Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Alex swallowed uncomfortably and murmured that she must have confused him with someone else. Treating his response as a piece of wit, Sybil giggled again. “And modest too! How naughty of you to have deprived London of your presence for so long.”

  Unable to respond adequately to such effusiveness, Alex asked, “Would you care to dance?” A glance at Annabelle showed that she was rapidly disappearing into a circle of admirers and was in no need of his support.

  “I would be delighted, my lord,” Miss Debenham said promptly. Had Alex looked more closely, he might have seen a triumphant gleam in the Incomparable’s eyes.

  Alex was grateful that Christa had managed to teach him to dance. Now he enjoyed it, and dancing reduced the necessity of speech to an absolute minimum. He decided that Miss Debenham was a gorgeous widgeon—certainly gorgeous, and decidedly a widgeon. But a man would have to be blind not to enjoy looking at her, so he asked her for another dance later in the evening. And without quite understanding how, the viscount found that he had engaged to take her for a ride in the park two days hence. Well, he had wanted to meet suitable women; and what man wouldn’t be flattered that a stunner like this indicated that she found him appealing?

  Chapter Twelve

  Christa looked at her mistress with a frown. Sir Edward Loaming had “happened” on them in the park with great frequency in the last several weeks, and it was obvious to the meanest intelligence that something was afoot. She fell back to a distance out of earshot of Annabelle and her swain, but carefully kept them in sight. Annabelle glowed with infatuation; Sir Edward was merely fatuous, she thought uncharitably.

  There was no real harm in their meetings, Christa admitted to herself. Although Sir Edward took every opportunity to touch Annabelle’s elbow or take her hand to help her around the most minor of obstacles—such as large blades of grass—he stayed within the limits of propriety. It was just that Christa had taken a dislike to Sir Edward, and wished that Lord Kingsley would tell his sister to keep away from the man. But doubtless Alex had checked and discovered that the baronet was perfectly respectable. Every woman falls in love with a handsome face at least once in her life; Christa herself had been enthralled with a farrier the whole of her thirteenth summer. She could only hope that Annabelle would recover from her tendre quickly.

  She hastened forward when Annabelle stopped and beckoned to her. “Yes, Miss Annabelle?” Christa asked respectfully.

  “I would like you to go to the book shop and pick up that volume I ordered. It is such a fine day that I prefer to stay in the park with Sir Edward.”

  “I should not leave you, miss,” Christa said firmly.

  Annabelle gave her a look that was part plea, part command. “I shall be quite safe with Sir Edward, Christa,” she said.

  Christa complied unhappily; after all, Annabelle was her employer, and it wouldn’t be fitting to argue with her in front of a third party. “Very well, Miss Annabelle. I should be back here within the hour.”

  She was still brooding about the situation after she picked up the book. It was, inevitably, one of the romances Annabelle favored. Christa was beginning to suspect that the moralists were right: novels did implant improper thoughts in susceptible female minds. Why else would her mistress take Sir Edward’s florid utterances seriously?

  Absorbed in her thoughts, Christa dodged through the usual jumble of foot and carriage traffic with the nonchalance of a true city-dweller. She was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of a familiar voice shouting, “Stop!”

  She turned her head toward the voice, then froze in shock. It was Lord Radcliffe, her unwelcome non-uncle. He was halfway down the block, caught behind a heavy dray, and she doubted he was close enough to be sure of her identity. But the earl obviously had seen enough to suspect who she was; the tall, fair figure pulled up the curricle and tossed the reins to his groom, then jumped lightly to the cobblestones and headed in her direction.

  Without waiting to see any more, Christa whirled and darted between two fashionable carriages, narrowly missing the hooves of the leaders. On the other side of the street she turned into an alley, moving quickly enough to cover the ground rapidly but not so fast as to appear suspicious. The alley branched into a network of back streets, and within a few minutes she was sure that no one could have followed her. Christa paused to catch her breath after attaining the safety of a quiet residential square, her heart pounding from the near escape. She had almost forgotten about Lord Radcliffe in these last months, and the sight of him brought back all her fears of the previous spring.

