Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  It would come eventuallyof that he was certain.

  "What I cannot understand," Octavia went on, "is why, if he has not married this young woman, he has not returned to London."

  Justin thought he could better understand Geoffrey's continued absence. Surely the wretch must know that Justin was not done with him. The wrong he had attempted to do to Dyanna must be avenged. Justin had vowed to make Geoffrey Culpepper pay for what he had tried to do, and he had not changed his mind simply because Dyanna was restored to him safe and sound.

  "I expect he will returneventually," Justin assured her. "Though, if you will forgive my frankness, ma'am, I believe you would be far better off to begin making preparations for your own maintainance. I would not, if I were you, depend upon Geoffrey Culpepper for your future welfare."

  A great sigh welled up in Octavia's plump bosom. "I suppose you are right, my lord, but what can I do? I cannot bear the thought of returning to the stageTo stand up there while the world laughs at me for an abandoned wife. Lady Culpepper, the future Marchioness of Summersleigh, trodding the boards? You must see how impossible that would be."

  Justin felt a sudden, almost unendurable desire to throttle the pretty, dense creature before him. Could she, having seen Geoffrey leave her to elope with another woman, still believe that he cared for her? Could she truly imagine that she would one day reign at Summersleigh House? If nothing else, did she actually believe that London society would accept her, a base-born woman who had once exposed herself on the public stage, as one of them?

  It would be a kindness, Justin believed, to discourage Octavia's self-deceiving beliefs. But one look at her dreamy face, her faraway gaze as she imagined the exalted position she would one day occupy, told him that any such attempts on his part would be futile. She would see the truth one day; Geoffrey himself would force her to open her eyes and see herself for what she truly washis mistress. Until then, it was useless to try to change her mind.

  "I expect," Justin went on, growing anxious to end the conversation and be away, "that Geoffrey will not stay away from town for much longer. Everything he most prizes is here, after all."

  He had meant, of course, Dyanna and her fortune as well as the gaming hells Geoffrey so loved to frequent. But Octavia chose to believe Justin had meant her and dimpled prettily.

  "Oh, my lord, how you do go on!" she gushed. Then her dimples faded as her delighted smile was replaced by an exaggerated expression of worry and woe. "Although, I fear if he does not return soon, he will find little to greet him. I vow, I am quite worn to a frazzle. The servants, excepting my dear maid Eliza who was with me in the theater, have all run off. Well, who could blame them? I had no money to pay them. There is scarcely enough food to eat and we must needs sit in near darkness in the evenings, for candles are prodigiously dear, you know. But I must not tire you, my lord, with a recitation of my troubles."

  Raising a gloved hand, she pressed a trembling fingertip to the corner of her eye.

  Justin resisted the impulse to smile. He was not surprised the girl had not succeeded spectacularly on the stage, for she was no great actress. But it did surprise him that she had not succeeded in finding a more considerate, generous, and important protector than Geoffrey Culpepper, for she was feminine to the tips of her fingers. Had he not so completely lost his heart and his senses to Dyanna, did he not know of her connection with such a loathsome wretch as Culpepper, he might have been tempted to take the girl under his own protectionfor a time at least. He had no doubt her charms would pall quickly.

  "If I did not fear you would take my offer amiss," he told Octavia, knowing already what she would do and say, "I would take it upon myself to offer some aid to you in your distress. But of course"

  "My lord," Octavia breathed. "You are kindness itself. How can I ever repay you?"

  "By sending me a message when Lord Culpepper at last makes his appearance," he answered, rising and offering her his arm.

  Slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, Octavia looked worried. "You do not mean my lord any harm, do you, sir? I could not bear to be the means by which harm came to my dear, dear husband."

  Justin ground his teeth. Did the woman actually care so much for the man who had used and abandoned her, or was she merely playing a role? He weighed his words carefully before he said:

  "I have unfinished business with Lord Culpepper, ma'am. You may rest assured that I mean to give Lord Culpepper nothing he has not earned to the fullest extent."

