“Climbing down off your pedestal wasn’t that difficult, was it?”
“Difficult?” he replied, nostrils aquiver, trying his best to look offended. Yet, he couldn’t stop a lopsided grin. “Not if you are there to catch me should I have the misfortune to take a tumble from such a lofty height.”
She smiled at his reflection. “Always.”
“Then you had best come to the tennis court when you return from viewing pictures. Tom is sure to beat me at my own game, given I have had less than three hours sleep in the past twenty-four.”
But it wasn’t Tom who next knocked the Earl from the dizzying heights of his noble plinth; it was his discarded mistress, Elizabeth, Lady Outram, come to call on the young Countess of Salt Hendon to open her eyes to the veracity of life as the wife of a lothario nobleman.
~
“MR WRAXTON? Mr. Wraxton? Are you awake, sir?”
It was Arthur Ellis and he was gently nudging Hilary Wraxton’s Malacca cane with the toe of his shoe, hoping to wake the poet. Hilary’s Wraxton’s snoring was so loud that his sonorous nasal blasts reverberated in the cavernous vestibule off the downstairs withdrawing room and out into the expanse of the main entrance hall. Lined with marble statues of Greek gods and Roman emperors, and portraits of long dead noble Sinclairs, the vestibule was not a room in the cozy sense of the word that one would want to curl up in and fall asleep, but more a museum where one sauntered about to view the impressive life-size busts of the Emperor Augustus, Marcus Aurelius and Caesar, or gazed at the Elizabethan and Stuart full-length pictures of previous Earls of Salt Hendon.
The secretary had just come from his employer’s bookroom where the Russian ambassador and two of his equerries, Lord Salt, and Sir Antony had been ensconced, speaking in the French tongue for three hours. Mr. Ellis prided himself on his fluency in the French language, after all he had a first in languages from Oxford, but the flow of conversation had tested his linguistic powers and given him the headache. His Excellency the Count had stayed to nuncheon and enjoyed himself so much that he invited his noble host and Sir Antony to dine with him the following week. And to bring the oh-so-vivacious Lady Caroline Sinclair with them, and of course Lady Salt, whose company he had not had the pleasure, although he had the pleasure of an introduction at the Richmond House ball—such astonishing beauty was forever remembered.
Salt had graciously accepted His Excellency’s invitation, though privately he was not so certain Caroline would be alive to see the light of another day, he so wanted to strangle the life out of her for coming into the bookroom uninvited. His annoyance was tempered by Sir Antony’s acute observation that Caroline’s behavior was no less reprehensible than that of his own dear sister Diana, who made it her business to interrupt the Earl’s at-home days every Tuesday; and Diana didn’t have the excuse of the overconfidence of youth and naivety. And as Count Vorontsov seemed very taken with Caroline’s enthusiasm for all things Russian, and the fact she was attentive and laughed very prettily at all His Excellency’s long-winded stories, Sir Antony told Salt he really had nothing to complain about. To which the Earl wanted to retort that love was blind and the sooner Sir Antony ordered Caroline to stop encouraging the attentions of Captain Big-Boots Beresford, married her, and swept her off to St. Petersburg, the better for his peace of mind.
Peace of mind.
That’s what he craved most these days. The thought of the Easter break and taking Jane and the children to Wiltshire to muck about on the estate occupied his thoughts. As the butler and two footmen helped the Count with his sword and sash and into his mink-lined greatcoat, Sir Antony was having a last word with one of the Russian equerries. Salt nodded distractedly when Sir Antony mentioned he was taking Caroline for a turn about the park for some fresh air before dinner. He came out of his abstraction when he saw his secretary disappear into the vestibule, from where emanated the discordant sounds of what could only be described as a muffled bugle, but was in fact heavy snoring.
“Salt! Good! Wanted a word,” Hilary Wraxton announced, wide-awake and staring beyond the secretary at the Earl who strode into the vestibule with a quick look around. “Here! You! Be useful. Hold this,” he ordered the secretary and pushed his Malacca cane onto Arthur Ellis. From an inner pocket of his blue watered-silk waistcoat he produced a thick sheaf of small parchment squares tied up with a pink ribbon. “Poems for her ladyship. One a week for a year,” he announced proudly and held them out to the Earl. “Would have penned more; no time. Pascoe says I can write more from Paris and Venice and Constantinople, if we get that far.”
