by Brenda Hiatt
Her cousin seemed almost to be apologizing, Azalea thought indignantly.
"Yes. Quite," was all he said in reply. "Shall we commence our tour of the Park?"
Marilyn assented eagerly and the coachman urged the horses on. Lord Glaedon rode comfortably alongside, listening to his fiancée's chatter, and carefully avoided any glance in Azalea's direction. This afforded her an excellent opportunity to examine him at leisure, though she was careful not to stare, as Marilyn might misinterpret her reasons.
She had been right about the Earl's resemblance to his younger brother, but there were subtle differences that became apparent as she watched him. For one thing, he looked— and acted —far older than Chris would have been if he had lived, though Herschel was only a year or two older than Christian, if her memory served her.
Certainly, his manners were inferior to his brother's. Even his smile had a decidedly cynical twist, exaggerated by a faint scar that traced a line from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. It occasionally gave him a mysterious, almost sinister expression. No, perhaps the resemblance was not so strong after all, she decided.
He obviously had not recognized the name Clayton, but then the marriage had been no certain thing when Chris and his father had set out from England. Perhaps it was not remarkable that Herschel had not been informed of it. His hostility had seemed directed not so much at her as at Americans in general. A holdover from the recent war, perhaps?
Watching him surreptitiously, she also decided that his attitude towards Marilyn was not what it should be. There was no real warmth in his manner, for all her cousin's earlier boasting about his impatient ardour. Of course, her own presence might be inhibiting him somewhat, Azalea supposed, but really, he looked almost bored.
Their circuit of the Park was finished long before Marilyn exhausted her store of gossip.
"May I call upon you tomorrow?" Lord Glaedon asked, almost perfunctorily.
"You know you may, my lord," replied Marilyn, dimpling at him. "We shall look forward to your visit."
He touched his hat to both of them and turned his horse. As he rode away, he began to whistle a lilting Irish tune. Frozen in sudden shock, Azalea was left staring open-mouthed at his retreating back.
* * *
CHAPTER 4
Azalea took in none of the scenery during the drive back to Beauforth House. Fortunately, Marilyn's aimless chatter did not require anything in the way of a thoughtful response. At any rate, her cousin seemed to detect nothing wrong in her manner.
Still trembling from the discovery she had made, Azalea stared ahead blindly, trying desperately to force her mind to function. She felt as if her whole world had just been turned upside down without warning. Blinking rapidly against the darkness that seemed to be advancing on the edges of her sight, she nodded vaguely to something her cousin had said.
Think! Think!
Christian had distinctly told her, once upon a time, that Herschel not only detested whistling, but that he had never learned to do it. And that tune—it had been the same one she had heard Christian whistle in Williamsburg. Azalea herself had been struck by Lord Glaedon's uncanny resemblance to the Chris she remembered. Could he possibly be her husband? How? How?
Clasping her hands tightly together in her lap, Azalea strove to organize her whirling thoughts. That he had not recognized her was patently obvious.
Or... was he merely pretending not to?
She honestly didn't think so. Surely he would have betrayed himself somehow, if only with a flash of awareness at his first sight of her.
And what of Herschel? If Christian was now the Earl of Glaedon, then Herschel must also be dead. She and her grandfather had heard no word of that tragedy, though she doubted anyone would have informed them. But how could Christian possibly have been alive all these years without her knowledge? And could he have changed so much?
The Christian she remembered had been a carefree, easygoing young man with engaging manners, nothing at all like the curt, cynical fellow she had met an hour ago. And he could never have aged that much in only six years. She supposed he could have received that scar in the shipwreck, but how could his whole personality have changed so completely?
What was far more likely was that Herschel had taken up whistling late in life, perhaps even in tribute to the younger brother he had lost. Likely, but... somehow she didn't think so. That sense of familiarity had nagged at her from the first moment she had seen Lord Glaedon. And when she'd heard him whistling, she had known beyond any doubt, for one crystal-clear moment, that he was indeed her Chris.
