Cassie had informed her that there would be a large breakfast served downstairs, and Lindsay was summoning up the courage to emerge and face the others when a knock sounded at her door.
"Who is it?" she asked, while her heart seemed to skip alternate beats.
"It's your papa, cherie. Do you remember me?"
Throwing open the door, she went straight into his comforting, familiar embrace, pressing her face against the broad expanse of his chest. "Oh, Papa, I've missed you. There are always so many other people about!"
Raveneau chuckled and held her away from him. "Hopefully all of this will be over before very long and then our lives can return to normal, hmm?" He flashed a white smile. Clad in a perfectly tailored blue frock coat, cream-colored pantaloons, and an impeccably tied cravat, Andre was handsomer in his sixties than most men decades younger.
Lindsay smiled with a touch of irony at his words. Normal, she thought, suspecting that her own life would never be the same again. That was fine, though. At least she was experiencing it firsthand these days rather than vicariously through her books. "You're looking splendid today, Papa." She reached up to brush back a stray lock of his silvery hair. "Have you come to escort me down to breakfast?"
"May I?" Raveneau gazed down at his younger daughter. She was acquiring a womanly glow that made her look more than ever like her mother. How quickly they grew. "England seems to agree with you. I believe you're becoming a woman at last."
"Had you given up hope, Papa?" Her great gray eyes met his.
"Never. A rose that opens slowly is the most exquisite." Raveneau pressed a long kiss to her brow, then gave her his arm and they walked toward the sweeping staircase.
Entering the salon with her father gave Lindsay courage. Everyone else, except for the Earl and Countess of Chadwick, was already present. Devon got up to kiss her daughter, and when Lindsay saw the love in her eyes, she wanted to weep. Dudley, behaving in the proprietary fashion of a man who has finally won a private kiss from the girl of his dreams, rose to pull out the chair next to his. She spoke to the Earl and Countess of Grimley, who looked pale and pinched in the early-morning sunshine. Mouette called to her and Lindsay leaned forward to send her sister a smile. Finally, unable to avoid it a moment longer, she glanced at Ryan.
The sight of his dark blue eyes staring at her over the rim of his teacup sent a flush spreading over her body and reminded her of the dull ache between her legs.
Suddenly, she felt hot there, too, stingingly so. For one involuntary instant, Lindsay remembered the two of them naked and straining together; remembered his damp, chiseled face above her; remembered the sensation of being filled, the rhythm of his thrusts and her answering hips, the abandon of their kisses....
"Will you have tea, miss?" It was a footman at her elbow.
Somehow Lindsay managed to refrain from flinching in surprise. "Yes, thank you."
Next to her, Dudley solicitously added lemon, knowing by now exactly how much she liked it. She gave him a smile.
"Have I done something to offend you, dear sister?" Ryan asked quietly from across the table.
Feeling her mother's casually watchful gaze, Lindsay mustered a bright smile. "Certainly not, Nathan! What a question!"
He helped himself to a mutton chop and some herring as the platter was presented to him. "Well, I am your only brother and you were ignoring me... but perhaps that's to be expected now that you've ventured out into the world of other men." Ryan looked at Dudley with sleepy eyes and drawled, "Are you aware, Fanshawe, that my sister's only passion was books until she came to England?"
"Something of the sort," Dudley muttered.
"You'd better help yourself to breakfast," Ryan remarked, turning his attention back to Lindsay. He buttered a muffin and dipped it into his egg yolk. "Have a sheep's kidney; it'll do you good. You look as if you didn't sleep much last night! Fanshawe, I hope you were a gentleman and returned my sister to her rooms at a respectable hour. It would be such a bore if I had to call you out in defense of Lindsay's honor...."
Dudley couldn't speak; his mouth was full of quail pie, but his eyes bugged out, betraying his reaction to this speech. Lindsay, on the other hand, wanted to laugh with joy. The sight of Ryan, so gloriously male and handsome, lifting his quizzing glass to survey her erstwhile suitor made her heart sing.
"Nathan, do stop." She tried to sound stern. "You are the outside of enough!"
The quizzing glass turned in her direction and his black brow arched above it. "Am I?"
