by Joan Smith
He glanced quickly around the room and smiled at Rosalind when he saw her chatting to the Floods, on the far side of the room from Sylvester. Their eyes met and held, as if they shared something deep and important. Then he heard his name spoken and turned away.
Annabelle drew Harwell to her side and engaged him in some banter. Rosalind watched from the corner of her eye as the chit batted her fan, twitched at her necklace, preened her hair, laughed too loudly, and generally behaved as commonly as one expected.
When all the dinner guests had arrived and consumed a glass of very good sherry, a footman sounded a gong and Mrs. Fortescue led the party in to dinner.
The guests invited to dinner were limited to two dozen, but the meal might have fed ten times the number. Lady Amanda Vaughan, the only titled female present, was placed at Mr. Fortescue’s right hand. Lord Harwell sat beside her. Annabelle sat beside him, with Sylvester on her other side, thus hogging the two most eligible catches at the party.
Rosalind and Dick were not seated below the salt, but they were not distinguished in any way from lesser guests. Annabelle divided her time between Sylvester and Harwell. Rosalind, seated farther down the board on the other side, had difficulty keeping an eye on her goings-on. A floral arrangement as big as a bathtub made vision difficult.
The turtle soup was a great triumph. Mrs. Fortescue regaled her end of the table with the tale of the turtle’s acquisition and preparation.
“Mr. Fortescue had it brought down from the London market in a tub of water to keep it fresh, so you need not fear you’ll get food poisoning from it. A deal of bother, but Belle had her little heart set on turtle soup. ‘Tis all the crack in London, so she tells us. She had the receipt from Lady Dunston’s chef.”
Despite its strange taste, the guests felt compelled to clean their bowls and pronounce it the best turtle they had ever tasted. As it was the only one most of them had ever tasted, this was no lie.
Course followed course and remove followed remove until a glutton could not ask more. But still there was more. Desserts, six of them, and a savory followed. Whipped cream, fresh berries, all manner of dainty cakes and tarts were handed around by the footmen, and new plates placed on the groaning board on either side of the floral arrangement. Rosalind was not the only lady wondering what would become of all the leftovers. Even with every spare person in the village pressed into service, they could not consume all that went back to the kitchen.
All the work and money were deemed worthwhile when Harwell said at the meal’s conclusion, “Prinny could not have done us more proud, Fortescue. A meal to remember.”
A beaming Mrs. Fortescue said, “Now, that is what I call a pretty compliment!” Mr. Fortescue smiled his satisfaction, and Annabelle shot a spiteful little glance down the board to Rosalind.
The ladies escaped to the Red Saloon to sink, replete, onto the sofas and await the gentlemen. Annabelle waited to see where Rosalind sat, then went to her, but did not sit down.
“Lord Sylvester will have something to say to you later, Miss Lovelace,” she said, with a triumphant smile, “and I shall have something to say to Dick.” Before Rosalind could reply, she glided along to the other end of the room, leaving Miss Lovelace to wonder about a few things, not least why she had suddenly become Miss Lovelace when she had been Roz for half a year, and even a premature Sis on a few occasions, when Annabelle was in good humor.
Chapter Nineteen
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Harwell took up the empty seat Rosalind had been expecting Sylvester to occupy. Sylvester did not go to Annabelle at least, but sat with her mama. The smiles in that quarter suggested he was inventing compliments on the feast.
“I shall have to have a word with Cook,” Harwell said. “I was planning only two courses and two removes for your farewell dinner. After this repast, I feel I ought to borrow Careme from Prinny and do the thing up properly.”
“And all this for no special occasion either,” Rosalind said. “Unless one can call Fortescue’s thousand pounds to Camena a special occasion. The party must have cost twice that.”
“Those sapphires Annabelle is sporting didn’t come cheap either. Fortescue’s pockets must be even deeper than I thought.”