  Octavia squinted up at him. She did not understand all the implications of what Justin had said, but it sounded vaguely as if Geoffrey was in line for some sort of reward. He would like that, she decided, brightening. She threw Justin her most dazzling smile and told him:

  "I will agree, then, to your terms, my lord. You shall be the second to know when dear Geoffrey returns. The first of course"she giggled"will be me."

  "Very well, then," Justin agreed. "Shall we go somewhere quiet and discuss finances?"

  The afternoon passed with agonizing slowness for Dyanna. The memory of the sight of Justin striding so purposefully toward the pretty strawberry-blonde in the yellow gown tormented her. It would not be banished; her efforts were useless. Even the book about Lady Feversham held no charm for her now.

  She could not concentrate. Where was he? she asked herself. What was he doing? No, on second thought, she did not want to know what he was doing. The possibilities were too hard to bear. He'd been so eager to see the woman. He'd sent Dyanna home alone like a child who had misbehaved on a Sunday outing in order to be with that woman.

  "Who is she?" she asked aloud, not for the first, nor the tenth time that afternoon. "Has he been seeing her all along? All those nights he's been out on business, as he says, has he been with her?"

  "Perhaps she is his mistress," Charlotte suggested. "Had she a look of breeding about her? Did she strike you as a lady of quality?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Dyanna sighed. "She was pretty. She had blond hair with a reddish cast and a pretty, plump figure. She was beautifully dressed. Very feminine. But as to her breeding or lack of it, I don't know. How is one to tell? A single ride through Hyde Park of a Sunday afternoon can show you great ladies who look and act like trollops and trollops who look and act like great ladies. One has scarcely to look further than one's own neighborhood. The Duchess of Devonshire''she gestured toward a great house not far away in Piccadilly"and her sister, Harriet, Viscountess Duncannon, have had more lovers than even they care to count. At the same time, Mrs. Robinson, no more than an actress, had to be wooed by the Prince of Wales as though she were a princess of the blood royal."

  "What will you do?" Charlotte wanted to know.

  "I don't know. I don't suppose there is anything I can do if he wishes to be with that woman. But oh, Charlotte, it is the not knowing that is the hardest to bearthe mystery, the wondering. I have to know the truth. Only then will I know what there is for me to contend with."

  A scratching at the door interrupted them and Dyanna motioned for Charlotte to answer it.

  A maid appeared in the doorway. Curtsying, she said:

  "Your pardon, Miss, but supper will be served in half an hour."

  "Oh, I'm not really very hungry," Dyanna said. "I don't suppose my lord DeVille is back?"

  "Oh yes, Miss. He came back quite an hour ago and more."

  Dyanna sat up. "He did? Well, then, tell Ipswich I will be coming down to dinner after all."

  Later, as Justin held Dyanna's chair for her, she could not wait any longer to broach the subject that had been on her mind all afternoon.

  "Justin," she said after the maid and footman who had served them had departed, "who was that young woman you were in such a hurry to speak to this afternoon?"

  Sipping his wine, Justin lifted his shoulders. "Simply an acquaintance."

  "Have you known her long?"

  "A monthperhaps a little longer."

  Dyanna thoughtfully chewed a morsel of roast duck while she studie
d him. "What is her name?"

  "Dyanna," Justin said, laying down his fork and blotting the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "She is just an acquaintancea casual acquaintance. I am sorry you even saw her. Please, just forget her. She is no one you need concern yourself with."

  He went on with his dinner, but Dyanna found she had lost her appetite. Why was he being so evasive? If the woman was truly no more than a casual acquaintance, why couldn't she at least know her name?

  She broached the subject no moreshe knew Justin would tell her nothing. It was very likely, in fact, that any further inquiries would only anger him and ruin their evening.

  But though she said no more about Justin's mysterious acquaintance, his reticence only fired her curiosity. She would find out who the woman was. She would discover her name and exactly what her relationship with Justin amounted to. And she would find it out whether Justin liked it or not!

