by Sandra Heath
Her cheeks flushed angrily. “You have no right—”
“I have every right, having taken it upon myself yet again to see that there is more decorum and common sense than shown hitherto. As for you, Charles, I begin to tire of forever intervening to keep you from the point of an opponent’s sword, and I trust that from now on you will act with more restraint. Now, then, you and Lady Jillian here will toddle obediently onto the floor and dance a nice, elegant minuet, you will observe every last detail of etiquette, and you will allow the Countess’s masquerade to proceed in a proper manner.”
Charles had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself, but defiance flashed brightly in Jillian’s eyes. Alabeth looked sternly at her. “Do as you are told, Jillian.”
Reluctantly, Jillian took the hand Charles held out to her, and a moment later they had joined the other couples on the floor as the first strains of a minuet began to play.
Piers turned to Alabeth, his gray eyes shrewd. “It is strange, is it not, how different people react in different ways to the same emotion?”
“Emotion? I don’t understand.”
“Jealousy.” Smiling, he bowed and left her.
Chapter 23
The following morning Alabeth took the first opportunity of pointing out to Jillian that she had not conducted herself all that gracefully at the masquerade. She worded herself very carefully, not wishing to offend or run the risk of a return to their former feuding, and Jillian agreed that perhaps she had been a little unwise. She apologized for having shown favor to the Count when she knew he had behaved insultingly toward Alabeth, but she confessed that she had always found him to be the perfect gentleman and was therefore adhering to the time-honored maxim: speak as you find. In all honesty Alabeth could not find this blameworthy, for although she herself knew the Count to be a toad of the first order, it was hardly to be expected that Jillian would know the truth of that, especially if he was putting himself out to be more than a little charming. They therefore agreed to disagree about the Count.
About Jillian’s conduct toward Charles Allister, however, Alabeth could not find anything with which to really exonerate Jillian. If Charles was an unwanted and unwelcome suitor, then she should have told him so a little more discreetly and thus spared him the odiousness of the previous evening, for it was Jillian’s behavior which had so provoked him and caused the unpleasant scene with the Count. That did not, of course, excuse Charles, but it was only right that Jillian should accept her share of the blame. Jillian was not as amenable about this as she had been about the Count, for she grumbled that Charles was dull and tiresome and that he thoroughly irritated her. However, when Alabeth asked her to write a polite and elegantly phrased letter to him, informing him that she was declining his suit, Jillian refused, saying that there was surely no need at all to write such a letter. Alabeth persisted for a while but then gave up, for it was hardly possible to stand over Jillian watching each word being written, and if Jillian was quite determined not to write, then the whole exercise became pointless. They agreed to disagree about Charles too.
They parted a little later, Alabeth to call upon Aunt Silchester and Jillian to once again visit Miss Mariner. Alabeth wondered what on earth two souls as diverse as her sister and the rather prim, elderly spinster could find to talk about on successive days, but Jillian merely said that they found each other’s company most congenial. Alabeth could not help thinking that if Jillian could complain that Charles Allister was dull company, then Miss Mariner must be driving her up the wall with boredom.
Alabeth walked to her appointment with Aunt Silchester. She viewed the prospect with even less enthusiasm than before, for surely word would have reached the nosy old biddy about what had happened at the masquerade, and there would be a fine old wigging waiting in Baswick Street for so lax and ineffectual a chaperone as Alabeth must appear to be. However, Dame Fortune was smiling on her for once, for the story had by some miracle failed to reach her aunt, and so the visit was passed in an almost agreeable way discussing the arrangements for Jillian’s ball. Aunt Silchester was prepared to discuss this at length, and this was solely because of Octavia’s involvement. Being a Duchess, Octavia was deemed to be most suitable and quite worthy of favor from one who had married into the exalted Silchesters. Alabeth escaped back to Berkeley Square at last, feeling that she had done her duty for the time being and would not need to run the gauntlet of Baswick Street again for a while.
Jillian returned rather late from calling on Miss Mariner, causing luncheon to be delayed somewhat and then making Alabeth a little anxious by announcing that she really didn’t feel very hungry. Alabeth found Jillian’s mood of bubbling excitement a little disturbing, for once again she was exuding that air which one always associates with the first dizzy flush of a new love. Tentative questions however, drew only a blank. Jillian picked at her salad and then fled up to the music room to practice once again at the pianoforte. She played the same Polish love song over and over again until Alabeth felt like screaming if it did not stop.
Lord Gainsford’s unexpected arrival at the house later in the afternoon was greeted by Alabeth with undisguised relief, and she agreed with great delight to drive out with him in his new curricle. An hour in the fresh air of Hyde Park made her feel a great deal better, especially when that hour was spent in the company of such a fine old gentleman, and she returned to the house having managed to set aside all thought of the perplexing problems which seemed to be besetting her own private life and which continually surrounded anything to do with her sister.
They had not retired to bed until four in the morning after the masquerade, and Alabeth was determined that they should both go to bed early that night, especially as the next day was the day of the grand regatta and the fireworks display, which would not even commence until well after midnight. They spent a quiet evening together, although Jillian was in a restless mood, and they went up to their respective rooms at half-past ten. Alabeth seemed to have hardly laid her head on the pillow before she was fast asleep.
