The Lady in Gray

by Patricia Oliver

  Their partnership had been profitable for both of them. Before the loss of the Intrepid, Nicholas had owned six vessels and now, if the purchase of the Voyageur materialized, he would again own six prime trading ships, which brought in more money than he knew what to do with.

  “Your most humble servant, my lady.”

  Nicholas watched with mild amusement as Jason raised Lady Sylvia’s fingers to his lips with an extravagant flourish. The rogue certainly had a way with the ladies, he thought, noting the warmth in this particular lady’s eyes as she smiled up at Captain Ransome.

  Had he not known that his friend was more interested in ships than females, Nicholas might have had a moment of uneasiness as the party moved onto the back terrace, where Hobson had laid out the tea things. As it was, he only smiled as the captain settled himself between Lady Sylvia and her aunt and regaled them with humorous tales of his latest adventures on the high seas.

  “I do envy you, Captain Ransome," Lady Sylvia remarked after she made sure Jason had a generous helping of gooseberry tarts. “Our lives here in Cornwall seem so tame after hearing of such fascinating places and exotic people. You must find us terribly dull and stodgy.”

  “Au contraire, my dear lady,” the captain responded gallantly, “nowhere in the world have I seen anything that comes close to the perfection of our own English rose. One tires of the exotic, my lady, and grows nostalgic for the radiant beauty of an innocent English lass. Would you not agree, Nicholas?”

  The earl stared at his friend in astonishment at this piece of arrant nonsense, then let out a crack of laughter. “Your brains have been addled by the Indian sun, my lad. That is what ails you. And if you do not have a care, Jason, you will find yourself banished from Whitecliffs until you learn to comport yourself like a proper English gentleman.”

  “You are too harsh, my lord,” Lady Marguerite burst out impetuously. “Captain Ransome is utterly charming, as usual, and he is welcome to take his meals with us anytime he pleases. Besides,” she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, “neither Sylvia nor I are particularly impressed by what passes for proper English gentlemen these days. Are we, dearest?”

  Nicholas glanced at Lady Sylvia and noted that her cheeks were rosy. She was smiling at Jason, and at his prompting, she admitted that English gentlemen tended to be stuffy, pompous, and too concerned with their own consequence.

  At this frank admission, Jason echoed the earl’s mocking laughter. “Touche, old man,” he drawled wryly. “It would seem that you are the one in need of lessons in proper comportment, Nick. I shall be happy to give you some pointers, if you wish.”

  None too pleased with the direction the conversation had taken, Nicholas turned to Lady Marguerite and changed the subject.

  Sylvia let her fingers stray idly over the keys of the rosewood pianoforte in the drawing room. She was in a pensive mood. The events of the afternoon had left her mind in an unaccustomed turmoil. First the disturbing suspicion—derived from Mr. Connan’s revealing comments that morning—that the bookseller had not told the magistrate all he knew about the sudden death of the Countess of Longueville.

  Had Connan been on the cliffs that fatal summer evening? she wondered. Had he seen someone else there? What secrets had the young woman confided to this unprepossessing scholar she had called her soul mate? Was it even true that the pair had not met until after the wedding?

  Sylvia shook her head impatiently. She was becoming suspicious of everyone even remotely connected with the countess. Even poor George Connan, who was the least likely gentleman of her acquaintance to be embroiled with another man’s wife.

  Or was he?

  The thought startled her, and her fingers fumbled on the keyboard. Sylvia curled her hands nervously in her lap as fragments of that morning’s conversation drifted back to her.

  When he had spoken of the countess, Connan’s voice had taken on the strident tones of a fanatic. He had given the impression that their relationship had been more than a casual acquaintance.

  We were not strangers at all.

  Those were his very words, but what did they mean? Could they have been ... lovers? Sylvia had difficulty imagining the bespectacled scholar in that role. Knowing as she did from firsthand experience the sometimes embarrassing intimacies associated with such amorous activities, Sylvia had a hard time placing George Connan in any lady’s bedchamber, much less that of the flamboyant, obviously uninhibited young countess.

