It did not help the Countess’s cause that when she was not out and about taking sightseeing forays with Sir Antony, now the January frosts and a bracing February had given way to a warmer if blustery March, she liked nothing better than to spend time in her apartments. With Viscount Fourpaws asleep on her lap she embroidered, sketched or read. Sometimes she was content to curl up in the window seat and watch the traffic and pedestrians in the busy square below her sitting room window. The activities of this vast, noisy city were a never-ending source of fascination for a girl brought up entirely in a quiet corner of Wiltshire.
Yet time alone was precious. Willis spent part of every day tutoring the new Countess in the ways of running a great household. He answered the all-important questions: Which upper servant held the keys to the wine cellar? What was the precedence required at the dinner table? Did a Scottish Dowager Duchess outrank an English Baroness? These questions were easily answered by those brought up from the cradle knowing their place in society, but a complete mystery to the daughter of a country squire. Willis also proved a veritable font of information on important people and places he considered it necessary her ladyship should make it her business to know.
While Sir Antony considered it his duty to keep his best friend’s wife entertained, Jane’s stepbrother, Tom, who had returned to London from Bristol at the end of February, came to afternoon tea every second day. He told her all about his latest adventures out and about in the metropolis, but in truth kept a brotherly eye on her.
Tom often brought Billy Church with him to afternoon tea, and sometimes Arthur Ellis would join them. And when Hilary Wraxton and Pascoe Church made weekly visits on the pretext of enquiring how Viscount Fourpaws was getting along, Jane found herself in her sitting room surrounded by half a dozen young men. This was how Sir Antony discovered her when he poked his powdered head in to share a cup of tea, and quickly joined the group, a wary eye on Pascoe Church. But he was soon caught up in Tom and Billy’s retelling of their experiences in the riots at Covent Garden Theatre, and when Hilary Wraxton was invited to share one of his poems with the group, Sir Antony was laughing along with the rest of the assembled company.
Salt never visited his wife’s public rooms during the day, but most evenings he dined at home. Yet he and Jane never dined alone. Sir Antony, despite residing at the Arlington Street Townhouse, had most of his dinners at Salt’s Grosvenor Square mansion. Some nights Arthur Ellis joined them, usually to go over Salt’s appointments of the next day, and once a week Diana St. John deigned to come to dinner with her two children. On other days, she made a point of arriving in company when Salt had open house dinners and at least ten of his colleagues and friends sat down at his table.
On these occasions, Lady St. John sat herself on Salt’s left hand and was content to leave Ron and Merry to the Countess. She would then spend the entire meal monopolizing the conversation with witty anecdotes about politics and people unknown to Jane. She was determined to outshine the new Countess, but Jane never rose to her bait, showed not the slightest annoyance that her husband’s cousin dominated the assembled company, or that the Earl, Sir Antony and Lady St. John frequently indulged in a politically-charged argument for the sake of it.
Instead, Jane quietly listened to the conversations around the table, gave her opinion if asked, and spent most of the meal listening to Ron and Merry prattle on about their days. She took a keen interest in their activities and had become such a favorite of theirs since the hide-and-go-seek incident under the dining room table that when they visited their uncle on Tuesdays, they would asked to be excused from the bookroom so that they might visit the Countess’s sitting room, where, as they told the Earl, they were permitted to play with Viscount Fourpaws and listen to sickly poetry delivered by a fop in an iron wig.
Diana St. John was all for her children annoying the Countess. It meant she could monopolize the Earl’s time. It was on one such open Tuesday, with the cold anteroom full of hopeful men patiently waiting the Earl’s pleasure and Ron and Merry gone upstairs, that Diana half-reclined amongst the cushions on the chaise longue by the warmth from the fireplace closest to the Earl, who sat writing at his mahogany desk, his secretary standing silent at his left shoulder.
