Vanity

by Jane Feather

  Resolutely, she walked over to the fire and bent to warm her hands. “Lord Nick and Lucifer,” she commented casually. “Quite a combination, sir.”

  “Do you think so?” he said with a careless shrug.

  “A devil’s combination to tempt the fates,” she said. “A highwayman who rides a white horse.”

  “One must spice one’s life a little,” he said, keeping his eyes on the fire. “You seem to understand the pleasures of courting danger, Miss Morgan.”

  “On the contrary, sir. I don’t believe in taking foolhardy risks with my neck.”

  “Ah.” He looked across at her then, that little mocking smile playing over his lips. “And what do you think you’ve risked this evening, my dear Octavia?”

  “Not my neck,” she snapped back.

  He leaned back in the chair, rocking himself gently with one foot on the fender. “No, your neck’s in no danger from me.”

  Ben chuckled into his tankard, and Octavia regarded him with undisguised dislike. “Must we have this conversation in company?”

  “Oh, Ben isn’t company … you are,” Rupert declared. “Ben is supposed to be here. You, on the other hand, are not.”

  “Ben didn’t save you from a bullet tonight.”

  “There is that.” He appeared to give this some judicious thought.

  “Looks like she’s bin’ raidin’ yer wardrobe, Nick,” Ben observed. “I niver seen the like!” He chuckled again and buried his nose in his tankard.

  “Good God!” For the first time Rupert took in Octavia’s garb beneath her cloak. “Are those my britches you’re wearing? If ’wearing’ is the right word for whatever you’ve done to them.”

  “I could hardly ride astride in a gown,” she retorted. “I would have asked if you hadn’t sneaked out like a snake in the grass.”

  “I hardly consider going about my private business to be sneaking like a snake,” he declared. “And compared with making free with my clothes and my horse, it seems positively saintly behavior.”

  Nonplussed, Octavia shifted the angle of the subject. “You knew that satchel would be in the coach. What’s in it?”

  “Rent rolls,” Rupert said readily, stretching his feet to the fire. “The Earl of Gifford’s rent rolls. He’s a stingy bastard, rich as Croesus. He won’t notice the loss except in his mean-spirited soul.”

  “And that man who came to the Royal Oak earlier? Morris … he told you about it?”

  “Precisely.” Rupert smiled lazily. “Morris spends a lot of his time in the taprooms around the heath. He keeps his ear to the ground to good purpose and overheard the earl’s steward trying to persuade his traveling companions to stay at the Bell and Book overnight, since he didn’t wish to risk his precious cargo to the heath at midnight. Madam Cornelia, however, insisted on reaching town tonight.” He shrugged. “So what could the poor fellow do? I’m convinced the dear lady was very persuasive.”

  Octavia was too intent on making sense of the night’s work to smile. “But why didn’t you take anything from that ghastly woman and her husband?”

  Rupert shook his head. “It wasn’t necessary. One mustn’t be greedy. There’s enough in that satchel to furnish you with a court wardrobe, my dear, even down to a pair of shoes with emerald-studded heels and diamond buckles.”

  “Eh … what’s that?” Ben demanded, emerging from his own languid trance with a jerk. “She’s in yer keepin’ then, Nick?”

  “No, I am not!” Octavia declared, her eyes flashing tawny fire. “We are embarked upon a joint enterprise. Isn’t that so, my lord?”

  Rupert laughed. “Yes, it is, my dear Octavia. There’s no need to look daggers at me. Your integrity is in no way under challenge. But I’ll give you one word of advice. Ben is the best friend a man could ever wish for, and in this joint enterprise you may need him as much as I. Best you remember that.”

  “In that case, best he understands the true situation,” Octavia said tightly. “I am in no way beholden to you, Lord Rupert.”

  “Only as far as a pair of britches, a shirt, and a horse,” he murmured. “Do you care for some milk punch?”

  It was such an abrupt change of subject Octavia merely blinked, although her stomach lurched with anticipation at the thought.

  Rupert gestured indolently to the simmering pan on the hob. “Help yourself. You’ll find a tankard in the cupboard beside the mantel.”

