by Sandra Heath
“But what if he is?”
“Oh, very well, I won’t say anything about that other business, but I certainly will regale her about the admiral’s widow.”
“Can’t you just leave well alone entirely, Anna?”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
Oliver gazed wearily out as the last cottages of Wychavon disappeared behind. Right now he wished they had never left London in the first place.
* * *
Judith stood in the dining room as Nicholas’s carriage pulled swiftly away. She was in the grip of a fury so violent she was barely in control, and as her maid came timorously in to see if she was all right, the witch turned suddenly. “Leave me!” she screamed, her eyes wild with rage.
Terrified, the maid gathered her skirts to flee.
Judith’s nostrils flared, and her whole body shook. She was so beside herself she could barely stand, and suddenly she seized the tablecloth and wrenched it away. All the crockery crashed to the floor, and Judith sank to her knees in the middle of it. Her fists were clenched and her knuckles white. The seal, she had to have the seal! Once it was in her hands again, nothing on earth would keep Nicholas from her.
“You’ll take a witch to wife then, Montacute, and your death will be slow and very painful, just as mine was two hundred years ago,” she whispered, her lips so stiff with bitter resolve that she could hardly say the words.
Chapter Sixteen
Lady Sichester’s London residence was an elegant four-storied property, with dormer windows in the roof and a dark blue door with a semicircular fanlight. There were railings separating it from the pavement, and it stood on the east side of Dover Street, facing directly down the short incline of Hay Hill toward Berkeley Street and corner of the famous square of the same name.
Verity thought the house very pleasant and luxurious indeed, but she would have enjoyed it far more if it weren’t for the circumstances that had prevailed in the two months since her arrival. There was no disputing that the facts behind the precipitate departure from Wychavon had taken the shine off her coming to London. She knew she had let her uncle down and now wanted only to forget about it if she could, but that was impossible when he continued to accuse her with silent glances. She was still an unconscionably long way from regaining his confidence, or his forgiveness.
The Season so far had been all she had expected, but it couldn’t be enjoyed to the full when things stood the way they did. She and Joshua had attended the theater, various balls and assemblies, exhibitions, dinners, and a variety of other superior gatherings, for although he had lived out of London for some time now, many of his old friends still resided in town. Invitations certainly weren’t lacking, nor was there any shortage of eligible gentlemen who found her of interest, but none of them could match Nicholas in her eyes, so she soon discouraged any hopeful overtures.
A week after St. Swithin’s Day she stood at the window of her bedroom waiting for the breakfast gong. She fingered the snakestone at her throat, for she had abided by her promise to Martha and had worn it every day since leaving Wychavon. Tonight she and her uncle were going to the theater, and tomorrow they were leaving London for a few weeks to stay with some of his old friends in Kent. She wasn’t looking forward to either event, and as she touched the snakestone she thought of Martha and wished she were still at home in Wychavon.
She gazed down Hay Hill with a thoughtful expression in her eyes. At the bottom she could see the famous trees in the gardens of Lansdowne House, and they reminded her of Shropshire. She wondered if Nicholas even missed her. Perhaps he hadn’t given her a second thought since her departure.
A gentleman on a fine chestnut Arabian rode into view in Berkeley Street, accompanied by two lean greyhounds. He wore a cherry red coat and reined in to look up the hill toward her. He was so like Nicholas that for a moment she thought it was him. Her pulse quickened, and she put a hand to the glass, but then he rode on out of sight again. She lowered her eyes.
How foolish she was. Nicholas Montacute didn’t care about her. She had been of interest for a while, but that was all. Perhaps she should be thankful things hadn’t had time to go further, for by now she would have fallen completely from grace. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment as she remembered some of the shockingly intimate caresses she had shared with the master of Wychavon Castle. From this distance she could hardly believe her conduct.
With a sigh she turned back into the room and then paused to study her reflection in the looking glass. Amabel Sichester had done her proud, she thought for the hundredth time since first inspecting her wonderful London wardrobe. The gown she had chosen today was made of muslin, thinly striped in maroon and cream. Its neckline and hem were trimmed with lace, and its full sleeves were gathered into tightly buttoned cuffs.
Her hair had been beautifully pinned by Amabel’s French maid, a Parisian named Jeanne, whose knowledge of coiffures appeared to exceed that of most hairdressers. There was nothing rustic and Shropshire about the numerous golden ringlets that fell so daintily from beneath the lace-lappeted cap that was pinned just so on top of her head, and Jeanne had also applied rouge so prudently to her new mistress’s cheeks that no one could possibly have known Miss Verity Windsor was in anything but excellent spirits. But the truth was that Verity Windsor was feeling very low and unhappy indeed.
The room itself—also Amabel’s—was a frothy and very feminine chamber, with pink hand-painted Chinese silk on the walls and a deep carpet. Two silver brocade chairs flanked the white marble fireplace, and there was a rose damask bed of such flounced splendor that lying in it seemed reprehensible.