Lindsay prayed that she wasn't blushing as she bit into a strawberry and returned Ryan's secret half smile.
Part Four
True love's the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven:
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind.
-Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
Chapter 25
June 20, 1814
Glancing at the notes of hand that were accumulating at Michael Angelo Taylor's pudgy elbow, Ryan let out a sigh of consternation and put down the dice. "You've won far too much of my father's money, Taylor. Why don't we end this now and you can buy me dinner with your new-found wealth?"
The influential member of the House of Commons smiled good-naturedly, which accentuated his permanent port-induced flush. More fond of gossip than gambling, he took pity on Andre Raveneau's son. The boy seemed a good sort, even if he wasn't very well endowed in the top story. Taylor figured that Captain Raveneau wouldn't give his son money and turn him loose in White's if he didn't expect him to drop a few quid, but it didn't seem altogether sporting to win every last shilling. No need to draw blood, after all!
"Right-o, young Nathan! I hear there's a tolerable dish of boiled fowl with oyster sauce being served to night. We'll share a bottle or two of claret to console you."
When they were seated in the dining room and Michael Angelo Taylor had drained one glass of claret and poured another, he smiled at Ryan. "Who's your tailor, boy?"
"Weston." Ryan glanced down at his honey-colored jacket and cream and gold brocade waistcoat, biting back a smile. "He doesn't entirely approve of my orders...."
"Dark blue's the style, you know," Taylor advised him confidentially. "Blue coat with brass buttons and buff-colored pantaloons. Coming from America, you may not be aware."
"I appreciate your telling me, sir." To cover his amusement, Ryan ceremoniously took snuff, offering the Sevres snuffbox to Taylor.
"I hear you were in Oxford with the Regent and all the others. Tell me about it!" Taking a pinch, he snuffled loudly.
Ryan was rather taken aback by the older man's unabashed curiosity, even though he had been forewarned. He gave him as colorful an account of the events in Oxford as he could muster, then Taylor leaned forward.
"Did you hear that Prinny tried to keep the czar from attending Lady Jersey's midsummer ball Wednesday last by seeing to it that he dined at Christ Church that same night?"
Studying his boiled fowl, Ryan allowed, "Yes, I believe I did."
"Then perhaps you haven't heard that the czar took his leave in the middle of that dinner, drove through the night, and arrived at Lady Jersey's ball at three in the morning—"
At that moment, Lord Byron, who was being seated at a table next to them, leaned over and declared, "I saw him there myself, Taylor, in a starless blue coat and kerseymere breeches whisked round with the Jersey, who, lovely as ever, seem'd just delighted with majesty's presence as those she'd invited!" The poet chuckled and reached up to smooth his carefully waved hair. "Do you like it? I vow, these foreigners inspire me no end!"
Ryan tried to smile but was certain his expression betrayed his true opinion of Lord B
yron. Meanwhile, Brummell had been standing in the shadows waiting for the poet to finish before joining him at the table. Now he sauntered forward, his brows elevated slightly.
"Old story, George," he murmured. "You're becoming quite tiresome. In fact, if you do not promise to cease reciting that boring verse, I shall have to see to it that you are expelled from the club." The Beau glanced over at Ryan and Taylor. "You shouldn't encourage him, you know. He's far too conceited as it is." He paused for one beat, then added, "Hello."
Ryan couldn't help smiling even though he knew that the gleam in his eye betrayed more of himself than he ought to show. "Good to see you, Brummell. You're well?"
"Tolerably." Lifting his quizzing glass, he appraised Ryan's coat. "Hmm. It's nothing I would wear but not altogether offensive to the eye. At least you rebel in a tasteful manner, young Raveneau." One nostril flared as he surveyed their meal. "I must speak to Raggett about the menu. That looks deplorable." Bending at the knees, Brummell sat down gracefully and turned his attention to the wine.
Michael Angelo Taylor's white hair glittered in the candlelight in contrast to his rosy cheeks. Leaning forward, he whispered, "Did you attend the Guildhall banquet on Saturday?"
Barely suppressing a sigh, Ryan replied, "Yes, I did."
