Rakehell's Widow

by Sandra Heath

  The applause had dwindled away to nothing now as everyone looked on in amazement at Jillian’s incredible behavior, and the Prince did not seem at all pleased. Alabeth was transfixed with horror, taken totally by surprise and unable to think of anything to say or do to smooth the matter over. Jillian at last seemed to become aware of the stir she had caused, and her face drained of color as she turned to look at the sea of faces gazing dumbfounded at her. Her lips began to quiver a little and her huge eyes filled with tears, for the folly was entirely of her own creation and she was unwittingly guilty of a flagrant breach of protocol, and in front of the Prince of Wales himself!

  Charles Allister looked so upset for her that Alabeth feared he was about to make the whole matter worse by rushing up to Jillian and taking her in his arms.

  At last Alabeth found her wits, stepping forward to curtsy low before the Prince. “Your Royal Highness, I must beg you to forgive my sister, for I fear she has been quite carried away, first by the magnificence of the evening and now by the excellence of the music.”

  Her words reminded him of how ecstatic had been Jillian’s admiration for Carlton House, and he was a little mollified. “Perhaps her enthusiasm is understandable,” he murmured.

  Alabeth threw a meaningful glance at her sister, and Jillian belatedly observed the rules, sinking into a quite beautiful curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Royal Highness, for I am guilty of the most awful sin.”

  He smiled at that. “Awful sin? My sweet Lady Jillian, how could such an angel as you have ever sinned?” He glanced around, smiling still and thus signifying his forgiveness. To Alabeth’s intense relief, the dreadful silence was at an end and everyone began to murmur again.

  After a few words with the Count, the Prince and his guests adjourned to their sofas again, the Prince asking a footman to bring him some maraschino, and at last Alabeth could turn to the Count herself. “Please accept my apologies, sir.”

  “There is no need for you to apologize, Lady Alabeth,” he replied, bowing very gallantly.

  Jillian spoke up swiftly. “Maybe not, sir, but there is every need for me to do so. My conduct was dreadful and I do not deserve the kindness of either His Royal Highness or yourself. I am very ashamed of myself and can offer only the excuse that I was totally enthralled by your music.”

  He smiled. “Ah, Lady Jillian, how very flattering you are.”

  “I do not flatter you, sir, for that would imply that I give more praise than your genius deserves. I have never before heard such music, it was as if a whole orchestra were playing.”

  He nodded, looking at her with some interest. “It pleases me immensely that you should describe it so, for it is my belief that the pianoforte is the only complete instrument—through its notes the whole range of expression is possible.”

  “Oh, yes, yes!” she agreed. “I have always felt that that is so, but I have never been able to produce music of such quality as I have heard tonight.”

  “You are, I see, a serious musician, Lady Jillian.”

  “I like to think that I am, sir.”

  “Then I would indeed be delighted to give you the tuition you requested.”

  She could hardly believe her ears. “You would?”

  “But of course.”

  “I do not know how to thank you.”

  “You may thank me by proving to be a pupil who pays attention at all times and who, above all else, learns greatly from what I have to say.”

  “I will, I promise that I will.”

  “I will call upon you—” He broke off, for at that moment Charles Allister appeared at Julian’s elbow, deliberately drawing her hand through his arm and beginning to remove her from the Count’s presence, murmuring something about having someone he very much wished to introduce her to. As he walked away, he cast back a look of pure loathing at the Count, and received by way of reply a glance of immeasurable chill from the Pole’s blue eyes.

  Alone with the Count, Alabeth felt quite shocked by the silent exchange between the two men. She cleared her throat a little uncomfortably. “I, er, see that you and Sir Charles are acquainted, sir.”

  “We are, but he has insulted me, and that I do not forgive,” he replied softly and in a way which made her shiver a little. He seemed to recover a little from his anger then, for he smiled at her. “Forgive me, Lady Alabeth, for that was churlish of me. May I make amends by asking you to dance again?”

  “It would be in order, sir, but I fear that I have danced enough tonight.”

  “Then walk awhile with me in the gardens.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “Please…or are you afraid of me, perhaps?”

  “Afraid? No.”

  “Then walk with me,” he said softly, offering her his arm.

  The gardens were bathed in moonlight and the trees and walks twinkled with little lanterns. Covered walks had been constructed for the evening, decorated with flowers and mirrors and intersected by other walks where a number of guests strolled, but the Count preferred the open lawn. Her train dragged across the cool grass where peacocks strutted and where not a single daisy dared to show its pale face amid the flawless green. The silent statues watched and the sounds of the city all around were distant, as were the faint strains of a minuet from the ballroom.

  The air was sweet with the perfume of flowering shrubs and herbs, from the orange blossom and roses to the freshness of lavender and rosemary. The Count led her toward a little summer house entwined with honeysuckle, and she sat down inside, gazing over the expanse of the beautiful gardens before her.

  He touched the apricot colored honeysuckle with a fingertip. “There was such a plant as this on my estate near Warsaw.”

  “You must miss your country very much.”

  “I do, but one day I will return.”

  “Do you have family there still?”

  “My family was all killed, Lady Alabeth, they were among ten thousand slain by the Russians at Praga, Warsaw.”

