Grey was visibly shaken. What a fool he had been to expect his world here to stand still until his return! But to lose Clive Speed was almost more than he could bear. Had he not made it plain to his manservant how deeply he valued him? Then, remembering the fog he had operated in during his wedding leave, he felt a wave of self-loathing. Speed had been more than a perfect valet; he'd also been father, companion, and confidant. From the time of the countess's death, he had been Grey's anchor, discreetly guiding him through adolescence and into manhood. How would he manage without him?
"Faircastle, you said?" he murmured, looking pained.
"Yes, my lord."
"Well, I cannot fault him. Faircastle is head of his own household, so it was a step up for Speed, hmm?"
"Might I venture the opinion that Mr. Speed was motivated more by the fact that Lord Faircastle is present, my lord? He needed to be occupied."
It occurred then to Grey that Clive Speed might be lured back to his former employer if a heartfelt plea was made. "Dimbleby, I would like a hot bath. I'm going out." His thoughts bounced back and forth between the challenge to recover his manservant and his desire for the company of Alycia Hamlyn, the mistress he had cast aside so heartlessly on the occasion of his marriage. After settling matters with Speed, he would go to the tenderhearted, loyal Alycia, and beg her pardon. Fortunately the evening was young.
"Yes, my lord. I'll have a bath for you straightaway. And I shall send someone to see to your clothing."
"Thank you." Grey started to turn away, then remembered to ask, "Dimbleby, you don't happen to know if Speed or my father put Lady Altburne's jewelry away for safekeeping after she... uh, departed?"
"No, my Lord. I haven't a clue."
A shadow passed over Grey's face. "I feared as much."
* * *
Edward Meadows, the sixth Marquis of Faircastle, lived in Faircastle House, which had been built by his grandfather on the west side of St. James Square in 1755. The fifth marquis had perished in a duel while his son was still at Oxford, and Edward remained uneasy in his title. He was eight years younger than Grey, so they had never been friends, but Grey remembered him hanging about at White's and Brook's soon after inheriting his earldom, and he'd seemed a genuine sort of fellow.
Standing outside as he waited for a response to his knock, Grey decided that he almost preferred Faircastle House to his own family residence. Its facade was plain, but there was a top-lit staircase in the center of the building around which, on the first floor, ran a circuit of magnificent reception rooms. He'd attended a memorable rout here soon after his wedding and had found the house to be richly colorful and warm. Hartford House, on the other hand, was a cool place. Its huge, high-ceilinged rooms were filled with priceless works of art that made Grey feel as if he lived in a museum. Briar Hill, the family estate in Hampshire, was a pleasantly different matter, but he'd spent little time there as an adult.
When Faircastle's rather courtly butler admitted him into a splendid entry hall lit by a glittering chandelier, Grey began to sympathize with Clive Speed's decision to defect.
"Lord Altburne, it's a pleasure to see you safely returned from the continent," the butler dared to remark. "I'm sorry to inform you that his lordship is not at home this evening."
Relieved, Grey felt a fresh surge of confidence. Perhaps all had not been quite as he left it two years ago, but he would soon have matters restored to their proper order. "Actually, Forbes, I have not come to see Lord Faircastle. This may sound rather odd, but I'd hoped to have a word with Mr. Speed, his lordship's manservant."
"Ah, I see, my lord. Well..." Forbes paused, as if wondering how to proceed.
"I'll be happy to go below stairs to meet with him."
"Certainly not, my lord! Follow me, please."
The butler took Grey to a small study near the back of the house, furnished him with a glass of champagne, and then excused himself. Grey stood near a cheery fire burning in a small, tiled fireplace and drank the champagne. Idly he surveyed his own appearance, knowing he'd earn a scold from Speed. His clothing might look impeccable to an unschooled eye, but the manservant would notice immediately that his buff pantaloons were not as snug as they ought to be, his cravat was not as fresh and crisp as new snow, and his blue coat was a trifle outdated. Grey might have turned ladies' heads on St. James Square, but Speed was a genius for the fine points of dressing a gentleman.