Taylor beamed. "I was ill. Do tell me about it! Is it true that the grand duchess insisted on accompanying the czar, thereby forcing Prinny to go alone rather than sharing a carriage? And that they were an hour late? And that there were crowds lined up along the route who shouted to the Regent, 'Where's your wife? Love your wife!'?"
Ryan longed to cut the conversation short, but he hoped to lead Taylor into other areas and didn't want to offend him. "So I heard."
"Well? Tell me about the rest of the evening."
Gritting his teeth, Ryan strove for brevity. "When Czar Alexander and the others arrived and started into the banqueting hall, the czar stopped in the middle to speak to Lord Grey and Lord Holland."
"Two of the Regent's bitterest enemies!" Taylor laughed and rubbed his hands together.
Ryan searched his mind for a few more anecdotes, which he delivered in confidential tones. Listening with relish, Taylor picked the carcass on his plate until there wasn't a scrap of meat left on it. Then he poured the last of the claret into his glass and leaned forward.
"I suppose you heard about the row at the opera, where the Regent and his wife were both present—in separate boxes?"
"Yes, I did."
Taylor continued as if he hadn't heard. "There was great applause when the Princess of Wales appeared in her box. The czar bowed to her, which forced her husband to follow suit and prompted an absolutely wild reaction from the audience. Would you not think that England would give up hoping for a happy ending for those two? In any event, Prinny pretended that the cheering was for him and bowed repeatedly until it ceased. One might assume that there was an end to it, but when Princess Caroline left, the mob surrounded her carriage, offering to burn down Carlton House if she wished!"
Ryan couldn't have cared less. Sipping brandy, he chose his words carefully. "That's quite a story, Mr. Taylor. You would seem to be privy to all sorts of information!"
The older man signaled for a brandy. "I might be."
Taking a pinch of snuff, he regarded him languidly. "Lord Chadwick was with us at Grimley Court this past week. I suppose you are well acquainted with the man?"
"Well enough to know that he thirsts for power. Francis intends to become the next prime minister, and he might achieve it. The past year or two, he's given Prime Minister Liverpool and Foreign Secretary Castlereagh a good deal of information that has proven quite valuable in carrying out our struggle with—" Taylor broke off, suddenly remembering, and mumbled, "America..."
"Don't worry, old man," Ryan exclaimed, chuckling in a way that suggested he was not very bright. "I don't bother with politics. Such a bore! Besides, I feel much more at home here than in America!"
"Who could blame you, dear boy?" Taylor took a huge bite of apple tart and chewed contentedly. "It's not terribly civilized there, is it? Of course, your family has turned out splendidly, but you've spent a great deal of time abroad, hmm?"
"That's true. We've had our house in Grosvenor Square as long as I can remember, and of course my sister has been married to Sir Harry Brandreth for some years...." He took a sip of brandy and pretended to search for something else to say. "You must know Harry, being in the House together, what? How is his career progressing? I do hope that my sister Mouette can look forward to a secure life with him...."
"Oh, well, I don't think you need to worry about Harry," Taylor replied rather distractedly. "He's coming along nicely. I'd say that he's quite ambitious, too, but because he's lazy he takes a different approach. Harry may not be in constant attendance in the House, but he's ingratiated himself with some of the powers that be. The Earl of Chadwick, for one!" Plate cleaned and brandy drained, he consulted his watch. "I don't mean to rush off, dear boy, but my wife's mother is visiting and I ought to put in an appearance this evening."
"I understand." Ryan rose with a lazy smile. "Thank you for dinner, Mr. Taylor."
"Not at all, Raveneau! I do hope your father won't be put out about your losses today." The older man got to his feet and patted his swollen belly. "Good night, then!"
Ryan watched Michael Angelo Taylor weave slightly as he left the room. His own thoughts were far away until he sensed that someone was watching him. Turning, he met Beau Brummell's perceptive gaze.
"I wonder, Raveneau, whether you are having us all on," the Beau drawled.
Relaxing his body, Ryan raised his quizzing glass. "My dear Brummell, what can you mean?"
* * *
Leaving White's, Ryan nearly collided with Sir Harry Brandreth, who was looking slightly worse for wear. His curly blond locks were tousled, his blue eyes bloodshot, and his breath smelled of strong spirits.
