by Sandra Heath
“That does sound exceedingly agreeable and we would both be very pleased to join you. Thank you.”
Octavia smiled. “Excellent. Now, I really must fly, for I have a thousand and one things to do and Seaham is being a bear because of all the expense lately. Good-bye for the moment, Alabeth. And Alabeth….”
“Yes?”
“I hope you don’t regret telling me your secret.”
“No, I don’t regret it.”
Octavia kissed her on the cheek and a moment later was gone. Alabeth sat down again. She felt better for having confided in Octavia, for it was good just to have said aloud that which had been hidden away in her heart for so long. She leaned her head back, listening to Jillian’s playing.
“Alabeth?”
Her eyes flew open and she saw the Count in the act of closing the door. “What do you want?” she asked suspiciously, guessing that he had waited until he heard Octavia leaving.
He bowed elegantly before her, looking very debonair and dashing, the epitome of male beauty. “Surely,” he murmured, “it is in order for me to discuss Lady Jillian’s progress with you?”
“Oh. Why, yes, of course.”
“May I sit down?”
“Please do.” She indicated a nearby chair, but he sat next to her on the sofa.
“Lady Jillian plays very well, Alabeth; indeed, I would go so far as to say she is extremely accomplished.”
She tried to ignore his persistent use of her first name. “I am pleased to hear it,” she replied, moving away along the sofa just a little.
“Oh, Alabeth, are you still a little cross with me?”
“I have repeatedly asked you not to address me with such familiarity,” she replied coldly, feeling more and more uneasy as he continued to look at her, a knowing smile playing about his fine lips.
“I did not think I had sinned so very much, Alabeth, and now I think you are too cross.”
“Please leave me—”
“You are so cross, but it is not with me, is it? You are cross with yourself, because you know that soon you will give in to me.”
“How dare you! Get out of here, sir, and do not ever approach me again,” she cried, leaping to her feet.
He rose too, and before she knew what was happening, he had taken her in his arms and was pressing his lips over hers. There was an urgency in his kiss, a determination to conquer swiftly, and she struggled furiously, wrenching herself away at last, her eyes bright with anger.
“Leave this house immediately,” she breathed. “Get out before I have you thrown out.”
His smile began to fade at last. “Have done with this cat-and-mouse game, Alabeth, for it has gone on long enough.”
“It is no game, sirrah. Your attentions are not welcome and they are most certainly refused.”
He seized her again, his eyes very dark. “No one spurns me, no one!”
Furiously, she tore herself away from him, dealing him a stinging blow on the cheek.
His mouth twisted unpleasantly and his voice shook with ice-cold anger. “You will pay dearly for that—”
“Get out of here!”
“I swear that I will make you regret having played games. Before I have finished, you will wish with all your heart that you had accepted me.”
“Will you leave now or shall I send for the servants?”
Without another word he turned on his heels, and she heard his angry steps on the staircase. He called for his hat and gloves, the front door closed, and then she heard his carriage drawing away. Silence descended over the house, broken only by the sound of Jillian’s soft playing drifting down from the floor above.
It was some time before Jillian came down and found Alabeth still in the drawing room. “Where is the Count? He said he would only be a few minutes, but now I am told that he has left.”
“Yes, he had to go,” replied Alabeth, wondering how to explain what had happened.
“Oh.”
“He will not come back, Jillian.”
Jillian stared at her. “There must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake, he will not be coming back.”
“Why?”
“Something he said to me could not be disregarded, and I have forbidden him to return.” Alabeth felt decidedly uncomfortable before Jillian’s continued gaze.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what he said?”
“I would prefer not to. I’m sorry, Jillian, but it really is for the best.”
“Have you done this partly because of Charles Allister?”
Alabeth looked up swiftly, a little puzzled. “Why ever do you say that?”
“I thought perhaps Charles had spoken to you.”
“I haven’t seen him. Why would he speak to me?”
