Mills, Anita

by Autumn Rain

  "He didn't have to."

  Sally Jersey snapped her fan shut. "If you are meaning to give me that farradiddle that Elizabeth died of a broken heart, I don't mean to listen. We were speaking of this Longford, after all."

  But Palmerston merely smiled. "One would think you yourself had cherished a tendre for Mad Jack," he chided.

  Lady Jersey turned to Elinor and shrugged her bared shoulders expressively. "Did I not tell you that men will forgive men anything? It does not matter to Henry that Longford consorts with all manner of opera singers—and that Harriette Wilson also—and yet he could not forgive Diana an understandable indiscretion."

  To Elinor, it was much a case of the pot and the kettle, given that Lady Jersey was known to have had more than a few discreet affairs of her own, but she managed to hold her tongue. "It's an old tale now, and Longford's been away for years, after all," she murmured instead. "Perhaps he thought it was all forgotten."

  "Forgotten?" The other woman's voice rose incredulously. "My dear, it cannot be forgotten! Not with this latest scandal!"

  "The divorce was long ago," Elinor reminded her. "And he is not the first man ever to have been divorced."

  "It was the way he did it," Sally Jersey pronounced awfully, turning on her as Lord Palmerston escaped. "To have dragged the Fentons through all that when the matter could have been scotched. The girl was a ninnyhammer—I admit it—but I daresay he had to have known that when he wed her."

  "Perhaps he was young."

  "And it was not as though he did not neglect her," she went on, ignoring Elinor's feeble defense of Longford. "But I am not merely speaking of the divorce, my dear—though that alone is quite enough in my book. It's what he does now that I find utterly repugnant," she declared flatly. "And I for one mean to give him the cut for it."

  "I have heard nothing," Elinor confessed.

  "I'm afraid Arthur keeps you far too sheltered, my dear, when he ought to warn you instead." The other woman leaned closer to confide, "There is to be another hearing."

  "If he is divorced from her, I cannot see—" Elinor stopped. "Surely he is not being named correspondent in another instance, is he? I mean, he has been out of the country."

  "Of course not," Sally retorted. "Most men are not so foolish as Longford. No, this is quite another matter." Her mouth flattened into a thin line of disapproval once more. "There is a child, I'm afraid."

  "A child?"

  "Probably more than one, if the truth were told, but no, you mistake my meaning. Diana has returned, asking for a settlement upon her daughter, and Longford means to fight it—he told Cowper so, in fact. Said it was why he was back." She waited for Elinor to express shock, and when the younger woman said nothing, she went on, "Do you not see? It will be the on-dit all over again, and how the Fentons are to stand it, I am sure I don't know."

  "But is the child his?" Elinor wondered aloud.

  "It does not matter," Lady Jersey declared dismissively. "As it is a girl, he ought not to quibble over it. If Oxford can accept that miscellany Jane has presented him, then Longford should pay for the child and not create such a fuss. It would be ever so much better to avert the scandal, but then he is certainly no stranger to that."

  "But if it is not his, it scarce seems fair," Elinor pointed out reasonably. "Why should he acknowledge an heiress simply to avert unpleasant gossip?"

  The countess smirked almost derisively, then retreated behind her fan. "My dear, you are an innocent," she murmured. "I daresay you must be faithful to your lord also."

  Perceiving the comment to be censorious, Elinor felt the color rise in her face. "Yes," she said simply. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Arthur beckoning her, and she excused herself. "Your pardon, Lady Jersey, but my husband needs me."

  "A pity. There are so many eligible gentlemen to amuse oneself with." The older woman sighed expressively. "But you are right, of course, for Kingsley has but the one heir. He might be rather vexed should another come in by the side door."

  "I can assure you that will not happen," Elinor muttered dryly. "I think Arthur is ready to leave," she added, retreating. "Perhaps he is not feeling well."

  "My dear, one should never live in one's husband's pocket," Sally Jersey warned her. "It only breeds contempt and boredom, not to mention it's unfashionable."

  The crowd shifted to make room for the grand entrance of the Italian diva, and Elinor found the way suddenly blocked. Threading a narrow path among the press of bodies, she trod on someone's foot. "Your pardon, sir—I—" Her gaze traveled up to the coldly handsome face. "Oh."