The bedroom was filled with moonlight as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed two. Alabeth had requested her maid to leave the window open as the room had been a little close and stuffy, but now a fresh breeze had sprung up from nowhere, billowing the heavy lace curtains and knocking a tortoiseshell comb from the dressing table to the highly polished floor below. It fell with a clatter and Alabeth sat up with a start, pushing her hair back from her face and looking around to see what had happened. The breeze was cool as it touched her warm skin and she shivered a little, slipping from the bed to close the window, but what she saw in the garden below made her halt in astonishment—and then dismay.
Jillian was walking toward the house from the direction of the mews lane. She was dressed in a mauve silk chemise gown, her hair was intricately looped with strings of pearls, and her expensive cashmere shawl dragged on the path behind her. She walked slowly, pausing now and then to raise her hem a little and practice some dance steps, for all the world as if she had but a moment before been taught them. Which, from her appearance, she probably had!
Alabeth felt the stirrings of anger as she watched, for Jillian had quite obviously been out somewhere—but where? And who with? There had not been any invitations for tonight and Jillian had certainly not mentioned any unexpected appointment; indeed, when she had gone to her room earlier, she had most definitely given the impression that she too was intending to go straight to bed. And yet here she was, dressed up to the nines and returning from some unknown engagement—and without even a maid as chaperone. Picking up her own shawl, Alabeth hurried from the room, determined to confront her sister immediately and trusting that some sort of satisfactory explanation would be forthcoming for this flagrant breach of the rules.
She waited on the staircase, listening as Jillian’s light steps approached from the rear of the house. Jillian was humming and was quite obviously in excellent spirits. She reached the cool green vestibule and then paused again, lifti
ng her hem to practice the dance steps.
“And where, pray, you have been?” inquired Alabeth coldly.
With a gasp, Jillian whirled about. “Alabeth! You startled me!”
“As you startled me a moment ago when I looked from my window and saw you.”
Jillian’s eyes were wary. “Saw me? Doing what?”
“Walking back from the mews lane after attending some engagement I know nothing of.”
The blue eyes cleared. “Oh, Alabeth, you don’t really believe I would do that, do you?”
“What else am I to believe when I see you dressed like that?”
“I was in the garden, I do not deny that, but I was only walking in the cool air. I had another of my headaches—”
“And you paused to don evening togs before slipping out?”
“No. Oh, it sounds so silly—”
“Allow me to be the judge of that.”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep and so I decided to try on various gowns and see which one I would wear for the regatta. By the time I had tried this one on and my maid had finished looping the pearls through my hair, I felt quite hot and bothered, and so I simply decided to stroll for a while in the moonlight.”
She smiled, her eyes very wide and innocent, and Alabeth did not quite know what to say. It was an explanation, such an unexpectedly ordinary one that it had the trappings of truth about it, and yet Jillian simply had not looked as if she had been taking an idle stroll, she had looked as if she had been returning to the house after alighting from a carriage in the mews lane.
Jillian came reproachfully to the foot of the staircase. “Alabeth, you don’t really think I’d go out like that without telling you, do you?”
“You are quite capable of doing so,” Alabeth reminded her.
“That was then; I couldn’t possibly do it now. Please, Alabeth, you must believe me.”
“You are being honest with me, aren’t you? I mean, you’ve been in such a strange mood just recently—” There seemed no point in beating about the bush. “Jillian, have you been seeing someone? A beau?”
“A beau?” Jillian giggled a little. “Of course I haven’t! You’d know about it, wouldn’t you? There isn’t anyone, truly there isn’t. I’m just like I am because I’m enjoying myself so much—it really is quite marvelous to be courted by so many handsome young lords and to know that any one of them might soon be my husband.”
She sounded so very convincing, so plausible, that Alabeth felt she had no option but to accept the explanation. And yet, there was something about the way Jillian was avoiding her eyes which was so strongly reminiscent of their father that Alabeth could not overlook it. As they went up the stairs together, Alabeth knew that she wasn’t satisfied with what she’d been told, that at the very least she’d have to make discreet inquiries of Sanderson to find out if one of the carriages had been ordered. She felt sneaky and disloyal, but Jillian was her responsibility and it was hardly wise to take any chances when her sister could once again be launching herself into an unwise affair of the heart. Jillian might mean well, but she was prey to her own weaknesses, not the least of which was this constant and urgent quest for true romantic love. It would perhaps not have been so bad had she not bestowed an undeserved rosy glow upon certain unworthy gentlemen.
After a restless night spent mulling over all the dreadful possibilities about which gentleman might possibly be involved, Alabeth waited the next morning until Jillian had gone out shopping before summoning Sanderson to the drawing room and asking him to make very discreet inquiries of the grooms and coachman regarding the previous evening. He returned a little later, telling her that none of the carriages had been requested and certainly none of them had left the coach house. She felt a little more easy in her mind after this, but somehow the doubt still niggled away.
