Autumn Rain

by Anita Mills

  "Told me of it," Leighton corroborated quickly. "Said Ashton's chit was a beauty. And she is."

  "Beware the northern charmer, my dear," Longford warned her. "It's the ones who do not look dangerous that are."

  For a moment, Leighton looked pained. "It ain't me as—" He stopped, then addressed Elinor. "I collect he is disparaging my Scots ancestry again, Lady Kingsley. Got land up there, but it's too cold for my blood. Like Cornwall better. Reminds me of the lay of the land with the rocks and the coast, but the climate's more pleasant." He smiled again. "Have you ever been to Scotland, Lady Kingsley?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't been anywhere," she admitted, warming to his easy manner. "But I should like—"

  "When that Corsican upstart is gone, we'll tour the Continent," Arthur cut in abruptly. "Your pardon, sirs, but we tarry overlong, and it appears the musicians have started playing."

  With one hand on his cane and the other on her elbow, he propelled her past the two men. When they were nearly out of earshot, she heard the earl tell the viscount, "There is none quite as vigilant as an old man with a young wife, I'd say."

  "Feel, for the chit, though," Leighton responded. "Almost indecent. Ought to be a law."

  "She's fifteen, I am told."

  "Still—"

  "I didn't come to ogle the infantry, George—I've business with Ashton before I leave the country."

  Instinctively, Elinor looked for her father, but he seemed to have disappeared. Beside her, her husband motioned to Charles Kingsley, and the boy gulped the last of his punch before coming over.

  "It's the custom for the host to lead the first country dance, my dear, but my leg pains me tonight. I'd watch Charles take you out."

  "Oh, but I—"

  His eyes narrowed. "I am told you have been taught to dance—did Ashton misinform me on that head also?"

  "Also?" she echoed, trying to follow him.

  "He promised you would be a credit to me."

  Stung, she retorted, "I danced as well as any at Miss Roberts's academy, my lord."

  "So I expect to see."

  Not wanting him to know that she'd eavesdropped before, she asked casually, "Why were you surprised to see Lord Longford if Papa invited him?"

  "The man's pride makes him a fool, Elinor. Suffice it to say that he's brought a scandal down on himself, and when it's out, he'll suffer for it. He'll be given the cut direct."

  "What sort of scandal?"

  "It's too sordid for your ears," he said dampeningly. "There you are, Charles—when the first set forms, you are to lead Elinor out."

  "Me, sir?" The boy reddened. "Uh—don't know m'left foot from m'right. Be better if—" He cast about wildly for someone to take his place. "Uh—Crawford— or Pennington—or—Dash it, sir, but I don't dance with females!"

  "Charles—" There was no mistaking the pained tone.

  "Yes, sir."

  "That's better."

  The old man released Elinor's arm and sought one of the chairs that lined the wall. Charles looked helplessly at her. "Hope you don't mind if I count," he muttered. "I ain't no hand at this."

  "Miss Roberts said if one showed spirit, no one would notice the style." Then, perceiving that her husband was beyond hearing, she asked, "How old do you think the earl is?"

  "What earl?"

  "Longford."

  "Don't think—I know. Fellow's five and twenty. Had that from Fenton," he added importantly. "Connected to him—or was." He squinted toward where Longford lounged, a glass held absently in his hand, his mien one of utter boredom, then Charles frowned. "Shocking bad ton." He lowered his voice and leaned closer to speak for her ears alone. "What I know would keep everyone in this room from talking to him."

  "Papa said he was rich."

  "Rich!" he snorted. "Fellow's deuced lucky at the tables! And it don't hurt that he came into this world with a silver spoon stuck in his mouth, I can tell you! Mad Jack's son," he added succinctly, as though that ought to explain everything.

  "Who's Mad Jack?"

  "Was," he corrected her. "He's dead."

  "Then who was he?" she snapped, betraying her irritation.

  "Longford's father."

  "Sometimes, Charles," she told him severely, "I think you are a slowtop."

