Rakehell's Widow

by Sandra Heath

  “If by cloak you mean my having charge of my sister—”

  “That is only a fraction of what I speak.”

  “I don’t really wish to discuss it,” she said, her flush becoming hotter.

  “No, I didn’t for one moment think you would,” he remarked dryly, glancing out as the carriage entered Chelsea.

  She was relieved when they reached Ranelagh Gardens and he helped her to alight. He held her hand for a moment, looking down into her green eyes, and she thought he was going to say something to her, but instead he released her.

  “Enjoy the regatta, Alabeth.”

  “I trust that I will, as I trust you will, sir. Thank you for your kindness in offering me a place in your carriage.”

  “Think nothing of it, Lady Alabeth.” His gray eyes seemed to be laughing at her in the moment before she turned and hurried away from him.

  The gardens of Ranelagh House had been popular with the fashionable world since they had opened sixty years before. They were no longer exclusive and therefore not the frequent haunt of the beau monde, but for certain gala occasions such as this regatta, they were splendid still. The centerpiece of the gardens was the building known as the Rotunda, with its four great portals like triumphal arches. Built entirely of wood, it was a vast amphitheater meant to resemble the Roman Pantheon, and it was the scene of many a fine concert, indeed the infant prodigy Mozart had played there at the age of only eight and a half. All around the Rotunda lay the gardens themselves, very elegant and inviting and containing many hidden arbors where at night secret assignations could be kept without fear of discovery. There was a shrine to the god Pan, a Venetian temple built across the pretty canal, and everywhere there were fountains, flowering shrubs and trees, and the hundreds of colored lanterns which at night gave the gardens then particular magic and excitement.

  Alabeth hurried toward the part of the Embankment where the Duke and Duchess of Seaham’s splendid golden barge was moored, and as she emerged at the edge of the water, she saw that the whole river was covered with pleasure vessels and she overheard someone say that the gathering stretched from London Bridge to the Ship Tavern at Millbank. Flotillas of small craft bobbed on the glittering water as the great pageant of the regatta spread out before the elegant crowd thronging the shore.

  The Seaham barge was moored to a small quay, its gangplank painted gold and tied with countless ribbons in the Seaham colors. Octavia reclined alone on a red-and-gold-striped couch which bore more than an accidental likeness to Cleopatra’s divan. The flimsy, rather transparent gown she wore was also strongly reminiscent of ancient Egypt, as was her hair, worn a l’Egyptienne; she had even got up her long-suffering page as a slave, and he stood miserably behind her, wafting a huge ostrich fan to and fro. There was a silken canopy over the couch and it fluttered a little in the light sea breeze, the effect of the Nile would have been complete, had it not been for the Thames language of an exasperated bargeman who was shaking his furious fist at another.

  Octavia waved a gracious hand as Alabeth came aboard. “Welcome, oh, faithful subject, and mind my asp.” A covered basket was hastily whisked from the chair which Alabeth had chosen.

  Alabeth laughed. “It would not do to extinguish the asp before you require it, would it?”

  “Hardly.”

  “And where is Caesar?”

  “Sulking at home in Rome because I am too extravagant.”

  “And so you are.”

  “Wretch, you are supposed to uphold me, not criticize! And while inquiries concerning missing persons are the order of the day—where is Jillian?”

  “Also languishing at home, but nursing a headache.”

  “Oh, dear. Still, her absence does give me the opportunity of telling you a tiny whisper I’ve heard.”

  “Whisper?”

  “About Jillian.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It may be nothing, for I heard it from someone whose indulgence in scandal-mongering is quite notorious, but on the other hand I think it only right that I should tell you. It seems that late last night—very late—Jillian was seen alone in a carriage with a gentleman, and their manner together was described to me as intimate.”

  Alabeth stared at her, seeing again quite clearly Jillian’s mauve-clad, figure coming back up the garden.

  Octavia leaned across to put a hand on Alabeth’s. “Forgive me for saying anything, but I did think you should know. Was Jillian out last night?”