  Octavia wasted no more time in pursuing contentious issues. If the highwayman was prepared to let bygones be bygones, then the least she could do was follow suit. She found the tankard and filled it with the creamy, fragrant contents of the pan. She hitched a stool over with her foot and sat down almost in the fireplace in her eagerness to get to the heat. The first sip made her knees weak. Someone knew how to make a milk punch to fell a grown man. The second sent her head spinning.

  The two men behind her rocked placidly, sipping from their own tankards. The room began to lose its contours in the most delicious way, and the creeping languor started in her toes and inched upward, turning muscle and sinew to butter. She swayed on her stool, smiling into the fire, taking another sip from the tankard. She swayed and leaned backward, finding a pair of legs perfectly positioned as a back rest; a pair of knees perfectly positioned to receive her head. A hand moved through her hair in a languid stroking motion that blended with the warm, smudgy feeling in her belly as she drained the tankard.

  “Such a busy night for a meddlesome little girl,” the highwayman stated, a rich laugh in his voice. Vaguely, Octavia felt she should protest such a statement, but she could find neither words nor energy—any more than she could resist when she was pulled upward by her armpits and suddenly found herself dangling face down, sleepily gazing at the earthen floor.

  The highwayman’s shoulder moved beneath her belly as he mounted the narrow staircase. It was cold as they left the fire, and she murmured in faint protest, but then she was lying down, sinking into feathers and smothered in quilts, a great weight of them, and the cold air became a warm seal around her body. Hands were on her, deftly stripping her naked under the covers so the cold air didn’t touch her exposed skin.

  Vaguely she was aware of him sliding in beside her, his bare skin chilled by its brief exposure to the frigid air. She curled against him, sharing her own warmth as she fell asleep, her nose pressed to the now warm naked back, his scent invading her dreams.

  Chapter 9

  “Striking woman that Lady Warwick.” The Duke of Gosford came to stand beside his son-in-law. He took an overly generous pinch of snuff and sneezed copiously into his handkerchief. “’Tis to be hoped the committee don’t blackball her for such an appearance. Takes some nerve to appear in public like that.”

  “Almack’s is not the court.” His son-in-law didn’t lower his eyeglass as he offered this curt comment. The duke had correctly guessed that Philip Wyndham was staring at the lady who’d just entered the ballroom at Almack’s on the arm of her husband.

  The three elegant salons at the assembly rooms were thronged with those fortunate members of the Upper Ten Thousand to be approved for membership by the fourteen-member committee of ladies whose draconian rules ensured that three quarters of London’s nobility knocked in vain for admission. Among that powdered, painted, elaborately coiffured crowd at this subscription ball, Lady Warwick’s appearance was remarkable.

  She wore her hair unpowdered, her complexion was innocent of paint, her lips unrouged.

  Octavia paused instinctively in the entrance to the ballroom, and Rupert, taking his cue from her, paused too. A whisper rustled through the company; then every eye turned toward the double doors.

  Octavia’s insistence on making her first serious public appearance in this unusual fashion had amused Rupert. He’d gone along with it because he couldn’t see that it would do any harm, but when he’d watched her descend the staircase at Dover Street that night, he’d understood exactly what she was about. The men would flock like vultures. The women would hate her, of
course. Such a perfect complexion, such wonderfully unusual coloring, displayed without artifice. Octavia had no need of beauty patches to draw attention away from smallpox scars, or rouge to brighten a complexion dulled by lack of sleep, overindulgence, the clogged grease of paint and thick-caked powder.

  Her hair, piled high off her forehead and falling in soft curls to her shoulders, glowed in the candlelight in all its natural glory, setting off the pale translucence of her cheeks and the deep-set tawny gold of her eyes. Her gown was a dainty confection of white and pink muslin opened over a petticoat of apple-green silk, the sleeves of the gown banded in the same silk, delicate lace ruffs falling over her wrists. A white lace fichu tucked into the low neckline drew attention to the swell of her bosom while seeming discreetly to conceal it.

  All in all, it was a masterly costume designed to complement the madonnalike innocence of her face, the delicate curves of her body, yet at the same time, with its bold rejection of convention, to hint at a certain recklessness of character, a touch of defiance and mystery.