  "As you are even younger than I, I shall choose to excuse that remark," he retorted. Nonetheless, he explained, "Mad Jack distinguished himself in the American thing—would have been lionized if we had won. Fought under Burgoyne—a colonel, I think. Don't know the whole tale, mind you—before my time, you know. But he was a rich rounder, too, from all I ever heard. Had a real eye for the beauties. And they had an eye for him. I think he fought a duel or two, maybe more, over 'em. Thing was, he never settled on any one of em.

  "But he must've married. There is Longford, after all," she pointed out reasonably.

  "Not a love match. He was as inconstant as his son, I'm told." He looked toward Longford again. "Word to the wise—don't pursue that acquaintance. Grandpapa will not like it."

  "Why? He allowed Papa to invite him."

  "Didn't think he'd come. Devil of a scandal brewing, I can tell you. It ain't going to do nobody any credit to know him. The time is coming when he ain't going to be received anywhere."

  "If he is rich, no doubt he will be forgiven," she observed acidly.

  "Not for this."

  "For what?"

  He looked both ways, then led her to a corner of the room. "Can you hold your tongue?" he asked earnestly. When she nodded, he turned his back to the crowd and whispered, "He is divorcing his countess. For adultery." He'd expected her to recoil in horror, and when she did not, he hissed, "Dash it, but it ain't done!"

  "But if she—"

  "And it ain't like his own slate was clean." His face betrayed his disgust with her lack of reaction. "You are green, ain't you?"

  "I don't see—"

  "A man don't drag his dirty linen in the gutter for the world to see, goose! The Fentons have begged him not to do it—said they'd take her back quietly—but he would not hear of it. Upshot is the both of 'em '11 have to leave the country." He twisted his head to look once more where Longford had stood, but the man was gone. "Dangerous fellow—got a devil of a temper."

  Her curiosity thoroughly piqued, she longed to know more, but the musicians had changed their tune abruptly, striking up the beginning bars to a country dance. Charles grasped her hand and squared his shoulders manfully.

  "Come on—got to get this over and done with," he muttered.

  "Just remember—spirit disguises style," she advised him.

  "It ain't easy to show spirit and count," he shot back.

  As he led her out to join the first set, she could see Arthur Kingsley watching her critically, as though he assessed everything she did. Her chin came up. She'd show him she was not an awkward child.

  "At least it's not one of those formal dances," Charles whispered. "Spirit don't do a thing for them."

  Having failed to discover Thomas Ashton, Lucien de Clare stood watching the dancers, his expression distant and enigmatic. Beside him, Lord Leighton watched also.

  "Girl's a beauty."

  "If you like them that young." Abruptly, the earl straightened and sipped from his glass, his eyes on Elinor Kingsley. "But you are right—she is a beauty—and not in the ordinary style at all, George. Not in the ordinary style at all."

  "I'll wager old Arthur don't remember what to do with her," Leighton observed. "A waste."

  Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Don't squander your pity, George. She'll lead him a merry dance to the grave, and when it's done, she'll be a wealthy widow," he said cynically. "She knows what she is about—or if she does not, that father of hers does."

  "For God's sake, Luce—the chit's a child!" Leighton protested. "Blame Ashton—not her."

  "Poor George. Ever the romantic, aren't you? Well, you are wrong. Females are born with wiles—even that one."

  "Don't see Ashton. If he saw you come in, I'd say he's deter
mined to play least in sight."

  "Yes."

  "Cannot think why he sent you the card if he wasn't—"

  "My dear George, he had not the least expectation I would come," Lucien declared. "It was but a ploy to keep me from pressing him." The music hit the final refrain, and he moved forward to intercept Elinor before she left the floor. Coming between her and the startled boy, he glanced at her wrist. "What—no card? Then I collect you are not promised for the next set, are you?" he murmured.

  "I was getting her some punch," Charles said stiffly. "And my grandfather—"

  "By all means do so."

  It was a curt dismissal, and for a moment, the boy considered making an issue of it, but the earl was already bowing over Elinor's hand. Realizing that his grandfather was more likely to be angered over a scene than anything, Charles grudgingly gave way.

  "My dance, Lady Kingsley?" Lucien de Clare asked her. Even as he spoke, his hand closed over hers, effectively settling the matter. "This week I can still bring you into fashion. Next week I am more like to put you beyond the pale."

