the square where her barouche was parked.
Stanley did not have to follow her; he knew where she was bound. He would have to be patient.
Presently, he heard the door to Number 17 open again, and he recognized the tall, thin body of Lord Henry Dunsford. No wonder Richard had been in such deuced low spirits last night. He must know about his wife's infidelities, Stanley thought with satisfaction. By God, it was time Richard lost at something!
And Stanley knew just the person to share his good news with. How fortunate he was to have been traveling through Bloomsbury today.
Bonny settled back in her barouche, pleased with herself. She had bought every single hat she liked at the most expensive milliner's on Conduit Street. Still angry with him, she couldn't wait for Richard to get the bill.
Across from Bonny, Emily settled in the carriage seat. "Em, I believe Richard does not at all like Lord Dunsford."
"Upon my word, I cannot imagine why. Lord Dunsford is uncommonly nice. You know, he called upon me this morning."
"How very agreeable. Did your mother behave tolerably well?"
"I am happy to say my meddlesome mother was away when he called," Emily said with a mischievous smile.
"You didn't see him alone?"
"Oh, no, to be sure. I had Martha come sit with her sewing."
"Did anything interesting occur during his visit?"
Emily gazed into her lap. "He asked me to ride with him in the park this evening."
"Did you agree?"
"I did, though I can't think why. I don't know what I'll say to him."
"There's always the weather," Bonny suggested.
"That's what we talked of this morning."
"I don't suppose you'll want to tell him you knew Harold."
"I'm afraid to."
As they rode. Bonny wondered if Dunsford had guessed about Emily. He had to have, given the fact he knew her first name and knew she was close to Bonny. The man was not an idiot. "I really cannot imagine why my husband has taken such a dislike to him." If she wanted to prevent that horrid widow from returning to her house, she could never again invite Dunsford.
Stanley sat in the elegant drawing room at Wickham House awaiting Lady Landis. He had a particular interest in talking with her. The flamboyant peeress was noted for her wicked tongue and even more noted for her propensity to gossip. She would serve his purposes very well.
"My lady," he said, getting to his feet as she entered the room. He took her hand. "How lovely you look. Much too young to be Alfred's mother."
She gave him a coy look. "I must say, my Lord Landis took me practically from the cradle." She settled on her plum-colored damask sofa and begged Mr. Moncrief to sit in an armchair near her. "What a pleasure it is to have you call," she said in a questioning tone.
"Now that we are related through the duchess, I thought I should strengthen our family bonds. Where is your lovely daughter today?"
"She has taken the poor duchess under her wing and is escorting her to Madame Herbert's millinery shop."
"How very obliging of your daughter to share her excellent taste."
Lady Landis shot a questioning look at Stanley. "Did you desire to see Emily today?"
He scooted closer. "Actually, you are the one I particularly wanted to see, for what I have to discuss is of a private nature."
He could almost see the woman's ears perk up as she leaned closer. "It is because we are family and because I am so concerned about your niece that I am here."
"Why are you concerned about Barbara?"
"I don't wish to see her hurt my cousin. Richard's very taken with her."
"Whatever are you talking about, sir?"
Stanley leaned closer and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "What I say dies in this room."
"To be sure."
"I came straight here because I was so distressed at what I observed with my own eyes."
"Pray tell," said Lady Landis, mock concern across her face.
"I saw the duchess leave an unfashionable house in Bloomsbury in the presence of Lord Dunsford, which in itself might be explained, but for the fact her coachman told me that going to that house is a regular practice of the duchess's." Stanley complimented himself on how well he embellished the story in his telling.
Lady Landis began to fan herself rapidly. "Poor Radcliff! I hope I don't faint at such ghastly news. He's done nothing to deserve such shameful treatment from that...from my niece."
"Indeed."
"I do hope you can take tea with me, Mr. Moncrief."
He tugged at his fob and noted the time on his watch. "Alas, I have an appointment and must be on my way." He got to his feet. "If your man could only retrieve my riding crop, I'll be on my way now. I am heartily sorry to be the bearer of such disturbing news."
Lady Landis shook her head somberly, though the glint in her green eyes belied her concern. "How very obliging of you to come to me with this...situation."
Bonny scooped up Twigs's markers from the table. "Pray, sir, you will owe me your next quarter's portion if you keep this up." That she had no intention of collecting, she was not telling him.