by Balogh, Mary
“I would rather it not be known yet,” he said, and picked up one of the remaining invitations from the pile. “This one is for a masquerade. A costume party. Ought I to attend? And must I acquire some sort of costume if I do?”
She read it. “Ah,” she said. “Yes, this will be a respectable one. Some masquerades are not, you know, but are merely an excuse for vulgarity or worse. But everyone loves a masquerade. This is bound to be well attended. And you must certainly dress up. You will stand out like a sore thumb if you do not.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “I can go as a sore thumb?”
Lady Vickers laughed heartily. “You would certainly be noticed,” she said. “Let me put another scone on your plate.”
Jessica was looking forward to Elizabeth and Colin’s party, which they had arranged to welcome Alexander and Wren back to London. She expected that it would be a small gathering, primarily for the Westcott family and their close connections. But it would be a pleasant change from the rather hectic pace of the more crowded social events she had been attending almost daily since the Parley ball. There would probably be a few other guests from outside the family, otherwise the event would hardly be called a party, but they would be friends, people with whom she would almost certainly be familiar and comfortable.
Mr. Rochford was already showing a marked preference for her. He had stayed by her side for rather longer than was strictly polite at a soiree she had attended two evenings ago, the day after the visit to Richmond Park. He had engaged her in exclusive conversation almost the whole time, making it difficult for anyone else to join them and form a group. He had come to Avery’s box at the theater during the intermission last evening to pay his respects and had ended up paying them almost exclusively to her, though he had bowed to everyone else first and had kissed both her mother’s hand and Anna’s. He had remained until the play was actually resuming. Avery had got to his feet with all the appearance of indolence and held the door of the box open as a hint for him to depart. He was handsome, charming, and . . . oh, and all those other things she had noticed from the start. She ought to be delighted by his attentions, given the fact that this year she was supposedly looking in earnest for a husband. She was delighted. She just wished he would not try quite so hard.
Which was totally illogical of her. Had she not accused Mr. Thorne of not trying hard enough? She had not set eyes upon that gentleman since he handed her down from his curricle outside Archer House on their return from Richmond and she had swept inside without a backward glance. She had embarrassing memories of that afternoon and was quite happy not to have seen him again since. What on earth had possessed her to challenge him to romance her if he wished to have a chance with her? He was obviously not going to accept the challenge—thank heaven. Except that each morning since, he had sent her a single long-stemmed pink rose.
She had laughed aloud the first time. The rose had been lying across her linen napkin when she arrived for breakfast, a small card tucked beneath it with the single word Thorne scrawled boldly across it.
“Oh, do not laugh at the poor man, Jessica,” Anna had urged, though she had been laughing too. “There is something impossibly romantic about a single rose.”
And that, of course, had been the whole point. But it was a sort of ironic romantic gesture, for of course it was meant to be compared with the gigantic bouquet Mr. Rochford had sent her the morning after the Parley ball.
“The man has a sense of humor,” Avery had commented—though he had seemed not to make the connection with the bouquet. “He is drawing attention to the fact that he is the thorn to your rose, Jess. I hope you are suitably affected.”
“Oh, I am,” Jessica had assured him, picking up the rose by the stem, careful to avoid the thorns, and bringing the bud to her nose. She closed her eyes briefly as she inhaled the heady summer scent of it.
She had not expected him to have a sense of humor. Except that there had been that smile . . .
“Mr. Thorne is said to be a wealthy man,” her mother had commented. “He must also be a miserly man, Jessica, if all he can send after you honored him with several hours of your time yesterday is one rose.” But she had been laughing too.
When the second rose arrived the day after and the third this morning, Jessica had taken them to her room without comment. She had already pressed the first one between two heavy books without waiting for it to bloom fully. It was too perfect to be allowed simply to bloom and die.
He had not come to the house again or been at either the soiree or the theater. She wondered how long he would keep sending her pink roses. Why was he doing it? Was this his idea of romancing her? Was it working? She would be very happy to learn that he had left London. It would be embarrassing to meet him again.