  She would have the men at her feet in minutes, or such had been his initial assessment. An underestimate, he now realized, as the Prince of Wales moved his substantial bulk across the ballroom, his face red and sweaty, a lascivious gleam in his eyes and an eager smile on his lips.

  “Madam.” He bowed low. “What a vision … a refreshingly unusual vision, indeed. Pray introduce me to your wife, Warwick.”

  Blandly, Rupert performed the introduction, and the prince seized Octavia’s hand. “Where have you come from, my dear lady? To think of all the months we’ve been languishing here without a sight of you. How could you have kept yourself so far from our eyes? … Indeed, how could you have permitted this sly dog to steal you before anyone else had a chance?” He wagged a plump finger at Lord Rupert and laughed heartily.

  “You are too kind, sir.” Octavia curtsied, her eyes darting around the circle of men gathering behind the prince.

  “Oh, no no no. Oh, no, I believe not,” declared his highness. “Not too kind … not possible. Such a ravishing creature, Warwick. You’re a dog … to steal a march on us like this. Where did you find her?”

  For all the world as if she were a rare specimen of insect life discovered under some remote stone, Octavia thought.

  “In the country, sir,” Rupert responded as blandly as before. “In Northumberland, where I was recently visiting.”

  “Northumberland!” The prince turned his little eyes upon Lady Warwick in some astonishment. “Gad, I’d never have believed it possible. Very far north it is, isn’t that so?” He glanced behind him for corroboration.

  “Yes, sir,” agreed a courtier. “I believe it’s quite some distance from London.”

  “Gad,” repeated the prince, examining Octavia through his quizzing glass. “If they keep such beauties as this up there, I must pay it a visit, meself … what?” He laughed heartily at this sally and extended his hand. “Come dance with me, you ravishing creature.”

  “But I’ve not yet been given permission by one of the patronesses,” Octavia demurred, fluttering her fan. “I shouldn’t wish to break the rules, Your Highness.”

  The prince roared with laughter. “As if you haven’t already done so, ma’am. Dolly … Dolly, come over here and give this exquisite creature permission to dance with me.” He beckoned vigorously to a lady in a gown of lilac tabby, her massive wig decorated with a score of tiny furry animals peeping from between what looked to Octavia to be tufts of grass.

  The Duchess of Deerwater advanced, a stiff smile for the prince on her lips. She stared rudely at Octavia and curtsied infinitesimally. “Lady Warwick.”

  Octavia swept an elegant and deferential curtsy in response. “Ma’am.”

  “If you wish the name of a competent hairdresser, Lady Warwick, I should be happy to furnish you with one.”

  Octavia curtsied again. “You’re too kind, ma’am.”

  “I am aware that people do things differently in the country,” the duchess stated, her nose twitching, her mouth pursing. “But we don’t bring country ways to London, madam. They don’t suit.”

  “Oh, I believe there’s always room for improvement, ma’am,” Octavia said sweetly. “Even London should be open to modern ideas.”

  The duchess stared at her in disbelief, clearly wondering if she’d heard aright. Had this newcomer actually had the temerity to describe London fashions as outdated?

  Rupert raised an eyebrow. Perhaps Octavia didn’t understand the weight of this woman’s influence. He was searching for something to smooth over the jagged silence when the Prince of Wales burst into a hearty peal of laughter.

  “Quite right, Lady Warwick. We’re shockingly stuck in our ways here. Too much convention and protocol and the lord knows what else. It’s all the fault of the court, y’know. Devilish strict and old-fashioned it is. Just wait until it’s my turn … then we’ll all see some changes, you mark my words.”

  This shockingly unfilial statement that could only be interpreted as a desire to hasten his father’s demise was received in a silence so deeply disgusted that Octavia’s minor challenge sank without trace.

  The prince seized her hand and whirled her away onto the floor, where a set was forming for a country dance. “His Highness is still only a boy … and somewhat headstrong,” Rupert observed quietly, bowing to the duchess, offering her a smile that invited her participation in this mature reflection. “Youth tends to be.”