  Chater Twenty-Nine

  Life went on as usual at DeVille House in the weeks that followed. Summer gave way to autumn, but Dyanna scarcely noticed the changing of the seasons. She was obsessedshe thought of nothing, it seemed, but the strawberry-blonde she had seen with Justin that day at the Tower.

  Justin, as she'd known he would from the start, said no more on the subject. He came and went as he pleased, talked with Dyanna on any subjectsaving that of his mysterious acquaintanceteased her and escorted her to the park, the shops, and on rare occasions, to the theater. It was only on that one subject, that one forbidden topic, that he was silent.

  And it was only that one subject that Dyanna was truly interested in.

  "Are you going out tonight?" she asked one evening in early September when she noticed Justin descending the stairs dressed in deep blue brocade and an elegantly embroidered, white satin waistcoat.

  "Yes," he admitted. "I have an engagement."

  Dyanna said nothing and he glanced at her, finding her aqua-blue eyes filled with melancholy and gentle reproach. Sighing, he reached out a hand and stroked her cheek.

  "Would you rather I stayed home with you?" he asked, a tender, fond smile curving his lips.

  Shrugging, Dyanna moved out of his reach. "If you have an engagement, my lord, pray do not let me keep you from it. I am not a child, after all, who needs to be sat at home with. I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself."

  Justin sighed, hesitating before taking the hat and gloves and cloak which Bertran had brought to him. He knew what was troubling Dyannawhat had been troubling her ever since that cursed day when Fate brought them to the Tower at the same time as Octavia FitzGeorge. But he could not tell Dyanna who Octavia was. He could not tell her that Geoffrey had kept a mistressa mistress with whom he had gone through some form of marriage to overcome her scruples. Not yet, at leastnot until he had had his revenge on Geoffrey for what he did to Dyanna. For now, however, whatever the cost to Dyanna's curiosity, he had to maintain the secrecy he thought essential to lull Culpepper into a false sense of security that would encourage him to venture once more into London.

  "Dyanna," he said, trying to placate her but not knowing how to do so without giving himself away. "There is something I have to dosome unfinished business I have to conclude. Once that is taken care of, we will go away from London. Just you and I. Perhaps we will go to Wildwood. You said you wished to see it, remember?"

  "Wildwood," Dyanna repeated. "And what will you do at Wildwood? Visit Caro Naysmith?"

  "Oh, Dyanna," Justin moaned. "I was not even thinking of Caro. I can see you are in no fit frame of mind to discuss this matter tonight. Once my business is concluded, I will explain everything to you and you will see how very foolish and groundless all these suspicions of yours are."

  "Will I?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

  With his fingertips, he traced the delicate line of her jaw. "Yes, I am quite sure. Can't you simply trust me for a little while?"

  "Very well," she acquiesced, not a little moved by the gentle touch of his fingers on her skin. "I will say no more on the subject."

  "Thank you, darling," he said approvingly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "You're not coming home tonight?" she asked, following him toward the door.

  Laughing, Justin tugged one of her silvery curls. "Yes, I am coming home tonight. But it will likely be after your bedtime. Now remember, you promised to say no more about my business."

  "I won't," she assured him, smiling vapidly as he strode out the door toward the carriage that waited at the bottom of the front steps.

  She stood in the open doorway, watching, and heard him instruct the coachman:

  "Brooks's first."

  The coachman nodded, and the moment Justin had settled himself inside the carriage, it was set into motion with the crack of a whip over the heads of the matched bays that drew it.

  Dyanna watched as the carriage rolled out between the opened gates and disappeared into the traffic of Piccadilly. Then, snatching up her skirts, she ran for the stairs and the privacy of her room.

  "You're mad!" Charlotte objected. She sat on the bench of Dyanna's dressing table and watched incredulously as Dyanna pulled on

  Tom's clothes and wig. "You can't go out at night! Alone! Dressed in breeches!"

  "Dressed in breeches is the only way I can go out," Dyanna said, tucking up the last stray silver curl beneath the chestnut wig. "I heard Justin say he was going to Brooks's first. If I go there and wait, I might be able to follow him to his ultimate destinationlikely the home of that woman. I may be able to learn something."

