by Sandra Heath
“Well, no one could do worse than you did, missy, and that’s a fact.”
“No doubt.”
“I still cannot understand how you could take a wastrel like Manvers as your husband, Alabeth, charming as he may have been. In my day one didn’t marry handsome rogues; one married dull fellows like the Duke of Treguard and then took the likes of Manvers as lovers. That was a far more acceptable way of going about it, but you had to turn your back on a match with a Duke and run away with the fellow whose reputation left a great deal to be desired. I nearly washed my hands of you, for the notoriety you attached to the family name was quite odious.”
Alabeth said nothing to all this, for she had heard it countless times before and had learned that the best way of dealing with it was not to rise to the bait.
Aunt Silchester sniffed. “Hm. Well, you must understand that I cannot but be alarmed that you have charge of your sister’s first Season, for you cannot run your own life to any satisfaction and therefore cannot be expected to run hers either. It is most unfortunate that your sister must embark upon her career in society with the undoubted millstone of your past around her neck.”
“I hardly think that it is that bad, Aunt.”
“Hm. Well, I think it is, for your conduct recently has hardly inspired confidence.”
“My conduct?”
“You are supposed to be setting Jillian an example, but what sort of example is it when you think nothing of walking alone at night with a Russian music-master.”
“He’s not Russian, he’s Polish,” replied Alabeth with great forbearance. “And he certainly isn’t a music-master, he’s a very great musician. Besides, we walked in the gardens at Carlton House and there were a number of other ladies and gentlemen doing the same.”
“It was still a far from shining example to set your sister.”
Alabeth lapsed into silence, for no matter how much she might protest, she knew that on this occasion her aunt was right; there had been moments in the Prince of Wales’ summerhouse which had been far from innocent and which would indeed have been considered reprehensible for a chaperone! Not that Aunt Silchester knew that, she was simply condemning everything from habit as she always did.
“Alabeth, I thoroughly disapprove of such goings-on, and I trust that I shall not hear anything else to cause me concern.”
“No, Aunt Silchester.” Alabeth gazed out through a crack in the curtains. The sun was beginning to set now, the sky was turning crimson and gold, and the shadows were lengthening.
“If I do hear anything,” her aunt went on relentlessly, “I shall not hesitate to write to your father informing him of the situation.”
Alabeth’s glance was stony, but she held her tongue, for there was little point in allowing herself to be drawn by this disagreeable old woman who had little else to do with her time but meddle and cause trouble.
Aunt Silchester made herself a little more comfortable in the bed. “Now, then, I am feeling a little sleepy, having not long taken my elixir. The next time you manage to find the time to call upon me, missy, see that you do so at a time when I have not just taken my medication and when there will be more opportunity for polite conversation. You may kiss me.” She presented her cheek.
Alabeth rose and obeyed, and a moment later was thankfully escaping from the room where the atmosphere was as suffocating as the so-called polite conversation.
But as she descended the staircase toward the breathlessly still hall, someone rapped at the door with a cane and the footman hurried to open it. She froze as Piers Castleton was admitted. He removed his hat and gloves and handed them to the footman. “I believe that Lady Silchester wished to see me about the sale of an estate in Northumberland—” He broke off, seeing the slight movement on the stairs, and his eyes became noticeably cooler as he saw her. “Good evening, Lady Alabeth.”
“Sir.” She could not have clipped the word more had she tried.
He waved the footman away. “Do not inform Lady Silchester that I am here just yet.”
“No, Sir Piers.” The footman cast a nervous glance at Alabeth and then hurried discreetly away, not wishing to become involved in any dispute.
Piers folded his arms, looking coldly at her. “I am glad to have encountered you here, madam, for it saves me the undoubted trouble of calling upon you.”
“We have nothing to say to each other,” she replied, continuing down the stairs and trying to walk past him to the front door, but he caught her arm and jerked her furiously around to face him.
“We have a great deal to say to each other, madam, whether you like it or not.”
“Unhand me!”
He glanced beyond her at a door which stood slightly ajar, and he thrust her toward it, pushing her into the room beyond and then closing the door as he turned to face her. It was the morning room, well away from the sun now, and it smelled of spirit, the windows having been cleaned not long before. Like the rest of the house, it was gloomy and still, almost airless, in fact, and with the door closed as it now was, she felt cut off from the rest of the world.
He stood there, looking at her, his sage-green coat almost gray in the poor light. His eyes were bright with anger. “I told you that I would not grant you any more chances, Alabeth, and I meant what I said. Your conduct at Carlton House was most certainly the last straw, for your wild accusations did not go unheard, a fact which I cannot tolerate. I have always behaved with great patience and with all honor toward you, madam, but for more than two years now I have endured your inexplicable venom. The time has come for those home truths to be brought out into the open, where I now begin to think they should have been all along.”
“I must ask you to release me from this room immediately,” she said, a little shaken by the controlled force of his anger.
“I will release you when I am good and ready.”
“You have no right to detain me against my will.”
“I have every right when you continually call my honor into question.”
“You have no honor.”