Her velvet petticoats, richly-embroidered with silver thread, fell in a sweep to the floor and she had kicked off her matching mules, her stockinged toes pointed to the flames. Her careful coiffure rested against a closed fist, a fat auburn ringlet falling across her low-cut décolletage, while she languidly fluttered a filigreed ivory fan and prattled on about the latest on-dits swirling about drawing rooms concerning the Princess Augusta’s affair with Lord Bute.
This was how Sir Antony discovered the occupants of the bookroom when he put a diamond shoe buckle across the warm threshold. That his sister was holding court did not surprise him; that his cousin continued to indulge her did. He raised an eyebrow at the low cut to her bodice that revealed the dark pink tinge of her nipples, and the manner in which she reclined on the chaise was a clear invitation to seduce. That his friend continued to write without once looking up, and was providing monosyllabic replies to her questions, was evidence enough of his level of interest. It never ceased to amaze Sir Antony that for an intelligent woman, his sister was a complete dunce when it came to the feelings of their cousin the Earl.
“Good God! It’s a Tuesday and you’re wearing your eyeglasses,” Sir Antony exclaimed in awe, making his presence known with an outburst that was far from the measured question he had had in mind to ask.
“Oh! So you are,” Diana commented with surprise, a glance at her brother who had sat uninvited opposite her.
Salt peered over his gold rims, then returned to reading the final paragraph before putting his signature to the document. He stood to allow his secretary to take his place to set the ink with a sprinkle of pounce powder, and came around to sit on a corner of his desk, eyeglasses still perched on the end of his long bony nose. “It appears that I was being stubbornly unreasonable about wearing my eyeglasses in public—”
“You were,” agreed Sir Antony.
“Thank you, Tony—and that, so I am informed, poor eyesight is nothing of which to be ashamed—”
“It isn’t. Sensible advice.”
The Earl’s lips twitched. “—when I am perfect in every other way.”
Sir Antony grinned. “Ah! Well, I’ll leave that subjective estimation to your fair and frank admirer.”
Salt gave a huff of embarrassed laughter. “Yes, she is bruisingly frank.”
Diana St. John glanced from one male face to the other with no idea they were referring to the Countess. She sat up with a frisson of expectation, completely misreading the mood. “How unfair of you not to tell me Salt’s latest interest!” she pouted at her brother then looked at the Earl. “So who is it? Jenny? Frances? Margaret?”
Salt removed his eyeglasses and pocketed them, a glance over his shoulder at Ellis. “Leave the rest. I believe you are wanted elsewhere. We can deal with the Rockingham papers later this afternoon.”
Sir Antony took the opportunity to glare at his sister and shake his powdered head, but Diana St. John was oblivious to the warning and leapt right in. “Oh, Salt, please don’t tell me you’ve made that Morton creature your latest interest! I couldn’t bear it. She’ll positively gloat when I next see her in the Mall.”
“I wasn’t about to tell you anything of the sort, my dear,” the Earl said flatly, all humor gone. He addressed Sir Antony. “I presume you are also wanted elsewhere?”
“Oh! So you hadn’t forgotten your engagement this afternoon?”
“Not at all. Were you sent to fetch me?”
“No.”
“You perhaps presumed I had forgotten? For shame, Tony!”
Sir Antony smiled. Inwardly he was jumping for joy. It was something the Countess had let slip on one of their many excursions beyond the Grosvenor Square mansion that alerted him to the favorable turn of events within the Earl’s househo
ld. He had become very fond of Jane and he genuinely enjoyed her company for its own sake. That she loved the Earl, he was in no doubts. Being a romantically-minded young man he hoped that one day her feelings for his cousin would be reciprocated.
A sennight ago she had inadvertently revealed that she and the Earl had begun spending their evenings after dinner in the bookroom, where her husband was teaching her to play at chess. A small domestic detail in itself, but knowing the Earl as he did, Sir Antony saw this gesture as a huge hurdle for the matrimonial harmony within the Salt Hendon household. Which would mean he was a step closer to fulfilling his own matrimonial plans, his motives being not entirely altruistic. And just then he heard the name of the very object of his desire and dreams. Shaking his mind free of romantic ruminations, he heard his sister say in all seriousness, as she slipped on her mules,
“But surely you cannot have any objections to George Rutherford as a suitable match for your sister? He is worth fifteen thousand a year, not a penny less, and has an estate in Ireland that’s the size of Surrey! Caroline could do worse.”