  "I don't like it," Charlotte decided. "It's dangerous."

  "Don't be such a simpleton," Dyanna snapped. "In Jenny Flynn, Jenny dressed up in boy's garb all the time in order to make her way about."

  "Didn't she ever get caught?" Charlotte asked.

  "Well, yes, but that's not the point. Oh, Charlotte, don't worry. I'll be fine. After all, I came to London alone, you know, and nothing happened."

  Except, of course, the voice inside her head whispered, that you were held up by a highwayman and nearly seduced by your own guardian in an inn.

  She forced those traitorous thoughts out of her mind. Not only were they unwelcome, but she feared they would undermine her determination and erode the confidence she needed to venture out into London by night.

  Clapping her tricorne atop the black bowed wig, Dyanna examined herself in the pierglass. She could not help being pleased. She felt confident that no one she passed on a darkened street would suspect for a moment that beneath the brown coat, white shirt, and black breeches was a young woman of birth and breeding who made her home in an elegant mansion in Piccadilly.

  "Wish me luck," she told Charlotte as she moved toward the door. "I'll be back before Justin."

  "I hope so," Charlotte breathed, but she knew better than to try to stop Dyanna from doing exactly as she pleased.

  Letting herself out through the music room doors, Dyanna crossed the moonlit garden and emerged in Piccadilly.

  Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself against the impulse to retreat into the luxurious security of DeVille House. Justin had said he merely had to conclude whatever business had been occupying him of late and then they would be off to Wildwood together. Perhaps she should take him at his word and simply try to be patient.

  She looked back toward DeVille House. Its windows glowed, beckoning her back inside. But what if Justin were merely trying to lull her into complacent placidity? What if he thought he could calm her fears enough to allow him to do as he pleased while she sat at home meek and unquestioning, week after week, month after month?

  No! She had to carry out her plan. She had to at least try to discover where it was he was goingwhat business consumed so much of his time and required such secrecy.

  Squaring her shoulders, she set off down Piccadilly toward St. James's Street, in which was located Brooks's Club.

  St. James's Street ran from Piccadilly to St. James's Palace. As Dyanna turned into the street, she felt herself being infe
cted with the tantalizing excitement of being alone on the night-shrouded streets of London. They were little less bustling at night than during the day, though the people seemed somehow more glamorous, the women more beautiful, the men more rakish, almost dangerous. Bejeweled ladies and evening-clothed gentlemen rode by in elegant carriages. Gentlemen alone or in pairs alighted from carriages and disappeared into the clubs and private houses that lined the street.

  Dyanna made her way along St. James's with little trouble. Everyone, it seemed, was going somewhere. They moved purposefully with little time or thought to spare for a thin young man who hurried along the street toward Brooks's.

  Justin's carriage, Dyanna was pleased and relieved to see, stood waiting for hima sign, she thought, that he would soon be leaving and she could discover his final destination for the evening.

  She took up a position across the street and a little toward Piccadilly, for Justin's carriage was facing in that direction and she imagined his destination must lie that way. Behind her, set within a high iron gate, was a private club, its windows heavily curtained. Its members arrived in closed carriages, descending beneath a stone porte-cochère which concealed their identities in its black shadows.

  As she waited, watching, a carriage passed her slowly. It turned into the drive of the house behind her and rolled into the shadows beneath the porte-cochère.

  Curious, Dyanna watched over her shoulder as a black-clad footman sprang to open the door. Two men descended, silhouetted in the darkness. One spoke to the footman, pointing toward the street, and Dyanna knew she was the object of their conversation.

  The footman left the shadows and approached her. Dyanna, certain they had taken her for some loitering footpad or vagrant, stood poised for flight at the first sign of trouble. But the footman stopped within a few feet of her.

  ''Milord wishes a word with you, boy," he told her.

  Dyanna hesitated. The footman looked like no other footman she'd ever seen. Heavy, with a pocked face and hands like hams, he looked more like an inmate of Newgate. His eyes were small and cruel. Dyanna thought she would not like to cross swords with him even if she were truly a man.