  Alabeth took a long breath. “I don’t really know.” She explained what had happened.

  Octavia pursed her lips. “It don’t look good, and that’s a fact.”

  “What am I to do, Octavia?”

  “Have it out with her the moment you return to the house.”

  “She will not be well pleased.”

  “Are you well pleased at being told scandalous rumors about her?”

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing, she’ll have to put up with it. I find her a most vexing creature, for although I love her dearly, she can be the most exasperating and idiotic of young ladies. Dizzy, that’s the word for her, quite dizzy.”

  “I wish I was back in Charterleigh,” said Alabeth miserably.

  Octavia grinned. “Oh, I rather think I’d like a sovereign for every time you’ve thought that recently.”

  “You’d be even more disgustingly rich than you already are.”

  “Yes, I know. Come now, let’s think of more pleasing things—like this wondrous regatta, for unless it begins soon I fancy the weather will wash it away.”

  “But the sun is shining and the sky is quite blue,” Alabeth protested. “There isn’t even much of a breeze.”

  “It’s going to change very shortly—or so I’m reliably informed by my bargeman. He feels it in his— Well, I won’t tell you where he feels it, but suffice it that he and the other bargemen sense there to be a fine old summer storm on the way.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I do, for if Old Jarge says there is, then there is.” Octavia nodded in the direction of a particularly weather-beaten bargeman, seated grumpily near the prow carefully cleaning his clay pipe.

  Alabeth looked at him and then inevitably looked beyond him at a small pleasure craft which was being rowed out onto the river. Piers lounged on the cushions in the stern and Adelina was beside him, her full lips rosy red as she smiled beguilingly up into his eyes. On a nearby vessel Alabeth also saw Harry Ponsonby, his handsome face as stormy as the weather Old Jarge was so confidently forecasting.

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Octavia, also watching the scene. “I suppose that puts the lid on your enjoyment of the day.”

  “I came here knowing what to expect.”

  “I’d tell you to forget him, if I didn’t know from experience how fatuous advice like that can sound at times. Still, cheer up a little, for at least you are to be spared the odious Count and his wretched pianoforte today.”

  “I am?”

  “I am reliably informed—”

  “By Old Jarge again?”

  “Hardly, my dear, he don’t have access to Court!” chided Octavia good-humoredly. “As I was saying, I am reliably informed that the dear Count won’t be here as he’s to play for Their Majesties this evening.”

  “Would it be a dreadful pun to say that you appear to have changed your tune about him?”

  “It would, but I will excuse you. Of course I’ve changed my tune about the wretched fellow, for after what you told me of him at the masquerade, I doubt that I’ll ever be able to say a civil word to him again. He was odious to you and that puts him most firmly beyond the pale as far as I’m concerned. He may be the lion of the Season, but he’s proved himself to be a shameless alley cat.”

  Alabeth smiled fondly at her. “Oh, Octavia, you are surely the finest friend anyone ever had.”

  “I know,” replied Octavia infuriatingly, and then she glanced up as a breath of unexpected wind swept across the barge. “You see, Old Jarge was r
ight, there’s a different feel to the air, don’t you agree?”

  Alabeth looked across the water, which was not as smooth and shining as it had been, for the breeze was rippling the surface. The canopy overhead stirred and the yellow ribbons on her bonnet fluttered prettily.

  Octavia was pensive. “Old Jarge is always right; he was right all those years ago too.”

  “Right about what?”

  “About the mistake I was making marrying Seaham.” Octavia grinned. “I’ve learned to pay attention since then, as becomes a mere Duchess when being advised by wise old retainers.”

  * * *

  Dusk was falling as the flotillas of boats and barges returned at last to the shore, having witnessed an excellent afternoon and evening of racing, although toward the end the weather had begun to interfere, making the water choppy and rowing difficult. The wind had continued to rise and clouds had begun to scud across the sky, although as the sun set it was still very pleasant and no one felt deterred.