“Much worse. But she can do better.”
“Got anyone in mind?” Sir Antony asked, and inwardly cursed himself for he heard the edge to his own voice.
Salt regarded him steadily. “No. But when I do, you will be the first to know, Tony.”
Diana shut her fan with a snap. “At almost eighteen, Caroline is practically on the shelf—”
“—where she will remain until her twenty-first birthday and not a day before.”
Sir Antony made his cousin a small bow of understanding. “Three years is not such a stretch when she has the rest of her life to be married.” And abruptly changed the subject. “We had best not keep her ladyship waiting. I believe the entertainments are due to begin on the hour in the nursery.”
Diana St. John could barely say the word, but curiosity got the better of her. “N-Nursery? What entertainments?”
“Surely Ron and Merry told you all about it, Di?”
She shrugged a bare shoulder at her brother. “Possibly. They are always prattling on about inconsequentialities—it gives one the headache. None of it bears remembering.”
Salt paused, a liveried footman holding wide the door, and regarded her steadily. “It is the anniversary of their father’s birth. Had he lived, St. John would have turned four-and-thirty today.”
ELEVEN
SUCH WAS THE CACOPHONY coming from behind the double doors that led into the rooms designated as the nursery, that it brought Salt up short, Sir Antony and Diana St. John at his back. But it was not the noise, it was this section of the house that made him hesitate. He had not set foot on the third floor since inspecting the house just before purchase some four years ago. He could not even remember the configuration of the rooms, how many there were or how they had been furnished, if indeed they contained any furniture at all. He seemed to recall the selling agent telling him that with a coat of fresh paint, pretty wallpaper with matching curtains, and a good fire in the grates, the rooms would do very well indeed for a brood of growing noble children.
He had not given the rooms another thought, until now. He had even dismissed as farcical Diana’s refusal to mention the rooms by their designation as a theatrical means of protecting any feelings of inadequacy he had at being unable to father a child. Yet, now faced with crossing the threshold, he had a twinge that Diana’s affected display of refusal was not so melodramatic after all, for it seemed laughable to be holding a birthday memoriam for a dead father in a nursery that would remain for him as silent as the grave.
Still, he could not disappoint Ron and Merry.
He had two fingers to the door handle when Diana pushed past him in a crush of petticoats to fling wide the doors. She misinterpreted his hesitation for embarrassment at being forced to enter a wasted nursery. Her own smoldering anger that the Countess had somehow deliberately set out to taunt her by using the very rooms she so despised was enough to make her drop her guard and speak without thought to her words or her audience.
The door banging hard against the wallpapered wall did not stop the chatter and movement. Those who heard Lady St. John’s outburst above the din dropped their jaws, and a few little faces crumpled with fright at the sight of the angry lady. In one sweep, Diana took in the assembled company, adults taking tea and seedy cake, while children played skittles or statues under the guidance of their nannies and tutors at one end of the long room. All were happy and content and enjoying themselves. The warmth and color, the freshly-painted walls and upholstered furniture, the Turkey rugs covering the floorboards where small children took their first steps and chubby babies crawled, all made her seethe with resentment. Then she recognized the young woman standing beside Jane and her hazel eyes widened with new knowledge, then narrowed to slits of mischief.
She saw the Countess before Jane saw her.
“Well! How like you to unsettle his lordship’s household with a pathetic display of domestic felicity!” and with a hand to her throat and a look of shocked disbelief that would have done any actress proud, she turned to the Earl with a swish of her petticoats to say in a loud whisper, “There’s Lady Elisabeth Bute that was. The silly creature has invited the Bute sisters!”