The paneled door to the study opened, and Clive Speed entered, unannounced. He looked considerably older than Grey remembered him. Always small and wiry, he was now slightly bent, and the light dusting of gray hair atop his narrow head had disappeared completely. The gleam in his snapping brown eyes was unchanged, however, as was his habit of clearing his throat whenever he tried not to show emotion.
"When they told me it was you, my lord, I thought they were having me on," he said softly.
Grey strode forward and shook the older man's hand with feeling. He would have hugged him, but he knew that Speed would be horrified by such a breach of propriety. "Speed, how good it is to see you! I'll confess that it was a terrible shock to find that you'd left Hartford House."
"You shouldn't have come here, my lord. You had only to send word and I would have been before you in a trice." His sharp eyes wandered quickly over the form of his erstwhile master. "What did they do to you, my lord? How thin and pale you've grown, and—"
"I've probably tied my cravat improperly, hmm?" Grey interjected, with a grin. "I've been in one of Boney's prisons, Speed, but that's over now and I'm home. A few days of sun, good food, and sleep and I'll be fine. Tell me about yourself. Am I really doomed to rattle through life without benefit of your guidance?"
Speed went to stand before the fireplace, staring at the dancing flames. "I've dreaded this day for a year, my lord. The only thing that frightened me more was the possibility that you might not come home to give me a dressing-down. You must know how fond I am of you. I've no right to say it, but there were moments when it felt as if we were father and son..."
"I felt it as well!" Grey answered, with feeling.
"How can I explain what led me to leave my position? Perhaps, if you hadn't gone off for so many years, I might be there still, yet there is more involved than the boredom I felt with nothing to occupy me until your return. I had years to think, and I began to realize that I was no longer as useful to you as I had been. I began to regard you as a—a beloved son who had grown up and no longer relied on me, or needed me, as you once had." Speed paused to draw a pained breath. "I began to feel blue-deviled. Old. Useless."
"Speed!" Grey exclaimed. "You are neither old nor useless. I have always depended upon you more than words can express and finding you gone was a worse shock than discovering I no longer have a wife!" He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Let me say again that my regard for you, my lord, is beyond expression. But, quite simply, it began to dawn upon me that I had already taught you all that I knew, and you have had years to practice. You're better at shaving yourself and tying your own neckcloths than I am, and that's a fact." Smiling philosophically, Speed rubbed a wizened hand over his bald head. "Then Lord Faircastle came to me, said he was marrying and in need of the best manservant available. He'd come to the earldom ill prepared, and he needed all the knowledge that you already have, my lord. I felt challenged again, and needed." He cleared his throat again. "As it happens, I'm quite devoted to my Lady Faircastle. Perhaps I ought to tell you that she is—"
"Devil take Lady Faircastle," Grey said sulkily. "No disrespect intended, of course, but one can't help feeling a trifle dismal hearing about the happy household you are part of now. How can I blame you for choosing this over sitting about at Hartford House wondering if I'd make it back alive?"
"Now, now, my lord, don't get yourself into a taking. It's my opinion that you are upset about coming back to find that things had changed in your absence. None of us like change. I'll tell you frankly that I was frightened to death about my new life here,
but it's all turned out for the best, I think. And, I daresay that a change of manservants will do you good as well. After your experience in France, I should imagine that you feel as if you're beginning to live all over again."
Grey saw that arguing would only make Speed feel more uneasy, so he managed a weak smile. "How unutterably tiresome it will be to spend my first days home interviewing valets. But I wish you well, old man, and want you to know that if you should ever need me..."
"May I echo those sentiments, my lord?" Speed clasped his former employer's outstreched hand. "And, I may be able to put you in the way of a manservant. It so happens that my son, Jasper, has decided to leave farming and take up his father's profession."
This sounded ominous to Grey, but he assured Speed that he would be pleased to speak to his son. "I ought to be on my way, then, before Lord Faircastle returns and discovers that I invaded his home and attempted to steal back my valet."
