by Diane Gaston
‘You—you’ve fought him before?’
He laughed drily. ‘Not Bowles, but he’s seen me fight many times.’
She’d heard of gentlemen who engaged in boxing matches, ridiculous contests of who could hit his opponent until his opponent was knocked out.
‘Exactly where did he see you fight?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘On the fields of Eton and in its hallways. There were plenty of other boys who wished to show me my place. At Oxford, as well.’
‘In school?’ Was that where men learned to punch so hard the victim could see stars? ‘You have known Bowles since school?’ Was his anger at Bowles that long lasting?
He nodded. ‘I knew it would take more than a threat to deter him. He needed to know we meant what we said. But we’ll have to be vigilant. Bowles is a snake. He’ll slink back as soon as he thinks we are no longer looking. I think I’ll warn the entertainers and servants about him. We don’t have to mention what happened to Flo.’
Her heart was pounding in anxiety. This image of Oliver striking Bowles roused memories of her husband. Duncan fought everyone, even the man who killed him in a duel.
‘Bowles is a member of the club?’ she asked.
‘No longer,’ he replied. He glanced at the door. ‘Is Fleurette still at the club?’
Cecilia pulled herself away from memories. ‘She is visiting her mother, but she is supposed to return to spend the night at the club tonight.’ Cecilia insisted Flo return here and not to her room, just in case Oliver had not succeeded.
‘I’ll have Snyder tell her she is safe now.’ He stood. ‘Will I see you at dinner?’
She looked up at him, so tall, so handsome. So strong and powerful. ‘Of course.’
‘I will see you then.’
When he left the room, she dropped her head onto her hands.
He was a wonderful protector. Why did he also have to frighten her so?
* * *
Over the next week, Cecilia settled into a routine, dining with Oliver, walking to the club with him. The nights at Vitium et Virtus had been uneventful, and Cecilia fell into the familiar role of Coquette. Her father, apparently accepting his exile, did not return. There was also no sign of Sir Nash Bowles. Flo moved from her room to one closer to her mother. She’d not seen Bowles since Oliver had intervened. With each day, Flo grew happier and Cecilia allowed herself to be lulled into a comfortable sense of well-being.
Cecilia herself felt physically marvellous. This was her fourth month of pregnancy and she rarely experienced nausea any more. She suddenly had energy again, so much so that she made herself useful in Oliver’s house. Helping with the mending. Putting his bookshelves in order. There was not much on his shelves that she wished to read, though. The poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge was the lot.
Today Oliver invited her to come with him to the shops on Bond Street. She was always suspicious of invitations, but the weather was clear and crisp, making it a fine day for stretching one’s legs and exploring the myriad shops that led Napoleon to call England a nation of shopkeepers.
She could not resist.
She wore a black dress that had been hastily made after the Queen died, a colour that did not reflect her current feeling of well-being, but was not unflattering. Her bonnet was also black. Both were gifts from Oliver and she was grateful. It meant she would not stand out from the other Mayfair shoppers, the aristocrats who would undoubtedly respectfully mourn the Queen.
What a great deal that lady had endured, she thought. The madness of her husband. The death of a daughter, a granddaughter and a great-grandchild. The excesses of her sons. No wonder she kept her remaining daughters so confined.
Such motherly devotion. Cecilia dared not dwell on that subject lest she miss her mother all over again.
Never mind. She would have her baby and she’d love her baby with all her heart. She’d devote her life to her child’s happiness.
If Oliver fulfilled his promise to support them.
She really was at his mercy as far as the support of her child was concerned and if she thought about that subject too much her feeling of well-being vanished.
She stood in front of the mirror in her bedchamber to check her appearance one more time, pressing the skirt of her dress against her belly to see if it looked as if her belly had swelled. It did.
But not enough to worry about showing under the generous material of her skirt. Enough, though, to remind herself that soon it would become obvious she was carrying a child. She did not know enough about childbearing to say when that would be. Another month? Two? Another worry she tried not to think of.
Instead, she smoothed out her skirt again, picked up her gloves and hurried out to the stairway.
Oliver waited at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a black coat, waistcoat and black trousers. The dark coat and white linen shirt and neckcloth set off his dark skin and green eyes in a manner that took Cecilia’s breath away.
She wished she would not have this reaction to him.
His magnetic eyes followed her down the stairs. Was the expression on his face approval? She could not tell.
‘Am I presentable?’ she asked warily.
His eyes scanned her. ‘Very presentable.’
Irwin helped Cecilia on with her cloak and Oliver with his topcoat and black armband. He held the door as they left the house. Once on the pavement, Oliver offered his arm.
She accepted it. It would seem churlish not to.
‘Where would you like to shop?’ he asked as they approached Jermyn Street.
‘Me?’ she responded. ‘I will go wherever you wish.’
They turned on to Jermyn Street and walked past the windows of Floris perfumers.
‘Do you need some scent?’ he asked.
She made do with lavender water. ‘I do not like to spend my money on scent.’
He stopped at the doorway. ‘I told you in Paris. I am rich. I can buy you scent.’