  "Lady Kingsley," he murmured, favoring her with that faint, seemingly derisive smile. "Lord Longford."

  "You risk much acknowledging the parish, you know."

  "Fiddle, sir."

  His manner changed abruptly, and he looked to the elegantly clad gentleman with him. "Bell, have you been presented to Kingsley's Venus?"

  "No. Been out of the country some," he reminded

  Lucien rather pointedly, "but I've heard of her—conquered London, if the Beau can be believed."

  Turning back to Elinor, Lucien made the introduction. "Lady Kingsley—Bellamy, Viscount Townsend."

  "Charmed, Lady Kingsley, I assure you."

  "Thank you."

  "Were you presented at Court this year, Lady Kingsley?"

  "Last year—and I still shudder when I think of the hoops and feathers," she murmured, smiling at him. "I looked a shocking fright, I am afraid."

  "Daresay you weren't alone in that. Don't know why the females have got to dress like they was French royalty before the Revolution. Gentlemen either. I never did favor knee breeches and buckles." His eyes met Elinor's and there was no mistaking the open admiration in them. "How is Lord Kingsley, by the by?"

  "He is here. In fact, I was on my way to him just now."

  "Oh. Yes—well, perhaps I might call—to further the acquaintance, of course," Townsend ventured hopefully.

  "We should be honored, I am sure. Your pardon, gentlemen, but I must find Arthur before the lights are doused."

  Both men watched her disappear into the crowd, then Bell sighed. "Seems a shame, don't it? Beauty's wasted on an old man like that, don't you think?"

  Longford's eyebrow rose. "My experience with elderly husbands is that they are inclined to keep everything they have bought, Bell."

  "Bound to be bored with the old gent, I'd think," the viscount mused. "I wonder..."

  "The girl's green. I doubt she would know how to play the game."

  "You don't know that," Townsend retorted.

  "Leave her alone, Bell—she's not up to your weight." Even as he said it, Lucien wondered why he bothered. If Kingsley's young wife got herself into a scandal, it was none of his affair. As soon as the new unpleasantness with Diana was over, he was going back to the Peninsula where things really mattered.

  "It ain't like you to throw a spoke in a man's wheel," Townsend complained.

  "You've thrown too many spokes in the wrong places, Bell," Lucien reminded him. "You cannot afford another misstep, you know."

  But Townsend wasn't entirely convinced. He stared for a moment, then shrugged. "Some things might be worth the risk," he decided, plunging into the crowd after her. "Lady Kingsley, perhaps you'd care for a turn about the park?" he asked, catching up to her. "Got a new equippage and a splendid pair."

  He was a handsome fellow, there was no denying that. "Well, I—"

  "Perhaps tomorrow?"

  "Not tomorrow, I am afraid. It's my day to go to Hookham's."

  "Good night, Townsend," Arthur told him coldly.

  "Set down, Bell?" Longford murmured at the viscount's elbow.

  "Not precisely." Townsend's gaze followed her and Kingsley all the way to the door. "A pretty plum ripe for the picking, I'd still say."

  "You've picked too many plums, Bell," was the dry reply. "I doubt the baron will be as complacent as I was."

  Ensconced in the carriage and leaning back against th
e green velvet squabs, Elinor waited for the inevitable peal, and it was not long in coming.

  "You little fool! You would ruin all I have striven for!" he hissed at her. "What were you thinking of?"

  "I am not a child," she retorted, turning to stare out the window.

  "When you saw the Jersey woman give him the cut direct, you should have also!"

  "Who?" she inquired, feigning innocence.

  "Longford! Don't know what Leighton was thinking of either, for the earl is not received. But it isn't the same—a man can survive the association!" He leaned across the seat and reached to lift the emerald collar with a cold fingertip.

  She held herself very still, not wanting him to touch her. "I have enough credit to survive, I think."

  "I'd not have it said my wife lacks breeding, Elinor. I do not pay for you to throw yourself at Longford. Town-send either."

  "I should scarce call a few words throwing myself, Arthur," she responded coldly.