  The Seaham barge was moored to its quay and Octavia and her guests stepped ashore, intent now upon adjourning to the Rotunda for the feast and the fireworks display, which would take place much later. Octavia was in high spirits, having satisfied her desire to gamble by placing a number of successful wagers, and now the prospect of something good to eat was most inviting.

  Alabeth was not in such high spirits, having endured an afternoon throughout which she had been afforded a view of Piers and Adelina together in their boat. They walked ahead of her now, making their way through the illuminated gardens, where a hidden orchestra was playing, toward the Rotunda, which was already echoing with the noise and chatter of the elegant guests.

  The interior of the wooden building was made bright by thousands of candles protected by glass cases and by immense chandeliers suspended from the ceiling far above. There were scarlet and gold hangings festooned everywhere, and baskets of sweet-smelling flowers, and another orchestra was playing music on a raised stand to one side. The walls were lined with private boxes where the guests could take refreshment in some degree of privacy, and Octavia and her party repaired immediately to theirs and were served with ice-cold champagne and succulent cold-chicken salads.

  Octavia looked impatiently around. “Where’s Charles? He told me that he would be here in time to eat and yet he isn’t. Ah, I do believe I see him now. Charles? We’re over here!” Her raised voice echoed over the clamor all around, and Charles turned immediately, the smile on his lips fading when he saw that Jillian was not present.

  Octavia patted the seat next to her. “I’ll have to do instead, m’boy.”

  He took his place dutifully, glancing at Alabeth. “Where is she?”

  “She has a headache and didn’t come.”

  “Oh, well, at least I know she isn’t with that prinked music-master!”

  “That’s quite enough of that, Charles,” reproved Octavia. “You said your piece at the masquerade and we don’t want to hear it again, no matter how strongly you feel. Come now, eat up your chicken like a good boy and be agreeable.”

  “Very well, I’ll be agreeable and tell you a piece of news I have just this moment heard.”

  “What news? Is it scandalous?” Octavia was all interest.

  “Scandalous? Well, I don’t know. I do know I find it surprising, in spite of all that’s gone on recently.”

  “Don’t be infuriating and get on with it,” said Octavia impatiently.

  “I have it on good authority that Piers Castleton has asked Adelina Carver to marry him.”

  Octavia stared at him and a murmur of interest went around the nearby guests. Alabeth lowered her eyes to the plate of salad, seeing it in only a blur.

  Charles looked well pleased with the stir he had caused. “You see what I mean? Everyone has known of their association and yet no one really thought it would end in him making a marriage offer.”

  Octavia’s eyes fled momentarily to Alabeth and then back to Charles. “And who is this reliable authority who told you?”

  “Why, Adelina herself. I was talking with Harry Ponsonby a moment ago when she came over to us. Harry was most put out; he stormed away without another word.”

  Octavia was thoughtful. “And did Adelina tell you if she had accepted Piers proposal?”

  “Eh? Oh, I don’t know, I was so astounded at Harry’s conduct that I didn’t think of asking her.”

  Alabeth found this latest thing the last straw, and she folded her napkin and rose to her feet, looking apologetically at Octavia. “Forgive me.”

  “I quite understand, my dear.”

  Charles got up too, looking a little alarmed. “I say, I haven’t said something wrong, have I?”

  Alabeth smiled. “No, Charles, it’s nothing to do with you.”

  “Well, maybe I can escort you to your carriage, for I can’t say I find it as interesting when a certain person is not present.” He smiled in return.

  She had almost forgotten that she had no carriage. “Oh, my carriage— Charles, can you take me home?”

  “With pleasure.”

  The wind had risen still more as she and Charles left the Rotunda to cross the shadowy gardens where the leaves rustled and the lanterns swayed. On the river the masts undulated and rigging flapped noisily as the gathering storm swept inland from the distant sea. The promised gale was almost upon them and Charles glanced up at the dark skies, remarking that he doubted very much if the fireworks display would be up to much on such a night.

