‘As your brother did this morning?’ Kit enquired with sarcasm. ‘You may feel it important to maintain a superficial façade, my dear, but I fear that Trevithick does not share your values!’ There was such an undertone of bitterness in his voice that Eleanor put out an instinctive hand to him, then snatched it back, hoping that Kit had not seen. They completed the rest of the short journey to Trevithick House in silence.
‘Marcus!’ Eleanor hissed in her brother’s ear two hours later, ‘can you not behave with a little more discretion? Everyone is looking at us and if you persist in cutting Kit dead every time that you pass him they will have plenty more to gossip about! It was bad enough for you to behave so disgracefully earlier, but now it is outrageous!’
They were standing in the entrance to the main ballroom and were ostensibly watching the press of visitors who were pushing their way into the room with the eagerness, Marcus had said distastefully, of a crowd at a public hanging. Eleanor supposed that the popularity of the event was no great surprise—the Trevithick ball was one of the major events of the Season and in addition, society wished to indulge its curiosity. One family could provide a great deal of entertainment, after all, and just at the moment the Trevithicks were good value. There was the handsome Earl of Trevithick and his beautiful wife who would, it was whispered, produce a child after only seven months of marriage. Since no one knew exactly when the marriage had taken place they could not be completely sure, but they were counting. Then there was the bride’s cousin Charlotte, a beautiful widow who had lived retired but had been snapped up by the Earl’s cousin, Justin Trevithick, who had fallen in love with her at first sight. Justin himself was quite scandalous because he had been born out of wedlock. It was all a long time ago, but some of the dowagers had very long memories. And then there was Eleanor herself and the titillating tale of her desertion and apparent reconciliation…Eleanor sighed. Until that morning, she had not thought that Marcus would make a gift of things to the gossips.
‘If you could just speak to Kit without looking as though you would like to hit him across the room…’
The Earl of Trevithick gave his sister a derisive look. ‘Eleanor, that is precisely what I wish to do to your husband and I never saw fit to hide my feelings on the matter! Whether you wish to effect a reconciliation with Mostyn or tell him to go to hell, that is your concern and I will support you whatever you choose! However, you cannot expect me to like him after what he did…’
Eleanor clutched his sleeve, trying to smile at the same time at Lady Pomfret, who was hovering a short distance away. ‘But Marcus, the scandal! Everyone will see…’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Who cares? You refine too much upon such things, Eleanor!’ A smile softened his face as he looked down at her. ‘I only agreed to you staying with Mostyn because Beth persuaded me I should not stand between you. Do not ask any more of me than that, I beg you!’
Eleanor sighed. She knew that Marcus, ever the protective elder brother, only wanted what was best for her, but he was making matters very difficult, whilst Beth and Charlotte, with connections on both sides, were trying to make peace. It was as though the Mostyn and Trevithick feud, so virulent for centuries and only recently laid to rest, had somehow reasserted itself. Except that it was not that simple any more.
She tried one last time. ‘Marcus, I am trying to put a good face on this and you and Justin are undoing all my good work…’
Marcus quirked a brow. ‘So Justin is shunning Mostyn as well, is he? Excellent!’
Eleanor sighed in exasperation. ‘I believe you have put him up to it!’ she said wrathfully. ‘And Charlotte is deeply upset…Oh, it is too bad of the two of you! Why must you be so stubborn?’
Marcus grinned. ‘It is the Trevithick pride, my dear Eleanor! Surely you know of it, for you possess it too!’
‘Well, I do not see why you should be so proud of being proud!’ Eleanor said, trying not to stamp her foot with frustration. ‘It is childish and conceited and rude! Really, Marcus! I shall not stand up with you for the boulanger now!’
Marcus sketched her a bow, giving her an unrepentant grin. Eleanor found it was surprisingly difficult not to smile back. She was very fond of him for all that he infuriated her.
‘Very well, dear sis, withdraw your promise to dance—if you wish to make a scandal!’
He strolled off and Eleanor could almost swear he was whistling softly under his breath.