  Had she lived, the Countess of Longueville would have been about Sylvia’s own age, she mused, nearing thirty, but what a difference in their situations. From relative obscurity and modest circumstances, Angelica DeJardin had been elevated to the rank of countess through the love of a man. Sylvia had not been so blessed. The love of a man—in whom she had placed her trust and innocence—had plunged her into disgrace and banishment.

  “Daydreaming about your latest admirer, cara miaT’ Giovanni’s laughing voice cut short her musings, and Sylvia guessed she must have been sitting at the silent instrument for some time, lost in thought.

  “Come and pour tea for us, darling,” her aunt said, and Sylvia saw that Hobson had brought in the tea-tray without her noticing. “I want to hear what transpired between you and Longueville this morning, Sylvia, although I suspect I already know. I trust you will not be foolish enough to harbor impossible dreams in that quarter, my dear. I would hate to see you hurt all over again.”

  Sylvia saw the genuine concern on her aunt’s face and forgave her for touching on a sore subject. “Oh, never fear, Aunt,” she responded lightly. “My heart is quite safe from his lordship’s blandishments. I promise not to tread that primrose path again, no matter what prestigious commission he flings my way.”

  “I still believe you would do well to paint his portrait, child,” Lady Marguerite said, branching off on another topic. “You owe it to your career, Sylvia.”

  “I was not referring to his lordship,” Giovanni interrupted, waving an elegant hand as if to dismiss the earl and his commission. “I think the dashing Captain Ransome was definitely epris by our lovely Sylvia. He could not take his eyes off you, my dear.”

  “A charming rogue, 1 will agree,” Lady Marguerite remarked, accepting her cup and setting it down beside her. “But he is a rover, my love, as all sailors are. Only think what poor Penelope had to endure with her Odysseus. And even your own Cristobal Colombo, my love,” she added, turning to her lover as though Giovanni were personally responsible for the Italian explorer’s wandering ways, “must have had a wife somewhere, yet we hear nothing of the unfortunate creature.”

  “I know nothing of Colombo’s home life,” Giovanni responded with a laugh, “but I did see the captain’s face when he looked upon our Sylvia. He is smitten, for certain.”

  “I have no romantic interest in the good captain,” Sylvia assured them. “My interest is purely artistic. I would dearly love to paint his portrait. With that red hair and blue eyes, he reminds me of my brother John. Do you not agree, Aunt?”

  “I was startled by his resemblance to the Sutherland men ever since I met dear Jason ten years ago,” Lady Marguerite replied. “But his mother was a Corrington, and half of them have red hair.” Her ladyship took up a delicate watercress sandwich and examined it as though she expected a tadpole to wriggle out onto her plate. “But tell me, Sylvia, do you intend to paint the captain before you start Longueville’s commission? Knowing the earl, I can guarantee that he will not be pleased.”

  Sylvia laughed. “Am I supposed to spend my life trying to please his lordship?” she inquired facetiously. “You taught me long ago, Aunt, that a true artist paints to please himself. I doubt that I will derive much pleasure in painting the Earl of Longueville.”

  “But you will paint him, dear? Promise me you will,” her aunt insisted.

  “If you wish it, Aunt, then be assured that I shall,” Sylvia replied with a smile. “But first allow me to capture some of the good captain’s charm on my canvas.”


  “I daresay poor Nicholas will be furious with you, darling.”

  Tired of hearing about the earl’s disapproval, for which she cared not a jot, Sylvia returned to the pianoforte and selected a lively country dance to banish her blue devils.

  Chapter Ten

  Past Deceptions

  Longueville Castle July 1804

  “I thought I had expressly asked you not to go down to the cliffs, Angelica,” Nicholas said, deliberately keeping his tone from betraying his anger.

  His lovely bride invariably took exception to his rare insistence on wifely obedience, chiding him for his antiquated notions. But deliberate thwarting of his wishes was something even Nicholas, enchanted as he admittedly was by his young countess, would not tolerate.