  Now that Christa knew he was in the city, she would have to be more careful. As she walked slowly back to the park, her fear was replaced with anger. Had it not been for the threat of Lord Radcliffe, she would still be the Comtesse d’Estelle, a lady at home in the highest society. But would she have ever met Alex? Would they have developed the same kind of relationship in the brittle setting of the beau monde? Christa sighed at the thought—even if she never had any more of Alex than she had had already, she was better off than if she had never known him at all. She lifted her chin and entered the park to find Annabelle.

  Lord Radcliffe gave up the chase after a quarter-hour in the back alleys where scurrilous residents eyed him measuringly. He was following a mirage. This particular phantom was not Christa—he had realized after stopping his curricle that the girl was just a mobcapped servant, not his elegant niece.

  As Lewis retraced his steps to the carriage, he tried not to think of all the ghosts he had seen in the last months. Not just Christa—once at White’s he had seen a man that looked so much like Charles that he had rushed across two crowded rooms, only to step back at the last minute when he realized the man was a stranger. A man called Kingsley, with Charles’s height and coloring and some indefinable way of carrying himself that reminded Lewis of his nephew—but a stranger nonetheless.

  And Marie-Claire? Her he saw everywhere.

  Lord Radcliffe let his groom drive the rest of the way to Radcliffe House. He should have known better than to come up to London. Berkshire was full of memories of when the estate had been alive with youth and laughter, but that was easier to deal with than mocking ghosts that disappeared into the swarming streets of London. The sooner he finished his business and went home, the better.

  Annabelle found that her much-anticipated tête-à-tête with Sir Edward was not developing as she had planned. His kisses were intoxicating, the stuff of dreams. Unfortunately, they were accompanied by pleas that she elope with him. “Oh, Annabelle, my adored one,” he murmured huskily in her ear. “All my life I have dreamed of finding you. Say you will come away with me.”

  She pulled away until she was backed up against a tree trunk in the little grove that concealed them. “Edward, I couldn’t possibly! Why, the disgrace of it …”

  Sir Edward’s beautiful dark eyes regarded her sorrowfully. “Don’t you love me, Annabelle?” He lifted her right hand and lovingly planted a kiss in it.

  She shivered in response. “Oh, Edward, you know I do! But why can’t we wait? I’ll be twenty-one soon and free to marry whom I choose.”

  “Every day apart from you is agony. Every night alone is endless.” It was a good line; Sir Edward had read it in one of the stupid novels Annabelle favored. He saw what might have been a flash of memory in her eyes, so he hastened on, “Why should we wait when we are both so sure? So much in love?” He still held her hand, and his touch almost overwhelmed her rational mind.

  “I want to be married with my brother’s approval. Surely if you called on him …” Her voice trailed off weakly.

  Sir Edward shook his head sadly. “You know already that is no use. He dismissed me without a hearing once, and he would again.”

  Annabelle wasn’t positive that her beloved was making sense, but it was impossible to be sure when he was so close. The baronet leaned forward and circled her with his arms again, pressing little kisses on her neck and ear. “Please, Edward, you are making it so hard to
think,” she said, her voice quavering.

  It was exactly what the baronet intended. Annabelle was naive but she wasn’t stupid, and he knew that if he gave her too much time, she might see through his romantic bombast. Worse, Sir Edward’s financial affairs were in crisis, with bailiffs seeking him at all his usual haunts. He was staying with a friend to avoid his creditors, but it wouldn’t serve for long—he would have to leave London within a few days. If he took the wealthy Miss Kingsley with him, he would be able to return to town. Otherwise, there would be no alternative but retreating to his heavily encumbered estate and waiting for foreclosure.

  Given these facts, the baronet continued his assault on Annabelle’s ears, his hands beginning to roam around her body. She was a passionate wench under her Miss Propriety exterior, and arousing her was his best ticket to success.