“Because he’s jealous of the Count.”
“Charles loves you, Jillian.”
“I think him more dull than ever and I certainly do not love him.”
“I thought you were getting on well.”
“I was trying very hard, but I know that I will never love him. He behaves odiously where the Count is concerned and is most disagreeable.”
“I see. Well, I haven’t sent the Count away because of Charles, I assure you.”
Jillian was a little restless as she went to the window to look out. “I don’t think I shall take luncheon today.”
“You must eat.”
“I’m not particularly hungry, and anyway I will be plied with tea and cakes at Miss Mariner’s.”
“Are you calling upon her?”
“Didn’t I say?” Jillian turned smiling. “Yes, this afternoon. Do you mind?”
“No, of course I don’t.”
“I think I’ll do some more practicing.”
“You’ll wear the pianoforte out.”
“The Count says that the more you play, the more the pianoforte lives.”
“That does sound like something he would say.”
Jillian went out and a few minutes later Alabeth heard her playing. She chose a piece she had learned during the past week from the Count. It was a Polish love song, full of poignancy and dark fire, but Alabeth did not really notice, for she was preoccupied with her own thoughts.
Chapter 22
Before the grand regatta at Ranelagh Gardens, they had one other important engagement: a masquerade at Minsterworth House, the Piccadilly residence of the Earl and Countess of Minsterworth. The Countess was known to be miffed at being upstaged by nearly every other hostess of note when it came to engaging Count Zaleski to play for her guests, but he was still the lion of the Season and much feted, so the Countess took a little solace from this. She decided to make up for having come a little too late on the scene by providing exquisite decorations and a positive ocean of champagne. The lights of Minsterworth House could be seen from a considerable distance and the crush of elegant carriages and chairs in Piccadilly threatened to bring that thoroughfare to a complete standstill.
Alabeth went reluctantly to the masquerade, for her spirits were very low indeed as rumor made it more and more clear that the liaison between Piers and Adelina was serious. It was now being said that London’s first courtesan was to make a match of it with London’s first Corinthian, and Adelina seemed to be going out of her way to make certain the rumors proliferated.
In order to conceal completely how unhappy she really was, Alabeth chose to wear yellow for the masquerade, wishing to appear lighthearted and carefree and knowing that yellow helped a great deal to give this effect. Safe behind her mask, she forced herself to enter thoroughly into the spirit of things, dancing every dance and generally exuding an air of jaunty happiness which defied anyone to wonder if the opposite was perhaps closer to the truth. The pain she felt at the cool, barely perceptible acknowledgment she received from Piers was concealed completely by the dazzling smile she bestowed upon a gentleman who at that moment asked her if she would partner him for the ländler. Not by so much as a flicker did she reveal the hurt she endured throughout t
he evening, for she kept reminding herself of how she appeared to others in her sunshine yellow, the flowers in her red hair and the pearls at her throat—she looked radiant, and that was the role she acted to perfection from the moment she entered Minsterworth House until the moment she left it again before dawn. No one, least of all Piers Castleton, knew that Lady Alabeth Manvers was weeping inside.
Jillian, on the other hand, was as happy as she appeared. She wore old-rose silk and had begged Alabeth’s rubies to go with it. Her hair glittered with tiny diamonds, and her eyes, behind her little black mask, shone with excitement. Indeed, she seemed infused with so much joie de vivre that Alabeth was almost concerned, for such sparkle coupled with a noticeable lack of appetite suggested that Lady Jillian Carstairs was most definitely in love—but that could not be so, for there did not seem to be any one particular beau upon whom she bestowed her favor. Poor Charles was most definitely not the recipient of any favor, for with him Jillian was once again cool and offhand, not quite having reverted to her former aversion for him, but almost. It was a little sad, for Alabeth would have sworn at one time that Jillian had indeed begun to like him a great deal more. Alabeth smiled a little wryly, as it had obviously been an illusion, born of Jillian’s ability to be as consummate an actress as her elder sister was now showing herself to be.
