Parfit Knight

by Riley, Stella

  The Marquis gave a bitter laugh and collapsed neatly into a chair.

  ‘No. Neither you nor anyone else.’

  Rockliffe sighed. ‘What a pity. May one ask why?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t help.’ Amberley plainly had scant interest in the point. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  His Grace helped himself to another cup of coffee and poured one for his guest.

  ‘The answer,’ he said languidly, ‘is no. She is entirely charming, of course and I’ve rarely seen a more beautiful girl. But I’ve no ambition to wed her.’

  ‘Because she’s blind?’ asked the Marquis dryly.

  ‘No. Because I am not … in love with her.’ Rockliffe’s tone was equally dry but a faint tinge of colour stained his cheekbones. ‘You should be glad.’

  Amberley leant on the table, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  ‘Oh God. I am glad. And I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Unnecessary, my dear.’ The heavy-lidded gaze dwelt on him thoughtfully. ‘So where did you acquire this extraordinary notion?’

  ‘From Lord Philip.’ He looked up. ‘He was quite definite about it.’

  ‘Was he indeed? I really cannot imagine why. I’ve given him no cause to think it.’

  The Marquis gestured impatiently. ‘What he thinks doesn’t interest me. I’d rather know what Rosalind thinks.’

  ‘Who can tell what any woman thinks - or even if they do,’ drawled the Duke. And then, meeting Amberley’s eye, ‘Calm down, Dominic. I have neither trifled with the lady’s affections nor raised false hopes in her breast – and I doubt very much that I could have done so even if I’d tried. I am a diversion. Nothing more.’

  ‘You’re very sure.’

  ‘I know the game,’ explained Rockliffe, half-smiling, ‘and the onlooker always sees most of it. In short, I’d have staked my reputation upon the premise that, if she married anyone, it would be yourself. Would I have been wrong?’

  For a moment Amberley stared at him and then, rising, he turned away, saying abruptly, ‘Yes. You would. She won’t have me. And there’s nothing I can do about it – even if I was calm enough to do anything. Which, of course, I’m not.’

  ‘I see.’ A faint frown creased his Grace’s brow. ‘There is, I imagine, a reason?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Marquis gazed unseeingly into the street. ‘There’s always been a reason … and the irony of it is that if I’d spoken last night she would probably have accepted me. Today, she won’t even receive me. But don’t ask me to explain. Perhaps later I may do so – but not yet. I think,’ he concluded with careful lightness, ‘that I’ve had enough for one day. And what I really need is something else to think of.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  Amberley turned and gave a metallic smile. ‘Oh – nothing much. A town to take or a night ride behind enemy lines. Just some little thing to occupy my mind. I’m very flexible.’

  The Duke surveyed him consideringly and then got up, tossing his napkin on to the table.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t provide you with a small war. But how do you feel about a race to Newmarket – my blacks against your greys?’

  The brittle look was replaced with a glimmer of appreciative warmth.

  ‘I should probably enjoy it. But I’m sure you have other plans for today.’

  Rockliffe shrugged. ‘Nothing I should not be happy to cancel. And please rid your mind of the mawkish suspicion that I suggest it out of sympathy – I don’t. It is merely,’ he explained reflectively, ‘that I would like my revenge for our last race. Voilà tout. Shall we go?’

  *

  Partly from a desire to avoid her brother and partly so that she could be free to think, Rosalind took the precaution of instructing her maid to inform her the instant Lord Amberley arrived and then elected to wait upstairs in her boudoir. Her mind was in chaos; a tangle of soaring hope and churning fear that made her long for him to come but dread what he might say. And, though she recognised the injustice of it, she felt that she almost hated Philip for turning what should have been a time of joy into this maelstrom of doubt.

  For a while she paced restlessly to and fro; then, realising the futility of this, she sat near the window where she would hear a carriage if it stopped at the door, arranged the folds of pearl-trimmed amethyst tiffany neatly around her and settled herself down to wait with what patience she could muster.