As they walked toward the library door, the old man was breathing easier. "My lord, I hope you'll not take offense if I say that I was pleased when her ladyship ran away. She was never my idea of a bride for you..."
"So you mentioned, as I recall," Grey said, with soft irony. "I should have listened to you. And that reminds me, there was something else I meant to ask you tonight."
"I am at your disposal, my lord."
"Speed, I know I can confide in you and depend upon your discretion. Today, when I opened my, uh... wife's jewel box, I discovered that all the family heirlooms were gone. I had hoped that you might tell me you had put them away."
Speed's frown deepened the lines on either side of his mouth. "I fear, my lord, that I can give you no such reassurance. Who would have guessed that she could have been as brazen as that?"
"Only I could have guessed," Grey said grimly, "and I chose to ignore the signs of character that she flaunted before me. Perhaps I deserve to be punished for my poor judgment, but I do not intend to deprive my entire line as a result of my folly."
The manservant attempted to sound a more positive note. "Well, it's all done with now, and you can get on with your life."
"I mean to do that very thing, Speed." He opened the door to the passageway, which was filled with golden candlelight. "I'm on my way to visit Miss Hamlyn in an effort to make amends to her for the shoddy way I treated her when I married Mrs. Burke. I must have lost my senses to have tossed her aside for that—"
"High-flying shrew?" a feminine voice supplied gently.
Grey froze, his eyes seeking the owner of the voice, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly he turned his head and saw Alycia Hamlyn standing a short distance away. Her rich dark hair was dressed simply, her blue eyes were bright, and her loose robe of celery green silk covered a belly swollen with child. Diamonds glinted at her throat, ears, and on her wedding finger.
Clive Speed forgot his place and rushed to the aid of the dazed-looking Grey. "My lord, may I present to you the Countess of Faircastle."
"Hello, Grey," Alycia said softy, extending her hand. "How very pleased you must be to be home."
Chapter 10
April 1-2, 1814
"Pleased to be home?" Grey repeated as his mind whirled crazily, attempting to make sense of the present situation. Once again, Speed had tried to warn him, and he had interrupted with another barrage of self-absorbed prattle. "Pleased to be alive, my lady, but rather more confused to be home. Nothing is quite as I expected."
"Life rarely is, so I'm told." In spite of herself, Alycia felt her heart go out to him. "You must call me Alycia, you know. We're old friends."
Speed made unobtrusive good-byes and disappeared, leaving them alone in the vast hallway lined with flickering oil lamps.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Grey said harshly, "but I am. I'd hoped—"
"That I would still be waiting for you, as I did during the first two years you were away? Waiting even after you turned away from the love I offered and took another as your wife?" She paused to calm the bittersweet throb in her voice, then continued more softly, "If I believed that you had truly loved me and simply made a mistake when you wed Mrs. Burke, I might have waited. However, I forced myself to be honest for the first time. You are a hard man, Grey, and have grown harder as you've aged, I think. That does not diminish your many excellent qualities, but I finally had to face the fact that you were never going to offer me the tender romance I longed for." They were walking slowly toward the front door as Alycia spoke. "I used to fool myself, thinking that our next meeting would be the occasion on which you would reveal your tender, loving side. Sad to say, that day never did come."
Memories flooded back to him of their romps in bed, the sound of Alycia's laughter, her knack for having everything just as he liked it, from the soap in his bath to the way his meat was cooked. And he remembered feeling her gaze and turning to look into her great, sad eyes so filled with longing. Sometimes Grey had wished that she'd forgotten the soap or botched his dinner, and toward the end, the sight of her hungry gaze had made him want to bolt. There was no use denying the truth now that he wished it were different. Looking at her now, contented and big with Faircastle's child, Grey realized that there was no more point in defending himself to Alycia than there had been in trying to lure Speed back to his side.
"I suppose I was a fool, and may be yet," he said ruefully.