  Despite his words, his black eyes were cold, nearly repelling her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught her husband shaking his head, and that decided her. Forcing a smile up at the darkly handsome earl, she nodded. "I should be pleased, my lord."

  It was one thing to practice with a dancing master, or to count out the steps with a boy her own age, but Lucien de Clare was quite another matter. She felt wooden and utterly self-conscious, afraid to speak lest he think her a complete ninnyhammer. All she could think of was how warm, how alive his hands were. How very different, how much more exciting he was than Arthur. But she did not have to worry about appearing accomplished—flirting was apparently not on the wicked earl's mind at all.

  She had scarce begun to relax, to give her body over to the rhythm of the music, when he asked harshly, "Where is your father?"

  "Papa?" She nearly lost her step. "I told you—he's in attendance."

  "When we are done, I shall expect you to find him for me."

  "Oh, but I don't—"

  "No games, my dear—I am in no mood for them." He turned her expertly, then as she came back to face him, he leaned close enough to whisper, "You would not wish Kingsley to know everything, would you? It might throw a spoke in your little wheel."

  She gasped and did lose her place. "Of all the—"

  "I could almost wish you had caught Bell Townsend," he added brutally. "It would have served him well."

  "The fault was not mine, sir," she managed stiffly.

  "I've not forgotten, you know."

  "There is no need to be insulting."

  "Find me your father and I'll acquit you," he offered.

  "I would not know where—"

  "Cut line, Lady Kingsley! I am not here to argue with either of you," He swung her around, then caught her hands to lead her the length of the extremely interested set.

  "Somehow I cannot think you in need of the money, sir."

  "The question is rather one of who owes whom," he retorted.

  "But Papa hasn't—"

  "A gentleman does not play where he cannot pay."

  Even though his fingers were strong and his clasp warm, his manner was aloof, detached even. Aware of the curious glances from the other dancers, she felt her face grow hot, and she wished the music would end.

  "I cannot think why you wished to dance with me," she blurted out finally.

  He favored her with that faint, almost derisive smile, then shrugged. "Well, you are a beauty, you know—not to mention I saw no other way to avoid Kingsley's hanging over your shoulder."

  Mercifully, it was finally over. She would have pulled away, but Longford tucked her hand in his arm. "Not until I see Ashton, I'm afraid."

  "But I don't know where—"

  "You'll find him."

  The rooms around the ballroom were filled, making movement through them difficult. At one point, she could see Arthur Kingsley trying to gain her attention, and she deliberately pretended not to note him. Charles, looking quite harried, threaded his way toward her, but Longford pushed her through a door before they could be caught.

  "Where do you think he would hide?" he asked tersely.

  She hesitated but a moment, then guessed, "Perhaps the library."

  "The library? Why there?"

  "Well," she admitted ruefully, "he seldom reads, I'm afraid—says it gives him the headache. It would be the last place he'd think any to look for him."

  "Where is it?"

  "Across the hall."

  The library itself was dark, almost eerie, with the musty smell of several hundred books mingling with the odor of stale tobacco smoke. As the slice of light from the hall chandelier cast long shadows on the wall, Elinor peered in.

  "Papa—?" she inquired cautiously. "Are you in here?"

  "Shhhh." A solitary figure sat hunched forward in the darkness. "Go away."

  "Is aught amiss, Papa?"

  "I'll be out directly, puss—just resting my eyes."

  The earl stepped past her. "Fortuitous, don't you think, Ashton? Now we can conduct our affairs out of Kingsley's eye—unless, of course, you Would prefer I applied to him."

  "Longford!"

  The earl offered a mocking bow. "Your servant, Thomas," he said softly.

  "What are you doing here?" her father demanded peevishly.

  "Light a candle," Longford ordered.

  "You wasn't supposed to come!"

  His body framed by the light, the earl appeared briefly absorbed in removing a bit of lint from his dark blue coat. When he looked up, his eyebrow rose. "As I recall it, it was you who sent me the card. Or was that merely to fob me off?"

  When her father did not move, the younger man walked to the small fire in the hearth and bent to ignite a bit of kindling. Carrying it with him, he returned to light the brace of candles on the reading table. Shaking the flame out, he dropped the kindling into a dripwell.