  She remembered the evening she’d told Amberley about the accident. It had been the night he’d been teaching her to dance … until something had made him release her hand and back away from her as if burned. Then he’d talked of Richmond and that had brought them to the subject of the day her life had changed. She recalled telling him what she remembered … and immediately sensing that something was wrong but having no idea what it was. He’d retired quite abruptly that night and, on the following morning, had said he must leave. And during the whole of that last day, nothing had been the same as before. Now, finally, she knew why – but not why he hadn’t told her.

  Her thoughts moved on to the previous evening. He’d spoken of something that needed to be said – that should have been said before he kissed her. And she’d assumed, because with his arms still about her she hadn’t been thinking very clearly, that he was referring to a proposal of marriage. But, of course, it hadn’t been that – or not just that. And this morning when he came, he was going to tell her that it was his coach that had run her down twelve years ago. He would tell her and then they would be done with it; done with that unfortunate twist of Fate that was no one’s fault and of no consequence at all.

  For the only thing that was not open to argument and that was the fact that, beyond pride or reason, she loved the Marquis; that she loved him so much that nothing else signified – neither the accident, nor his failure to speak of it, nor anything else. He need not even tell her why he had remained silent if only he would say he cared for her. And that, of course, was the rub – for even last night when he had held her in his arms, he had not spoken of love.

  ‘But neither did I,’ Rosalind reminded herself. ‘And I knew. I’ve known since Isabel made me see it on the day he sent the poems. Only it didn’t seem necessary to put it into words when it was there, warm and living, between us. And surely he couldn’t have kissed me like that if he hadn’t meant it?’ She flushed a little at the memory of her own response and then smiled at the thought that she ought to feel shocked – but didn’t.

  But the uncertainly persisted and was reinforced, against her will, by the one thing Philip had said which she could not forget.

  ‘How will you ever be sure he didn’t do so from pity or guilt?’

  ‘I can’t and won’t believe it,’ she thought resolutely. ‘He couldn’t be so foolish and he isn’t sorry for me – not a scrap. He never has been. As for guilt – why should he feel that? He wasn’t driving so it wasn’t his fault. Oh damn Philip! Why did he have to put the idea into my head? I won’t think about it.’

  Yet, as the hours dragged slowly by bringing no sign of the Marquis, she did think about it and with increasing frequency. And gradually the sweet memories she had cherished and the rosy dreams she had nurtured for so short a time, withered and crumbled until they were dust at her feet. Like the princess in her high, stone tower, she waited in vain for her lover to come … until at last the chiming clock told her that there was nothing left to wait for.

  ~ * * * ~

  FIFTEEN

  By early evening and after a day of unparalleled tedium with only Broody for company, Lord Philip decided it safe to assume that Amberley had heeded his warning and set off to pour his troubles into the sympathetic ear of his betrothed.

  He found Mistress Dacre on the point of going up to change her dress for dinner but had no difficulty in persuading her to accompany him instead to a small parlour at the back of the house where they could be private. There was, as usual, no sign of Lord or Lady Linton and Philip who, if the truth was known, had no desire to see
either of them, frowned irritably and thought that it was remarkably typical of this ramshackle household.

  He began with a slightly garbled account of what appeared to have taken place in Vauxhall Gardens – to which Isabel listened with confusion verging on suspicion. She had, in fact, already tried to coax this information out of Robert but he had proved surlily reticent and refused to do more than admit that he owed his bruised and swollen jaw to the Marquis of Amberley. Isabel put two and two together, arrived at some shrewd but unpleasant conclusions and wondered, inwardly shuddering, if she ought, in fairness, to share them with his lordship.

  But Philip did not give her the chance. Like water rushing through a floodgate, he swiftly went on to pour out last night’s shocking discovery, the interview with Rosalind that had followed it and the pungent logic behind his own attitudes. And that was as far as he got before, unable to stay silent any longer, Isabel steeled herself to interrupt him.

  ‘But you can’t assume that!’ she said aghast. ‘He must feel absolutely dreadful about it. And perhaps Rosalind is right and he doesn’t know. After all, you only discovered it last night.’