  She stared at him in horror. “Oh, how dreadful—”

  “My estate and my family, all taken by the enemies of my country.” There was little of the civilized Frenchman about him now; he was a Polish patriot, filled with all the emotion of his people.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “Bonaparte and the French will free my country again, Lady Alabeth, of that I am certain.”

  “Is that why you went to Paris?”

  “Yes. Did you know that there is a prophecy in Poland which says that when all things are falling apart and wickedness is rife in the world, then a second Prankish Charles will rise as Emperor to purge and heal and bring back peace to the world?”

  “And you believe the First Consul to be this Charlemagne?” she asked, remembering her father’s words at Charterleigh.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But would it be right for one man to have such power?”

  He smiled. “Oh, how very English you sound, my lady.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “I would forgive you anything,” he said softly, “anything at all.”

  The atmosphere changed subtly and she rose slowly to her feet. “Perhaps we should go inside again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have been here some time.”

  “Five minutes?” His glance was teasing. “Hardly a long time.”

  “It is not gentlemanly to put obstacles before a lady, sir.”

  “I do not wish to be a gentleman, Lady Alabeth, I wish to be your lover.”

  Her breath caught at such directness. “You should not say such a thing—”

  “Would you prefer me to be dishonest?”

  “I would prefer you to be less forward.”

  “I do not pretend to know the intricacies of your English ways, but I do know that I find you the most beautiful and desirable of women and that I am determined to conquer you.”

  “I will not be conquered by anyone, sir,” she replied, but her heart began to pound as he touch
ed her cheek with the finger which a moment before had caressed the honeysuckle.

  “My first name is Adam,” he said softly. “There should be no formality between us.”

  “You go too fast! By far too fast!”

  “No, I think not. Your heart is the prize,” he murmured, “and whether I lay siege to it or take it by storm, in the end it will be mine.”

  She knew that he was going to kiss her and she did not know whether she wished it or not. She was trapped by a web of memories, memories which even now made her think fleetingly of Robert, who had had the same golden hair and the same warm blue eyes— But then Piers’ scornful voice was echoing in her head. “It was very much a flesh-and-blood Polish aristocrat with your seduction on his mind…. Be under no illusion about Zaleski, for it could be your undoing…. You are at risk, Alabeth, because you have made yourself vulnerable to Robert’s memory….”

  She drew back sharply. “I wish to return to the house now.”

  He saw that he would progress no further for the time being, and he smiled charmingly. “Very well.”

  To her relief, he offered her his arm and they walked back across the lawns toward the nearest of the covered walks, but as they entered, they both halted, for they distinctly heard the sound of a woman weeping. Then, in one of the mirrors, Alabeth saw the reflection of Adelina Carver, crying as if her heart were breaking as she clung to Piers. He held her close, his fingers coiling lovingly in her hair.

  Alabeth hurried on, the Count hesitating only a moment before following her. Once back in the ballroom, he was spirited away from her immediately by numerous admirers, and she made her way back to Octavia’s sofa, hoping that she looked a good deal more composed than she felt.

  Octavia’s fan wafted slowly to and fro. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Don’t be infuriating, you know perfectly well what. You’ve made the conquest, we’re all furiously jealous, and all you can say is ‘Well, what?’ I trust he made very improper suggestions to you in the gardens.”

  “You are incapable of reforming, aren’t you?”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “My dear, he’s delectable, good enough to eat, and he’s offering himself on a silver plate. Don’t tell me you aren’t even going to nibble.”

  “You would, I suppose.”

  “Naturally. Since I did my duty and provided Seaham with two sons, I’ve been nibbling away here and there to my heart’s content. You should be doing the same, for it would do you good.”

  “You may be right.”

  “I am right. Take him for your lover, Alabeth Manvers, and don’t be slow about it, for there are a hundred others waiting eagerly to step into your shoes.”

  Alabeth said nothing.

  “By the way, your Aunt Silchester has sent a message through one of her tabby friends.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well you might ‘oh,’ for she is not pleased with you.”

  “What have I done?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done that’s more to the point. You haven’t called upon her, and as she considers herself to be the matriarch of the family, she ain’t too delighted.”

  “I suppose I should have called before now,” admitted Alabeth.

  “You should, indeed, especially as her scouts inform her of all the other calls you have managed to make. It was most foolishly remiss of you, for now you’ve given the old biddy something to really gripe about.”

  Alabeth sighed.

  Octavia smiled. “Still, an hour or so with your Aunt Silchester can be endured, especially as there’s Ascot week to look forward to, to say nothing of my boating party. Cheer up, Alabeth, just think of languishing in the Count’s arms and you’ll come through anything.”

  Alabeth laughed then. “Oh, Octavia!”

  Chapter 17

  Jillian looked very pretty indeed as she set out to dine at Lady Dexter’s, and Alabeth could have sworn that she was pleased at the notion of being seated next to Charles Allister again. It hardly seemed possible that such a change could have come about, but it had, and Alabeth even began to hope that her father’s dearest wish was coming true and that there would indeed be a match between his younger daughter and the son of his greatest friend. The Jillian who had greeted Alabeth that first awful evening had not reappeared at all, and it certainly seemed that for some reason the fact that Alabeth had confronted Piers Castleton had brought about a complete transformation. Alabeth still knew a few twinges of guilt for having blurted out about the letters to Piers, but she knew that it could not be undone now and, besides, it really did not matter anymore, for Piers obviously hardly crossed Jillian’s mind now.