In the meanwhile there was the family party, at which she would be safe from the determined courtship of Mr. Rochford and the elusive romancing—if that indeed was his motive in sending the roses—of Mr. Thorne. Goodness, life had not been this complicated for years.
Elizabeth and Colin’s large drawing room was already half full when Jessica arrived with her mother and Anna and Avery. She greeted them with hugs, hugged Alexander, and took both Wren’s hands in her own and squeezed them.
“Every time I hear of you going to Staffordshire to check on your glassworks, I am inspired,” she said. “And envious. It is why you were late coming to London, Elizabeth told us. You look wonderful. The work must agree with you.”
“It is lovely to be back here,” Wren told her, “and to see everyone again. Christmas seems forever ago.”
Jessica spotted her grandmother and Great-aunt Edith sitting side by side across the room and went to hug them both. She smiled at Miss Boniface, Great-aunt Edith’s companion, who went everywhere with her on the strength of the fact that she was a relative of Great-aunt Edith’s late husband. Cousin Boris was chatting with them too, as was Adrian Sawyer, Viscount Dirkson’s son. Jessica hugged her cousin and greeted Mr. Sawyer with a warm smile. She hugged Peter, Boris’s younger brother, when he joined them and asked him if he had had any waltzing lessons lately. Estelle, she saw when she looked around, was over by one of the windows in a group of young people that included Bertrand, Estelle’s twin brother, and Charlotte Overleigh, formerly Charlotte Rigg, Estelle’s friend, and . . .
Oh.
And Mr. Thorne.
Oh dear.
Whoever had thought of inviting him? Elizabeth? He was still being talked about wherever one went, of course, though Jessica was not quite sure why. Yes, he was a kinsman of Lady Vickers and also her godson and Sir Trevor’s. But did anyone know for sure that he really had acquired wealth during his years in America and was not in reality a lying adventurer? From whom exactly had he recently inherited property and fortune here in England? And where in England? In retrospect, Jessica realized he had been very vague in his answers to her questions. Or perhaps she had not asked the right questions or enough of them. Nevertheless, the ton appeared to be accepting him at his word even though everyone was also still intrigued by the mystery surrounding his sudden appearance in London. They were enchanted by him.
And he was here. At Elizabeth and Colin’s supposedly select party. He caught her eye across the room and inclined his head in greeting.
Her evening was ruined.
But if you want a chance with me, then you will . . . romance me.
If her cheeks turned any hotter, they would surely burst into flames.
Fortunately Cousin Althea, Elizabeth and Alexander’s mother, moved into her line of vision and cut out Mr. Thorne. She was smiling as she kissed Jessica’s cheek. “You do look lovely in that particular shade of green, Jessica,” she said. And it was only at that moment that Jessica noticed she had a young gentleman with her. “You know Mr. Rochford, I believe?”
Oh. Oh, oh, and oh again. An evening doubly ruined—which was a strange thought to be having under the circumstances.
“I do.” She smiled. “How do you do, Mr. Roc
hford?”
“Considerably better than I did a minute ago,” he said, making her his usual elegant bow and favoring her with the full force of his dazzling smile. “And Mrs. Westcott took the words out of my mouth. You should always wear green.”
“Thank you,” she said. She would gain fame as a walking tree.
“I see that Matilda and Charles have arrived,” Cousin Althea said. “Do please excuse me.”
And Jessica was left alone with Mr. Rochford. Again.
“I was exceedingly gratified when Lady Hodges invited me to her party,” he said. “The invitation card described it as a select gathering to welcome the return to town of the Earl and Countess of Riverdale. You would not have received a formal invitation, of course, Lady Jessica. You are a Westcott through the Dowager Duchess of Netherby, your mother, I understand. I believe most of the guests here this evening are either Westcotts or have a direct familial connection to them. I am deeply honored to have been included among those who are neither. I wonder to whom I am indebted.” He gave her an arch look that was clearly meant to be significant.