Charles was inconsolable, refusing Octavia’s efforts to make him smile and declining any thought of dancing. He sat on a sofa, watching Jillian as she smiled and danced, and his misery was almost palpable as she leaned a little closer to one particularly handsome young Hussar officer.
Alabeth had complete sympathy with how he was feeling, for was she not enduring the same? Each time Piers smiled down into Adelina’s eyes, each time his hand touched hers, everything which passed between them, cut through Alabeth like a knife. But she laughed, and smiled, and danced gaily through the evening and into the early hours of the night, and the tears did not gleam in her eyes once.
In spite of the fact that the Count had played a great number of times before what amounted to the same audience, the moment of his appearance was still greeted with great delight, everyone moving forward in order to secure as advantageous a place as possible for the recital. Alabeth held back, not having any wish at all to be close to him, but Jillian managed to secure a place directly by the pianoforte, thus ensuring a further lowering of Charles Allister’s already sunken spirits.
Count Zaleski looked as refined and elegant as ever when he took his seat at the pianoforte, and there was no sign now of the ugly fury which had twisted his face when he had last spoken to Alabeth. He wove his breathless spell over his audience, his genius effortless and his mastery complete, and on his face was a look of melancholy which went perfectly with the sad music he played, creating havoc in the tender hearts of the ladies who gazed so adoringly at him. Alabeth was immune to him now; she felt nothing but dislike as she watched him, and only once did his glance stray toward her, lingering malevolently for a moment before moving on. A smile played around his lips as he looked instead at Jillian, whose rapt expression was so admiring.
Charles had managed to find a place fairly close to Jillian and had attempted to persuade her to leave her prominent place and sit with him, but she had refused with a most definite toss of her golden curls. Now, however, she could not help glancing at her unhappy suitor, her expression taunting him that, no matter what he thought, she knew the Count to be an angel and much misunderstood. Alabeth sighed, for it was evident that Jillian was not prepared at any price to believe ill of the Count, whether it was Charles telling her the Pole cheated at cards or Alabeth herself telling her that he behaved dishonorably. To Jillian, Count Adam Zaleski was the personification of romance and therefore everything about him was to be praised.
The Count’s magnificent music echoed poignantly over the glittering chamber, and Alabeth turned her head a little to look at Piers as he stood by Adelina’s chair. He had removed his mask and she was able to see his face quite clearly. His expression was thoughtful and a little cool as he watched the Count, and then, as if he sensed she was watching him, he looked directly at her, the diamond pin flashing in his neckcloth as he turned. His glance was distant and he neither smiled nor inclined his head before looking away again. The act was calculated and could not be mistaken, and she felt as if he had publicly struck her. She needed every last ounce of willpower not to bow her head and give in to the hot tears which were suddenly so close, but she trembled a little as she forced herself to look casually away from him, for all the world as if she neither knew of the snub nor cared.
The music came to an end and Jillian was the first to rise to her feet, clapping ecstatically, and Alabeth saw that it was being remarked how much favor the Earl of Wallborough’s younger daughter was showing to the handsome Pole. Several raised fans were evidence that not only was this being thought, it was being said too. Alabeth’s heart sank. Oh, Jillian, please be a little more discreet and a little more restrained….
Charles appeared at Alabeth’s side. “The fellow can do no wrong, it seems,” he said bitterly.
“It would appear that you are right.”
“Why can’t she see him for what he is—a transparent blackguard!”
“Hush, Charles, for you may be overheard.”
“I swear that I don’t care if I am,” he declared, “for I have endured too much tonight.”
“Please, Charles—” Alabeth was a little uneasy, for he was obviously much goaded.
In reply, he suddenly drew her hand through his arm and began to walk resolutely toward the pianoforte, where Jillian was in animated conversation with the Count, who was being flatteringly attentive toward his former pupil.