“Thank you, Hilary,” the Earl said placidly, accepting the wad of poetical writings and instantly handing them off to his secretary. “Why must her ladyship have one a week?”
“She looks forward to my recitals. Told me so. I admit reading ’em herself ain’t the same as me reading ’em to her, but she’ll just have to bear up under the disappointment.”
Salt suppressed a grin. “Yes. She will be disappointed. Paris. Venice. Constantinople?”
“Pascoe is taking me, well us. Actually, come to think on it,” he mused with a frown, as if the idea had just popped into his head, “I invited myself. Lizzie don’t mind. Says I’ll be company for Pascoe when she’s sleeping. Sleeps a lot, Lizzie. Dare say that’s the price of fading beauty: Beauty sleep at two in the afternoon. You know the type, Salt. Pascoe’s turn to put up with her.” He gave a sudden snort of laughter that startled the secretary into dropping the Malacca cane, and it clattered loudly on the marble floor. “Sporting of you to let Pascoe have her all to himself. Between us, he’s always been ears over toes for Lizzie; wouldn’t let on to you. Not while you and she were—you know…”
The Earl wondered if Hilary Wraxton was being more obtuse than usual or whether it was just overtiredness on his part that made the poet’s conversation even more unfathomable. But mention of Lizzie and Pascoe in the same breath and Salt realized the poet was talking about Elizabeth, Lady Outram, whom he had not thought about since he left her drawing room in Half Moon Street the day before his marriage to Jane three months ago; it could well have been another lifetime.
“When do you leave for the Continent, Hilary?”
The poet jerked his powdered head at the closed double doors leading into the blue withdrawing room, where stood two liveried footmen. “Any moment I shouldn’t wonder. Coach loaded up with portmanteaux; horses hitched for Dover. No sooner had I made my bow to Lady Salt than Pascoe shoves me out here to kick me heels with the cold marble so she can have a private word with her ladyship. What about is anybody’s guess. Females!”
“My lord,” Arthur Ellis interrupted, “there is the tennis match… Mr. Allenby arrived some thirty minutes ago. Jenkins sent him directly to the tennis court…”
“Thank you, Arthur. Who is having a private word with Lady Salt?”
The poet seemed not to hear the question because he had suddenly noticed that Arthur Ellis was holding tight to his Malacca cane and grabbed it from him with a scowl, as if the secretary had meant to keep it. “Gift from Pascoe. Can’t have it. He’ll have my guts for garters.”
“Wraxton! Who is with Lady Salt?” the Earl demanded, though he had a fair idea who it was, he just didn’t want to believe the woman had the audacity to come to the house he shared with his wife, and that Pascoe had allowed it. Worse, that she had come with the specific intention of speaking to his bride.
The poet stared at the Earl as if he was the village idiot.
“Lizzie. Lizzie Outram. You knew her before Pascoe. Remember? Salt?”
But the Earl was not attending him. In five strides he was at the double doors. In three more he was inside the room unannounced. Standing by the fireplace was Pascoe, Lord Church, and a few feet away, by the arrangement of chairs, the under-butler Willis, grim-faced and with his hands behind his back. And there, standing by the striped sofa was his forsaken mistress Elizabeth, Lady Outram, in tête-à-tête with his wife. Both women looked about at the
sudden intrusion; Elizabeth Outram to drop into a respectful curtsy, Jane to regard her husband with a tremulous smile and a deep blush to her throat and cheeks that sent his heart racing and his mind reeling.
SIXTEEN
AN HOUR EARLIER, while the Earl was ensconced in his bookroom discussing the terms of the Peace and Continental politics, the Countess had returned from the Strand to the news that Pascoe, Lord Church, and his shadow Hilary Wraxton had come to call on her and were waiting patiently in the downstairs blue withdrawing room. It had been suggested by Jenkins that the guests return on a more suitable day, but as the butler pointed out to Willis, who had come in off the square behind the Countess and her maid, the gentlemen were adamant that no other day would do; they were departing for foreign climes almost at once.