But without any facts, she realized, her guess was only wild conjecture. She must have the facts.
Would they be common knowledge? If so, Lady Beauforth could undoubtedly tell her what she so urgently needed to know She had heard enough at dinner last night to realize that very little of what went on in the fashionable world escaped her ladyship's notice.
The moment she had put off her cloak, Azalea went in search of her hostess.
Glancing up and down the empty upstairs hallway, she decided that the corner room at the far end was most likely Lady Beauforth's, as it was undoubtedly the largest. Before she could reconsider, she walked quickly to the door and knocked, more loudly than she had intended. Her cousin's startled "Yes?" told her that she had guessed correctly.
"It is I, Cousin Alice. Azalea. May I speak to you for a moment?"
"Of course, dear, come in."
Azalea opened the door and found herself in a chamber that bore no resemblance to the tasteful decor of the rest of the house. Cousin Alice's boudoir was a hodgepodge of antique and modern tables, chairs, étagères, pillows and ottomans. Incredibly, there was even a stuffed elephant's foot in one corner, with a bright pink cloth on top.
Every colour of the rainbow was present, though red and purple predominated, and every available surface, including the elephant's foot, was crowded with a dizzying variety of ornaments, valuable works of art competing for space with obvious trumpery pieces.
After a moment, Azalea succeeded in locating her cousin among the startling assortment. Dressed in a magenta wrapper, Lady Beauforth reclined on a chaise longue in the centre of the room.
"Yes, dear child, what is it?" she asked, completely at home in her astonishing surroundings. "Is something troubling you?"
With a start, Azalea recalled her purpose. "Not troubling me precisely, Cousin Alice," she began with studied casualness, "but I am curious about something and was hoping that you could enlighten me." Ever eager to be a source of information, Lady Beauforth beamed at her young relative. "Of course, dear! I'll be delighted to be of assistance."
"Miss Beauforth and I just encountered Lord Glaedon in the Park. As I, ah, mentioned last night, my grandfather was well acquainted with his father, the fourth Earl. He spoke of the family to me on more than one occasion, and it was my understanding that it was Herschel who was next in the succession?" Azalea could not quite bring herself to say Christian's name. She paused, hoping that Lady Beauforth would take it from there. She was not disappointed.
"Oh, my dear, I assumed you knew! It's best you do, I suppose, all things considered. After all, if there were any unpleasantness in that quarter, it's only fair you should know why, don't you think?"
Azalea nodded vaguely, having absolutely no idea what her cousin was talking about.
Lady Beauforth continued. "What I mean to say is that Herschel was killed two years ago in the war— the American war, you understand, not the French. Marilyn was quite devastated, I assure you. You may not have known it, but it was planned almost from her infancy that she would marry poor Herschel. Our lands run with theirs, you see.
"At any rate, Christian seems to have taken all Americans in dislike because of his brother's death. Quite understandable, I suppose. Not that it is your fault, of course, or anyone else's who wasn't actually in the fighting, but I'm sure you understand."
Azalea was beginning to, though the suddenness of having her
suspicion confirmed almost took away her capacity for thought. "But, my lady—" A light tap on the door interrupted her, and Marilyn's abigail entered with a note for Lady Beauforth.
As her cousin read the message, Azalea had time to consider what she had just learned and to be glad of the interruption. She had been on the point of asking how Christian had escaped the shipwreck, a question that would have demanded more explanations than she was ready to give at the moment. There was another matter she could bring up, however.
"Tell my daughter that we'll discuss this at dinner. Perhaps we can contrive to make an appearance at both," said Lady Beauforth to the maid, dismissing her.
She turned her attention back to Azalea. "Now, my dear, where were we? Oh, yes, dear Christian. I pray you'll not take offence at his manner if he should, ah, treat you less than charmingly, now that you know the cause. And I suppose it would be quite proper if you were to make some show of sympathy over poor Herschel, seeing how you know the family, so to speak. But let me tell you the most interesting on dit— Oh, was there any other advice you needed?" Lady Beauforth interrupted herself, apparently remembering her current role as social advisor.
