by Candice Hern
"Don't she, though?" Vaughn said. "I'd give a monkey to find out what's behind that smile."
"You and everyone else in town," Fellowes said. "Except old Davenant here, apparently."
"On behalf of every man in London," Vaughn said, "I thank you, Davenant, for pulling out of the race. Without your irresistible charm and diabolical good looks, the rest of us may, for once, stand a chance."
"Have a care, gentlemen," Max said, feeling thoroughly uneasy at the direction the conversation was taking. "I do not believe Miss Lacey is quite as up to snuff as you may think. Fanny assures me she has led a quiet life in the country until now."
"And the nut never falls too far from the tree, does it?" Vaughn said. "With Lady Parkhurst as her aunt, and apparently her 'chaperone' as well, it is only to be expected if the girl's a high flyer."
Max flinched at his friend's words. "I really don't think—"
"Overheard her tell Lady Samantha Kirby that she ain't looking for a husband, only wants to have fun," Fellowes said.
"I've heard much the same," said Vaughn. "And that seems to be precisely what she's doing. A chip off the aunt's block, if you ask me."
"I don't believe I did ask, actually," Max muttered.
"Pretty woman, too," Vaughn continued. "A bit tall, but very nicely put together. Never saw such a delectable neck. Love to work my way down it, what?"
"Egad!" Max exclaimed.
"I say, Vaughn," Fellowes said, "I believe I spoke first. Since Davenant ain't interested—"
"Then it's every man for himself," Vaughn said. "She don't seem to favor any one in particular anyway. Look at that mob. Every single one of 'em thinks she is flirting with him alone. But she don't play favorites. Dangles 'em all with equal promise. Now, I ask you, Davenant, what's a man to think?"
What, indeed? Either Max had the girl pegged all wrong, or she was headed for serious trouble. If she was in fact an innocent and every rake and rogue in town thought her otherwise, she might find herself in the soup before long. Fanny would have to pack her off back to Devon and her starchy father; and if what Max had heard of the man were true, he would like as not throw her out on her ear.
On the other hand, what if Max had simply been blinded by the perpetual wonder in those big hazel eyes, when it was the sensual mouth that marked her true character? Did every other man see what he didn't? Could she in fact be more like Fanny than he'd thought?
Max wondered if Fanny had been altogether honest with him regarding Rosalind. She seemed to delight in throwing them together, and she knew full well that he'd never had a respectable intention in all his life. Was Fanny simply setting him up for quick fling? Was she perhaps seeing Max and Rosalind as a reflection of herself and his father, joining them as sort of book-ended liaisons spanning the decades in perfect symmetry?
Well, by Jove, if that's what was afoot Max would be happy to oblige. Though certainly not the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, Rosalind was definitely one of the most intriguing. If he thought for one minute she was after nothing more than a quick liaison in town, he wanted to be the one to accommodate her. She shouldn't have to settle for Vaughn or Fellowes or any one of those barbarians surrounding Aldrich's curricle. She should have the best. She should have Max.
As they neared the curricle, Max could not help but notice the scornful looks of respectable matrons leading their young charges away from Rosalind's laughter as she sat surrounded by a thong of adoring bucks and beaux. Were they outraged by her uninhibited enjoyment, or by the fact that she drew the attention of so many young men away from their daughters? In either case, Rosalind was winning no friends among Society's high sticklers.
When the three men reached the edge of the crowd, Rosalind looked up and saw Max. She smiled broadly and waved to him.
"Max!" she called out and the crowd of men reluctantly parted to allow him access. "Did you see? Did you see me fly?"
"Indeed I did, minx. I thought for a moment you might take a nose dive straight into the Serpentine. My nerves will never be the same, I assure you. I shall require at least a week's rest to recover."
"Jeremy," she said, leaning over to her proud young swain, "would you mind terribly if I stepped down for just the tiniest moment and walked a short way with Max? I have something particular to say to him."