Rosalind noticed that he was looking at the sapphires. When his eyes wandered up to Annabelle’s face, he smiled. There was no denying she was pretty. Why had Dick suggested Harwell should offer for her? Had he noticed some attraction between them that she had not? Harry was always sure to stand up with Annabelle at all the assemblies. Rosalind had always taken it as a sort of compliment to Dick, but perhaps there was more to it than that. A strange fluttering began in her chest. She wanted to tease him, but no words came. Surely he was not admiring the hussy? Before more was said, the company invited for the dancing party began to pour in, and soon Mrs. Fortescue announced that the musicians were ready in the ballroom.
Sylvester went to Annabelle then and offered her his arm. Did it without thinking, as if it were a settled thing. As if he were her acknowledged escort. Harwell shot a questioning look at Rosalind, but she didn’t see it. She was busy rationalizing that as Fortescue’s houseguest, Sylvester was merely being polite.
“Looks like you are stuck with me,” Harwell said, and rose to offer her his arm. She took it silently, feeling embarrassed in front of him after having boasted about Sylvester. Harwell sensed her gene and said, “What’s the matter, Roz? Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing your nose is out of joint.”
“I am just wondering what Dick thinks of this performance,” she replied.
“Better than Covent Garden. And it’s free.”
The first dance was a minuet. Little talk was necessary and no real conversation possible. Such words as the movements of the dance allowed were about the music. Rosalind said the London musicians were very good. Harwell replied that they were the group used at the best London balls. Sylvester must have put her on to them.
Her annoyance was slightly relieved when Sylvester came to her for the second set. He was as friendly as ever. He made a few jokes about the elaborate meal. He asked if she had had his letter and gave a few more details about the matters discussed in it. Nothing appeared to have changed between them. Yet she knew she could never care for him enough to marry him. Even if he professed undying devotion and a title besides, she could not do it.
Before they parted, he said in a conspiratorial way, “I have to talk to you in private, Roz. Fortescue is going to make the announcement. Meet me in the conservatory after. Come alone.”
It was a curious request. She agreed to it as much out of curiosity as anything. Fortescue’s announcement, she assumed, had to do with his joint venture with Sylvester in Camena. When their dance was over, Sylvester darted back to Mr. Fortescue’s side. Annabelle joined him. The little group proceeded to the front of the ballroom. Fortescue had a word with the musicians, they set aside their instruments, and he mounted the musicians’ raised platform. The room fell silent, every eye turned on him.
He began a rambling speech, first about Camena and his joining the board of directors. As the words flowed on, the name Lord Sylvester occurred with increasing frequency, veering from his native genius in having a marquess for a papa and writing and editing poetry to more personal praise.
“A young gentleman of wit, character, and integrity who has become like a son to me. I am proud to announce that he soon will be. My daughter, Annabelle, has accepted his offer of marriage.”
The announcement was followed by a few seconds of stunned silence while this incredible fact was digested. Into the hush came the words “Good God!” issued in no quiet voice by Lady Amanda, followed by a raucous laugh. Then the dam of silence broke and a babble of sound rose all around. Rosalind scarcely heard it for the ringing in her ears as she stood, pale and staring.
She was dimly aware of the crowd thrusting forward to offer their best wishes to the couple and Fortescue. Dick was suddenly at her side.
“Thank God that
’s over!” he said, in heartfelt accents. “Let us go home and tell Miss Rafferty.”
“No! It will be noticed if we leave now. We must congratulate them.” As she peered around the room, she noticed several pairs of eyes regarding Dick in a questioning way. Hardly surprising as no rescinding of Annabelle’s engagement to him had been made.
“Very well, let us get it over with then.”
He took Rosalind’s elbow and jostled her forward. Over a few heads he called, “Congratulations, milord. Every happiness, Annabelle.”
Annabelle lifted her head and cast a gloating, triumphant smile at the Lovelaces. “Sorry, Dick,” she said. “Too kind of you. I’ll see that you get your little engagement ring back.” Rosalind noticed then that she was not wearing it, but she was not wearing Sylvester’s ring either. Her third finger was bare of any ring.