Alabeth was alarmed, but thought it better to perhaps go along with him rather than make a scene by refusing. Besides, it was hardly likely that Charles would really provoke anything untoward.
The Count watched their approach a little warily, especially as he could tell that Alabeth was uncertain about her escort. Jillian’s fan began to move more swiftly as she too perceived the anger and determination in Charles’ eyes, and she looked nervously at Alabeth.
Charles bowed before the Count, flicking a lace-edged handkerchief over a spotless black sleeve for a moment before speaking. “You played well, sir, I congratulate you.”
“Thank you.”
“It seems to be my lot today to heap praise upon the efforts of Frenchmen.”
“With all due respect, sir, I am not a Frenchman.” The Count’s blue eyes were very guarded now.
“No? Why, damn me if I hadn’t forgotten you were Polish. Still, you’re as much a Frenchman as makes no difference now, eh?”
“As you wish, sir, I do not intend to make an issue of it.” This was said entirely for Jillian’s benefit and he was rewarded by the look of approval in her eyes.
“Issue?” replied Charles. “Why, no, sir, of course not, for why would one wish to make an issue of so trivial a matter? As I was saying, it seems to be my lot today to pay compliments to Frenchmen.”
“And how is that?”
“I simply had to take myself along to that newspaper fellow, I forget his name for the moment, but he publishes a most informative paper called L’Ambigu. Oh, yes, I recall his name now—Peltier, Jean Peltier.” This last was said loud enough to attract a little attention and a number of people looked swiftly at the small group by the pianoforte, as well they might look, for Jean Peltier was an extreme supporter of the Bourbons and L’Ambigu frequently published outrageous criticisms of First Consul Bonaparte. It had also seen fit recently to cast aspersions upon the Count’s genius, questioning his talent and likening the sounds he produced to that of a herd of cows crossing a wooden bridge.
Alabeth held her breath with sharp dismay at this, and Jillian’s eyes widened with amazement that anyone could deliberately set about provoking an argument which must surely end in a challenge.
The Count stiffened with quivering anger. “Sir,” he breath
ed, “I think it vulgar and of extremely poor taste that you should praise this man who spreads such calumny about the First Consul and indeed about myself.”
“Calumny? Why, I thought he had put a sure finger on the pulse of truth, sir. Indeed, so exact and in accordance with my own views are his comments that I do not think I could have put it better myself.” Charles’ handkerchief continued to flick slowly.
Alabeth tugged on his sleeve. “Please, Charles, have done with this immediately.”
“Alabeth is right, Charles,” interrupted a new voice, “for I think you’ve made your point now.” It was Piers, stepping firmly between Charles and the Count.
“Made it?” Charles cried. “I haven’t even begun.”
“You’ve said all you’re going to say,” Piers replied softly, “for I am telling you that you have. Don’t be foolish now, for it will do no good and may do a great deal of harm to proceed.” His voice was reasonable, but his eyes told Charles that he had no intention whatsoever of letting him utter one more unwise word.
Charles hesitated, but then nodded. “Very well,” he said, to the inexpressible relief of both Alabeth and Julian, “I will say no more.”
The Count stepped angrily forward, and his voice fell on a completely hushed gathering, for even the orchestra had stopped playing now. “You will say more, sir, for you will apologize for what you have said.”
Slowly, Piers turned to eye him. “And you, sir, will then have to apologize to me for having been ill-bred enough to continue making a scene when I have done my utmost to pour oil on these particular troubled waters.” He smiled faintly.
For a moment it seemed that the Count might proceed in spite of this, but then he thought better of it, turning angrily on his heel and walking from the chamber. There was a great deal of whispering as Jillian made as if she would follow him, but then Piers restrained her by very firmly catching hold of her hand. “No, my lady, I think you must remain here,” he said in a low voice, “for to pursue him now would be to provoke even more comment than you have already caused.”