Jessica could hazard a guess. He was a young and handsome man. He was about to be very well connected indeed. Before the summer was out his father would almost certainly be the Earl of Lyndale, all the formality of declaring the incumbent earl officially deceased over with. He had been determinedly singling her out for attention. The Westcotts, many of whom she knew were concerned about her continued single state, could always be depended upon to intervene whenever it occurred to them that one of their number might need a helping hand. She would almost wager upon it that they had decided to do some active matchmaking. She could just picture the usual committee—Grandmama, Aunt Matilda, Aunt Mildred, her mother, Cousin Althea, possibly Aunt Viola and Great-aunt Edith—convening over tea somewhere and putting their heads together to decide what could be done to prod dear Jessica into marriage with this extremely eligible and personable young future earl who would surely turn his attentions elsewhere if she did not snatch him up before it could happen.
“I would imagine,” Jessica said in answer to his implied inquiry, “it is my cousin Elizabeth herself—Lady Hodges, that is—whom you have to thank.”
“I have already expressed my gratitude to her,” he said. “I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather be this evening than just precisely where I am.”
His tone made it clear that just precisely where he was meant not Elizabeth and Colin’s house in general or even the drawing room in particular, but this precise spot in the drawing room, alone with Jessica, space all about them even though there were enough family and guests to more than half fill the rest of the room. Even Grandmama and Great-aunt Edith, surrounded by people who had come to greet them, seemed to be some distance away, though Jessica could not recall moving away from them. But this was not going to happen again, she decided, not as it had at the soiree a few evenings ago. She had no wish to spend the whole evening virtually alone with Mr. Rochford in plain sight of a couple of dozen or so interested family members and others tactfully keeping their distance. If she was going to allow the courtship of Mr. Rochford, it was going to be on her own terms. She was not going to let her family and the whole ton start to see them as an established couple and then find that she had been backed into a corner from which there was no easy escape.
She reached for a glass of wine from the tray held by a passing servant, though she did not really want it, and at the same time took a few steps to her right, bringing herself into the orbit of a group that included Alexander and Elizabeth and Cousin Peter and . . . oh, and Estelle and Mr. Thorne. Mr. Rochford moved with her.
So much for her relaxed evening with family and close friends, she thought rather crossly before seeing the funny side of the situation. It was as though some malicious fate had learned of her decision to choose a husband this year and had sent her two candidates, both of whom had shown interest in her without any effort to attract on her part and both of whom made her want to run for the hills or some deep, dark cave or her bedchamber with an extra bolt added to the door.
It seemed she was not ready for marriage after all—and perhaps never would be.
She caught Mr. Thorne’s eye over the rim of her glass, and he raised his eyebrows. Why was it she had the feeling he had detected her inner amusement—albeit a rueful amusement? There was no hint of a smile on his face.
“I cannot tell you,” Mr. Rochford was saying, addressing Elizabeth, “how honored I am to have been included in your guest list in what I can see is essentially a family gathering. I suppose I must grow accustomed to being treated with such deference. It still seems much like a dream that soon my father will be Earl of Lyndale in name as well as in fact. And that I will be his heir.”
“We are delighted you were able to come,” Elizabeth said, smiling warmly at him.
“In fact?” Mr. Thorne asked. “Your father will be earl in name as well as in fact?”
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Rochford said. “Brierley Hall was falling into chaos and disrepair in the absence of a firm-handed master. Servants, neighbors, hangers-on—they were all taking advantage of the fact. Much as my father wanted to cling to hope, even after all hope was realistically gone, that my cousin would be found alive and would return to take responsibility for his inheritance, he was eventually forced to acknowledge that it was not going to happen. Much against the grain, and knowing he might be accused of doing what he was not yet legally entitled to do, he took up residence at Brierley a while ago and began the difficult task of putting the estate to rights. It has all been very distressing for him—for all of us. Yet he still holds out hope that at the last moment Gabriel will reappear to lift the burden from his shoulders.”
