by Jane Godman
“What-ho, St Anton!” Sir Dudley Ramsbotham hailed Jack with ribald delight and the whole cavalcade promptly reined in and regarded him with interest.
“You are about mighty early for a morning call, old chap,” Mr Willoughby-Watson, a perceptive young gentleman, pointed out slyly. “One would expect Lady Bella to still be abed at this hour.”
Sir Peregrine, pleased to see his friend finding solace of a carnal nature at long last, chipped in, “’Tis a rare sight, Jack … a man who can walk out on his own two feet after a night spent in Bella Cavendish’s …” he coughed diplomatically, “ … boudoir”. There was a general ripple of lewd laughter. “More often than not, it takes two strong men to carry the unfortunate soul away and an enforced period of rest and recuperation is prescribed.”
Jack sighed. Their ribbing was good natured and a denial on his part that anything had happened between him and Bella would only lead to disbelief and more witticisms. He was tired, his head ached from a surfeit of alcohol. He wanted nothing more than to get home and out of his velvet and lace.
“Gentlemen,” he bowed low, “You flatter me with your assumptions, I do assure you. I pray you will excuse me; I must away.”
A few ribald comments about the reason for his exhausted appearance and Bella’s legendary expertise followed him before the horsemen rode on. By noon it was all over town that a party of reliable witnesses had encountered a weary, but laughing, Lord St Anton leaving Lady Cavendish’s house, still attired in the clothes he had been wearing the previous evening.
The story came to Rosie’s ears the following day. Lady Aurelia’s dearest friend, Mrs Henderson, called to pay a morning visit, bringing her eldest daughter with her. Miss Lucinda Henderson was rather plain and so painfully shy that, when she spoke – which was not often – it was in a monosyllabic whisper. While Rosie struggled to make conversation with her, the two older ladies enjoyed a comfortable prose.
“They say he was quite brazen.” Mrs Henderson reported in shocked accents. “Leaving her house in broad daylight, in his evening dress, and openly joking with his friends about his exploits.”
Lady Aurelia tutted, “Really, Bella Cavendish is truly shameless! Why, ‘tis well known that she has had Lord Dereham in her toils these three months, and already it appears she has moved on. One cannot blame a gentleman for succumbing to his baser instincts when there are trollops such as Lady Bella to pander to them.”
Mrs Henderson smoothed her skirts primly, “Well, you must admit, my dear, that St Anton is a sight more attractive than Dereham. I, for one, cannot find it in me to blame Lady Cavendish for switching her affections to him,” she tittered girlishly.
Rosie, listening with half an ear as she engaged in desultory small talk with Miss Henderson, stiffened alarmingly at that comment, causing her companion to cast a scared glance in her direction.
Lady Aurelia permitted herself a smile, “His lordship is quite devastatingly attractive,” she agreed, “But ‘tis not so very long ago he was in disgrace for following his wild, Jacobite tendencies. To set the town talking by openly cavorting with Bella Cavendish is not the best way to go about restoring his damaged reputation.”
“Your face is very pale, Miss Delacourt,” it was the longest sentence she had ever heard Miss Henderson speak. “Are you sure you are quite well?”
Rosie found she was pressing her hands together so tightly that her fingers ached. Drawing in a long, slow breath she turned to Miss Henderson with what she hoped was a bright smile.
“No, indeed, I am fine,” she reassured her. “What will you wear to Lady Hadley’s soiree tonight?”
Miss Henderson smiled and went on to describe the glory of her outfit in some detail, her shyness momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of a new gown. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper so that her mama did not hear, she changed the subject.
“How shocking it is that Lady Bella has become Lord St Anton’s mistress! But, Miss Delacourt,” she bit her lip, “Is he not truly the most handsome man you have ever seen? Indeed, that smile, the way he looks at one with that twinkle in his eye, he is simply the most charming …” she broke off in consternation at Rosie’s stricken expression.
“Oh, Miss Delacourt, so poorly you do look … I am persuaded that you do, indeed, have the headache!”