Feeling irritated in the extreme, she sought the quiet of the conservatory, which had been decorated with little coloured lanterns and furnished with rustic benches to provide a restful place away from the noise of the ballroom. She had arranged to dance the next with Kit, but for the moment he was dancing a stately minuet with Beth and Eleanor was glad to see that despite Marcus’s poor example there were plenty of people who were prepared to acknowledge him.
Eleanor sat down. It was most infuriating that she, with the greatest grievance, was the one who was defending Kit against Marcus’s intransigence. She hoped that Beth might exert some influence but she thought it unlikely. Marcus could be damnably stubborn. The whole family suffered from the trait.
A movement caught her eye in the most deeply shadowed part of the conservatory and for a moment Eleanor wondered if she had disturbed a tryst. It was not unlikely, for people would snatch whatever moment of privacy they were afforded. Then she realised that the lovers—if that was what they were—had not even noticed her presence, for they were continuing to talk in low, urgent whispers. She could overhear a very little:
‘Do you have some for me? Oh please…’
There was a laugh. ‘Not if you cannot pay for it, my lady…’
There was more pleading, even, Eleanor thought, the sound of a suppressed sob. She tried to keep still and quiet, hoping that the others would go out of the long doors at the other end of the conservatory without realising that she was there. It was impossible for her to escape without being noticed and she had no wish to move now and give away the fact that she had been there a little while—she was in a most difficult position.
‘Here, take this then…’ She heard a scrabbling sound, then a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Ah, at last…’
‘Thank you, my lady.’ The man spoke a little louder now. Eleanor knew somehow that this was not a pair of lovers—the woman’s desperation was of another sort and the man’s tone more mocking than affectionate. She heard a step, fortunately away at the other end of the room, then the creak of one of the rustic benches as the woman moved into the lantern light and sat down. Eleanor could see that she was alone now, tilting a glass to her lips, closing her eyes. Eleanor stared, and felt the cold freeze her to the marrow. No young lover, this. It was the Dowager Lady Trevithick.
Eleanor leapt to her feet and hurried down the conservatory without pausing to think. Ever since her mother had made such a terrible fuss over her elopement, she had kept away from her as much as was practical, allowing the Dowager’s anger to cool, avoiding the worst of her diatribes. They had never been on intimate terms, for Lady Trevithick was too cold and distant to have endeared herself to any of her children, but now Eleanor could think of nothing but that her mother must be ill, or in trouble, and needed her help. She reached Lady Trevithick just as the Dowager, with a little, furtive gesture, slipped something into her reticule and hauled herself to her feet, smiling at her daughter with a type of cunning triumph that was as puzzling as it was unpleasant. In the pale light of the coloured lanterns her eyes seemed unnaturally bright and her bonnet was askew. She was panting slightly.
‘Mama?’ Eleanor looked at her closely. ‘What are you doing here? Are you feeling unwell? Are you fatigued?’
Lady Trevithick beamed at her daughter. ‘Not at all! I am in plump currant! Never better! Delightful evening, is it not? Lend me your arm, girl, for I think I shall go to the card room for a round of vingt-et-un…’
Eleanor automatically extended her arm and the Dowager leant heavily on it as they walked with painful slownes
s towards the conservatory door and out into the ballroom. The crowd was thinning a little now but it was too late for Eleanor to identify her mother’s companion of a few moments before. She hesitated to ask, knowing it was inviting a crushing set down, but her curiosity was strong.
‘That gentleman, mama—the one who was just leaving…’
Lady Trevithick’s claw-like hand dug into Eleanor’s arm with bruising force. Eleanor winced.
‘Mama! You’re hurting me…’
‘Did you see him?’ Lady Trevithick hissed. ‘Did you hear?’
Eleanor looked at her in puzzled incomprehension. ‘No…That is, I was just coming in as he left you…’
‘Ah…’ The cruel grip on her arm relaxed just a little. Eleanor looked down, where the Dowager’s hand still clutched her. Her mother’s fingers were encrusted with diamonds and rubies, and round her throat hung the Trevithick rubies, the gleaming stones almost lost amongst the deep lines and folds of the Dowager’s neck. Rings, necklace…Eleanor frowned. There was something missing. The ruby bracelet that matched the magnificent necklace had gone. Her mother’s wrist was quite bare. In an instant Eleanor remembered the mysterious conversation in the conservatory, the payment…She bit her lip.