“Have a care, madam,” he breathed, his eyes flashing, “have a care.”
“I despise you,” she whispered, backing away a little, “for you are indeed without honor. You have behaved despicably, both now and in the past, and I do not detract one word I have said to you. You, Sir Piers Castleton, are beneath contempt.”
Slowly he came toward her, halting so close that his Hessian brushed against the pink muslin of her gown. “Oh, how you take refuge in your sex, Alabeth, for no man would dare to speak to me as you have just done. Time and time again you insult me, knowing full well that if I retaliate, then I would indeed earn a reputation which is beneath contempt.”
“If I were a man, I would still say it!”
“Would you? I think not.”
“How can you stand there pretending to be a noble innocent when all the time you have conducted yourself most culpably.”
“What am I guilty of?” he inquired softly. “For I swear that I have done nothing and I defy you to prove otherwise.”
“You attempted most foully to seduce my sister.”
“Did I, indeed? Well, I suggest you ask her if that is the case.”
“There is no need to ask her, for I already know. You seem remarkably able to forget those letters, sir.”
“Ah, yes, the letters. I have never written to your sister, madam, and I never intend to. However, I am perfectly prepared to believe that she wrote to me. My experience of your sister’s somewhat romantic, fluff-headed character leads me to believe that she is quite capable of putting pen to paper and composing a letter couched in terms of an affection which did not exist. I’d lay odds that that letter was never intended to be sent and that she was mortified when it was found. Knowing her as I now do, madam, I believe it to be perfectly in keeping that she would brazen it out rather than suffer the humiliation of admitting the letter to be a fabrication.”
Alabeth stared at him, for there was a definite ring of t
ruth about what he said, and it certainly would explain Jillian’s huge anxiety about whether the letter had been mentioned.
“Well,” he inquired, “what have you to say?”
“You have offered an explanation which may possibly have some foundation.”
“I can see from your face that you believe it to have a great deal of foundation.”
“Very well, I admit that what you say sounds very likely.”
“Thank you for that small crumb.” He sketched a mocking bow.
“But it in no way excuses your other conduct.”
“Ah, so we are back to that.” He put his hands on his hips, surveying her in the gloom. “You cannot ever set it aside, can you, Alabeth? You must blame me for all that befell Robert.”
“Because you are the blame,” she cried defiantly.
“I promise you that I am not.”
“I cannot and will not believe you.”
“That you will not is true, that you cannot is not. Robert was vain, foolish, hotheaded, deceitful, and conniving; he played you false on many occasions and the duel in which he died was not caused by the turn of a card but by his having bedded another man’s wife.”
“No, that is not true,” she whispered.
“Every word of it is true.”
“What right have you to condemn Robert when you yourself have killed in a duel? I’ll warrant the paltry reason you suggest for Robert was in fact your own.”
“I do not deny killing the Russian, but I defy you to find my reason paltry. The Russian compromised my sister, and he did so for a wager. I admit this now because my sister is dead and cannot be harmed anymore by the truth. The Russian paid dearly for his crime, Alabeth, and I would not shrink from doing it again. If you find that paltry or in keeping with what lay behind Robert’s duel, then I am sorry for you.”
“I did not know—”
“There is a great deal you do not know, madam, and even more you refuse to know. By the time he died, I despised Robert, I despised him for his shallow conceit, his callousness toward you—”
“He wasn’t,” she cried. “He wasn’t!”
“He was, damn you, and you have to face the fact. He kept a mistress—did you know that? No, I can see that you didn’t. He had also lost vast sums at the gaming table, and the only reason you were spared from discovering the fact is that the night he died he won back an equally large sum—one more day and you would have lost not only your husband, madam, but the roof over your lovely head too.”
She flinched. “I will not believe it,” she whispered. “I will not believe it, for you remained at his side throughout, and if you despised him, then you would not have done so.”
“I remained at his side because I wished to spare you, Alabeth,” he said softly. “And spare you I did, for had any other been his second, then the true reason for the duel would certainly have been revealed to you. I did not want you to be hurt any more than you already had been, and so help me I did what I could to soften the blow. I may have despised the man, Alabeth Manvers, but I certainly did not despise his wife.”
She looked away, her lips trembling.
“Robert was not worth your grief, Alabeth; he did not deserve one single tear and certainly deserved even less of your remorse. He was faithless and could be incredibly unfeeling, and only sheer luck prevented you from learning the truth. Or perhaps it was not luck at all, perhaps it was unkind fate, for had you known the truth a little earlier, then you would have been spared your damned conscience.”
“No—”
“But, yes, Alabeth, your marriage was a mistake and you know it.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Yes it is, for you suddenly realized that you were the wife of the wrong man, didn’t you?”
It was too much, and with a gasp she raised her hand to strike him, but he was too swift, catching her wrist and then twisting her close.