"As a matter of fact, Cousin Alice, there is," said Azalea reluctantly. She thought she might have liked to hear that particular on dit. "I find myself in need of visiting my grandfather's London solicitor, a Mr. John Timmons, and have no idea how to go about doing so."
"Oh, surely there will be no need to actually visit the man," said Lady Beauforth, clearly disappointed by the mundane request. "Indeed, most solicitors very much dislike women in their offices, I understand. I know dear Sir Matthew's lawyers always called on me here at the house after he went to his reward. Your best course would be to send a message round, asking him to visit you."
Azalea doubted this very much. After all, she was hardly of her cousin's social standing, which would likely make this Mr. Timmons reluctant to take so much time out of his busy schedule to cater to her whims. In addition, if she were to decide to ask his advice about her six-year-old marriage, she had no desire to be overheard by any member of her cousin's household. She decided to confide in Lady Beauforth about the lesser of her problems.
"The truth is, Cousin Alice, I need to speak to him about a rather delicate matter. I find that what my grandfather left me, which seemed so ample in America, will hardly support a London Season and certainly would leave me nothing to live on once it is over. I wish to enquire into the particulars of my paternal grandfather's will, to see if I have any money coming to me from the Kayce estates."
"Oh, my dear, I had no idea! How very dreadful for you, to be sure!" exclaimed Lady Beauforth, struggling up into a sitting position. "I naturally assumed that you were sufficiently well set up... but enough of that. Of course, under such circumstances it would be best for you to visit him. He would likely refuse to come to you, anyway, if he knew the truth. But in the meantime, what shall we do for you?" She appeared to be genuinely concerned, perhaps partially out of a fear that she might be expected to finance Azalea's Season herself.
"I shall be fine, Cousin, really," said Azalea quickly, banishing such an uncharitable thought. "Junie has been telling me about some places in Soho—"
"That's it!" Lady Beauforth's brow cleared as if by magic. "The very thing, if we are discreet. You wouldn't believe how many ladies of the ton shop there—by proxy, of course— because of the nip-farthing allowances their husbands give them. I daresay one or two of Marilyn's old gowns might be altered to fit you as well, as you are neither as plump nor as tall as she."
Azalea was relieved at her cousin's enthusiastic reception of the idea and it emboldened her to continue. "To tell the truth, Cousin Alice, Junie already made a brief trip to Soho for me early this afternoon. The dress I am wearing now came from one of the markets, though we only had time enough to take it in at the waist. She assures me that she can refurbish it to make it even more modish."
Lady Beauforth waved this idea aside and assured her that her own dressmaker could make any necessary alterations, as her taste was exquisite. Relieved of the possibility of having to fund Azalea's comeout herself, she seemed disposed to be generous.
"Now run along, my dear, and I'll have Marilyn's abigail look over her gowns from last Season. We are fortunate that the styles have not changed so very much. I'm certain Mrs. Osgood can bring them bang up to the nines for you." She dismissed Azalea with the most unaffected smile she had yet bestowed on her.
* * *
The next morning Junie appeared with a breakfast tray almost the instant Azalea awoke. An envelope rested on the tray next to the cup of chocolate and Azalea picked it up. "What is this?"
"I couldn't say, miss. It was given to me last night by Cartwright, her ladyship's dresser, to bring to you first thing. I set it on your tray so I wouldn't forget." Azalea opened the envelope to find that it contained the direction of Mr. John J. Timmons, Esq., and the information that Lady Beauforth's carriage would convey her there in the course of the morning, if she so wished.
"Why, how kind," Azalea exclaimed. "I'll go directly after breakfast. Junie, do you suppose you could order her ladyship's carriage to be ready in three-quarters of an hour?"
"It's early yet, miss, but I'll try," answered the abigail doubtfully.