Rosie wore a new gown of bronze silk with detailed embroidery on the bodice and gold lace trim which – like most of the colours she chose – enhanced her dark colouring and the luminous glow of her skin. Studying her reflection dispassionately in her bedchamber mirror, she knew she had never looked so well. How odd that the storm of emotions which had bruised and battered her all day had not left their mark. Her expression was serene, her eyes bright and her hand steady. Jack must never know, or even suspect, how deeply the news of his new-found love had wounded her. The numerous flirtations she had witnessed had cut her to the core … but Lady Bella was in a whole other league. Even if he did not hate me, I could not compete with her, a small inner voice cried and she silenced it ruthlessly. But he does hate you, she told it sternly, he told you he would move on and this proves he has done it.
When they arrived at Hadley House, Sir Clive, no longer bothering to make any attempt to hide his desperate cravings, made straight for the card room. In spite, or perhaps because, of this circumstance, Rosie soon found herself at the centre of a cluster of admiring young gentlemen who vied for the honour of procuring her a glass of champagne. Busy laughing at their nonsense, it was some minutes before she realised that Lady Cavendish had joined the little group. Rosie, hiding her feelings well, sketched a slight curtsey in her ladyship’s direction and Bella acknowledged the salute with a tiny inclination of her head.
Just then a commotion occurred as Jack, accompanied by Sir Peregrine Pomeroy, entered the ballroom and, since he had been the topic of most conversations, all eyes turned in his direction.
“Dash it all, St Anton,” his companion drawled in complaining accents, raising his brows as he surveyed the room, “Your bed hopping exploits have quite drawn attention away from this devilish fine waistcoat I had especially made in Paris.”
Bella deftly drew Rosie slightly to one side, “Do you not agree with me, Miss Delacourt, when I say that Lord St Anton is beyond doubt the most handsome man in London?”
She murmured, unconsciously echoing Miss Drummond’s sentiments, and Rosie found herself itching to slap that smug, beautiful face.
“The lady who secures his affections must indeed count herself fortunate,” Bella continued.
“It would appear that your ladyship has been more successful than most in that respect.”
Although Rosie’s tone was neutral, there was a flash of fire in her eyes. Bella bit back a smile as Rosie curtseyed again before walking away, her trim frame rigid with restrained anger. So the girl had spirit, after all. She and Jack would be well suited. What on earth was keeping her with that obnoxious dog, Sheridan? This new role of confidante and match maker, in which Bella appeared to unexpectedly have been cast, might be an interesting one after all.
Later, as she danced with him, she told Jack about the encounter, hoping to make him smile.
“Damn it, Bella, leave well alone. You know nothing about the matter,” Jack muttered, releasing her hand as they were parted by the stately movement of the set.
When they came together again, Bella smiled up at him provocatively. “If you want my advice, you will put the silly chit over your knee and paddle her backside before taking her to bed. ‘Tis quite clearly what she longs for.”
Jack gave a short laugh, “It appears you consider the bedchamber to be the remedy for all ills, my lady,” he remarked.
His words and Bella’s answering raunchy smirk, repeated by several nearby couples, served to clinch the latest on dit. Lord St Anton, the gossips confirmed, was indeed enamoured of the fascinating Lady Bella. In fact, he had even been overheard extolling the therapeutic qualities of her boudoir!
***
Jack
was lost in thought as he strolled along one of the many lakeside paths in St James’s Park. Fashionably dressed crowds flowed aimlessly around him and lines of trees receded into the distance. Across a view made up of fields and more trees, he could see Westminster Abbey. He had been hailed by so many acquaintances that he was starting to regret his decision to take the air. London at the height of the Season was not the place for quiet introspection. He was just starting out for home when a body suddenly hurled itself at him from a side path, knocking him almost off his feet. He paused in the act of reaching for his sword when he realised that the body in question was not human and it certainly meant him no harm.
“Get down, Beau!” he said firmly.
Panting wildly with excitement, the dog stopped leaping up and trying to lick his face. Instead, he sat down and waved a paw in an ecstasy of fawning delight.
Looking up from patting the euphoric dog, Jack saw Harry a few feet away, regarding him with a hopeful, wary look on his young face.