  "I have made you, Elinor, and I'd not have you forget it. Without my money, Ashton would be rotting in Newgate, and your family would be on the rolls." When she said nothing more, his anger began to ebb, and he leaned back. "Well, I have said enough on that head, I think. No doubt you were too green to know what to do," he conceded finally.

  She'd heard him say it before, not often, but still it rankled. She considered lashing out that she'd rather be free than rich, but it would serve no purpose. Instead, she watched the glowing yellow balls of the gaslights that lined the street.

  For all that she'd vexed him, he did not want to further a quarrel, not when he needed her. "You must be exceedingly tired," he said after a time.

  She wasn't, but she knew what to expect, so she merely nodded. Once home, he would order warm milk and honey for her and a glass of port for himself, and given that it was Saturday, he would join her in her bed. She considered saying that she did in fact have the headache, that she felt fever coming on, but that also would make no difference. He would tell her he was "healthy as a horse—always have been, in fact," and he would sleep with her for the sake of appearance, because his vanity required it.

  She pulled the evening cloak about her, folding it over her arms, and told herself she was merely blue-deviled. She ought to give the man across from her credit—he'd made her into the envy of half the ladies in London. He'd showered her with jewels and pampered her with every convenience. He'd seen that nothing was too good for her. He'd guided her into the chancy waters of a gay, almost brittle society. It was altogether true—everything she was, he'd made from a green, scared fifteen-year-old girl, and yet despite all he'd given her, she was restive and bored with much of her life. She wanted more—she wanted someone to hold her, someone to love her for more than her face and form.

  "Chilled, my dear?" he inquired solicitously. "Perhaps a toddy would be more useful than milk tonight."

  "I don't want a toddy."

  "If I have criticized you, it's for your own good, Elinor. I'd have you know how to go on."

  She wanted to cry out that she didn't want to know how to go on, that she wanted to know how to live. As it was, she was growing old within a body that was not yet twenty.

  Once home, as soon as he took her cloak, the butler informed Kingsley, "Master Charles is at home, sir."

  "The devil he is," Arthur muttered, clearly displeased by the news. "Gone up to bed, has he?"

  "No, my lord—he awaits you in the bookroom."

  The old man's face creased into a deep frown. "You'd best go on, my dear," he told Elinor. "I shall be up directly. Tell Mary when she fetches your toddy that I'd take half a glass of port and no more. Got a twinge of the gout tonight, I'm afraid." Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. "Best have her put another blanket on the bed."

  As she climbed the stairs, she heard him enter the bookroom, and she stopped on the landing to listen. At first, there was the indistinguishable murmur of voices, then the sounds of a quarrel rose acrimoniously as Arthur shouted at his grandson and was answered angrily. Charles had been sent down from Oxford, and it did not appear that he was sorry for it. He could not study, he declared, not when England's finest were fighting for her life and honor. All he wanted, he cried, was for his grandfather to buy his colors. There was a stunned silence, then Arthur thundered, "I have reared an ingrate—an ingrate—do you hear me? You are my heir, Charles—I have built an empire for you!"

  "You don't understand me! I cannot—"

  "There is nothing to discuss, Charles! I forbid this nonsense! I did not send you to Harrow and Oxford for this!"

  "I won't go back!"

  "You won't go to Spain either! Let the poor fight the Corsican upstart! No grandson of mine goes!" The door opened, and she hastened up the stairs. Behind her, the young man trod angrily, catching her at the top. Below, Arthur shouted for him to come back.

  "Guess you heard," Charles muttered at her shoulder. "Damn him! Sorry—shouldn't have said that before you. But he doesn't care what I want—he doesn't care what anybody wants! It's all his plans—his plans! What about mine? I don't want to sit around waiting for him to die! I want to live my own life, Elinor! I'm ready to fight Boney—I'm ready to fight for England!"

  She turned around to face him, and as she looked up into his angry, troubled eyes, she felt an instant sympathy. She knew exactly what he meant.

  "I know."

  "You cannot know! You are a female!" he retorted.

  "I thought you were going to bed, Elinor," Arthur observed from the bottom of the stairs. "As for you, Charles," he said coldly, "I will speak with you again in the morning."