A dressing table stood against the wall next to the window, and there were japanned wardrobes of such vastness that they could surely hold sufficient clothes for three ladies, not just one. A bowl of hothouse roses stood in the hearth. They were large single blooms, not sprays like those in the gardens at Windsor House, and she thought they lacked the wonderful fragrance, but there was no denying their symmetrical beauty—if symmetry was what one admired in a rose.
The gong sounded at last, and she put a shawl around her shoulders to go down to the dark green breakfast room that overlooked the gardens at the rear of the house.
Her uncle was already there and rose from his chair as she entered. He wore a brown brocade dressing gown and matching Turkish hat, and he accorded her a civil if not exactly warm smile as one of Lady Sichester’s gold-liveried footmen hastened to draw out a chair for her. “Good morning, Verity.”
“Good morning, Uncle.”
She selected a modest meal from the dishes the footman brought to the table, and when he had gone, she and Joshua ate in formal silence. After a while it became too much. She put her cutlery down with a clatter. “Can I say something, Uncle?”
“Of course you may, Verity.”
“I know I disappointed you at Wychavon, and I’m deeply ashamed of it, but please can’t we pretend it didn’t happen? It was over two months ago now, and I’ve been all I should have been since arriving here. All I want now is to go back to the way we were.”
He met her eyes a little unwillingly. “How can things go back to the way they were after you’ve proved such a sorrow to me?”
“That isn’t fair. I was in Lord Montacute’s arms, not his bed!”
“Verity!”
She lowered her eyes guiltily, knowing she shouldn’t have said something so shocking. “I—I’m sorry, Uncle, but it’s the truth.”
“Maybe it is, but I suspect his bed would have been the next place I’d have found you if I hadn’t arrived when I did!”
She colored.
“Yes, well you may blush, young lady. I’d dearly like to be able to trust you again, but after that appalling misconduct at the castle, it’s very difficult. You must be able to see that.”
“I know, but it won’t happen again, I swear.”
“An easy enough promise when the gentleman concerned is in Shropshire, and you are here,” he said tersely, then sea
rched in his pocket and took out a calling card which he placed before her. “Mrs. Henderson called yesterday. I informed her that I did not wish her to call again, and I told her that you would not be calling upon her.”
Verity was dismayed, for she liked Anna. “Oh, Uncle!”
“She and her husband are Nicholas Montacute’s allies, my dear, and I will not have you associating with them.”
“But they were clearly as horrified as you about what happened,” she pointed out, recalling their shocked faces at the castle.
“It makes no difference. You are not to see either of them, is that clear?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
He proceeded with his breakfast.
She watched him for a moment and then spoke again, but tentatively. “Uncle, do we have to go to the theater tonight?”
“It is all arranged,” he replied.
“But I really don’t like King John, it’s my least favorite Shakespeare.”
“Mr. Kean is in the leading role, my dear,” he said, as if this would make every difference in the world.
It didn’t. “I know, but—” she began.
“We’re going,” he interrupted firmly.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Besides, it’s Wednesday, so the audience will be quite thin, which means we’ll be able to hear everything much more clearly than any other night.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said again.
Wednesday was the night of the Almack’s subscription balls which were held for twelve weeks during the summer. Everyone who was anyone clamored for a voucher from one of the six lady patronesses who ran the assembly rooms in question, and to be excluded from the premises was a social calamity second to none. It was said that Almack’s was of greater importance than the court, for to be sure London’s high society was more dismayed to be turned away from the door in King Street than it was to be left out of a royal drawing room. All of which served to explain why on Wednesday nights it was much easier to acquire a box at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.
He glanced up again. “I trust you’ve packed everything you’ll need for our stay in Kent?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“I suppose you don’t wish to do that either,” he remarked dryly.
“Of course I do,” she replied untruthfully, for she thought the people they were to stay with were rather pompous, but they were his old friends, and so she wouldn’t complain. Besides which, a society wedding of some importance was to take place during their stay, and the occasion promised to be very grand indeed.
It wasn’t until breakfast was over that she realized that in spite of his stiff attitude during the meal, her uncle was actually beginning to forgive her, for as they left the table, he suddenly asked her if she’d like to go for a ride in Hyde Park.
Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, I’d love to!”
“Then ride we shall, provided the livery stable can provide us with suitable mounts,” he said, patting her shoulder fondly.
* * *
The royal blue riding habit showed no signs of the mishap on the Ludlow road. The maids at Wychavon Castle had cleaned it and her tophat so perfectly, it was impossible to tell the skirt had ripped slightly when she fell. Verity therefore felt as stylish as all the other ladies as she and her uncle rode through Grosvenor Gate into the park to join the fashionable throng in Rotten Row. The sun shone on the black pearl pin in her neckcloth, and the gauze scarf from her top hat fluttered prettily behind her. The snakestone still lay against her throat, although hidden now beneath her shirt.
The water of the Serpentine was dazzling beneath the flawless blue sky, and the trees cast leafy shadows over the smooth green grass. The jingle of harness and the thuds of hooves upon turf was very pleasant to the ears, especially on yet another glorious summer day, and it was no small satisfaction to Verity that she was a better horsewoman than most of the other ladies, and even better than some of the gentlemen. She handled her spirited roan mare with ease, and was flattered to receive a number of admiring glances from members of the opposite sex.