  The Wallborough landau bore Jillian away from the house and Alabeth prepared to call upon Aunt Silchester, a duty which she viewed with extreme dislike, for she and her aunt had never got on, even before the elopement with Robert, and since then relations had been very strained indeed, the old lady never missing an opportunity to upbraid her scandalous niece.

  Lady Silchester resided in Baswick Street, which was but a short distance from Berkeley Square, and as the early evening was clear and fine, Alabeth decided to walk, accompanied by a footman for protection, as it would be dusk on her return. She wore a cherry velvet spencer over a pale-pink muslin gown, and on her head a straw bonnet with a posy of flowers pinned to the underbrim. A long ringlet tumbled down over her shoulder and her fringed parasol threw a cool shadow over her as she walked along the pavement toward Gunter’s, where a small collection of elegant carriages had already gathered. There was light-hearted laughter and the murmur of idle conversation as the excellent ices and other confections were sampled, and Alabeth exchanged greetings with several people before continuing on her way.

  Her mood was light, for she had had a very lazy day after rising very late indeed, and she had spent some hours on the seat beneath the mulberry tree in the garden, enjoying the peace and pondering the events of recent weeks. She felt satisfied that she had dealt correctly with the problem of Piers Castleton, having made her opinion of him quite clear and having at the same time carried out her duties as chaperone to the best of her ability. As far as the Count was concerned, well, she could not help feeling rather flattered at receiving such ardent attention from the man who was adored by nearly every woman in London. How could any woman not be pleased at being pursued by such a man? She was not fool enough to think his intentions were honorable, nor was she really under any illusion about herself, for she knew in her heart that a great deal of his attraction as far as she was concerned was because he reminded her so very much of Robert. Had she been another Adelina, or even an Octavia, then perhaps she would have given in to his advances, but she was not like them and had no intention whatsoever of capitulating. He might be thinking in terms of conquering her, but she was most certainly only thinking in terms of a mild flirtation. At least, that was the firm intention, but when one was alone with him in the moonlight, it was far more difficult to stick to one’s intentions.

  Her footman escorted her to the door and remained outside as she was admitted. The door closed behind her, shutting out the summer evening so that the stillness of the house seemed to fold over her. Some of her aunt’s lapdogs pattered over the tiled floor to greet her, snuffling around her hem and wagging their tails in the hope that she would scoop them up, but there was no time to do any such thing, for she was shown immediately up to her aunt’s rather intimidating bedchamber.

  Not a single window was open, Aunt Silchester being of the firm belief that fresh air was bad for one’s constitution, bringing as it did a variety of ill humors to beset one’s stamina. The room was hung with drab damask and the drapes around the heavy, old-fashioned bed were a similar dull color. The evening sunlight was muted by the heavy lace at the windows and the overall impression was rather stifling. Aunt Silchester reposed on a mound of pillows, her wispy white hair almost entirely h
idden beneath an enormous day bonnet. A pair of owlish spectacles rested on the end of her pointed nose and there was a look of extreme superiority on her face. Being the Earl of Wallborough’s sister, there was a great deal of Carstairs about her, but her expression and manner were pure Silchester, into which vain and pompous family she had married, and she now considered herself to be much more grand than she actually was. However, in the Earl’s absence she was undoubtedly the most senior member of the family and, as such, was to be treated with all due respect, her many failings being ignored as if they did not exist.

  Her lips twisted a little sourly as Alabeth was shown in. “You’ve taken your time, missy.”

  “Forgive me, Aunt Silchester,” replied Alabeth, placing a dutiful kiss on the older woman’s wrinkled cheek.

  “Hm. Well, you’re looking healthy enough, although I cannot say I approve of your having discarded mourning after only two years, even for a fellow like Manvers. Three years is the accepted time in the Silchester family.”

  Alabeth sat down. “I trust you are feeling a little better now.”

  “If I am, it’s no thanks to those cursed quacks. They’ve dosed me up with physic, bled me, purged me, advised the waters at Bath, concocted all manner of foul medicaments, and I’m increasingly convinced that had they left me alone I would have recovered in good time to do my duty by your sister. I certainly do not know that I am in agreement with Wallborough that you are equipped for the task, Alabeth.”

  “I am doing my best,” replied Alabeth sweetly, doing her best indeed to remain calm before such insults.

  “Hm. I think Jillian is looking particularly pretty. She’ll make a good catch, and no mistake.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I am told that Charles Allister is very smitten.”

  “He is.”

  “Hm. Well, in the absence of a suitable scion of the house of Silchester, no doubt an Allister will have to do.”

  She spoke as if the Silchesters were princes of the blood, thought Alabeth, still smiling sweetly. “Charles is a considerable match, Aunt Silchester, and Jillian could do a lot worse than snap him up.”