  The young man's face flushed, but he managed to hold his tongue. Impulsively, Elinor reached to touch his arm, whispering, "You are not alone, Charles." Then, knowing that her husband came up, she moved quickly to her bedchamber.

  "The young master's home," Mary observed as Elinor sat down before her dressing table.

  "Yes." Elinor tried to hide her exhilaration at the news. For a time at least, she would have someone to talk with, someone to laugh with, someone young enough to understand.

  "Jeremy, the lower footman, says he got sent down fer a prank."

  "I don't know."

  "Well, it don't matter—he ain't the first," the maid went on as she began taking the pins from Elinor's head. "No."

  "I heard ye in the hall, so's I ordered the milk fer ye." She paused a moment to drop the pins into an enameled box. "I knew as how ye didn't like any toddy."

  "Thank you."

  "Stands to reason—if ye'd wanted toddy, he'd ordered milk, don't you see?" When Elinor did not answer, Mary continued, "I got laudanum if you was wanting to lace his port, ye know."

  "What?"

  "Well, it's his night to come to you, ain't it? And if you wasn't wanting to—well, thought maybe ye'd want the laudanum."

  It occurred to Elinor then that the maid really did not know that Arthur did not touch her as a wife. "No—but I thank you, Mary," she said sincerely.

  "I'm sorry, my dear—I did not mean for Charles to disturb you," he murmured, coming into the room. "An unfortunate matter, but I don't mean to bend."

  He was waiting to watch her undress, and she knew it. A shiver crept down her spine, sending a shudder through her. But as always, he turned a chair to face her. "Do go on," he directed Mary. "By the by, I sent back the milk, and James is fetching the toddy. It will warm her."

  CHAPTER 8

  "Don't know why it had to be Hookham's," Charles muttered behind her. "Damme if I ain't had enough of books for a while. If you are not wanting to take a turn about the park, I can think of a dozen other places besides a damned library. Sure you would not rather go to the Mint—or the Menagerie at the Tower?"

  "No."

  She was already halfway up the steps. Sighing, he hastened after her. There was no accounting for female tastes, he decided, for it seemed as though every one of them among his acquaintance was addicted to the Gothic Romance. And he did not understand the appea
l at all, particularly after a fellow in his hall at Harrow had smuggled one in and read it aloud after hours. He could still remember the snickers that had brought old Humphrey's rod down on them.

  "Good afternoon, Lady Kingsley," the gentleman behind the desk greeted her, rising. "I have obtained the book you requested." He held up the leather-bound volume. "Miss Austen's Sense and Sensibility. Highly recommended by the ladies—we've, scarcely kept it in since it came out last November."

  "Thank you. When I am done browsing about, I shall come back for it."

  "No!" Charles protested. "Dash it, but I ain't—" He was too late, for she'd already started into the reading room. It was going to be a long afternoon, and he knew it.

  "Females!" he uttered, rolling his eyes at the clerk.

  "Do you have a subscription, sir?"

  "No—and I don't want one neither. Thought I was going for a drive, if you want the truth of it. Said she wanted to stop in here, but how was I to know she meant to stay, I ask you?" he demanded, aggrieved. Then, perceiving that the clerk's expression was rather censurious, he muttered, "Don't suppose you even got any military books, do you?"

  "Oh, yes—yes, indeed, sir. In fact, there is an excellent volume on Marlborough. And Rogers's diaries, I believe. And Caesar's campaigns. And an excellent study of—"

  Afraid he was going to be treated to a cataloging, Charles cut him short. "You don't say."

  "Perhaps if you do not wish to subscribe, Lady Kingsley might—"

  "Lud, I don't think so. Tell you what—I'll just sit and wait for her in there."

  She was opening a book to the last pages and reading it. Discarding it, she picked up another one and did the same. Finally, he could stand it no longer. "Dash it, if you was to know the end, why would you want to read it?"

  "I don't read anything where everybody dies," she replied. "I despise tragedies."

  "Every one of 'em is a tragedy, if you was to ask me." Just then, a solitary gentleman caught his eye, and he brightened. "Egad—Longford!"

  "Shhhhh," someone hissed behind them.

  "Dash it, but it's Longford!" he shot back, unrepentant. "Fellow's been in Spain with Old Douro!"