Rakehell's Widow

by Sandra Heath

  “I feel rather sorry for her,” Alabeth said, “for it is quite obvious that she is very unhappy.” She looked across the room at the sad eyes of the woman who had more than earned her reputation.

  “Sorry for her? How could you, Alabeth!” Octavia looked a little taken aback and a little cross, and she was visibly relieved when at that moment dinner was announced. She turned to Jillian and Charles. “I wonder what Prinny’s chefs have concocted for our jaded palates? Come along, mes enfants, let us go and see.” Ushering them before her, she bustled away, obviously not well pleased with Alabeth for even remotely defending Adelina Carver.

  Alabeth remained where she was for a moment, thinking how unlike Octavia it was to be so cold and hard. It could only be that Seaham’s infidelities over the years had hurt her far more than she had ever admitted. At last Alabeth joined the crowds moving in the direction of the great conservatory, where the dinner was to be served, and all around her she could hear as many French voices as English. She wondered wryly what her father would have made of this gathering of Bonapartists in the London palace of the Prince of Wales.

  Chapter 15

  The immense Gothic conservatory was perhaps Carlton House’s crowning glory. Designed like a cathedral, it had a nave and two aisles, and in daytime was very airy and light because of its glazed tracery ceiling, but now it was lighted artificially and the shadows beyond the light were curving and elegant. Lanterns had been placed on the outside to illuminate the stained-glass windows with their heraldic arms of the sovereigns of England, the Princes of Wales, and the Electoral Princes of the House of Brunswick. Inside, innumerable colored lights had been placed in niches and there were hexagonal lanterns suspended from the points of the arches.

  A table two hundred feet long and covered with snowy-white cloths had been laid out; it was so long that it extended the length of the conservatory and into the house itself. In front of the raised seats where the Prince and his guests of honor would sit there was a silver fountain surrounded by perfume-burning vases, and from it flowed a stream of water which passed along a little canal raised about six inches above the cloths. The banks of this stream were decorated with green moss and flowers and there were silver and gold fish darting in the water. The murmur of the water was soothing, a welcome relief after the noise of the ballroom.

  The Prince led the way, obviously gratified at the admiration the dining arrangements were receiving from all sides, and when everyone was seated, it was toward the dais that every eye was inexorably drawn by the succession of blazing candelabra. There the Prince sat in splendor, his large figure standing out against a background of crimson velvet on which was embroidered a golden crown and the initials OR.

  Alabeth found the place marked with her name on a little card, and a footman drew the chair out for her. As she sat down, she saw Octavia making mental notes concerning the decorations. Their eyes met for a moment and Octavia gave her a rueful smile, unable to remain in a miff with her for very long.

  Glancing around, Alabeth saw Piers entering the conservatory, and on his arm was Adelina Carver, smiling very brightly indeed as she kept her eyes averted from Harry Ponsonby, who was accompanied by a daring French lady whose gown was even more revealing and shameless than Adelina’s. Piers leaned toward her, whispering something in her ear, and Adelina’s tinkling laughter rang out audibly. Harry scowled as they passed him, Adelina not even seeming to notice his presence.

  Piers was very attentive indeed, drawing out Adelina’s chair for her himself and then deliberately replacing the card placed next to her with his own. Only once in those moments did Adelina glance at Harry, whose back was firmly turned toward her, and for a second Alabeth thought she saw the former unhappiness on her face, but then it had gone as Piers murmured something to her, smiling as he raised her gloved hand to his lips. She smiled too, her eyes very warm, and after that Alabeth did not see her look once in Harry’s direction. Alabeth lowered her eyes to the little fish in the canal. Maybe Octavia had been right to condemn Adelina after all, for she appeared to have moved on to her next lover with quite bewildering swiftness and ease.