Tears sparkled in her eyes. "You never understood that I needed more from you than even the house and security you were afraid to give me. After your marriage, I resolved to change my life. I did not want to end like the many aging 'fashionable impures'—entertaining old titled gentlemen who continue to keep them in style. Edward offered me not only security, but love." A smile faltered on her pretty mouth. "You see, I really had no choice."
"That's quite plain." He put his hand on the door handle. "I wish you happy, Alycia."
"Thank you. I hope, with all my heart, that you will find peace now, Grey. So much has changed for you—and how sorry I am about David's death! Such a shock to us all. But, knowing you as I do, I have no doubt that you will cope brilliantly with the challenges ahead. I shall keep you in my prayers." It was all Alycia could do to refrain from inquiring about the scar on his hand and reaching out to touch the silver hairs that had not been there when last they'd met. She longed to urge him to take care of his health but knew she must not. It was no longer her place. Perhaps it never had been.
Grey bent to kiss Alycia's hand so that she wouldn't see his face. Then, stepping into the starry London night, he added, "I'll be grateful for your prayers, my lady. I've a notion that you're a good deal nearer the ear of God than I."
* * *
"Was your dinner with Mr. Murray very grand?" Adrienne Beauvisage demanded as she perched on the edge of her cousin's bed. "You must tell me everything!"
"I'm afraid there really isn't very much to tell that would interest you," Natalya replied a trifle apologetically. "Mr. Murray and one of his associates named Laurence Poole took me to dine at the Clarendon Hotel in Bond Street, which I was curious to see since that is where Grey—that is, Mr. St. James—would have had me stay had I not encountered you in Piccadilly. The chef's name is Jacquiers, and Mr. Murray told me that he was a refugee from the revolution in France. We had an excellent meal, cooked in the French style, and Mr. Murray and Mr. Poole flattered me excessively. They made a gift to me of a presentation copy of my book."
Adrienne rushed to retrieve it from the side table near the door, her long, lustrous hair flying out behind her. Watching her, Natalya was poignantly reminded of the girl-child she had known at Chateau du Soleil, the innocent her parents held still in their memories. Wonderingly Adrienne ran her fingers over the handsome volume of My Lady's Heart, bound in morocco and stamped in gold.
"How very peculiar it is to think that my own cousin is an author," she mused. "Will you be celebrated like Lord Byron—or Miss Jane Austen? How I adored Pride and Prejudice! I have heard that she is not very pretty, though, and cares nothing f
or society. She lives very quietly in Hampshire and comes to London to visit her brother very infrequently. Only think, cousin, how easily you might eclipse her!"
"I assure you that I have no such ambitions, Adrienne," Natalya protested, with perhaps more vehemence than was called for. In truth, she was discovering that the prospect of becoming the toast of London, if only for a few days, was not altogether distasteful to her, and she wondered at such vain impulses.
"Will you be very rich?" asked Adrienne.
"Haven't you been taught that such questions are entirely inappropriate?" Natalya smiled to soften the gentle rebuke.
Adrienne grimaced. "I beg your pardon, Talya, but I couldn't help myself. I hoped that one was allowed to breach etiquette with one's relatives."
She laughed. "So one should. No, I doubt that I'll be very rich, but I do believe that I may have independent means. Mr. Murray says that my book has earned nearly a hundred pounds for me in the month since its publication. I'll admit I am very excited. And, he has presented me with a handsome payment in advance for the novel I am currently writing."
After absorbing this with wide eyes, Adrienne remarked, "Mrs. Sykes says that Mr. Murray offered Byron a thousand pounds for Giaour and The Bride of Abydos last year."
"Truly?" she laughed. "Tactless child! But then, Byron is at the pinnacle, isn't he? I hardly think I ought to aspire to such heights." She paused, then added wryly, "At any rate, not just yet, hmm?"
"I didn't care for either Giaour or The Bride of Abydos," Adrienne confided, "though I didn't say so in company for fear of being shunned. I found them both to be quite nonsensical and barbarous. I daresay I shall like your book a thousand times better, no matter how little Mr. Murray paid for it."
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