Aldrich did not look pleased, but obviously had no desire to appear the possessive cad and nodded his acquiescence.
"I promise to be back in two shakes," she said, smiling sweetly at the young man. "Hand me down, Max, if you please."
To the frustrated groans and protests from her admirers, all of whom were jockeying for position to do the honors, Rosalind placed her hands on Max's shoulders and allowed him to lift her down from the curricle. Young Aldrich shot Max a look of such venom that he felt sure he ought to expect a formal challenge from the young man.
"Your young swain is not happy, my dear," he whispered in her ear as he led her slightly away from the crowd. He was not surprised to find Fellowes and Vaughn among the disappointed assembly. He was, though, surprised to discover how thoroughly cocky he felt that Rosalind had singled him out from the teeming hoards. It had been years since he hadn't taken such distinction for granted. "I believe he hoped to have you all to himself," he said.
"Absurd!" she replied, and laughed.
"Yes, I daresay it is absurd. How can he have you to himself with a dozen other gentlemen vying for your attention?"
"Do you know that Mr. Newcombe has offered to let me drive his cabriolet? And Lord Radcliffe wants me to test his new curricle? Isn't that marvelous?"
"My dear minx, you will continue to scandalize all those proper matrons who are shooting disparaging looks your way as we speak."
She quickly glanced in the direction of a glowering Lady Sommerville, then gave a dismissive wave of her hand—a gesture so like her aunt that Max once again began to wonder about the true nature of this young woman.
"Actually, the scandalized matrons brings me to what I wanted to speak to you about," she said.
"Indeed?"
"I hope you have not forgotten your promise. Wednesday is fast approaching and I plan to attend Almack's. I shall expect that waltz."
"You are determined to thumb your nose at the lady patronesses, are you not?"
"Well, it still aggravates me that they dare question my aunt's request for vouchers. I would certainly not mind thumbing my nose at them. But that is not why I want you to remember your promise."
"Oh?"
"I simply want to waltz," she said, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "With you, Max. You did promise."
"My dear minx, there is a legion of men right here in the park who would be willing to lead you out onto the floor, patronesses be damned."
"Oh, but they're just a lot of silly billies. Jeremy Aldrich has been making such calf's eyes at me all afternoon that it was all I could do not to slap him. And all the other gentlemen seem to want to do much the same. But I don't need to worry about that with you, Max. You're much too sophisticated to play those games with me."
"Good God, you think I will not flirt with you as much as any other fellow?"
She laughed. "I am certain you will. You always do. But you do not mean it, not with me. I know you still think me a little country mouse."
"I do not."
"Yes, you do. And that's why I want to waltz with you first. You realize I am a country mouse and will teach me all I need to know."
The sensuous curve of her lips lent a more provocative meaning to her words. Could she truly be innocent of their suggestive double meaning? No, Fellowes and Vaughn must have been right, after all. The woman was a coquette. "I am at your service, Miss Lacey." He lowered his voice to the seductive whisper that had brought countless women into his arms. "In any capacity whatsoever, I shall be happy to teach you all you need to know."
Was that a blush coloring her cheeks?
"Rogue," she said.
"Minx," he replied.
Lord, she
made his head spin. Temptress or innocent? Would he ever know the truth?
Chapter 6
When Violet came in to open the draperies, the morning sun struck Rosie in the face like a thunderbolt. She tried to sit up, but the pain was excruciating.
The headaches were back.
Heavens, she must have sunk so low in dissipation that she had quite forgot about her condition. It was odd, but she had experienced none of the debilitating headaches since she'd arrived in London. Please God, don't let them flare up now, just when she was really enjoying herself for the first time in her life.
She sent Violet away with a flick of her hand. No one at home, not even Violet, knew she had contracted her mother's disease. Rosie did not want Violet to see her until she had managed to control the pain.