“Ah,” Mr. Thorne said. “Gabriel, was he? That is my name too. I have never encountered another, though I am not encountering one in person now, alas, am I? Unlike your father, you are sure he is dead?”
“There can be little doubt,” Mr. Rochford said, shaking his head sadly. “Though I hope I am wrong. I am afraid my cousin was ironically named, however. He was very far from being an angel.”
“Oh, he was a rogue, then, was he?” Peter asked, grinning, his interest noticeably piqued.
“One hates to wash one’s family linen in public,” Mr. Rochford said with a sigh, and then proceeded to do just that. “I am afraid he was a severe trial and disappointment to the late earl, his uncle, who had taken him in out of the kindness of his heart after his father died. A little wildness in a boy, especially an orphaned lad, is to be expected, of course, and is not a bad thing in itself. But as he grew older he grew increasingly wild and unmanageable, even vicious at times. My father’s cousin, the earl, hushed up some of the worst of his excesses in the hope, I suppose, that he would learn from his mistakes and grow to a more sober maturity. Finally, however, there was a scandal that could not be silenced. It involved the daughter of a neighbor and ended up with the death of her brother. There could, of course, be other explanations than the obvious ones, but Gabriel fled the very same night as the death and no one has heard from or of him since. Would an innocent man flee instead of remaining to clear his name or do the decent thing?”
“It sounds to me, then,” Estelle said, “as if it might be better for all concerned if he is dead. Did you know him well, Mr. Rochford?”
“Well enough,” he said with a sigh. “He was a likable boy. I was fond of him. It grieved me to see his wildness turn into vice—if indeed that is what happened. I do not wish to judge him despite all the evidence. I certainly do not wish him dead. People do change, after all. And perhaps there was an explanation he did not stay to offer. Selfdefense, perhaps? I would rather give him the benefit of any small doubt there may be than condemn him. Like my father, I wish even now he would reappear to claim his inheritance.”
No he did not, Jessica thought, opening her fan and plying it before her face. The return of the legitimate earl from the dead would be disastrous for Mr. Rochford. It would kill
all his expectations. And it was clear for all to see that he was eagerly anticipating those expectations. If he hated to wash his family linen in public, why had he done so? She felt intensely uncomfortable.
“After seven years it does seem unlikely,” Alexander said briskly. “Your father is coming to London later in the Season, I understand, Rochford? I shall look forward to making his acquaintance. I do not believe I have had the pleasure of meeting him anytime in the past. And you have recently arrived in London, Thorne? From America, I have heard? I trust you had a decent voyage?”
“Thank you. I did,” Mr. Thorne said. “There were no severe storms to put me in fear of my life. Or any cutthroat pirates either. It was all, indeed, rather tedious, which is the best one can hope for of any lengthy journey.”
“You lived in Boston?” Elizabeth asked, smiling. “I suppose you left friends behind you there. They must have been sorry to see you leave.”
“I was happy there for a number of years,” he said, and went on to describe some of the social life of Boston.
Jessica was grateful to Alexander and Elizabeth for so effortlessly turning the conversation away from a topic that ought not to have been aired for public consumption. She felt oddly guilty for Mr. Rochford’s questionable manners, as though she was responsible for his being here—as perhaps she was in a sense.
His name was Gabriel, Jessica thought. Mr. Thorne’s, that was. He had spent thirteen years in America, having fled there after some upset with his family. He had come back, reluctantly, to claim a recently acquired inheritance. How long ago was it that the other Gabriel, Gabriel Rochford, had fled after presumably assaulting a neighbor’s daughter and then murdering her brother? Though murder might be too strong a word if there had been a fair fight. Or a duel. Or, as Mr. Rochford himself had allowed, it had been self-defense. If Mr. Gabriel Rochford did not appear within the next few months, he would be declared legally dead and his kinsman would become the new earl.
An inheritance brought me back. And a family situation that necessitated my being here in person.