"Don't put the coachman to any trouble. I'll wait until he's had a chance to eat something. There is no real hurry, I suppose." But Azalea could not subdue her eagerness to carry out this errand as quickly as possible, and Junie gave her a most perceptive smile.
"It will be ready inside an hour, miss, for certain," she promised, and left the room with a militant gleam in her eye.
Junie returned in under five minutes to inform her mistress that the carriage could indeed be ready by nine o'clock, or even sooner if she wished.
"Thank you, Junie. You take very good care of me," said Azalea warmly, making the abigail flush with pleasure.
"No more than you deserve, miss," she said brusquely. "Now, which dress will you wear? I got that stain out of the white one, and hemmed up the blue."
At precisely nine o'clock Azalea descended the front steps to the waiting carriage, wearing a charming morning dress of sky blue. She was accompanied by a smart-looking Junie, who had bought herself a dress at the market yesterday as well, in keeping with her new post as a fashionable lady's maid. She had informed Azalea that young ladies of Quality simply did not go about in public alone, and stubbornly insisted upon coming with her.
Azalea thought it absurd for Junie to waste a whole morning trailing after her as if she were a child, but finally agreed to abide by the social customs of the London ton. Truth be told, she was somewhat nervous about the coming interview and was just as glad to have Junie's company.
Leaning back against the velvet squabs in the elegant carriage, Azalea tried to organize her thoughts for the ordeal ahead. She had brought along every bit of legal documentation she possessed and hoped it would be enough to satisfy Mr. Timmons of the validity of her claims, at least regarding the Kayce estate.
The marriage papers resided in her reticule, separate from the rest. Two days ago she had regarded them as mere sentimental keepsakes, but she now realized that they might well be vitally important, in a legal sense, at least.
The mansions of the elite and fashionable West End had been left behind and they were now travelling through a less attractive part of London. Peering out of the carriage window, Azalea was shocked at the squalor that existed less than ten minutes from the elegant Mayfair neighbourhood where her cousins lived. Nowhere in America had she seen such filth and human degradation.
Slovenly and obviously inebriated women lounged in gloomy doorways, many nursing infants. Azalea saw one woman offer her baby something out of a bottle and she turned to Junie in dismay.
"Look at that woman! Surely she is not giving that poor baby liquor to drink?"
"Like as not, miss," replied the abigail after a brief glance. "In these parts, gin is the lifeblood of th
e poor folks. No doubt the child would get nearly as drunk on its mother's milk."
"But that's terrible! Why doesn't someone do something?"
Junie looked at her in amazement. "It's her babe, to raise or kill as she sees fit."
Azalea lapsed into silence, feeling immeasurably depressed by the scene of degrading poverty she had just witnessed. In America, at least in the part of it she had known, the poor worked where they could and kept their dignity. If jobs were not to be had, they moved west, where there was farmland for the taking.
A few minutes later her spirits revived somewhat as the scene changed again to what was obviously a business district. Well-dressed merchants and gentlemen moved purposefully along the streets. No women were in evidence. The carriage came to a stop in front of an imposing red brick edifice identified by a brass plate that simply read Law Offices.
Stepping out of the carriage, Azalea told her maid firmly to remain where she was. Though Junie looked as though she would have liked to argue, she obeyed.
Following the directions she had been given, Azalea proceeded to a suite on the second floor of the Law Offices with a door plate reading John J. Timmons, Esq., Barr. Opening the door, she found herself in a plush but rather musty chamber facing an owlish man of indeterminate age seated at an enormous wooden desk.
He looked up from his sheaf of papers with a frown that gave way to blank astonishment as he beheld a lady in these sacred male precincts.
As the man appeared totally bereft of speech, Azalea opened the conversation herself, speaking quickly before she could lose her courage.
"Mr. Timmons? I am Azalea Clayton. I was referred to you by my grandfather, the Reverend Gregory Simpson. I believe you handled his business when he was young, as well as that of his father, Sir Philip Simpson."
She was running out of opening remarks when he finally recovered himself enough to speak.