‘Why would you, Oliver?’ she asked. Perhaps her lavender water was not to his liking.
‘Let us go in. I will purchase a throwaway for you. You can wear it at the masquerade.’ He pulled her towards the door.
A throwaway was a small sample of a scent. Perhaps he wished a new scent to be part of her costume. The masquerade was planned to be the last big Vitium et Virtus event before Christmas, when most of the members travelled to their country houses or to house parties.
She acquiesced.
A clerk stood behind a long mahogany case that displayed scent bottles of all shapes, sizes and designs. ‘May I be of assistance?’ he asked.
‘A throwaway for the lady,’ Oliver said.
The clerk showed them a variety of scents and offered to make a special blend if she chose. She selected a scent, which was a blend of jasmine and other fragrances that seemed exotic and that met with Oliver’s approval. The tiny cylindrical glass bottle was adorned with hand-painted gilt and enamel. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Oliver carried it in his pocket.
Next they stopped at Hatchard’s bookshop, where Cecilia browsed through the first volume of a novel that caught her eye. She’d forgotten the pleasures of reading novels.
‘What is that book?’ he asked, coming to her side.
‘It is two books in one,’ she replied. ‘Northanger Abbey and Persuasion by the author of Pride and Prejudice.’
‘Something you would enjoy?’
‘I did enjoy Pride and Prejudice.’ She’d read it an age ago when she’d still had stars in her eyes and dreams of romance and marriage.
‘Will you allow me to buy it for you?’ Oliver asked.
She closed it. ‘No, indeed. Stop offering to buy me things.’
‘Why?’ he demanded.
Because it made her u
ncomfortable. Because it reminded her of Paris.
She touched the pearl that hung at her neck. ‘It is not economical to buy a novel. One generally reads them just once.’
He shrugged. ‘I have no need to be economical.’
What else could she say? ‘Gifts come with obligation.’
He sobered. ‘I have asked nothing of you. It is you who ask of me. You want me to support you.’
She leaned even closer. ‘Not me. The baby.’
Their eyes caught and gazes held and the flush of arousal rushed through her. Like Paris all over again.
She glanced away and put the book back on the shelf.
‘Did you find anything for yourself?’ she asked.
He gently extended his hand and touched her arm, but just as quickly withdrew it and shook his head.
* * *
After they left Hatchard’s they passed many ladies and gentlemen of Oliver’s acquaintance on the street. He tipped his hat in greeting. The gentlemen tipped their hats in return; the ladies smiled appreciatively.
‘I thought you were ostracised from society,’ Cecilia said. ‘There seem to be many people willing to acknowledge you.’
‘I am not entirely a pariah,’ he admitted. ‘Because of Frederick and Jacob—’ and Nicholas ‘—I actually have mixed in society quite a bit. Even my father has included me in invitations from time to time.’
She laughed. ‘And here I thought you as scandalous as I am.’
He did not like to hear her speak of herself that way.
‘Oh, I am perfectly acceptable if some young buck wants a phaeton race or a sparring match or sword fight. Or if his father enjoys a high-stakes game of cards or wishes membership in Vitium et Virtus. Or his mother or married sister wishes a flirtation.’ He frowned. ‘But no one wishes me anywhere near their marriageable daughters. No one wants the family line tainted by a half-caste’s blood.’ He glanced down at her and made himself smile. ‘No vouchers for Almack’s for me.’
She gave him a look of sympathy. ‘None for me either. I cannot imagine I’d ever receive any society invitation.’ She grimaced. ‘Except the sort of invitation the patrons of Vitium et Virtus offer me.’
They walked on.
‘Does it bother you?’ she asked.
‘Not always,’ he admitted. Not when he could distract his mind from the memories of the time in India when he’d known love and security.
He did not ask if it bothered her, but she answered anyway.
‘Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not eloped with Duncan.’ She blinked. ‘But I will never know, will I?’
He made himself smile again. ‘Better to enjoy the fine weather, the exercise—’ he felt his skin warm as he gazed at her ‘—and the company.’
Her gaze met his and held. ‘Yes. It is a fine day.’
This moment felt like Paris. He would cherish it.
They crossed Piccadilly and walked down Old Bond Street, stopping in a grocer’s to purchase tea and pausing to look at all the prints displayed in Ackermann’s windows.
He spied another place. Hookham’s. ‘Let us go in here,’ he said.
She did not realise what sort of establishment it was until they crossed the threshold.
‘A Circulating Library!’ she cried.
This was one way to give her the pleasure of the book she’d examined in Hatchard’s. ‘You cannot object to me signing you up for the Circulating Library.’
This ploy worked in Paris. Why not here? She’d refused his offer of jewels, but accepted the necklace with a single pearl. It had worked at Floris, too. No bottles of expensive scent, but she had agreed to a small throwaway.
She would not allow him to purchase a book for her, but how could she refuse a subscription to a circulating library? It only cost one pound and fourteen shillings for a subscription for two persons for six months.
After six months, he did not know what would happen.
He walked her to the counter and arranged for a subscription for eight volumes at a time.