  “Yes, of course,” thé duchess agreed, dabbing her upper hp with a scented handkerchief. She examined the figure of Lord Rupert Warwick and seemed somewhat mollified by what she saw. His lordship was dressed in black silk, his hair conventionally powdered and tied at the nape. He wore a gold fob and a diamond pin sparked blue fire against the blinding white of his ruffled shirt front. His expression was attentive, his smile pleasantly complicit, as if his last statement were offered as much as excuse for his young wife as for the Prince of Wales.

  “Youth must be guided by their elders, Lord Warwick,” she said after a minute, her eyes going pointedly to the dance floor and the unconventional Lady Warwick. “Your wife appears to lack town bronze, sir.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that’s the case.” Lord Wyndham spoke suddenly from the attentive circle around them. “I suspect Lady Warwick merely dares to be out of the ordinary. What d’you say, Warwick?”

  Rupert bowed in his twin’s direction, his eyebrows lifting, a glint of humor in his eyes. “An accurate assessment, I believe, Wyndham.”

  The earl’s full mouth twitched into a thin smile. His gaze returned to the puffing ballroom antics of the prince with an expression of frigid disgust, but as his eyes moved to the prince’s partner, a spark of interest flickered below the cold gray surface.

  How could Philip sense nothing? Rupert wondered. Every time they exchanged looks or words, his own body temperature seemed to rise, his blood to quicken in his veins as recognition and recollection hammered at the gates of his soul. Yet Philip showed not the slightest sign of unease or puzzlement in his brother’s presence. Perhaps because he knew his twin to be dead, there was no room for even an inkling of some disturbing twitch of recognition.

  “You met Lady Warwick in Northumberland?” Philip asked casually, turning away from the dance floor, offering Rupert his snuffbox.

  Rupert waved the enameled box aside with a polite smile. “I don’t care for scented snuffs, thank you. Yes, while I was visiting old family friends.”

  “This is her first visit to London, of course.”

  Rupert nodded. “We thought to postpone our honeymoon until after the birthday.”

  The king’s birthday was in June and marked the end of the London season. Philip nodded again, his gaze returning to the dance floor. “But a honeymoon in London at the height of the season has its charms for the uninitiated, I would imagine.” Philip bowed and strolled away, making his way around the outskirts of the room where the chaperons sat in groups, sipping negus and goss
iping.

  The Countess of Wyndham, sitting bodkin between two starched matrons, looked up as he approached her, a nervous smile on her lips. She patted at her coiffure, straightened the lace at her neck, her eyes filled with anxious appeal as she awaited some humiliating public criticism of her appearance. But her husband merely looked through her as if she were a garden slug and passed on, leaving her as mortified by his lack of acknowledgment as if he’d heaped scorn upon her.

  The name of Lady Warwick was on every tongue. And it stayed there throughout the evening. The Prince of Wales refused to relinquish the lady, and Rupert watched from afar as she became the center of the prince’s own sycophantic circle of young reprobates.

  Octavia knew as well as did Rupert that for as long as she was favored by the prince, society might criticize, but it would never ostracize. For the plan to work, she must be identified with a circle that drank deep, played the tables to ruination, and threw conventional ethics to the four winds. The prince’s intimates formed such a circle, and by the end of the evening she’d deflected a dozen oblique suggestions and turned down four outright proposals, one of which came from the prince himself.

  “La, sir, but I’m a married woman,” she protested as the prince held her hand tightly between both of his hot palms and beamed at her.

  The prince guffawed but looked genuinely taken aback by this cavil. “I’d hardly suggest it, my dear ma’am, if you were not. A man can’t enjoy himself with an unmarried gal. Now, don’t tell me Lord Rupert is such a spoilsport as to be a jealous husband.”

  “Why, sir, I don’t believe he’s been a husband long enough as yet to know whether he is or not,” she returned demurely. “I think it’s a little soon to be contemplating a leap from the marriage bed. We’ve been wed but two weeks.”

  The prince chuckled and patted her cheek. “A forthright woman, that’s what I like. No missish nonsense about you. Well, well, my dear, we shall see how long it takes for your husband to start wandering. And when he does, I dare swear you’ll look upon the matter with new eyes.”