  Course followed course as the feast began, a procession of tureens, silver domes, plates, and dishes, and all the while the iced champagne flowed as freely as the water from the fountain. By the time the fruit was served at the end, Alabeth was simply not able to do justice to the peaches, grapes, and pineapples served so exquisitely on a bed of leaves. She had been determined to put Piers Castleton from her mind, noting with relief that not once during the feast did he glance at Jillian or Jillian at him. Indeed, Jillian seemed quite engrossed in whatever it was that Charles Allister was talking about—amateur theatricals, no doubt, if his animated expression was anything to go by. Well, thought Alabeth, at least one good thing had come out of the disagreeable visit to Piers Castleton, for he had obviously decided to abide by her wishes. She looked at him again, remembering the semblance of righteous anger with which he had denied her accusations; and yet all the time he knew he had exchanged intimate letters with Jillian, he had met her secretly, and he had been conducting an affair which had more than justified Alabeth’s request that he refrain from any further contact. How odious he was, and yet as she looked at him now, she still could not help thinking how handsome and charming he was. He was looking at Adelina, his lips teasing with that particular half-smile of his, and his gray eyes were caressing her warmly. How accomplished a lover he was, with what ease and skill did he set about seducing Adelina. Alabeth turned her head away, her glance falling on the silver dish of fruit nestling among the fresh green leaves. Incongruously she remembered a mellow September evening at Charterleigh, when she had strolled in the orchard with Piers and he had picked an apple for her. Never had an apple tasted so good.

  Shortly afterward, the Prince and his guests adjourned once more to the ballroom, where in a little while the Count was to play for them all. Alabeth smiled as the gentleman next to her drew out her chair for her, but as she turned, she found herself looking straight into Piers’ eyes as he performed a similar task for Adelina. They looked at each other for a long moment before she coolly walked away from her place, accepting the arm of General Sir John Fitzwilliam, who had been seated close to her throughout the meal.

  She sat on the sofa in the ballroom, watching everyone return from the conservatory. The Prince and his guests were already in their places, all looking very full and very contented after the feast. Alabeth was just beginning to wonder where Octavia, Jillian, and Charles were when her attention was jerked away from the far door by someone addressing her.

  “Good evening, Alabeth.”

  She looked up into Piers’ mocking eyes and her face was immediately cold. “Sir.”

  “I note that your manners have not improved.”

  “If that is your opinion, I wonder that you bother to approach me.”

  “Perhaps I am an eternal optimist.”

  Deliberately she averted her head, intending to force him to go away by ignoring him, but he had no intention of letting her do that.

  “Will you honor me with this dance, Alabeth?” he inquired smoothly, a hint of mockery in his tone.

  “I would as soon dance with a toad.”

  “Alas, there are no toads present, so I ask you again. Will you dance with me?”

  She gritted her teeth furiously. “Please go away!”

  “No, Alabeth, for I intend to have my revenge upon you. Now, then, if you continue to be disagreeable, you will draw even more attention from His Royal Highness than you are at present, and that would not do at all, would it?” He spoke, oh, so reasonably, smiling all the while.

  Her glance fled to the Prince, who was indeed watching them, his quizzing glass swinging idly in his plump fingers.

  “You see?” went on Piers. “So I rather think you had better accept my invitation, don’t you?”

  “I despise you,” she whispered, knowing that she really had no choice, for she could hardly risk offending
the Prince by her conduct.

  “I don’t really care what you think of me,” he murmured, still smiling. “I only care that you shall not get away with paying me visits such as the one on the day after Octavia Seaham’s ball. Now, then, shall we dance?”

  His expression was satirical as he led her onto the floor, but her face was wooden; she could neither smile nor scowl, she was too angry. By forcing her into dancing with him, he was indeed extracting an exquisite revenge, for he knew he was making her behave in a way which went very much against the grain.

  At last the final notes died away and she made to leave him immediately but he held her hand, drawing it firmly through his arm. “No, Alabeth, you will walk politely from the floor with me, on that I am determined.”

  “Please let me go, sir, you have had your sport.”

  “I have had a little revenge for the disgraceful way you have seen fit to treat me.”