Joshua bounced beside her on a stout bay hunter, frequently reining in to exchange greetings with friends and acquaintances. They made several circuits of the park, and at last he decided to halt by the Serpentine, where pleasure boats bobbed and children sailed toy galleons under the watchful eyes of their nurses.
It was while his attention was diverted by the exploits of two young gentlemen in a punt that a strange sensation came over Verity. One moment she was laughing with her uncle, the next she had turned in the saddle because she felt as if Nicholas was somewhere nearby. She scanned the faces all around and saw no sign of him, yet the feeling persisted. He was here somewhere, she was sure of it.
Suddenly she saw him, although he had yet to see her. He was mounted on a chestnut Arabian, with two greyhounds at his heels. The gentleman she had observed from her window! She stared in disbelief, caught totally off guard by seeing him again so unexpectedly.
At last he seemed to sense her gaze on him, for he reined in and turned. Their eyes met, and her heart lurched joyfully as he smiled, but then her uncle spoke. “We’ve rested long enough, so let’s ride on, hmm?”
Without waiting for her to reply, he urged his horse on once more. She had to follow, but as chance would have it, they became caught up in a considerable crush of other riders and were separated. She couldn’t see her uncle anywhere, and then Nicholas maneuvered his mount alongside.
“Verity?” he said softly.
Her breath caught. “Please don’t speak to me now, my uncle may see!”
He looked into her green eyes, and the spell enveloped him as tightly as ever. “I must see you,” he said urgently.
“No!” She glanced around, fearing her uncle would suddenly ride up and catch them talking.
“Please, Verity.”
“Don’t call me that,” she begged.
“Agree to meet me, and I’ll go.”
“No,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes because it wasn’t what she wanted to say.
“Will you be at Almack’s tonight?”
“No, we—we’re going to the Theatre Royal.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Her eyes widened. “Please don’t! Uncle Joshua—”
He interrupted. “Your uncle will not know,” he said, leaning across to put his hand briefly over hers. Touching her seemed to seal his fate. The green of her eyes beguiled him, and the curve of her lips reminded him of the sweetness of her kisses. He had to have her....
“Until tonight,” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the noise of the riders all around them. Then he turned his horse and rode away, just as her uncle found her again.
“Ah, there you are, Verity! I’ve been looking all over.”
She was all confusion, her cheeks crimson with guilt. “I—I thought I’d better stay in one place, otherwise we might ride around in circles without seeing each other,” she managed to say.
He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “Well, I’ve had enough of horseflesh for one day, and I sincerely trust you feel the same way now?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Let’s be off, then.” He turned his mount toward Grosvenor Gate.
She accompanied him, but her mind was elsewhere with Nicholas. Part of her was overjoyed to know she would see him again tonight, but the other part was wretched with remorse for having so easily broken her word to her uncle.
Temptation had suddenly followed her from Wychavon, and now folly loomed on all sides again.
Chapter Seventeen
Grosvenor Square was the largest of Mayfair’s squares, and was surrounded by handsome red-brick houses of very superior quality. A wide cobbled roadway separated them from the shady garden in the center, and as the sun set that evening, shadows lay darkly across the way as Oliver’s gray tilbury drove up to Nicholas’s residence in the northwest corner.
The vehicle halted beneath the arch in the railings, and Oliver a
lighted. He was splendid in evening attire—black velvet coat and white silk pantaloons, with white gloves, a black tricorn hat and a silver-topped cane—and he adjusted the lavish lace at his cuff before approaching the door. He doubted if Nicholas would even recall their arrangement to go to White’s tonight, for they’d both been a little the worse for wear that last evening at Wychavon.
He knocked, and after a moment a footman answered. “Why, Mr. Henderson, please come inside, sir. I’ll inform his lordship you’re here.”
Oliver stepped into the oval hall, where a seascape mural by William Kent graced the walls. The footman relieved him of his hat, gloves, and cane, and then hastened up the sweeping staircase.
Several minutes passed, and then Nicholas appeared at the columned balustrade at the top. He was dressed in evening clothes, and for a moment Oliver thought he had remembered after all, but his words soon put paid to the notion. “Oliver? What brings you here? I thought you’d be toddling off to Almack’s tonight.”
“Actually, I’m keeping our appointment, dear boy,” Oliver replied dryly.
“Our what?” Nicholas’s eyes cleared. “Oh Lord, I’d clean forgotten White’s,” he said, coming down quickly.
“So it seems.” Oliver met him at the bottom and eyed his attire. “I take it Almack’s is your destination, even if it isn’t mine?”
“Er, no. The Theatre Royal.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t Kean appearing there at the moment?”
“He is.”
“But you can’t abide the fellow! I seem to recall some very uncomplimentary remarks about his darting eyes and strutting manner.”
Nicholas smiled. “Very true.”
“Then why ... ?”
“I just happen to be in the mood for him tonight.”
“Don’t humbug me, Nick Montacute, for it won’t wash.”
Nicholas pursed his lips. “Then let’s just say it would be better if you pretended to be humbugged.”
Oliver stared at him and then exhaled slowly. “Miss Windsor!”