  “Edward, please,” she whispered. “How can I run away just before my ball? All the arrangements are made, so many people are coming. My maid, Christa, has worked so hard on it.”

  Sir Edward had to fight down the urge to shake the peagoose. “You would put the feelings of a maid before mine?” he purred through slightly clenched teeth. He started working his lips toward her mouth.

  Turning her head aside, Annabelle said, “It isn’t just her, it is my brother Alex, my Aunt Agatha, all of the people I have met this autumn. What will they think of me?”

  Sir Edward got an inspiration. “If we left for Gretna in the next few days, we could be back in time for your ball, and use it to announce our marriage. Your come-out, your birthday, and your wedding all together. And if we present him with the deed accomplished, I promise your brother will accept me.” Lord Kingsley would have to, or see his whole family disgraced.

  “Do you really think so?” Annabelle asked doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be better to be married here by special license? An elopement is just so … hole-in-corner.”

  Special licenses were expensive. So were flights to Scotland, but if her brother caught up and offered to buy him off, the cost of the elopement would be minimal. “Think of the romance, my little love,” he crooned. “It would be something to remember all our lives.”

  “That is what I am worried about,” she said with a touch of acerbity. “That people will remember for the rest of our lives.”

  “No one need know,” Sir Edward promised with a quick change of tack. “You will leave a message for your brother that you have gone off to be married, and will be back the afternoon of the ball. Since you will be twenty-one that day, he can’t possibly object. What could be simpler?” This time his mouth muffled any further protests. Fortunately for Annabelle, a small boy came bursting into their little glade.

  “Have you seen my ball?” the child demanded pugnaciously, ignoring the way the couple sprang guiltily apart.

  “We have not, you little …” Sir Edward held on to his composure—barely—but not to his heiress. Annabelle slipped away from him and headed back to the main park.

  “We must go back. Christa will be looking for me.” Annabelle was glad to see her abigail in the distance when she emerged from the shrubbery. Her lover said urgently from behind her, “You will consider it?”

  “Yes … no … I don’t know!” Annabelle was feeling hunted. How could a love so perfect leave her feeling so anxious? She glanced back at Sir Edward, then found her irritation melting at the sight of his beautiful, concerned face.

  “Will you meet me again tomorrow?” Such passion was in his eyes! Of course he was impetuous; wasn’t that what a proper lover was supposed to be?

  “Yes, I’ll meet you here,” she said hastily in the last moment before her maid came within earshot.

  “Are you feeling well, Miss Annabelle?” Christa asked solicitously. “Your face is flushed.” She didn’t add that her mistress looked like she had been dragged through a bush backward; it took no great intelligence to deduce what Annabelle and Sir Edward had been doing.

  “A touch of sun, perhaps. I shall be glad to get home and rest a bit. We are going to three different entertainments this evening, and it will be a very late night.” Annabelle was babbling in relief. She had always been terrible at making decisions, and this one facing her promised to be the most difficult of her life.

  Sir Edward escorted Annabelle to the edge of the park. Half a dozen steps behind, Christa heard him murmur, “Until tomorrow, then,” before he squeezed Annabelle’s hand and departed. Not for the first time, Christa wondered why he didn’t take Annabelle for a drive or call on her at the house, as her other admirers did. Moreover, her mistress had been curiously silent about the baronet, not bubbling happily as she had after their first meeting last spring. Christa was getting the unhappy suspicion that something havey-cavey was afoot.

  Annabelle made it to the first of the evening’s entertainments, but a blinding headache developed and soon she looked so white that Alex insisted on bringing her home. He turned his sister over to Christa, who promised that a cup of willow-bark tea was just the thing for headache. Annabelle smiled weakly in reply and retired with hardly a good-night to her brother. He wondered if she were overdoing her socializing; his sister had been so continually busy that he had scarcely seen her since their return to London.