“Damn you, Alabeth, damn you for making me reach this point! You’ve blamed me over and over and I will not be blamed anymore, for I was guilty of nothing beyond the fact that I held another man’s wife in too high regard—and that wife was not indifferent, was she? There lies the source of your conscience, for although you did not betray your marriage vows by even one kiss, you betrayed them over and over again in your thoughts.” He released her suddenly. “Well, it’s past now, Alabeth, and I believe I’ve said all that needs to be said. Go, and take your damned conscience with you. I wish to God I’d never set eyes on you and I pray that our meetings in future will be few and far between.”
He inclined his head and then turned to walk from the room. In a blur of tears she saw the footman approach him in the vestibule, explaining that Lady Silchester was sleeping. She heard him reply that he would call another time, and then he was gone.
The tears lay damply on her cheeks as she tried to collect herself, but she trembled and fresh tears stung her eyelids. When she closed her eyes, she was at Charterleigh again, on a warm August afternoon, and Robert was presenting her to Piers Castleton. Piers was taking her hand and drawing it to his lips, and she was realizing in that single, breathless moment that nothing was ever going to be the same again.
She had been dishonest with herself and dishonest with him—and now it was too late.
Chapter 18
It was some time before she felt composed enough to walk back to Berkeley Square, accompanied by the footman, who must have seen her tear-stained face.
She reached the house at last, having run the gauntlet of the select gathering outside Gunter’s without having aroused any curiosity, but as she stepped into the hall, she heard the sound of someone playing the pianoforte in the music room. Jillian must have returned early and she would undoubtedly be able to tell that something was wrong.
She turned to Sanderson. “At what time did Lady Jillian return?”
“Lady Jillian has not returned, my lady; it is Count Zaleski who is playing.”
“The Count?” Her heart sank.
“He said that he had called to make arrangements for Lady Jillian’s tuition, and when he was informed that both you and Lady Jillian were out, he asked if it would be in order for him to inspect the pianoforte, to see that it was tuned and in good order. He said that it seemed a shame for him to waste his evening entirely on a fruitless call. I, er, I said that I did not think you would object, my lady. I trust that I have not acted unwisely.”
“No, of course not, it was a sensible decision. I will go up to speak with him directly, but first I will need my maid.”
“Very well, my lady.”
She went up to her room, wishing that the Count had chosen some other night to call—or perhaps the truth was that it was no accident that he chose this particular night, for it would not be difficult for him to discover that Jillian would be at Lady Dexter’s, thus most probably leaving her sister on her own— Yes, the more she thought about it, the more she thought that this was probably the case. She glanced at her reflection in the cheval glass. Tonight nothing could have been further from her thoughts than the prospect of an entanglement with the handsome Pole.
The door of the music room was ajar, and candles had been lit, as it was dark outside now. The soft, moving light glinted on his fair hair as he played, and she stood in the doorway watching him. She did not think that she had ever seen anyone more beautiful than this aristocratic genius who was at once fire and ice, passion and detachment. He was a contradiction, looking so fine and aesthetic, and yet capable of producing music of such force and vigor that it seemed impossible his slender, pale fingers could have the strength.
In the candleglow the likeness to Robert was even more uncanny, and inevitably her thoughts turned to her marriage. Like Adam Zaleski, Robert Manvers had been a contradiction. Capable of an enchanting charm, he had also been able to cut her to the quick with a hurtful word or a careless action. She had glimpsed the truth about him, but she had drawn a veil over it. Tonight Piers Castleton had wrenched that veil aside.
“Ah, Lady Alabeth. Good evening.” He rose, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. “I trust that you do not mind me coming up here, but it seemed nonsensical to go away without at least inspecting the pianoforte.”
“And is it in good order?”
He smiled. “Naturally, it is a Broadwood, and very fine indeed.”
“You will be able to use it to teach my sister?”
He nodded, his glance resting thoughtfully on the slight marks still visible from her tears. “Have you been crying?”
She turned to the sheets of music scattered on the top of the pianoforte. “What was it you were playing?”
“It was a sonata composed by a man named Beethoven. You have heard of him?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Soon the whole world will know of him.”
“If his music is all as magnificent as that sonata, then I think you are right.”
“Why have you been crying?” he asked softly.
“You are mistaken.”
“Oh, Alabeth,” he reproved, “I know that that is not so.”
“I don’t wish to discuss it.”
She did not know that she was toying with her wedding ring, but his glance moved to her agitated fingers. “You have been weeping for your dead lord?”
“I said that I did not wish to discuss it, sir.”
He detected the hint of a tremor in her voice. “Very well, I will not speak of it. Come, Alabeth, let me play some more for you, something soothing perhaps.” He held out his hand to her, drawing her closer to the pianoforte.
She could feel the danger in the moment, hear the seduction in his voice, and see it in his eyes, but something made her obey. She stood within the glow of the candles, and as he began to play, his irresistible spell began to coil around her with invisible silken threads. She was transfixed by the simplicity of the clear, melancholy music. Outside, she could see the moon rising, as hauntingly beautiful as the music. The poignancy of the moment, filled as it was with half-thoughts, memories, and broken dreams, was too much—just as he intended it should be. She hid her face in her hands and turned away, unable to stem the fresh tears.