Sir Antony had seen the married daughters of the Earl’s political rival almost upon entering the room, and though it raised his eyebrows in surprise he was not so dismissive or so accusatory. How was Jane to know the connection? Both young ladies were married women, and thus used their husband’s surname. Their presence in the house of their father’s political nemesis was indication enough that they looked upon Jane with great favor, and were prepared to weather the displeasure of their statesmen father by visiting her home, than it did about the Countess of Salt Hendon’s lack of political acumen. Sir Antony was surprised his sister could be so blind to the gesture. Yet, he thought with a depressed sigh of resignation, where Salt was concerned it was his sister who was the simpleton.
Jane did not catch the content of Diana St. John’s outburst, only her derisory tone. She had been in conversation with Lady Elisabeth Bute Sedley, whose much-admired newborn son was cradled in her arms, and because Lady Elisabeth’s two-year-old daughter was intent on seeking her mother’s undivided attention with as much chattering as possible. A grubby fist was clutched to Jane’s petticoats, while a nurse tried to untangle the chubby fingers free from the delicate silk. Thus when Jane swiveled on a silk-slippered foot, baby cradled in her arms, it was not in answer to Diana St. John’s spiteful remark but in expectation of seeing her husband.
Her blue eyes lit up and her smile widened, but fell away when Salt merely blinked at her as if she was a stranger. When she saw him sway, face blanched as white as the elaborately tied cravat about his throat, she carefully placed the sleeping infant into the waiting arms of its wet-nurse, scooped up the two-year-old who was taken away by her nurse, and scurried across the crowded room to his side.
Sir Antony had Salt by the elbow. “It’s all right, dear fellow. I have you.”
“It’s… I’ll be fine directly,” the Earl muttered, mortified to be so weak-minded as to be affected by such a trifle as the sight of Jane with a baby in her arms and another tugging at her skirts.
He swallowed and took a deep breath, and for want of something to mask his momentary feebleness, he glanced about the room, seeing people without seeing faces. But his heart would not quiet and continued to pound hard against his chest, and no wonder. He had suffered a shock. The recurring dream he had been experiencing every night for a fortnight had come to life before his very eyes. Not entirely accurate, for in his dream (or was it a nightmare?) Jane was heavily pregnant. But the infant in her arms and the child clinging to her skirts were just as he had conjured them up in his disturbed sleep. So vivid and repetitive was this dream that one night he had woken in a lather of perspiration and immediately escaped to his own rooms to douse his body with cold water.
The very next night he had stayed away
from Jane’s rooms, and the night after that a late parliamentary sitting had given him a reason to dine with Sir Antony and spend the night at his Arlington Street townhouse. Alone in a cold bed, staring up through the darkness at the plastered ceiling, he had ruminated over the reasons for the recurring dream, and come to the realization that it was guilt that haunted him, guilt at marrying Jane when he knew very well he could not give her children. He had denied her motherhood to serve his own selfish need. Guilt was eating away at him. He who had spent his life commanding and receiving at will felt utterly helpless for the first time in his life. He had no idea what he could do about it, and that made him utterly miserable.
“You are just in time for the puppet show, my lord,” Jane said brightly, as if nothing was amiss, but exchanged a worried glance with Sir Antony, who had relinquished the Earl’s elbow to allow Jane to take his arm. “Mr. Wraxton was all for commencing the afternoon’s entertainments but Ron and Merry would not listen to his entreaties. They said we must wait for you, and so we have.”
The crowd parted to allow the Earl and Countess to pass to the far end of the room, and then closed ranks, swallowing them up in a sea of silk before Diana St. John could follow. That she was shown the backs of these perfumed and patched parents of precious brats did not greatly bother her, only that they had dared to side with the Countess against her. As it so happened, being left stranded at the back of the room gave her the perfect opportunity to slip away unseen to seek out the Countess’s maid.
Jane guided Salt to a corner of the room where the adults had seated themselves on an arrangement of ladder back chairs, in front of which were half a dozen children cross-legged on plump cushions—all before a raised platform that had upon it a marionette theater. Nurses, nannies, and tutors stood off to one side with their smaller charges and babes in arms, while servants in livery scurried about with food and drink on silver trays for members of the audience.
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