She began the slow calming exercise she had taught herself in order to get through the dizzy disorientation that always came with the pain. Breathe in. Breathe out. Concentrate on the toes, relaxing each one. Then the foot, then the ankle, then the calf, all the way up her body, one part at a time, until reaching the head. By the time she got to the head, the worst of the pain was usually gone, but the aftereffects of nausea, fatigue, and dizziness lingered sometimes for hours.
This time seemed different somehow. She could not put her finger on it, but this morning's attack was slightly different from the others. Perhaps it was simply an evolution of the disease. But if so, why did it appear to be less potent, less debilitating? Was her body simply adapting?
Rosie proceeded with her calming exercise, and as she lay there quietly, the pain eased away until she felt perfectly relaxed. Going slowly, as she always did, she pushed herself to a sitting position.
She gasped aloud at the explosion of pain. Even the slightest movement, tilting her face in one direction and then another, made her brain feel like thick liquid sloshing around inside her skull.
This was certainly different. She'd never had this type of headache before.
Rosie eased herself slowly, to the edge of the bed. She swung her legs over and sat immobile for a few moments while her brain slid back into place. Just when she thought she might be able to manage after all, a door slammed somewhere in the house, and seemed to echo inside her head like a carillon.
When Violet entered again sometime later, she found Rosie still seated on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.
"Miss? Are you all right?"
The girl's voice resounded in Rosie's ears like the crash of a thousand cymbals. She groaned aloud. "I need tea," she murmured, barely able to speak. "And send my aunt to me, please." It was time to enlist Fanny's help.
By the time her aunt arrived, Rosie had been able to make her way to the chaise near the fire. In the past, the headache had been accompanied by chills, but not this morning. In fact, she found the room to be rather warm. She fanned her face with a theater bill that had been left on the candlestand near the chaise.
Fanny entered the bed chamber wearing a pink silk dressing gown and lace cap. Clearly she had come straight from her own bed. She took one look at Rosie, clucked her tongue, and perched herself on the edge of the chaise.
"My dear girl," she said, and took one of Rosie's hands between her own, "you look quite done in. I suppose the theater, two routs, and a card party were too much for one evening."
The strong tea had done some good, but even so, Fanny's voice reverberated painfully inside Rosie's head. She lifted a hand to her temple.
"Oh my," Fanny said, lowering her voice as though she knew exactly how Rosie felt. "You really are in a bad way, are you not? Quite a head this morning, eh? Well, I know just the remedy for you. I shall have Mrs. Coolidge make up one of her special morning-after brews. It will have you feeling more the thing in no time at all, I promise."
"I thank you, aunt, but I fear I should see a physician."
Fanny chuckled softly. "Trust me, my dear, this will pass. A little too much champagne—"
"No, it is not that. I—I cannot speak of it just now, but I really must see a physician." Rosie had intended to find a physician in London, one in whom she would confide her condition with a strict promise of confidentiality. She had thought it best to have someone aware of her disease, in case she became really sick or certain medications became necessary. But she had been enjoying herself so much, she had almost completely forgot that she was ill. In fact, until this morning, she had felt perfectly well.
Fanny lifted a hand to Rosie's cheek. "Rosalind, my dear, if something is wrong you must tell me. I will help you in any way you need. Are you ill?"
Rosie sighed. "Yes. But you must not ask me any more questions, aunt. If you will just be so good as to send for a physician, I would be much obliged to you."
"All right, my dear, it shall be as you wish," Fanny said, her voice gentle and her brow furrowed in concern. "I have no desire to pry, only to let you know you may confide in me at any time. You must know I would respect any confidence. I have grown quite surprisingly fond of you."
"Thank you," Rosie said. Feeling uncharacteristically emotional at her aunt's words, her voice came out watery and weak. She took a deep breath to compose herself. She had no desire to fall apart in front of her aunt. "If there is something you must know," she said with more control, "I promise I will tell you."
"Good. Then I will have Sir Nigel Leighton sent for. He is the best man in London."
Violet helped Rosie to wash up and put on a simple morning dress before the doctor arrived. She could stomach no more than tea and toast when breakfast was offered. Violet's constant fussing, however well-meaning, became irritating and Rosie finally sent the maid away.