  Her cheeks were flames now. “Your conduct is singularly lacking in any gentlemanly qualities, sirrah,” she breathed, being careful all the while to look as composed as possible.

  “Is it indeed?” he inquired mildly. “And here am I congratulating myself upon being a perfect angel for you, doing my best to comply with your strange request that I stop pursuing your sister. Why, I haven’t even spoken to her, for fear you would accuse me of ravishing her. Really, I think it is impossible for me to please you, Alabeth, for whatever I do, you still find fault. You have sadly changed, for I recall that once you were the sweetest, most beautiful, and most delightful of creatures—”

  “Don’t you dare to speak to me anymore, sir, for I find everything about you most offensive—and obscenely dishonest!”

  His smile faded at that, and his hand tightened over her fingers as she tried to extricate herself from his grasp. “And what do you mean by that last remark?” he asked coldly.

  “I think you know well enough!” She glanced around a little self-consciously, praying that their low, urgent exchange was not being remarked unduly.

  “I know no such thing—pray tell me.”

  “Very well. At our last meeting you scornfully denied having any improper intentions toward my sister, you spoke very righteously about your innocence, but I know full well that you were lying, sirrah. You were indeed pursuing her and had been doing so since meeting her at Chatsworth last year. Oh, you are a skillful lover, Piers Castleton, knowing full well that she was innocent and inexperienced and totally unused to the ways of gentlemen such as yourself.”

  “You are wrong,” he said icily. “As wrong about this as you seem to be wrong about everything else.”

  “Am I? I suppose you will deny meeting her secretly at Wallborough—just as you will deny exchanging indiscreet letters with her, one of which was intercepted. I know the truth about you, sir, which makes your conduct tonight all the more reprehensible and low. Now, will you let me go?”

  His face was dark and angry, but he released her. He appeared not to trust himself to speak, and they looked bitterly into each other’s eyes before she turned to walk away, her head held high and her cheeks still fiery. She felt at once furious with him and dismayed with herself. Her fury was brought about by his infamous conduct, her dismay by the fact that she had allowed herself to be goaded into mentioning Jillian’s letter. She remembered Jillian’s anxiety about the letter being mentioned and her overwhelming relief on discovering that it hadn’t. Oh, damn him, damn him! Alabeth could have wept, for although she could not see why the letter should make any difference, she felt that she had let Jillian down by speaking of it with him.

  Octavia was seated on the sofa when she returned to take her place, but there was no sign of Jillian or Charles. Octavia’s glance was thoughtful. “And what was all that about?”

  “All what?”

  “The restrained but heated exchange with Piers Castleton.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Indeed? I hate to think what it could have been like had there been something,” remarked Octavia drily, her fan wafting to and fro as she watched Piers walk toward Adelina, who was seated at the far side of the room. “Whatever that nothing was, it certainly has aroused him, for he is being positively ferocious with that unfortunate Frenchman who happened to brush against him.”

  Unwillingly Alabeth turned to look. The Frenchman looked quite taken aback at Piers’ unwarranted anger, but was obviously anxious to smooth the whole thing over, for he bowed and apologized most handsomely. Piers moved on, catching Adelina’s eye and smiling suddenly, his anger seeming to evaporate. She stood, he drew her hand gently through his arm, and they strolled away into the crowd.

  Octavia pursed her lips. “Now there’s a strange twosome, don’t you think?”

  “I have no opinion on the matter.”

  “No? Oh, well— Still, it is strange, for I could have sworn that for once in her wretched life Adelina was truly in love, but Harry Ponsonby was obviously just another conquest. It is also strange because I never would have imagined that she was Piers Castleton’s sort—no, not in the slightest. One thing can always be said of him, and that is that he is discreet—Adelina is the very opposite.” Octavia’s glance was sly then. “Do you still feel sorry for her?”

  “I feel sorry for anyone who is taken in by Sir Piers Castleton,” remarked Alabeth coolly.

