The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  On the pavement, she retook his arm and sighed. “Those rubies were lovely, but I feel for that poor clerk. He was so disappointed.”

  Frederick patted her hand and led her on. “I’m sure he’ll recover.”

  In planning his campaign, Frederick had gambled that, by Saturday evening, he would have advanced his cause sufficiently that a visit to a performance of the Royal Opera Company at Covent Garden would be not only a viable outing but also a productive one.

  Productive in the sense of consolidating all the advances he’d made to that point.

  As matters transpired, he couldn’t have planned better. He sat in the dimness of the Albury box, located directly opposite the stage in the middle of the second tier, and for once, the music emanating from the orchestra, the superbly delivered vocal histrionics, and the drama unfolding on the stage failed to capture and hold his attention.

  His usual fascination couldn’t compete with the lure of the lady beside him.

  Another revelation, one he felt he didn’t need to dwell on.

  The important thing was that Stacie was enjoying herself hugely. She sat upright in the chair beside him, her features lit by the backwash from the powerful limelights illuminating the stage, on which the dramatic flair of Pacini’s celebrated “Maria, regina d’Inghilterra” held sway.

  Stacie’s absorption was complete; she was utterly captivated by Tarantini’s words, his characters’ dramatic actions, and swept away by Pacini’s glorious music, brought to life by the talented orchestra.

  While making their way to the box, threading through the inevitable crowd in the foyer, she’d instinctively clutched his arm tighter and leaned into him, seeking—inviting—his protection. Unwilling to be trapped in conversation, they’d both done their part in glibly deflecting various attempts by members of the ton to detain them, ultimately taking refuge in the box and happily relaxing in their own company.

  Now, watching her face, tracking her responses to the soaring music, he not only accepted but embraced the obvious—they were made for each other. No lady he’d ever met came anywhere close to her in terms of shared interest or in terms of his interest in her.

  Her family, his mother—the entire ton—would be thrilled if he could convince her to make their faux engagement real and face an altar by his side.

  The only person who remained to be convinced of the rightness of a marriage between them was her.

  Despite all his advances, he wasn’t sure he was even close to succeeding; he still didn’t know what it would take to change her mind.

  The opera came to an end. They didn’t dally but escaped from the box and down a side stair, avoiding any who might have thought to waylay them.

  “You do know your way about, my lord,” she remarked as he ushered her through a side door, and they walked through the shadows to the front of the building.

  He settled her arm in his and scanned the way ahead. “I wasn’t of a mind to exchange pleasantries.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining.” She leaned on his arm and directed a playful glance at his face. “As you’re very well aware, your dislike of the ton’s jabbering is entirely matched by mine.”

  Just as they were well matched in so many other ways. “Jabbering?” he mused. “An excellent word for it.” He looked down into her dancing eyes. “I take it you enjoyed the performance.”

  She inclined her head and faced forward. “I did, indeed. It was wonderful! Thank you for arranging the outing.”

  He smiled as they reached his carriage. “It was, indeed, my pleasure.”

  He opened the carriage door, helped her in, and followed.

  As the carriage rattled toward Mayfair and they sat enveloped in soft darkness, he debated whether it was time to speak—to carefully suggest that perhaps they should consider making their engagement real.

  But I don’t yet know what’s driving her aversion to marriage.

  The same instincts that made him impulsive were currently advocating caution; as he usually did, he listened to them and didn’t speak.

  Yet as the carriage rolled on and they both remained silent, unease wormed through him. It was distinctly unnerving to realize that, in this, he, who cared little about anyone else’s opinion and rarely entertained the slightest self-doubt, wasn’t yet confident enough in his ability to carry this particular argument. More, that she now figured so critically in his view of his future that he wasn’t willing to risk proposing to her—laying his proposition before her—while there was the slightest chance she might refuse and, worse, retreat.

  Another revelation slid into his mind, one more fundamentally disturbing than all those before it.

  In setting himself to win Stacie, he’d embraced the vision of what she and he could be together. He’d envisaged the gamut of what a life shared with her would be like, how satisfying it would be, and in doing so, he’d opened himself to the threat of not succeeding. To the threat of losing her and all that vision promised.

  In seeking to win her, he’d made himself vulnerable in a way he hadn’t foreseen.

  When she made a comment about the cellist’s performance, he was grateful for the reprieve from his unsettling thoughts and glibly spun out the conversation as the carriage ferried them to her door.

  In Green Street, he saw her into the house, thereby ensuring that, with her parlormaid present, he had no chance of bestowing any further inexcusable attention on Stacie. He left her with a bow and a crooked smile.

  That smile had faded by the time he reached his carriage, ordered his coachman to drive home, and climbed inside.

  Chapter 11

  On Monday morning, with no shared outing scheduled until a soirée that evening, Frederick took refuge in his study. Apparently, Mary was hosting some family event at which Stacie would be present; slumped in the chair behind his desk, he decided it behooved him to seize the period of enforced inaction to review where he and Stacie now stood.