Willis would have excused himself to prepare for his meeting with his lordship, but when Jenkins added that there was a third occupant in the withdrawing room, and she a female unknown to any of the servants of his lordship’s household, but on sight looked an interesting individual, Willis was alerted. Interesting in the butler’s vocabulary meant highly unsuitable company for the young Countess, and so exchanging a worried glance with Anne, Willis decided that it was in the best interests of the House of Sinclair to follow the Countess into the room. He made a lame excuse about having left the Countess’s appointment diary, of which he was keeper, in that very room, and perhaps when the visitors had departed her ladyship would do him the kindness of going over one or two matters that required her urgent attention. Before the Countess could object, her maid piped up with the suggestion that she would bring her ladyship a dish of Bohea tea with a slice of lemon.
Jane had had such an enjoyable afternoon strolling the picture exhibition with Elisabeth Sedley that she was determined the rest of the day would continue the same way. Even the inquisitive Society patrons, who jostled with one another to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Countess of Salt Hendon in the flesh, and whose closeness of perfume and pomade caused her morning sickness to be more acute, could not dampen her spirits. She had been grateful for the presence of Willis and Anne, for though they were distracted with one another (being on an outing together was truly a novelty), Willis always had one eye on the Countess and her comfort. So it was not in Jane’s nature to deflate the man’s concern by fobbing him off. She graciously accepted him at his word, though she found his excuse flimsy in the extreme, because she had a deep suspicion Anne had confided her pregnancy to Rufus Willis and that her condition had brought out the man’s protective instincts; he had become her self-appointed guardian angel.
It was in this capacity the under-butler entered the room, took a swift look about, and seeing a couple by the French window with its view of the expansive square, took up a position by the clavichord which was left of center to the room. As the Countess came across the parquetry the couple moved towards her, and they all met on the deep Aubusson rug under the chandelier. Pascoe, Lord Church, in jockey boots and a traveling frock coat of brown velvet, bowed over Jane’s outstretched hand and then introduced Lady Outram, who curtsied to rank.
Jane smiled at them both, only briefly allowing her gaze to linger on Pascoe Church’s companion and her striped petticoats and bodice of Florentine apple-green and cherry-red silk that showed her ample breasts to best advantage. Carefully-applied cosmetics made it difficult to determine her age, though she was not in the first flush of youth. That said, she was still a very beautiful woman who knew her own worth and expected others to know it too.
“May I offer you tea?” Jane asked, indicating the arrangement of sofas by the fireplace. She sat and the couple did likewise, side-by-side on the sofa opposite her. “I have been standing all morning looking at the most wonderful pictures and now my feet demand I rest. If you do not want tea, I can send for coffee?”
“Thank you, my lady,” replied Elizabeth Outram. “A dish of Bohea would be most welcome before our journey.”
“We are on our way to Dover,” Pascoe Church offered, “and then on to Paris. Hilary and I could not quit London without taking our leave of you, and I insisted Lizzie make your acquaintance. As to when we will return to England…” He shrugged and looked at his female companion. “We may settle in Florence for a time.”
“Church has a cousin at the Embassy there,” Lady Outram offered. “But we mean to marry in Paris.”
“Oh! How delightful!” Jane said with genuine pleasure. “I do wish you both health and happiness. But I fear I do not have your talent for gift-giving, Lord Church, so you will have to settle for a Sèvres tea service or a piece of silverware.”
Pascoe Church was suitably contrite. “As to that, my lady, I fear my jest was in very poor taste, and had I known you better then, I would never have sent—”
“I will not allow you to take back your gift. Viscount Fourpaws is very much part of the family. Ron and Merry St. John look forward to their visits with his fluffy lordship, and spoil him with all manner of morsels from the kitchen. Why, even Salt has grown accustomed to Fourpaws, for he tolerates him to curl up at the foot of our bed in the morning—”
“Tea, my lady!”
It was Willis and he had rudely cut off the Countess mid-sentence, judging the run of conversation too personal for present company, but in so doing, drawing attention to the comfortable intimacy between the Countess and her noble husband. If she realized her social faux pas, Jane kept it to herself, and while doing the honors with the silver teapot and chinoiserie porcelain tea dishes, made polite conversation about the couple’s travel plans. She was, however, acutely aware of the intense scrutiny of her female guest.