‘I was talking to Kemble, my dear,’ her mother said sweetly, smiling. ‘You must remember Lord Kemble—you jilted him! He helped me to a seat so that I could rest. So thoughtful a man! I know that you have no taste for him, my dear, but I have always rather liked him!’ She blinked at her daughter gently, her dark eyes unfocused. ‘It would have been so much better had you married him, Eleanor, so much easier…My debts…’
‘Mama,’ Eleanor said again, deeply worried now. ‘Are you sure you are quite well? Indeed you look most ill…’
The Dowager swayed like a giant tree in the wind. Eleanor tightened her grip on her mother’s arm to help her stay upright and felt something sharp press against her—the bottle in her mother’s reticule.
‘I feel just the thing,’ the Dowager murmured vaguely. ‘I shall go and play a hand of cards and who knows, I may win! Money to pay my debts—now there’s the thing!’
She loosened her grip on Eleanor’s arm and raised a hand in unsteady salutation. ‘Good night, my dear!’
Eleanor watched the Dowager wend her unsteady way towards the door of the card-room and did not know whether to feel glad or sorry when she saw the joint cohorts of Lady Pomfret and Mrs Belton converge on her from either side and carry her over the threshold. No doubt they would fleece her and then her mother would be in even greater debt. But to whom did she owe money? Lord Kemble? And if so, for what? Eleanor looked at her mother’s voluminous figure as the Trevithick Tabbies carried her off and in her mind’s eye could still see the tell-tale bulge of the bottle in the reticule and the tell-tale absence of the ruby bracelet from her wrist.
‘Eleanor? Is anything wrong?’
Eleanor turned sharply to see that Kit had come up to her, unnoticed. He gave her a searching look. ‘You seem a little discomposed, my dear. Is aught amiss?’
Eleanor painted a bright smile on her face. ‘Why no, my lord, not precisely.’ She took his proffered arm and they started to walk slowly around the edge of the floor. ‘Everything is quite perfect if one discounts Mama’s peculiar behaviour, and Marcus’s bad manners…’
Kit’s expression hardened. ‘As far as your brother is concerned, he is only behaving as I would do if someone had acted so shabbily to Charlotte. In my heart I find I cannot blame him!’
This was not what Eleanor had expected to hear. She looked at him, a little taken aback. ‘Oh, well—but that does not excuse him! Of all the childish things…’
Kit shrugged. He drew her a little closer to him. It felt very pleasant and Eleanor allowed herself to relax.
‘I fear Marcus is too stubborn…’
‘It is good of you to take my part against him but it is a trait that I understand,’ Kit said with a smile. ‘Is it not a charge that could be levelled at the Mostyns as much as the Trevithicks?’
‘Yes, but Marcus should learn when it is appropriate to be more tolerant! Surely if I can behave with dignity…’
‘Ah, but that is all for show, is it not?’ Kit’s expression, as it rested on her face, was quizzical. Eleanor flushed.
‘Yes, but…No, not precisely. I mean I would be pleased if we could be friends…’
‘Friends,’ Kit smiled suddenly at her. ‘That sounds most pleasant, albeit a little colourless. But perhaps we could start with that. Yes, I should like that too.’
Eleanor looked at him uncertainly. ‘Are you teasing me, Kit?’
‘Not at all. I am happy to accept whatever you are prepared to give.’
Eleanor looked up into his face. Behind the light tone she could hear something more serious and it made her pulse jump. She tore her gaze away from his and spoke quickly.
‘Then that is settled. It would be more comfortable, I think, and a friendship need make no unnecessary demands upon us…’
She risked a look at his face and saw that he was smiling, saw the leap of something in his eyes that made her own body leap in response. This was moving a little too quickly for her. She found that she was breathless.
‘My lord…’
‘Evening, Mostyn. I wish I could say that I am glad to see you back! Lady Mostyn, I have come to claim our cotillion…’
Eleanor jumped again and the colour flooded her face. ‘Lord George…’
Lord George Darke had come upon them whilst she had been quite intent on Kit and now she did not know whether to be glad or sorry. In a rush she remembered the pouting lilies and the card, heavy with promise. She was not at all sure she wished to go with him.