“Hello, scamp,” he said and a relieved smile flitted across the boy’s face.
How like Rosie he was! And why the devil did everything have to come back to her?
“Rosie told me that you were in London.” He came over and shook Jack’s outstretched hand eagerly, “I did not dare hope I might see you.”
“Much has happened since we were last together at Delacourt Grange.” Jack remarked as they fell into step together.
Beau, deciding his young master was safe with this man whom he recognised as a friend, darted into the foliage in search of game. He emerged occasionally to check on them, his plumy tail waving and his tongue – inevitably – protruding from the corner of his mouth.
“I must tell you, Harry, how saddened I was to hear of the death of your father.”
“Thank you,” Harry bit his lip but managed to maintain control of his emotions.
“He was very proud of you, you know.” Jack said gently and was surprised at the flash of anger in Harry’s grey eyes.
“He had no reason to be! I let him down …” He stopped, remembering Rosie’s words of warning. No-one must know how he had been tricked by Sir Clive. No-one must learn of the existence of the infamous ‘memoirs’. However much he trusted Jack, this was a secret too grave, too dark to be revealed, even to him.
“I am sure that is not true,” Jack said solemnly, his eyes probing the boy’s troubled face, and Harry searched around for a change of subject.
“Rosie also told me the king had granted you a pardon... And that you were in France when the battle took place at Culloden?”
They had reached the end of the path and turned to re-trace their steps. Harry whistled and Beau, with the air of one torn from urgent business, rushed up to them and then dashed away again. He repeated this action several times, to the annoyance of an elderly gentleman with a stick who happened to be in his path.
Jack nodded, “I was indeed. But you know, of course, that my injured shoulder was not fully healed by then, and … well, I thought I had a powerful reason to avoid the battle and ask the king for a pardon …” His voice trailed away and his blue eyes focussed on a spot in the distance.
Harry cast him a thoughtful glance.
“However strong your reasons, you must have been disappointed to miss the action at Culloden, all the same?”
Jack opened his lips to deny it, then, with a grudging laugh, agreed.
“I suppose I was, but it would not do to admit that here in London!”
Harry proceeded to bombard him with questions about the aftermath of Culloden. The fantastic story of the Prince’s escape to the Isle of Skye, disguised as Flora McDonald’s maid, whether he thought the Jacobites would be able to rise again. And, if they did, would he join them?
They were approaching the gates of the park now, and Jack experienced an unexpected pang of disappointment that he must part from this engaging lad. Some inner evil genius prompted him to ask. “You will soon be celebrating a wedding. Are you pleased with your sister’s choice of husband?”
Harry’s young, open face hardened.
“No, I am not,” he replied shortly, “That man is the worst kind of cur imaginable! Why, the way he has coerced Rosie …”
He broke off at the intent look on Jack’s face, and finished lamely.
“... Into coming to London when she would rather have stayed at home.”
“I see,” Jack mused, “But that is not what you meant when you said he has ‘coerced’ her, is it?”
Harry did not answer but his silence spoke volumes about the accuracy of Jack’s question.
“I will take my leave of you now, scamp, but remember this … should you need to confide in me, you know where I am.”
Chapter Seven
“She will not consent to our marriage until the period of mourning for her father is over,” Clive informed his aunt sulkily.
Lady Alberta Harpenden regarded him thoughtfully. She was not a warm-hearted woman, but the family name was her burning passion. If she examined her feelings closely she supposed that her errant nephew roused in her a faint, but undeniable, dislike. Instability and scandal were abhorrent to her and there was a risk of both where Clive was concerned. It was unfortunate but, since the continuation of the Sheridan name rested with him, she must make do.