  At that moment they were rejoined by Jillian and Charles, who had been delayed by the Prince as they emerged from the conservatory. Jillian was obviously in seventh heaven, enjoying the gala evening far more than she had ever dreamed possible. Her behavior was impeccable too, for although she had been a great deal in Charles’ company, she had not set a foot wrong, having danced with him only once and having conducted herself immaculately throughout. This new Jillian had obviously enslaved Charles forever, for he could not take his eyes from her, and had she asked him for the moon, he no doubt would have attempted to get it for her.

  Chapter 16

  Over the next hour or so Alabeth managed to forget the unpleasantness with Piers and set about enjoying herself. She danced with a succession of partners, including the French Ambassador himself, although she doubted if he would have been so gallant had he known of her father’s secret mission in Madras.

  At last the moment came when the pianoforte recital was announced, and everyone moved toward the rows of seats which the footmen were setting out by the dais. The Prince and his guests occupied the sofas placed directly before the pianoforte, and Octavia scuttled with almost indecent haste to sit herself squarely in the middle of the only remaining sofa in the front row, turning to beckon urgently to Alabeth and Jillian to join her. Alabeth was conscious of a flutter of anticipation as she sat down, carefully arranging her skirts.

  Octavia smiled sleekly. “Now we shall see how much of a conquest you have made, Alabeth Manvers, for he cannot fail to see you right here in the front.”

  Alabeth said nothing, but her pulse was racing a little as she heard the first stir as the Count entered the ballroom and approached the pianoforte, pausing to give a deep bow before the Prince, who nodded graciously. The Count wore russet, an intricate, soft cravat spilling from his throat, and his legs encased in pale pantaloons. His hair looked very golden beneath the brilliance of the chandeliers, and his eyes looked almost sapphire as he glanced momentarily over the audience before taking his place at the pianoforte. As he sat down, adjusting his lace cuffs, his eyes rested on Alabeth’s pale face. A strange breathlessness held her as their eyes met—his as blue as Robert’s had been, and as warm. Her feelings were mixed and confusing as she watched him prepare to play. The ballroom was quiet; not a soul moved.

  Once again his skill was bewitching, a display of fire tempered with elegance and control. Music which everyone had heard before seemed like a new composition, so different and exquisite was his interpretation. There was nothing restrained about the sound which flowed over the rapt audience, for when he played with vigor, the whole room was carried along with him, and when he played softly, a t
hrill ran through them all. His long, pale fingers moved gently over the keys then, as if he took them all into his confidence, to tell them his secret thoughts, but it was to Alabeth alone that his music whispered. Time and time again his eyes moved toward her as he played, and there was no mistaking the ardency or meaning of those glances.

  A stir began to pass vaguely through the audience, and even the Prince leaned forward to look at her. As if he sensed that he had been a little too obvious, the Count launched directly into a fiery scherzo which drew all attention back to the music. Alabeth lowered her eyes, conscious of how hot her cheeks were and of how her pulse raced still.

  Beside her, Jillian was totally engrossed in the magnificence of the playing. She sat on the edge of the sofa, straining to watch his hands as they flew over the ivory keys, and she was so lost in admiration that she seemed for the moment to have forgotten where she was. As the music ended with a final flourish, she was on her feet, clapping ecstatically and so carried along by the moment that she hurried forward, stepping onto the dais as the Count rose from the pianoforte. He looked a little startled as Jillian hurried toward him, the jeweled comb in her hair flashing and her beautiful shawl dragging along the floor behind her as it slipped from one arm.

  “Oh, Count Zaleski, you were superb! Divine!” she cried. “I have never in my life heard such music!”

  “You are too kind, mademoiselle,” he began, a little taken aback by her unbridled enthusiasm and by the fact that she had appeared to have forgotten that the Prince of Wales was expected to be the first to congratulate him, that having been previously arranged.

  Jillian was unaware as yet of the mistake she was making. “Please say that you will give me some tuition, sir,” she begged, “for I have quite set my heart upon it.”