  ‘He knows,’ responded Philip grimly. ‘I saw him this morning and he didn’t trouble to deny it. What he did do – eventually – was ask my permission to pay his addresses.’

  The brown eyes flew wide. ‘He wants to marry her? Really?’

  ‘So he said.’

  His tone told Isabel that his response to the Marquis hadn’t been encouraging. She said carefully, ‘And what answer did you give him?’

  ‘I told him I’d sooner see her dead at my feet.’

  This was worse than she had expected. ‘But why? If they love each other – ‘

  ‘He doesn’t love her,’ said Philip flatly. ‘If he did, he’d have told her the truth about the accident as soon as he realised it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She eyed him dubiously. ‘But did he tell you why he hasn’t done so?’

  ‘He didn’t need to. It’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not to me – though I suppose he may have been afraid.’

  ‘Afraid? Amberley?’ Philip forgot he had called the Marquis a coward and gave a brief, derisive laugh. ‘Never!’

  Isabel thought it over and said seriously, ‘Not in the normal way, perhaps. But if he blames himself, then he may well think that Rosalind would too.’ She paused and then asked somewhat wistfully, ‘If – if you were in a position like that, how easy would you find it to tell the truth?’

  Philip shrugged. ‘Oh God – I don’t know. But it’s all supposition anyway – and, if it isn’t, why didn’t he say so to me this morning?’

  She smiled a little. ‘Would you have believed him?’

  ‘No. But he knew damned well what I was thinking and if he had an explanation, he should have offered it. I would have done so. Anything rather than let someone believe me wilfully dishonest.’

  Isabel stared at her hands. She had very little hope of being attended to but, because she liked the Marquis and felt that the least she owed him was some sort of defence, she was determined to try.

  ‘Yes. But you set more store by the world’s opinion than I suspect Lord Amberley does. He … I think you’ll find that he lives by a code of his own; and, in many ways, it is a good deal stricter than – than – ‘

  ‘Than mine?’ snapped his lordship, nettled. ‘Merci du compliment! Perhaps you’ll be good enough to explain how?’

  She flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that precisely. But I think – largely because of Robert – you do the Marquis an injustice. He does what he thinks is right; and he’s the only person I’ve ever met who never says anything that reflects unfavourably on anyone else. He’d rather let people think badly of him – and that must take a special sort of courage, don’t you think?’

  Lord Philip did not – and neither, he discovered, did he care for the gentle admiration in Isabel’s tone or the concern in her eyes. With a sudden sense of shock, he realised that he had never known her display either one on his own account – and the thought did more than rankle. It hurt.

  ‘Not courage,’ he replied blightingly, ‘just arrogance. And he has plenty of that and to spare. I’m only surprised that he took me at my word and stayed away today.’

  The brown gaze sharpened a little.

  ‘Did you tell him that Rosalind didn’t want to see him?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He hesitated, not particularly proud of this admission. ‘I merely … implied it.’

  ‘And is it true?’

  ‘No. But it should have been – for if I have my way, she’ll take Rockliffe.’

  Isabel regarded him with a sort of awed fascination.

  ‘And did you tell Lord Amberley that?’

  ‘Why should I not?’

  She opened her mouth as if she could have told him and then closed it again. For a moment or two she toyed with the falls of lace at her elbow and then she said diffidently, ‘Forgive me for asking – but do you really expect Rockliffe to make Rosalind an offer?’

  ‘Not if she carries on making herself the talk of the town with Amberley,’ replied his lordship darkly. ‘But I think he might if he received the slightest encouragement. Don’t you?’

  Although she knew the truth wasn’t going to be welcome, Isabel saw no help for it.

  ‘No. I don’t. Despite all the caps that have been thrown at him, Rockliffe’s been avoiding matrimony for years – and, as far as I can see, he’s still doing it. And if Lord Amberley is in love with Rosalind, you may be very sure that Rock knows it – not just because he’s Amberley’s oldest friend but because nothing escapes his notice.’