Jillian returned from shopping complaining of a headache; indeed, she said the pain was so bad that she would have to take some primrose tea and retire to her bed for a while. The hour approached when they would have to leave for the regatta at Ranelagh, but Jillian remained in her bed, sending her maid to tell Alabeth that she would have to go alone to the regatta as the headache showed no signs of going away and was really too bad for the noise and excitement of the regatta to be contemplated.
Alabeth hurried to Jillian’s room, finding it in semi-darkness, the curtains drawn tightly against the sun, which was trying to stream in from the clear heavens. The floral silk hangings of the bed were also drawn, and Jillian lay curled up between the lavender-scented sheets, her face pale beneath the floppy frills of her night bonnet.
“Oh, Jillian, I do not like to go without you,” began Alabeth anxiously.
“I shall be all right once I have managed to sleep.”
“It doesn’t seem right to leave you.”
“But you’ve given your word to Octavia,” replied Jillian quickly, “and why should you forego the delights of the regatta simply because I am a little indisposed. Please go, Alabeth, for I shall feel totally wretched if you don’t.”
“If you’re certain—”
“Of course I am.” Jillian squeezed Alabeth’s hand reassuringly and smiled.
“All right.” Alabeth bent to kiss the pale cheek and then returned to her own room to begin dressing for the regatta, where she would be bound to see Piers with Adelina and where she would therefore be made very miserable. She chose to wear yellow again.
Chapter 24
She set off in the landau, her yellow gown and golden spencer indeed managing to make her look as sunny as the day itself. She also wore a gypsy bonnet, tied on with wide yellow satin ribbon, and over it was draped a little veil to protect her back from the heat, which would be all the more fierce on the Thames. The landau drove smartly toward Chelsea, conveying her to a social occasion which under normal circumstances would have promised a great deal of enjoyment, but which today offered little such prospect.
She had not proceeded far when suddenly the carriage began to travel much more slowly, and at last came to a standstill on a tree-lined avenue. The coachman climbed down and she leaned out. “What is it?”
“I believe one of the horses has gone lame, my lady.”
“Oh, no.”
He inspected the nearside lead horse and then came to speak to her. “He is lame, my lady, and I think I should take him back to the mews and bring another.”
“Very well.”
He began to unharness the horse and she alighted from the carriage, shaking out her skirts and glancing up at the flawless blue through the dappled branches of the trees. How magnificent a day it was, quite perfect for a regatta.
She heard the other carriage approaching but did not at first give it much thought. It wasn’t until she realized that it was halting that she turned to look at it, recognizing it at once: it belonged to Piers Castleton.
Piers alighted. He was alone. He looked very elegant in a wine-red coat and pale-gray breeches, and his dark curls shone in the sunlight as he removed his tall hat and approached her. “Good afternoon, Alabeth. Do you have some trouble?”
“One of the horses is lame.”
“Are you bound for the regatta?”
“Yes.”
“Then please allow me to convey you there, as that is my destination as well.”
“There is no need—” she began.
“For me to concern myself?” He gave a faint smile.
“No need for you to put yourself out, sir,” she finished.
“I see. Well, I am and ever will be a gentleman, my lady, and nothing would permit me to drive past and not offer you my assistance. Please accept a place in my carriage, and thus allow me to carry out my gentlemanly obligation.” He smiled a little wryly.
“If you are sure—”
“I am.”
“Then I accept. Thank you.”
Her gloved hand shook just a little as she took the arm he offered, and he instructed her coachman to go back carefully to Berkeley Square. She sat back on the m
agnificent upholstery of his carriage and a moment later the perfectly matched grays were straining forward, their hooves striking sparks from the cobbles.
He lounged opposite her, one gleaming Hessian boot resting on the seat beside her. The countless things she wished to say to him hung trembling on her lips, but she couldn’t say one of them, for it was as if Adelina were present in the carriage.
He spoke first. “Yellow becomes you well, Alabeth. You should wear it more often.”
“Thank you.”
“It is such a cheerful shade, is it not?”
She felt almost as if he knew exactly why she had chosen the color and she shifted her position a little uncomfortably, determined to change the subject. “Will Lady Adelina be with you at Ranelagh?”
“I believe so.”
“H-how is she?”
“In excellent spirits.”
“Oh.”
“She is also extremely triumphant and most pleased with her scheming.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled a little, “It doesn’t matter.”
A few more minutes of silence passed and then he spoke again. “Why is Lady Jillian not with you?”
“She is indisposed.”
“Does that mean you’ve ensured her good behavior by locking her in her room?”
She flushed. “It means that she has a headache.”
“Ah. Well, to be sure, I could not have blamed you had you turned jailer.”
“She is very young.”
“Are you so very old, then?”
She looked away.
“My poor Alabeth, you have had a time of it recently, haven’t you?” he murmured. “Prised out of your Kent sanctuary, thrust into the hurly-burly of one of the most important Seasons in years, forced to endure a dreadful variety of problems and pitfalls, only some of which are of your own making, and all the time having to wear a new cloak which doesn’t sit well on your pretty shoulders.”