  "Well?"

  Her father was going to weasel and she knew it. "Papa—"

  "You keep out of this, puss!" He looked up at Longford defensively. "Roll you for it," he offered.

  "No. I believe it's two thousand, Ashton. If you cannot pay that, you cannot afford to lose four."

  Her father's face went a pasty gray despite the warmth of the candlelight. "Have to wait—I ain't got it. The settlements—"

  "I don't give a damn about your settlements," the earl declared impatiently. "I have not the whole night, sir."

  "Got to wait—Kingsley's clutch-fisted—got me on an allowance, in fact." He could see Longford's jaw tighten ominously. "Dash it, but you are richer n' Croesus, my lord! It's a paltry sum to you! Can't say you are done up, 'cause I'll not believe it!"

  "That, my dear Thomas, is irrelevant." Once again, the softness in the younger man's voice was almost menacing.

  Her father licked his lips nervously. "Give me a week."

  "No."

  "No?" he fairly howled. "It ain't like you got to have it now, is it?"

  "Psssst! You in there, Elinor?" Charles Kingsley's low voice carried from the hall. "Dash it," he hissed, "but it ain't the thing for you to go off with Longford!"

  "You'd best go, puss," her father told her. "Wouldn't do it if Kingsley was to be vexed with you, you know."

  "Elinor?" Charles came in. "Dash it, but you cannot be that green!" Looking past her to the earl, he declared importantly, "Lady Kingsley is a kinswoman, sir, and as such, I cannot allow—"

  Longford shrugged. "With her father for duenna, I cannot think Kingsley can complain." Turning his attention back to Ashton, he sighed. "I'm afraid it's tonight, Thomas. You see, I shall be leaving before the week ends."

  "Send it to London—I promise. Get it to your man of affairs before next quarter day."

  The earl looked pained. "I shall be gone from the country, Ashton. I shan't be in London."

  "Told you he'd have to run!" Charles crowed to her, forgetting himself. "Told
you he couldn't stand the scandal!"

  "Shut your mouth, you young fool!" Thomas Ashton shouted at him. "It's Longford! Don't listen to him, my lord—he don't know what he says."

  Stung, Charles retorted, "I know he's sued Diana Fenton for divorce—had it of her own brother! Going to flee, ain't you?" he directed to Lucien. "Got to!"

  There was an arrested moment as the words hung in the air, then Longford met the boy's eyes. "Actually," he drawled, "I have been given a regiment."

  "You're going to fight Boney?" Charles demanded incredulously.

  The earl inclined his head slightly. "Someone has to, don't you think?"

  "Then you ain't getting the divorce?"

  "This ain't fit for Nell's ears, boy!" Ashton roared. "Take her out of here!"

  "I despise contretemps, Charles," Lord Kingsley announced coldly from the door. "You will take Elinor back to attend our guests. And close the door behind you, if you please."

  The boy flushed to the roots of his hair, and he hung his head. "Your pardon, sir."

  Elinor looked to her father. "Papa—?"

  "You heard both of us, Nell. Go on."

  She nodded, then raised her eyes to the earl. "Godspeed you in the war, my lord."

  As she followed the chastened Charles out, she heard her elderly husband remind her father, "My wife's name is Elinor, sir. Any common housemaid can be called Nell."

  In the hall, she and the boy exchanged looks, and it was obvious that neither of them wished to return to the party rather than hear of Longford. She hung back a moment, and it was all the encouragement Charles needed. Together they leaned against the wall and listened.

  "The war, sir?" they heard Lord Kingsley inquire.

  "Fool cannot leave well enough alone!" her father snorted. "Got to throw decency to the wind and cause a scandal he cannot survive, and damme if he ain't going off to fight the Corsican!"

  "I don't believe either my character or my folly is anyone's concern but my own," Longford said. "The matter is two thousand pounds."

  "Told him I ain't got it," Ashton declared. "Have to wait until your man of affairs settles it, Arthur."

  "Was the debt on the list?" Kingsley asked him.

  "Yes—of course. You will recall—"