  “Did you, darling?” Angelica’s voice was as soft and languid as her person, presently reclining on an opulent chaise-longue beside the open window in her bedchamber. “I do not recall you saying such a silly thing.”

  She smiled seductively at him, and Nicholas felt himself weaken. Should he let it go? he wondered. If he provoked a quarrel, his wife would react violently, as she always did when confronted with her peccadilloes or denied her more outrageous whims. Doubtless she would deny him her bed if he pursued his grievance. Unlike some of his friends, Nicholas had never been a particularly innovative lover, preferring the traditional to the exotic in his dealing with females.

  Angelica had changed all that.

  Now he found himself—more often than not in his own Green Saloon, with one of his mother’s delicate Wedgwood tea-cups bal

  anced in his hand, wishing for the day to be over so he could discover what new delights his wife had in store for him. Avoiding the dowager’s accusatory stare as she sat, stiff and rigid like some watchdog of propriety, his gaze would follow Angelica’s elegantly clad figure about the room. She was invariably the center of attention, a tantalizing butterfly among the usual throng of dark-suited gentlemen who flocked to listen to her tinkling laughter and bask in the flirtatious warmth of her pansy blue eyes.

  He resolutely put this thought aside.

  “Well, I certainly did say so, my dear,” he responded doggedly. “And now I find that you were seen down there yesterday afternoon. In defiance of my express wishes to the contrary.”

  Bracing himself for a bitter argument, Nicholas watched the lovely face turn petulant, the full lips pout enticingly. God, he thought, she was beautiful even in her worst moods.

  “I am concerned for your safety, my love,” he added, feeling the need to avert the storm before it broke. “There have been numerous accidents on those cliffs, Angelica, one of which happened to my own cousin, Luke, who fell and died there one summer.”

  “Oh, you mean Matt’s brother?” she interrupted nonchalantly. “I know all about that. Matt told me. He claims it was a rather fortunate accident for him, since he is now the heir.” She paused to state at him, as if gauging the effect of her outrageous statement.

  Nicholas could not quite believe his wife had said that. Yet he knew from experience that she delighted in shocking him. All too often the indiscreet, often offensive language that sallied from those shapely lips jarred his sensibilities. He understood why the dowager disliked his wife. His mother’s keen sense of decorum would have instantly detected this streak of vulgarity in the new countess.

  “If indeed it really was an accident at all,” Angelica added softly, a malicious tittle smile pulling at the comers of her sensuous mouth.

  The earl felt his breath catch in his throat. “What did you say?” he demanded brusquely. “Where did you hear such foolishness, Angelica? I know it could not have been from my cousin.”

  This appeared to amuse the countess, for she laughed, a knowing little sound that sent a chill down his spine. “Oh, my dear, innocent Nicky,” she crooned, evidently highly pleased with herself, “still trusting everyone, I see. Let me tell you, my love, that you do not know your precious friends as well as you think you do.”

  Nicholas knew this accusation to be false, but he had to make sure. “I assume you are including my cousin in this calumny.”

  “Among others,” she replied enigmatically. “People are not always what you imagine them to be, Nicky. There is more evil in the world than you suspect. It has already touched you, my love, but you refuse to see it.”

  She extended one shapely limb, which Nicholas could clearly see beneath the diaphanous night rail, and wriggled her toes provocatively. But Nicholas refused to be distracted.

  “Does that include you, too, Angelica?” he blurted out before considering the wisdom of his words. “Are you everything I imagine you to be?”

  The countess opened her eyes wide, dazzling him with their brilliance. “Of course not, silly,” she murmured, “no woman is that perfect, Nicky. And certainly no gentleman I have ever met.” A shadow passed across her face. ‘They are villains and deceivers all,” she added with a suppressed fury that startled him.

  “Surely you exaggerate, my love,” he said mildly. “And I know you are mistaken about my cousin. We have been friends since childhood—”

  “Fiddle!” the countess exclaimed impatiently. “You deceive yourself if you think you can trust relatives, Nicholas. They are the worst kind of predators.”