  A string of carriages lined the curb, the coachmen and footmen standing together in idle groups, some just talking, others more intent upon the turn of a card. Alabeth’s skirts flapped as Charles handed her into his barouche, and the wind threatened to seize her bonnet from its pins and ribbons before Charles had climbed in too and the door was slammed.

  Charles remained tactfully silent during the return journey, having realized that Alabeth’s reason for leaving so suddenly had something to do with his revelation about Piers and Adelina. As she alighted at last outside the house in Berkeley Square, he took her hand, raising it gently to his lips. “Forgive me, Alabeth, I would not have said it for the world had I realized—”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Charles.” She reached up to kiss his cheek and then was gone.

  It was with some relief that she learned from Sanderson that Jillian was still asleep in her bed, for somehow she couldn’t face the prospect of having a heart-to-heart talk tonight. She said very little to her maid as she undressed, and outside she could hear the gale howling around the eaves, rattling the windows, and making the curtains move as the draft found its stealthy way into the quiet bedroom.

  The maid retired and Alabeth stood by the window for a while, looking out over the garden where the mulberry tree was swaying wildly to and fro and the flowers were bobbing, their colors muted by the darkness. In the distance, toward Chelsea, she saw the brief brilliance of some fireworks, but they were very few and after a minute or two there were no more.

  She turned away, getting into the bed and curling up tightly, listening to the raging storm and trying to fend off the tears, but she could not. She hid her face in her pillow, weeping with all the agony of heartbreak.

  Chapter 25

  She awoke the following morning to find that the summer storm was still raging. The gardens and rooftops were rain-washed, and low gray clouds sped swiftly across the heavens. Each gust of wind lashed the rain against the windows and the scene outside was distorted and indistinct—a world away from the glory of the previous morning. London was transformed from a dazzling, elegant city into a dismal, forlorn place where few ventured out.

  As her maid dressed her hair, she listened to the wind moaning through the eaves and the tap-tapping of a branch of rambling rose against the windowpane. There was an unexpected chill in the air, making it seem more like January than July. She glanced at herself in the looking glass. There was rouge on her cheeks, but it did not disguise how pale she was. She felt very low, both
because of Piers and because of having to confront Jillian about the rumors. All in all, it seemed set to be an odious day.

  She turned to the maid. “How is Lady Jillian this morning?”

  “Why, I don’t know, my lady, for she hadn’t stirred when I came up to you. Her maid was still waiting to hear from her.”

  Alabeth stared at the girl and then looked sharply at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was eleven o’clock and Jillian still hadn’t risen? Something was wrong! Gathering her skirts, she hurried from the room, leaving her puzzled maid standing with the comb and pins.

  Alabeth knocked on Jillian’s door, but there was no reply. She knocked again, but still there was no sound from the room beyond. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside. It was still gloomy, for the curtains had not been drawn back, but as she crossed to the bed, she noticed incongruously that the doors of the immense wardrobe stood open. How careless of Jillian’s maid not to have closed them. She drew back the floral silk hangings and looked down at the huddled shape in the bed.

  “Jillian?”

  There was only silence. Jillian did not stir at all at the sound of her voice.

  “Jillian?” Hesitantly Alabeth reached down to touch the slumbering figure, but then her lips parted with horror, for the shape was far too soft and yielding. With a gasp she flung the coverlets aside and saw that beneath them there was only a large bolster. There was no sign of Jillian at all.

  She felt ice-cold suddenly, staring at the bolster, her mind racing. Her trembling fingers crept to touch the ruff at the neckline of her gown, and she backed away from the bed. She heard her maid enter the room behind her and turned as the girl halted, seeing the bolster.

  “Oh, my lady!”

  “Have Sanderson come here immediately.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The girl hurried away, so alarmed that she thought nothing of calling the butler’s name as she went down the marble staircase. Her voice echoed loudly through the house.

  Alabeth went to the wardrobe, looking hastily through the clothes. Jillian’s traveling pelisse was gone, and several gowns, and her portmanteau was not in its place. Oh, Jillian, what have you done? She whirled about again as Sanderson almost ran into the room, still adjusting his half-tied cravat.