  Despite recalling the Duke’s warning about Marcus Sheringham, Philip chose to shrug this off. ‘Perhaps. But he obviously likes Rosalind and she likes him. And, quite apart from his title, he’s worth a dozen of Amberley. Or don’t you think so?’

  ‘Well, no. In fact, I don’t.’ Isabel hesitated and then went stoically, ‘Not that it matters what I think. Rosalind loves Amberley – not Rockliffe. And it would appear that she has the uncommon good fortune to have her regard returned.’

  ‘You think she’s lucky Amberley is prepared to marry her?’

  ‘No.’ She paused again, choosing her words very carefully. ‘I envy the fact that he loves her.’

  Both the ambiguity and her real meaning sailed over Philip’s head. An unpleasant weight settled in his chest and he grew rather pale.

  ‘Indeed. No doubt you have your reasons. I only wish I understood them.’

  There was a long silence while Isabel gazed back at him using her most reflective stare to cover the mass of hopeful conjecture that seethed in her brain. Then her mouth curved in a slow, sweet smile and she said simply, ‘I’ve told you. He never yet no villainy said in all his life … and he has such a charming smile.’

  ‘I see.’ Philip came abruptly to his feet and simultaneously recognised the sensation that had been plaguing him. He managed a hard, brittle smile and said, in a voice from which he could not quite banish the hurt, ‘Then perhaps it’s a pity that your father contracted you to me. I must be something of a disappointment.’ And before she could reply - before he let himself say anything more, he made her a small, jerky bow and left.

  *

  From Clarges Street Philip went directly to White’s where the talk was all about the death of the French king. Louis le Bien-Aimé, fifteenth of his name and King of France for nearly sixty years, had succumbed to smallpox and been interred, so rumour said, under cover of darkness in less than regal circumstances. An argument was in progress about whether it was true that the coffin had been filled with alcohol or whether it had been put in quicklime – or both. Philip, his interest registering at several points below zero, found a quiet corner and, for the first time ever, set out to get extremely drunk. And, by the time Amberley arrived at the club, he had succeeded well enough for a single glimpse of the Marquis to bring his profound sense of ill-usage surging to th
e surface and make him long to plant his fist squarely in that fine-boned face.

  Chin on chest, Philip considered his woes. A sister who would not speak to him, a parrot that either spat at or cursed him and a bride-to-be who had clearly fallen under the spell of Another. It was more, he decided gloomily, than a man should be asked to bear; and, looking at the cause of all his troubles, a mere punch no longer seemed enough.

  It was at this point that Fate, pink-clad and lisping, deigned to take a hand in the game. Viscount Ansford, an inveterate gossip who greatly resented the gentle way Amberley had of nipping his best stories in the bud, watched the Marquis cross the room and was prompted to utter a spiteful remark.

  ‘Upon my thoul!’ he tittered to the gentleman sitting beside him. ‘I hardly exthpected to thee Amberley here tonight. They thay he eloped from Vauxhall with the fair Rothalind latht night – and I thuppothed them half-way to the border by now!’

  With a strangled oath and a force that overturned his chair, Philip came to his feet and dived at the dainty Viscount who, until that moment, had not seen him. His fingers hooked themselves into the foaming lace cravat, twisting savagely and, in an equally savage voice, he said, ‘You lying little worm – take it back before I choke you!’

  The Viscount, unfortunately, was in no position to say anything – either in renunciation or otherwise – and, though every head in the room turned to watch, no one appeared to find him worth saving. No one, that is, except for the Marquis of Amberley who strode swiftly forward and obtained his release by means of a hard, well-placed blow to Lord Philip’s wrist.

  ‘You!’ Philip’s eyes blazed and, because his right hand was still a useless mass of pins and needles, he clenched his left and took a wild swing at Amberley’s nose.

  Stepping back, the Marquis caught his wrist in an inflexible grip and said under his breath, ‘No, you bloody fool! Think what you’re doing. I know you’d like to break my jaw but you can’t do it here – you’ll ruin her.’