‘And what books would the lady like to borrow?’ the clerk asked.
He turned to her. ‘Do you want the one you looked at in Hatchard’s?’
‘Very well, Oliver.’ She sighed. To the clerk, she said, ‘Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.’
‘Volume one?’ the man asked.
‘All volumes,’ Oliver said.
Books were often in four volumes. It stood to reason to borrow them all at once.
‘Any other?’ the clerk asked.
He might as well borrow the book he’d looked at in Hatchard’s. ‘The Principles of Political Economy and Taxation.’
‘Excellent choices, sir,’ the clerk said.
Oliver supposed he said that to every subscriber.
The clerk extended his hand. ‘Please have some refreshment while I fulfil your request.’
They left the counter. ‘Do you want some refreshment?’ Oliver asked.
‘No,’ she responded. ‘But I would not mind sitting for a moment.’
‘We can wait in the reading room,’ he said.
The reading room was a place where subscribers could pass the time until their books were found. Some read the newspapers, which were made available. Others read the books they’d selected to borrow to see if they really wanted them.
In the reading room were a gentleman engrossed in a newspaper and two ladies standing in conversation. One lady had her back to them and she blocked a view of the other. When the lady moved slightly, the other woman’s face was visible for a moment.
Cecilia emitted a small sound of alarm and abruptly pulled away from Oliver. She fled back to the main room and retreated to the front of the shop where there was a window display.
He hurried after her.
‘What is it, Cecilia?’ he asked.
She appeared to be gazing out the window. ‘The lady—the lady in the reading room.’ She seemed to have trouble breathing.
‘What of her?’
She faced him and her eyes filled with pain. ‘She is my mother.’
Her mother?
Cecilia seemed to shrink before his eyes, becoming a frightened child. ‘May—may we leave?’
Leave? She’d once gone in search of her parents for their help. Her father had his chance to embrace her and return her to the family. He’d lost that chance.
But she must not give up on the possibility that she might reunite with her mother! What he would give for even one brief moment with his mother.
He gripped her arm. ‘You confronted your father. Now confront your mother. Say to her all the things you wish to say. You may not get another opportunity.’
She straightened and he watched her transform herself yet again, this time from weakness to strength. ‘You are right.’
He released her.
She strode to the reading room. The two women were still conversing. One was older—Cecilia’s mother, he presumed. The other, the one whose back was to them, was younger.
Cecilia walked directly up to them. ‘Hello, Mama,’ she said.
Her mother gazed at her and it took a moment for her eyes to widen in surprise.
It was the younger woman who spoke first. ‘Cecilia!’
‘Hello, Agnes.’ Cecilia’s voice sounded flat.
Her mother took a step forward. ‘Cecilia!’
The younger woman stopped her. ‘Mama! Remember what Papa said when she eloped?’ Cecilia’s sister, obviously.
Her mother pushed her aside and came up to Cecilia. Tears were in her mother’s eyes. ‘My darling daughter! How are you?’ She touched Cecilia’s arms, as if to test whether they were in one piece. Her gaze swept over her daughter. ‘I cannot believe you are here.’
‘Mama!’ Agnes broke in again.
Cecilia was speechless.
Her mother ignored Cecilia’s sister. ‘But why did we not hear a word from you? Where have you been all these years?’ She seemed to notice Oliver. ‘This is not your husband?’
‘My husband is dead, Mama.’ She turned to Oliver. ‘This is Mr Gregory. A—a friend.’
‘Lady Dorman.’ Oliver bowed. He nodded to Agnes. ‘Ma’am.’
He seemed to be too much for the baroness to take in. She turned to Cecilia again. ‘My condolences,’ she said, not very sincerely. ‘Why did you never write to me?’
Cecilia looked puzzled. ‘I wrote many times, Mama. I had only the one letter from Papa.’
Her mother stumbled and looked as if she could not keep her balance.
Oliver caught Lady Dorman before she fell. ‘Come, you should sit.’
He supported her until she lowered herself onto a sofa. She reached for Cecilia’s hand so she would sit beside her. Agnes primly took a seat nearby. Oliver stepped back.
‘I—I never received a letter from you,’ her mother said.
Cecilia glanced at Agnes, who blinked and turned her head.
‘Do you know anything of this?’ Cecilia asked her sister.
The sister lifted her nose. ‘Papa told Joan and me to consider you dead, so he destroyed any letters from you.’
‘He destroyed letters?’ her mother cried.
The clerk stood in the doorway, looking hesitant. Oliver was not sure how long he’d been there. The man reading the newspaper was still reading.
‘Your books, sir,’ the clerk said uncertainly.
Oliver walked over to him and took the books, which were wrapped in brown paper.
‘Mama,’ Cecilia said gently. ‘Do not be distressed.’
Her mother looked at her again, a reverent expression on her face. She stroked her daughter’s cheek. ‘I thought you were lost for ever.’
‘I—I’ve been living in France,’ Cecilia said.
As with her father, she had not mentioned that she was expecting a child. There was much she left out. How much had she left out for him?
Her mother grasped her hands. ‘Now you are a widow, you can come home!’