  She looked so distressed that Nicholas was about to forget his wife’s disobedience when an ugly thought crossed his mind.

  “Are you trying to suggest that it was my Cousin Matt who was on the cliffs with you yesterday?” His source of information had been unable to identify the gentleman who had been seen with the countess, but Nicholas had an uneasy suspicion it might have been his cousin.

  The earl watched his wife’s face carefully. She appeared to be searching for an appropriate reply to his question. He hoped she would not lie to him.

  His hopes died abruptly when the countess dropped her gaze and fiddled briefly with the folds of her pink satin dressing gown. When she raised her eyes, they were cold and stormy.

  “Why must you pick on poor Matt?” she cried in a voice verging on hysteria. “He is not the only gentleman deserving of your scorn, my lord. Your precious friend Lord Jason is hardly as lily white as you seem to think. Have you not seen him stare at me with those sheep’s eyes of his?”

  Nicholas felt his heart sink. His incorrigibly self-centered cousin he could understand, even forgive; had he not overlooked many such selfish, thoughtless acts over the years? But Jason? Not Jason, please Lord. Betrayal from such a quarter would be unbearable. They had been as brothers since their days together at Eton. And ever since that shattering summer of 1790 when his Cousin Luke had fallen to his death from those same cliffs, Jason had become an indispensable part of his life. Much more so than Matt had ever been. Or ever would be, Nicholas admitted.

  “Are you saying that Jason was there with you, Angelica?” He knew it could not be true, but some perversity in his soul forced him to ask.

  His wife’s reaction was instantaneous and violent. Swinging herself up from the chaise-longue, she stood facing him, fists clenched, eyes blazing blue fire.

  “Why is it that you are so ready to believe your spies before you can trust me?” she hissed furiously, her face suffused with angry color.

  “I set no one to spy on you, Angelica,” he said slowly. And he had not done so; the idea would not have crossed his mind before today. He had trusted her. But it appeared Angelica had spoken the truth: one could not trust relatives, even one’s own wife. Particularly not one’s own wife, it appeared.

  But then perhaps he had been too quick to believe his steward’s report of seeing the countess and a gentleman on the cliffs yesterday afternoon. Tom Gates had not been instructed to report on his mistress’s activities, and his comment this morning had seemed casual enough. And what possible reason could Gates have for making up such a story?

  ‘Then some busybody obviously took it upon himself to do so,” Angelica raged. “And went running to you with the story, hoping for a pat on the head
, no doubt.”

  ‘Then you admit the story is true?” Nicholas said heavily, as the implications of her words sank in. “You were on the cliffs?”

  Angelica’s face turned livid with rage. “I was nowhere near your silly cliffs,” she cried, stamping her foot in frustration, “and I resent being forced to account for my actions like some irresponsible schoolroom chit. I thought I left all that behind me in my father’s house. Believe me, Nicholas, I may not be the perfect wife, but I am innocent of this particular sin.”

  Nicholas recognized an olive branch when one was offered, but there was something in his wife’s story that did not ring true. How could Gates, who knew her ladyship well, mistake the matter? Faced with accepting an uneasy truce or discovering an unpalatable truth, Nicholas opted for the latter, fully aware that he was burning his bridges for the night.

  “If you are innocent, my love,” he said as gently as he could, “perhaps you will tell me exactly where you were yesterday afternoon?”

  The countess stared at him for a long while before responding. Nicholas tried hard not to imagine that she was again searching for an appropriate answer to appease him. When she finally spoke, the earl could tell from her supercilious tone that he would sleep in his own bed that night.

  “Since apparently I am expected to account for every single action I take,” she said disdainfully, “then I must confess I spent most of the afternoon with that insipid Martha Grenville. As you know, I am painting her portrait. It is not going at all well, of course, but what can you expect? The silly little fool looks as though she is sucking on a lemon half the time. I did not enjoy the visit in the slightest, but I had promised her mother I would try to produce a reasonable likeness.”