Lady Harpenden’s obsession with the history of the English aristocracy was at least equal to Mr Delacourt’s … but her motives were infinitely less pure. She used her extensive knowledge to marry members of the Sheridan dynasty into the oldest, most prestigious and wealthiest families in the land. At first she had been quite horrified to learn of Clive’s engagement to a girl who she instantly wrote off as a ‘country nobody’. When she later discovered that Mr Delacourt had been able to trace his ancestors back to the time of the Conqueror and that Rosie’s dowry and fortune were both extremely generous, she unbent a little. On the whole, having met Rosie and subjected her to an intense and gruelling scrutiny, she decided she approved of Clive’s choice of bride. Miss Delacourt was a well brought up girl with pretty manners, who was unlikely to bring disgrace upon the family. Would she be able to check Clive’s excesses? That remained to be seen … the surprising thing was that she had accepted Clive at all. He could hardly be considered a catch.
“Very proper,” she responded briskly, in response to his statement, “But she does seem reluctant to publicly acknowledge the fact that she is promised to you. Is she looking for an excuse to cry off?”
Her bright, searching stare reminded him unnervingly of a bird of prey. Clive decided, on balance, it would be wiser not to tell her of the unscrupulous methods he had employed to force Rosie into accepting him. He had a feeling that his aunt, a stickler for the proprieties, might not approve of his tactics. Instead he shrugged, an insolent gesture which infuriated Lady Alberta.
“You have come to ask me, for the second time this month, to advance you money, Clive,” her voice cracked out, and he flinched as if she had whipped him. “Have the goodness not to bring the manners of the stables into my drawing room.”
“She will not cry off,” he assured her grimly.
“Very well.” Business-like now, she began to count out notes from the hefty bankroll she held. “To be absolutely sure, I will hold a betrothal party here in her honour.”
“She may refuse to attend, given her mourning state.”
“Nonsense! I know for a fact she has attended several balls in Aurelia’s company, although she has very correctly refused to dance.” She held the wad of money out to him and he took it gratefully. “Once she – and society – knows that I have given the betrothal my approval and that I am sanctioning it by hosting the party here, there can be no objection. Make sure my money is used to stave off the most pressing of your creditors … rather than to prop up a hell or a whorehouse. ”
Clive, who never ceased to marvel at the way she reduced him to feeling like a grubby schoolboy, breathed a sigh of relief when he was able to take his leave of he
r.
***
It was the most beautiful dress Rosie had ever seen. Quite unlike the more subdued, modest gowns she usually favoured. The amethyst folds of the outer robe a l'Anglais added vibrancy to her delicate colouring and lovingly outlined her figure. The matching silk petticoat was embroidered all over with tiny coral and silver flowers and intricate silver lace flowed from the elbow-length sleeves, enhancing the slender white curves of her arms. Stiff whale-boning clinched her waist, thrusting her breasts upwards so that they swelled enticingly against the restraining stomacher. She studied the amount of flesh revealed dubiously and attempted to pull the bodice higher. However Lady Aurelia, whisking around Rosie’s bedchamber like a butterfly in a high wind, shrieked in horror.
“You will ruin the line, you foolish child!”
“But, ma’am, ‘tis positively indecent.”
Rosie regarded her décolletage again, then twisted around in an attempt to see the back of her reflection in the mirror. She noted the way the gown highlighted contrast between trimness of her waist and the fullness of her derriere.
“Tish! What nonsense!”
Her ladyship busied herself by liberally sprinkling perfume onto Rosie’s lace handkerchief.
“Stand still, I beg you, you make me feel quite dizzy with this incessant twirling!”
She twitched the gown into place over Rosie’s petticoat and arranged one glossy, un-powdered ringlet so that it nestled against the satiny flesh of her shoulder. Standing back to admire her handiwork, she sighed sentimentally, “Oh my dear! I vow and declare, you will break a thousand hearts this night!” She tittered apologetically, “Lud, what nonsense I do talk sometimes! You have captured the only heart you desire, have you not, my dear? My nephew is quite, quite devoted to you. ‘Tis most affecting to observe … well, of course, he does have a little natural reserve in his manner, but I believe that merely adds to a man’s attraction …” She continued in this artless style for some minutes, and Rosie let her chatter wash over her as she viewed her own reflection in amazement. She hardly dared hope that Jack would attend the ball tonight but … oh! How much she wanted him to see this beautiful, alluring stranger and perhaps know a brief moment of regret. If she held onto that slim hope, she could almost forget that this night was bringing her inexorably closer to the altar.