The woman said very little, allowing Pascoe Church to talk freely while she sipped at her tea and appraised the young Countess over the rim of her delicate dish. Always abreast of the latest fashions, be it in fabric, style or cut of the cloth, Elizabeth Outram judged Jane’s pretty silk petticoats with delicate fruits of the vine embroidery to be not overtly ostentatious of wealth, position or power, yet the richness of the embroidery and the way the day-gown was molded to the Countess’s lithe frame spoke volumes about the expertise of her dressmakers. She wore no jewelry about her throat or from her small ears, yet none was necessary for such unblemished skin. Her only adornments were a bejeweled wedding band and a pale yellow silk riband threaded through her upswept glossy black hair.
For the wife of one of the richest noblemen in the country and thus with access to all manner of extravagant fabrics, gowns and jewelry, the Countess was self-restraint personified. But it was not only her choice of attire that intrigued Elizabeth Outram but the young woman herself.
She observed that Jane sat with back straight and hands lightly in her lap; that her head tilted ever so slightly to the left when listening; that her blue eyes were kind and her smile genuine; that despite her youth, she was self-possessed; that she exhibited genuine interest and truly enjoyed their company. Indeed, there was no artifice in her manner whatsoever. Yet, what surprised Elizabeth most was that the young Countess was precisely as Pascoe had described—beautiful inside and out.
If she were to find fault, it was with Lady Salt’s mouth. Despite being full and ruby red, her top lip was too short and her bottom lip too full so that when she wasn’t smiling she appeared to be always pouting. But to men, one man in particular, such a mouth would be intoxicatingly inviting. Elizabeth Outram well understood why the Earl demanded nothing less than this mouth to kiss.
Tea savored and drained, Pascoe Church’s female companion placed the delicate dish on its little saucer and put both on the low walnut side table to unfurl her fan and flutter air across her breasts. She had come to a decision, and turned to Pascoe to make a request when a barely visible servant door cut into the wallpaper beside the fireplace squeaked opened and a powdered head appeared, diverting the tea drinkers in the direction of the fireplace.
“Pssst. Pascoe! I found one!”
It was Hilary Wraxton and he climbed out of the servant corridor, leavin
g wide the door so that the dark narrow passage and the stairs beyond were on public view. He tottered across to the sofas in his heels, brushing down the sleeves of his silk frock coat, with his powdered head bent forward to check that the four horn buttons to the fall of his breeches were done up. Willis immediately crossed behind the poet to close the servant door and received a scold for his tractable efficiency.
“Oi! Not so fast! Not so fast! Lord Church may want use of the pot! It’s a long way to Dover, my man. A long way indeed.”
Pascoe Church rolled his eyes and by a lift of his brows let it to be known to Willis that he was to close the servant door.
“I don’t know why you would not wait, Hilary,” Pascoe complained. “It’s not as if we won’t stop at an inn along the way.”
“An inn?” Hilary Wraxton was horrified. “I can’t pee at an inn.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Perfectly good pot de chambre in there. Clean. Just how I like ’em.”
“Wraxton! Must you?” It was Lady Outram whose face had fired red under her rouge.
“Well, yes, Lizzie, I must. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly natural, a call of nature.” Hilary Wraxton made a low bow to Jane, the lace at his wrists sweeping the rug. “Don’t you agree, my lady?”
But Jane was giggling behind her fingertips and could not speak, not because of the poet’s blunt pronouncements but at the look of horrified embarrassment on the faces of her under-butler and Lord Church.
“How will you travel across the Continent if you cannot make a call of nature when we stop at an inn?” Lady Outram enquired.
The poet, who had perched uninvited on the padded arm of a wingchair, jabbed at his temple. “Up here for thinking, Lizzie. I am not just a man of letters, but of ideas.” He beamed at the Countess and said confidentially, “Had my man pack the family pot de chambre. Heirloom. Passed down from father to son since Scottish James sat upon the English throne. Painted with the family crest. On the inside.”
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