  He’d been pursuing her, carefully if doggedly, for over a week. Yesterday being Sunday, as per Mary’s instructions, he’d taken Stacie for a drive through the park in the afternoon. According to Mary, that should have been their only engagement for the day, but Stacie had suggested he dine with her and Ernestine that evening—a quiet, private dinner with just the three of them for company. Inwardly, he’d leapt at the chance; outwardly, he’d concealed his eagerness and accepted the invitation and had passed a pleasant evening with the two ladies. At their urging, he’d told them of his travels. Stacie’s eyes had lit when he’d described the great opera houses of the Continent, and she’d later admitted that visiting such places in Vienna, Strasbourg, Venice, Milan, and Rome was an abiding dream.

  He’d taken due note, then—to his own considerable surprise—had suggested that he repay the ladies’ generosity by playing for them. Stacie and Ernestine had eagerly accepted; Stacie had opened the doors between the drawing room and music room, and while Ernestine had remained in her armchair in the drawing room, listening to the gentle sonata he chose to play, Stacie had come and leaned against the piano and listened; in reality, he’d played for her.

  Never before had he voluntarily offered to play for a lady. Never before had he watched a lady’s face as he played—and felt such a connection he’d almost been afraid.

  That moment still lived in his mind.

  He hadn’t previously spent much if any time thinking about marriage; he had imagined waiting until he was closer to forty before biting the bullet and engaging with the marriage mart and, through a tedious process, acquiring a suitable bride.

  Then Stacie had pushed her way into his life and caught, first, his attention, and then, his eye.

  And then had come that moment when they’d fallen on the chaise, and his physical, visceral reaction to her had been stunningly intense.

  He should have paid more attention to that—to what such a powerful reaction presaged—but in the circumstances, seizing the opportunity and securing Stacie as his bride had seemed the easiest w
ay forward. No dealing with the marriage mart, and a lady with whom he shared more than he’d imagined possible.

  In hindsight, he should also have been wary of that feeling of taking the easy way out; Fate had a habit of presenting her lures as attractively simple and straightforward.

  There was, he now knew, nothing simple and straightforward about securing Stacie as his bride.

  And of course, in drawing her inch by inch closer to him, he’d inevitably drawn closer to her, leaving him determined to succeed—for the truly simple reason that there was no longer any alternative, at least none acceptable to him.

  He studied that conclusion for several minutes, then blew out a breath. “So—what’s my next step?”

  He was debating his options when Fortingale tapped and entered.

  “Mr. Camber is here to see you, my lord.”

  Frederick sat up. “Excellent. Show him in.”

  Camber duly appeared; Frederick waved him to an armchair before the desk.

  The inquiry agent came forward, bowed, and sat. As soon as the door clicked shut, Camber said, “Regarding your latest commission, my lord, I’ve managed to compile a fairly detailed report.”

  Frederick sat back and gestured for Camber to continue.

  “I tracked down a gentleman who, for the last five or so years of her life, was known to be the late marchioness’s close confidante—he was referred to by many as her cicisbeo and was reputed to know all her secrets.”

  Frederick wondered if Ryder and Rand knew of the man’s existence. “His name?”

  “The Honorable Mr. Claude Potherby, my lord. He currently lives a lonely life in a tiny village outside Leeds. When I called, Potherby was quite happy to talk to me—I got the impression he rarely has company and welcomed even mine.”

  “I see.” Frederick made a mental note to tell Ryder and Rand of Potherby. If they’d bought the man’s silence, as Frederick would have assuredly done had he been in their shoes, then Potherby seemed to have forgotten. Or perhaps they’d forgotten Potherby? In either case, they needed to know. “I assume Potherby was a font of information?”

  Camber nodded soberly. “He was, indeed, my lord.” Camber paused, then said, “It was almost as if being able to speak about the subject was…well, cathartic. I got the impression he hadn’t been asked about the late marchioness by anyone, and so all he knew was bottled up in his head. If I was asked to swear to it, I’d say he spoke honestly—he was relieved to be able to let it all out.”

  “And what did he say with regard to my particular interest?”

  “First, that the daughter is the spitting image of her mother, but very different in character. It seems the late marchioness was a particularly nasty sort, a past master at manipulation and, specifically, at using it to cause her husband pain of the emotional sort. According to Potherby—who apparently had known the late marchioness from childhood—she had always been cruel, but she was very beautiful and also very clever at hiding her true colors. In his words, people saw the beauty and not the rotten core. He admitted to being devoted to her in his way, but he wasn’t blind to her faults. Apparently, while her husband was alive, he was her principal target, but she was always very ready to wield her manipulative skills to hurt others. Potherby said that, in his view, she gloried in causing others pain.”

  Camber paused to draw breath. “But to pass on to the late marchioness’s children, apparently, she possessed no maternal feelings for any of them but viewed them as her chattels to eventually be sold on the marriage mart. Potherby insisted that was her principal focus in the years prior to her death—how to make the most by essentially selling her children in marriage.”

  Camber fought to hide his disgust; Frederick hoped he himself was more successful.