She was unaware that her new fiancé was looking at Rosalind with a conspiratorial grin lifting his lips. Rosalind despised him at that moment. There was no public shame to her in the announcement. The neighbors knew nothing of her romance with Sylvester. Only Harry and Dick knew she was expecting an offer. This was humiliating, but it was not what caused her anger.
It was that sly smile Sylvester cast in her direction. She was taken with the notion that he had no intention of marrying Annabelle. It was some stunt to get more money out of Fortescue. Could he really be that lacking in character? She remembered his request that she meet him in the conservatory after the announcement.
Her first instinct was to ignore the meeting and go home. A second thought changed her mind. She would go to the conservatory and discover exactly his true intentions regarding Annabelle. And if they were as she suspected, she would ring a peal over the wretch that would be heard in London. London! She could not possibly go there under his auspices now.
Deep in thought, she paid little heed to the surrounding melee. When she shook herself back to attention, she heard a few friends commiserating with Dick, whose high spirits sounded false, but were, in fact, genuine. It was embarrassment that made him laugh too loud and utter such ill-bred inanities as “Better him than me!”
Overcome with it all, Rosalind turned to leave the room and found herself confronted with Harwell. He wore a small scowl. She knew it was anger on her behalf, and knew, too, that the gentle hand placed on her arm was a gesture of support and genuine affection. He looked like the only sane, rational person in the room. Her anger with Sylvester and Annabelle dissipated like dew in the morning sun. How could Dick think for a moment that Harry would ever offer for Annabelle?
“Shall I take you home?” was all he said.
It was like him to completely ignore the shame and ill-bred folly of this night and try to spare her feelings.
“Dick and I will be leaving in a moment,” she said, and added simply, “Thank you, Harry.”
“You are better off without him.”
“I know. It’s all right. I am not going to do anything foolish. I just want a word with Sylvester. He asked me to meet him in the conservatory. To apologize, I expect.”
They walked to the edge of the room. “He’s left it a bit late. Annabelle’s doing, no doubt. She wanted to stun the world with her announcement. How is Dick taking it?”
“He’s delighted.”
“Good.”
Rosalind wanted a few moments to collect her thoughts before meeting Sylvester. “Why don’t you have a word with Dick?” she suggested.
Harry squeezed her fingers, gave her an encouraging smile, and left.
She went to the conservatory to wait. Wrapped up in her thoughts, she was oblivious of the swaying palms and pungent scent from the lemon trees around her, but she did appreciate the silence. She just wanted to be away from the crowd for some private brooding. Now that the shock was over, she wondered what Sylvester was going to say. Perhaps she had misjudged him and he truly cared for Annabelle and intended to marry her. He just wanted to apologize, or settle some details of her remove to London.
As if she would go there now! Sylvester could no longer be her escort when he was engaged to Annabelle, and she had no wish to crash society on her own. If Sylvester made some token gesture of showing her around, Annabelle would be at his side, making a vulgar show of herself. No, it would not do. She would remain at Apple Hill. For tonight, she would hear what he had to say, and tell him she was not going to London. No doubt he would be relieved.
When all this was settled in her mind, she began to stroll around the conservatory, suddenly aware of the cloying perfume of the flowers and the moist warmth of the air. Knowing that Sylvester could not dash off the minute after the announcement, she settled in for a wait.
Chapter Twenty
After half an hour, Rosalind heard light footsteps entering the conservatory. She rose from the wrought-iron bench on which she had been resting to greet Sylvester. When he espied her, he rushed forward, both arms reaching for her.
“Rosalind! Sorry I am so late coming to you, but we must keep the old boy in curl. You won’t believe how much he’s putting into Camena. Five thousand! And that on top of Annabelle’s dowry!”
Her lips pinched in distaste. She realized at once that he had drunk more wine than he should, which would account for his blunt words. Sylvester was usually more discreet. At this close range, she could see his eyes looked glazed, and his smile was slack. As his words sank in, she realized that Sylvester did intend to marry Annabelle at least.
“You sound as if that’s the only reason you’re marrying Annabelle,” she charged, annoyed with him.
He uttered a happy laugh. “What other conceivable reason could there be? The wench is impossible. Really, the vulgarity of this party! If any of my friends had seen it, I’d be ashamed.”