  Still wakeful, Alex went down to the library. He had turned one end into his personal study, preferring the spacious book-lined room to the poky hole his father had used as an office. Adding some coals to the fire, he poured himself a glass of smooth Irish whiskey and water, then settled into a wing chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  The viscount was feeling in charity with the world. His work at the Admiralty was progressing well, and more surprisingly, so was his social life. Alex found that he was much more comfortable consorting with the ton than he had expected. While he would never be a master of repartee, he could converse and dance with a fashionable woman without making a fool of himself, and even find some enjoyment.

  Unfortunately, Alex’s search for a wife had borne no fruit. His passionate attraction to Christa over the summer had convinced him it was time he married, but none of the available ladies stirred his interest in the least. Some were very pretty, many were pleasant, a few were both, but there were none he could imagine living with for the rest of his life. Still less could he imagine facing any of them at breakfast.

  Alex chuckled to himself, trying and failing to imagine the glorious Sybil Debenham at any hour before noon. It must take hours to produce that look of shimmering perfection. He looked on his mild relationship with her as something of a challenge—she was exactly the sort of fan-fluttering female that had terrorized him in his younger days. Alex was pleased that she had not yet reduced him to tongue-tied paralysis; by letting Sybil prattle on about her favorite subject—herself—he found he could deal with her tolerably well.

  The viscount seemed to enjoy her favor above her other swains, and suspected she might be using him to make another suitor jealous. Miss Debenham certainly did not seem to feel any real warmth for him, which was why he considered their mild flirtation to be harmless. Impossible to imagine that the immaculate Sybil’s heart was engaged, or even that she had a heart. Since it was flattering to be favored by such a beauty, Alex would ask her for a dance or two if they were at the same evening party, and occasionally he took her for a drive. A pity that her mind was not half so attractive as her face.

  Alex sipped at the whiskey, enjoying the peacefulness of the hour. Even the usual ache in his side was quiet for the moment. It was past eleven and all of the servants would be abed except his own valet, Fiske, who had not yet been persuaded that a viscount could undress himself without assistance.

  The door opened so noiselessly that Alex didn’t realize at first that he had a visitor. Turning his head at the sound of soft footsteps, he saw Christa enter. Concealed in the shadows by the fireplace, Alex was free to watch her browsing through the bookshelves. It was an unabashed pleasure seeing her graceful movements, particularly when she reached high above h
er head for a volume. Her lightweight sprigged-muslin dress molded to her ripe curves and lifted to reveal trim ankles. Intently studying the shelves in the low light, she had moved within a dozen feet of Alex before making a choice and turning to leave the library.

  Christa had enjoyed the peace and quiet, savoring the handsome leatherbound volumes and reading random paragraphs to counteract the anxiety she had been feeling about Annabelle. It was a shock when the deep, amused voice sounded out of the shadows behind her.

  “Looking for some bedtime reading?”

  Though she immediately recognized the voice, Christa jumped in startled reflex and blurted out, “You wretch!” as she whirled.

  Remembering her station, she said demurely, “Oh, I’m very sorry, my lord, I did not know you were here.” She paused, then added, “You did say that I could use the library.”

  “Of course. I’m glad someone does. What did you find?” The viscount rose and moved next to her, glancing at the volume. “Voltaire’s Philosophical Letters on the English. A good choice. It would certainly put me to sleep quickly.”

  Christa laughed, a clear, bell-like sound. “Au contraire, Monsieur Voltaire is always most amusing to read. Actually, his wit is more original than his thinking.”

  “You’ve read this book before?”

  “Oui. He compares the social and philosophical life of the English with that of France.”

  “Most useful for an émigrée condemned to live on our damp island.” Alex looked at her oddly. “You are certainly the best-read servant I have ever met.”

  Christa shrugged nonchalantly. “It is a simple pleasure that fills the hours of waiting. An abigail has many of those.”

  “So does a sailor, but being crude creatures, we are more apt to fill them with drink. Would you care to join me?”