  “Anyway,” Camber went on, “it seems one good thing about her having that aim is that she took great care of her children’s reputations and especially that of the daughter. However, Potherby believes that the young lady inherited her mother’s talent for manipulating people, along with her looks. Quite what that actually means about the daughter, he swore he couldn’t say, but he was certain the girl was appalled by her mother’s vicious behavior and, he suspects, would have done something to counter it if she’d been able. As it was, with the late marchioness keeping her daughter very close, the girl was forced to witness many acts of outright cruelty perpetrated by her mother, both on her father and on others.”

  Frederick inwardly swore.

  “Further to that”—Camber paused to draw in a breath before continuing—“Potherby recalled a specific instance when the girl tried to protest the late marchioness’s actions toward the girl’s father, and the marchioness lectured her daughter that the marchioness’s actions and those like it were the only way to deal with a husband—that it was necessary to make his heart bleed to keep him in line.”

  Frederick simply stared; even swearing was beyond him.

  After several long moments of staring back, Camber, his stoic expression unrevealing, said, “That’s the sum of what Potherby told me. Nothing I learned from any other source contradicted anything Potherby said, and regarding those matters more widely known, other sources confirmed the man’s stories.”

  Cold fury raged through Frederick, but he had no outlet for it; Stacie’s unnatural mother was long dead. He steepled his fingers before his face and forced himself to replay all Camber had told him to make sure he would remember every word.

  Eventually, he lowered his hands and refocused on Camber, who had remained silent and still. “Thank you. As always, your service has been exemplary. Send in your account—I’ll be doubling the rate as you’ve delivered so quickly and so thoroughly.”

  Camber inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Now”—Frederick reached out, lifted a sheet from a stack to the side of the desk, glanced at it, and held it out to Camber—“returning to matters musical, for your next foray, I would like you to attend this auction in Glasgow and bid for me on the circled item.”

  Camber took the sheet, scanned it, then nodded. “What sort of price should I expect, and what’s your upper limit?”

  Frederick settled to discuss the details of the auction of an old gentleman’s library that contained a very old and rare text on Egyptian music that Frederick was determined to add to his collection.

  Camber jotted notes on the auction notice. “What competition might I have?”

  “I can’t say—that sheet was all the auctioneers put out. An acquaintance in Scotland noticed the item and sent it on to me. How many other collectors might have learned of that volume being amongst what is otherwise dross, I can’t even guess, but there’s always the possibility someone else has heard of it.”

  Someone like Brougham, who no doubt also had acquaintances around the country who knew of his passion.

  Camber met Frederick’s gaze. “You didn’t say how high I should go.”

  After a second of debating, Frederick replied, “I don’t care how high—I’ll leave that in your hands—but I want that book.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Camber rose. “I’ll make sure you get it.”

  With a nod, Frederick dismissed Camber and watched the man leave. When the door shut behind his heavy frame, Frederick leaned back in his chair and let his mind return to what Camber had said of Stacie’s mother.

  As he juggled the various insights Potherby had shared and set them against his own observations, several aspects stood out.

  Manipulation was one such recurring note. In their initial interactions, before he’d agreed to play for her event, Stacie had, he felt certain, thought she was manipulating him. He’d seen through her ploys from the first, not that she had attempted to conceal them—indeed, for someone skilled in the art, she’d been remarkably forthright regarding her machinations; she hadn’t cared that he’d noticed.

  She hadn’t been trying to pull the wool over his eyes but rather to open them. A telling difference, that.

  As it transpired,
he was considered to be an arch-manipulator. His mother, his sisters, and even his close friends would all happily testify as to how easy he found it to nudge people into doing what he wished.

  That skill was one of the reasons he was widely acknowledged as someone who always got his own way.

  But being a manipulator meant one tended to recognize the trait in others—as he had in Stacie and also in Ryder and in Mary, and they had in him. More, it was generally accepted that manipulating a manipulator wasn’t easy and, often, was well-nigh impossible; they knew all the tricks.

  Consequently, while he’d recognized what Stacie was doing, he’d gone along with her promptings for his own reasons, not because she’d succeeded in steering him along.

  He stared unseeing across the room. “But does she know that?”

  Thinking back, he couldn’t be sure that she did, that she’d realized he’d seen through her efforts completely; at the time, if anything, he’d hidden the extent of his awareness from her. It was, therefore, perfectly possible that she thought she had and could manipulate him.

  The more he turned over the pieces of the puzzle Camber had laid before him, he felt increasingly sure that a large part of the reason for Stacie’s aversion to marriage lay in the combination or concatenation of three things: her constantly lauded physical similarity to her mother, the ability to manipulate that she’d inherited from her mother, and her mother’s use of manipulation to harm others, especially her husband.

  Make his heart bleed to keep him in line.

  Just the thought of the impact that concept would have had on a girl as given to caring for others as Stacie made Frederick feel physically ill.

  Regardless, that much, he felt was now clear. Much less clear was how, exactly, those three factors came together in Stacie’s mind to set her so adamantly against marriage.