When Sir Nigel arrived, Fanny brought him up herself. She introduced them, then made a discreet exit, leaving them alone in the bedchamber. Sir Nigel pulled a finely carved arm chair close to Rosie's chaise and sat down.
"What can I do for you, Miss Lacey?"
The physician was short and stout, with a magnificent head of silver hair. His direct gaze and authoritative air made Rosie feel suddenly foolish and tongue-tied.
"I don't know where to begin," she said.
"At the beginning, I think."
"Well, it all began with my mother."
Sir Nigel lifted an eyebrow. "Go on."
"Before I do," Rosie said, "I must have your word that what I tell you will be kept in the strictest confidence. Even my aunt—especially my aunt—must not know what I am about to tell you."
"You have my word of honor. Now, tell me what troubles you."
And she did. She told him the same things she had told the Exeter physician who'd diagnosed her. She told him how, when Rosie was fourteen, her mother had suddenly become ill, and that in six months she was dead. Now Rosie found herself with the same symptoms. Another physician had confirmed the diagnosis, and predicted Rosie, too, would succumb within six months.
"Tell me more about your mother's illness," Sir Nigel said, and pulled out a small notebook from his waistcoat pocket. "What precisely were her symptoms?"
"I wasn't told everything, of course, but I do know that she suffered horrible headaches. She could always tell they were coming on because her hands and feet became cold. Sometimes she became disoriented and dizzy. When that happened, her nurse or my father bustled her away at once, and we sometimes did not see her for days. My father would come out of her bedchamber looking white-faced and drained, but he never told us what happened behind that closed door. He would simply say that Mama was ill and we must be very quiet and leave her alone."
She waited while he made some notes. He wore an uncompromising scowl and Rosie knew he was not pleased with what she told him. She had been accustomed to their gentle family physician back home. There was nothing gentle, nor even compassionate, about this man.
He looked up and asked, "Did these symptoms appear suddenly, or had you ever noticed anything similar when you were younger?"
"Oh, no. It was quite sudden. I remember it well. She had been out for a ride. When she r
eturned, she was removing her hat and gloves in the hall, and she fainted."
"And then the headaches began." It was not a question. "Did they become more frequent?"
"Yes. And then one day, six months later, Papa came out of her bedchamber looking more devastated than ever, and told us she had died."
"Had a physician attended her during that six months?"
"Yes, Dr. Urquhart."
"A competent man, this Urquhart?" he asked, and made a note.
Blast. She ought not to have mentioned the doctor's name.
"Well?" he prompted with obvious impatience.
"Yes, I believe he is considered quite competent."
"And no one, your father or Dr. Urquhart or anyone else, ever told you what exactly ailed your mother? Her disease or condition was never named?"
"No. Papa said we were never to speak of it."
"Why?"
"I do not know. I suppose because it was too painful for him. He loved her very much, you see. A dozen years later, he still grieves for her."
He clucked his tongue, though Rosie did not believe it was out of sympathy. He fixed her with his formidable gaze, brows knotted together so tightly they formed deep ridges down the center of his forehead. "And what of you, Miss Lacey? What were your first symptoms and when did they begin?"
"About two months ago. I was walking in our park when I suddenly became dizzy and had to sit down. I thought I might faint."
"Did you?"
"No, but the dizziness was quite strong. And then my head began to throb like never before, and my vision became fuzzy."
"What happened next?"
"After a few minutes, the dizziness passed and I was able to make it home safely. I went straight to bed and thought nothing of it. Until two days later, it happened again. This time, I noticed that my hands were freezing, even though I wore gloves. That is what made me think of Mama."
She paused as the recollection of that first moment of panic almost overwhelmed her anew. "Go on," Sir Nigel said, without looking up from his note-taking.
"I kept experiencing the headaches, the dizziness, the cold hands, as well as a ringing in my ears. It was just like Mama. I became scared."