"My brother!" Harry exclaimed, slapping him on the back. "Dear brother! Come and join me in a game of faro!"
"I'd like to, Harry, but I've already lost my limit for today." That in itself was a lie of sorts, for Ryan had allowed Michael Angelo Taylor to win. "I hope you won't think me impertinent, but are you certain that you're up to gambling? I wonder if you might not regret it in the morning?"
Chuckling, Harry leaned against his brother-in-law for support. "Can you keep a secret, Nathan, old boy?"
"Certainly." He was hard-pressed to remember the role he was supposed to play. Apart from his growing suspicions about Harry, he felt an obligation to Mouette and the Raveneau family. However, to be on the safe side, Ryan took out his snuffbox and delicately indulged. "Do you want to talk to me outside?"
"Why the bloody hell would I want to do that? I just came in!"
"The air might do you good."
"Nonsense. All I need is a brandy and a good game." The sentence was slightly slurred. "Don't worry about me, though. I can afford it. Look!" He pronounced the last word in a loud whisper and withdrew a thick packet of ten-pound notes from his coat. "You see? I can afford to lose a bit. Mouette'd only spend it in any case, so what's the difference? Don't tell her, though. I know she's your sister, but the truth is that she can be a terrible shrew when she puts her mind to it!" Harry laughed as an afterthought, slapped Ryan on the back again, then staggered away toward the tables.
Ryan raked a hand through his hair, wondering what to do. Out of the corner of one eye he glimpsed Raggett, the proprietor of White's, and motioned to him. Raggett was an honest sort who was known to sit up with club members during all-night games.
"My good man..." Ryan pretended to stifle a yawn. "I realize that this must be a terrible bore for you, but could you possibly look in on my brother-in-law from time to time? I'm not certain that he's responsible for himself, and I'd hate to hear that he's gambled away his home and family |"
"Certainly, sir." Raggett made a small bow, even though he considered himself superior to this ridiculous dandy. "In fact, I'l
l try to encourage Sir Harry to go home as soon as possible."
Ryan's dark gaze was distant. "Thanks, old man."
* * *
The windows of the town house on Grosvenor Square were ablaze with light as Ryan approached. He'd walked the mile or so home, lost in thought, oblivious even to the stars that gleamed above like diamonds against a dark velvet background.
Arabella Butter met him at the door. "Hello, sir! How are you tonight?"
"I'm fine, Arabella. And you?"
"Quite well, sir!" The sight of him still sent shivers of pure female lust down her spine, but even that sensation had lessened since Harvey Jenkins had begun to pay his attentions to her. "The rest of your family is upstairs in the ballroom."
"Pardon?"
"You've missed all the fun, sir. They're waltzing!" She pronounced the word as if it were some exotic, though enticing, tribal dance. "My mother's outraged, but personally I think it looks quite fun!"
A slow smile spread over Ryan's face. Trust the Raveneau family, he thought, to provide the perfect antidote to his overserious mood! "Arabella, is there any champagne in the house?"
"Why, yes, sir."
"Bring me a bottle, would you? And four glasses."
Moments later, after shedding his jacket and waistcoat, he took the stairs by twos and approached the third-floor ballroom. A lilting waltz drew him onward, and from the doorway he glimpsed Devon sitting at a beautiful piano. Stepping inside, Ryan saw Lindsay turning rather haltingly in the arms of her father. In spite, or because, of her unsure movements, she was giggling softly.
For a moment, Ryan leaned against the door frame, champagne in one hand, a cluster of glass stems in the other, and watched. Lindsay wore the simplest of white muslin gowns, cut rather low over her breasts and tied beneath them with a yellow ribbon. The short puffed sleeves showed off her graceful arms, and the loose Grecian knot of bright hair atop her head displayed the beautiful line of her neck to perfection. Ryan's eyes warmed with love and longing. They had scarcely been alone since returning to London. He was determined to unravel the mystery they had come to solve so that he could speak openly to her father, and Lindsay had been busy with engagements of her own. Viscount Fanshawe continued to call, but Ryan wasn't worried. Even when hours passed without a word between them, he could gain instant reassurance by looking into Lindsay's expressive gray eyes.
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