“Do you not plan to introduce your fiancée to your friends?”
He frowned. “I must eventually, after I have smartened her up.”
“But you are only marrying her for her papa’s money?”
His two hands seized hers. “My dear, of course. You know I would sacrifice anything for Camena. It won’t make any difference to us. Is that why you’ve been glaring at me so fiercely all evening? I am still mad for you, Rosalind. With all Fortescue’s blunt, I’ll be able to set you up in a finer style than that flat on Glasshouse Street. We’ll want someplace discreet. Annabelle knows about the Glasshouse flats.” He gave a lecherous little laugh. “We won’t want your brother and neighbors to know what is going on either, eh? I think Harwell is becoming a little jealous.”
Rosalind just stared, beyond speech, almost beyond belief. There was no ignoring his meaning. She had first thought the “I’m still mad for you” was a preamble to some poetic denunciation of love for art, but that “set you up” left her in no doubt at all. He wanted her for his mistress. That was all he had ever wanted.
“Are you insane?” she demanded.
“Just a little tipsy with joy—and love for you, my darling!”
On this speech, he pulled her into his arms and tried to plant his wine-soaked lips on hers. Caught off his guard, he was easy to push away. One hard shove sent him flying into a lemon tree, sharp with thorns.
“It would take more than all of Fortescue’s blunt to make me have anything to do with you, milord. I would not marry you for all the tea in China, and I would certainly never even consider such a repulsive creature for a lover!”
“Harwell won’t have you back, if that’s what you have been up to, trying to make your old lover jealous by using me.”
“Lover?” she exclaimed. “He was never my lover. We are friends. I come to think Annabelle Fortescue is too good for you. At least her vulgarity is not ill intentioned, like your conniving. She is only trying to impress you. You are trying to deceive her.”
As she ranted, shaking her finger at him in a fine fit of temper, Sylvester scrambled out of the tree’s embrace. “What a delightful surprise!” he said, arching his eyebrows in approval. “I never guessed you had a temper. Jealousy has heated up
that English sangfroid. I like a hot-blooded lady.”
His arms went around her, pulling her against him, as he tried for a kiss. Although half-drunk, he was still stronger than she was. Rosalind pushed against his shoulders and began looking about for a rock or a broom to use as a weapon.
She was still Sylvester’s captive when Lord Harwell came pelting forward with blood in his eyes. He looked ready to kill poor Sylvester. Harwell hauled him off by the padding of his shoulders, dropped him to the floor, and raised a fist to land him a facer.
Sylvester rallied enough to raise his two fists and began prancing about like a bruiser. As he feinted a few blows into the air, he said, “This has nothing to do with you, Harwell!”
“On the contrary! I take it very much amiss when someone propositions the lady I am going to marry.”
Sylvester’s shocked “Marry?” was overborne by Rosalind’s “Don’t be foolish, Harry.”
Harwell landed Sylvester a poke in the eye that sent him flying into the lemon tree. A ripe lemon, loosened by the shaking, fell and landed on his head. Harwell reached down to pull him up and hit him again.
“Don’t bother, Harry. He’s drunk as a Dane,” Rosalind said.
Harwell gave a “Bah!” of disgust and threw him back into the arms of the thorny lemon tree.
Annabelle, alert to any deviations from devotion by her new fiancé, had soon followed him to the conservatory. She came screeching forward to rescue her beloved. She cradled him in her arms, crooning endearments. Then she lifted her head and said to Harwell in the grande dame style, “Perhaps it would be best if you leave now, milord.”
Rosalind suddenly felt sorry for the chit. “Annabelle, you can’t marry this wretch!” she said.
Annabelle tossed her curls. “You think I didn’t know what he was up to? I saw him speak to you. Why do you think I followed him here? I would have made short shrift of you, miss! And anyone else who thinks to lead my Sylvester astray.” She turned to Sylvester. “Naughty boy!” she added archly, and gave his chin a pinch. “Come on, get up, Sylvester, before Papa comes.”