Kit bowed, not troubling to hide his dislike of the other man. ‘I am no more pleased to see you, Darke, than you are to see me.’
The two men measured one another for a moment, then Darke gave Kit an insolent bow and turned to offer his hand to Eleanor, and Kit walked away. Eleanor saw him stop to ask another lady for a dance—Miss Eversleigh, the Toast of the Season. Kit was wasting no time. The sight of him taking the girl’s hand gave Eleanor a curious pang. She turned away.
Lord George was smiling at her. His grey eyes did not waver from her face, and his smile was intimate, charming, for her alone. He was reputed the most dangerous rake in London, fair as an angel but with a reputation so black Eleanor thought it could not possibly be true. Or so she hoped. She had heard tell that he wasted no time on the naïve débutantes of the Ton, that his interest was solely in widows or jaded married ladies whose boredom he alleviated with skill and finesse. Eleanor assumed that most of these ladies had experience to match Darke’s own. She, on the other hand, had far more in common with the innocent débutantes and she was uncertain that she could cope. So far their skirmishes had been relatively harmless—a dance here and there, a few compliments that she should have repressed but had not, no doubt leading him to believe that she was fair game. Now she sensed that Darke meant business and oddly, it seemed that Kit’s presence made him even more determined. He was pressing her hand in the most odiously familiar manner.
‘Lady Mostyn, I have been waiting all evening for the pleasure of a dance with you…’
Despite herself, Eleanor could not repress a shiver of nervousness. Although she was in a crowded ballroom, she felt quite alone. Kit, having demanded that she show no favour to the rakes of the Ton had immediately abandoned her with the most dangerous one of all! And without a backward glance! Eleanor stole a look in his direction and saw that her husband was smiling down at Miss Eversleigh, bending close to her as he whispered something in her ear. The girl went into a peal of laughter and Eleanor felt out of proportion cross.
Darke saw her frown and his smile deepened, his fingers tightening on hers. Eleanor felt uncomfortable. She pulled her hand free and stepped away from him. He did not seem disconcerted, merely amused, as though he credited her with playing a game far cleverer than anything she had ever i
ntended. She moved further away. He followed.
‘Dear Lady Mostyn, do you care to dance or would you prefer to go somewhere more…private?’
Eleanor looked into those dissipated grey eyes and hesitated. It was imperative that she made it clear to him that she would not become one of his flirts, but it was difficult to see how to do this without drawing further attention. She had never been alone with him, except for the spurious privacy provided by a drive in the park, and knew better than to step aside with him now. She glanced around; plenty of people were watching them, which would make it even more foolish. Then she realised that Darke had interpreted this as calculation on her part and was smiling gently. He leant closer, taking her arm, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair about her face.
‘Eleanor, if only you could be persuaded to look with kindness on me…’
Eleanor gave him a haughty glance. ‘My name, sir?’
‘Very well, Lady Mostyn. I understand that we must preserve the proprieties now that your husband is returned.’ Darke’s smile was predatory. Eleanor could tell that he thought she was still toying with him. She felt vaguely panicked.
‘It is a pity,’ Darke continued, ‘that Mostyn chose to return when he did. But with discretion we can manage the situation…’
With a shock Eleanor realised just what it was he was suggesting. She raised her chin.
‘I think that you mistake, my lord. My husband—’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Darke murmured. ‘But it will be a greater challenge this way.’
Eleanor gave him a look of disgust. In a flash she saw herself as he did—a lady with a slightly soiled reputation who would be just another conquest, although her seduction would be sweeter for Darke because he would have taken her from under the nose of her husband. She felt sick.
‘I repeat, you misunderstand me, my lord! There is no more to say!’
Darke’s eyes swept over her with amused comprehension. ‘You should not fear just because Mostyn is back! Nor suffer a belated bout of loyalty! What do you imagine that he has been doing whilst he was away, Eleanor? I hear that the winters are very pleasant in Italy, particularly if one has a little opera singer to warm one’s bed!’
The Notorious Marriage Page 10