by Lisa Boero
Lady Wickersham dropped a handful of biscuit crumbs on the rug and there was a sudden scurry of pug dogs at her feet. Even Georgie abandoned Lord Brandon in the hope of a bit of biscuit. “So, I think I may rest up before dinner.” She turned to William. “You are, of course, invited to break bread with us.”
He stood and bowed. “I would be honored, indeed. Thank you, Lady Wickersham.”
“I will tell them to lay a place for one more. Come my dears, time for your naps.” She whistled through her teeth and the small herd of dogs abandoned the search for crumbs and trotted obediently after her. Georgie stayed, however, and after the door closed, flopped down in front of the grate.
“Please forgive my aunt’s manner, Lord Brandon. She is very dear, but, as you can see, quite eccentric,” Helena said.
“I find her manner charming.” He returned to the desk. “Perhaps we should continue our work, for I shouldn’t trespass on your hospitality beyond dinner.”
“Yes, and I promised Aunt that we would attend Lady Pantage’s ball this evening. Will you attend?”
“I had thought of it,” he replied, certain that nothing would keep him from the ball if Helena were to be there.
“Then let us return to the task once more.”
They reviewed and sorted Lord Carlyle’s papers for another hour and a half, with very little to show for their efforts. Lord Brandon dug to the bottom of a pile and picked up another notebook. It, too, addressed their time together at Oxford but told a different story. “The Black Kings. Why, I had completely forgotten!”
“What?” Helena said.
“A group of us called ourselves the Black Kings. We met for cards and so forth. Carlyle was the banker and the records keeper. Here is the notebook he used to kept track of who owed whom.”
“How many were you Black Kings?”
“Carlyle, myself, Northcutt, Crandle, Dichley, and several others. Even Reginald played with us, but he grew angry when he lost and made some terrible scenes, so we avoided having him, if we could.” Lord Brandon paused in fond memory. “Northcutt cut him up something fierce one time, but I suppose that was to be expected. Northcutt always did have a streak of luck, and Reginald didn’t want to honor his debts.”
“May I see the notebook?” Helena said.
“Yes, of course. Here, they are just scribbles, after all.”
Helena scanned the pages and then seemed suddenly overcome. “Charles was so young and lively,” she said. She sniffed and then turned over the stacks of papers in search of something.
“Please, Lady Carlyle, take mine.” Lord Brandon extended his handkerchief across the desk.
She received the handkerchief with a wan smile. “I don’t know why that notebook in particular should cause me to weep. I have been looking at his writing all afternoon.”
“I miss him, also,” William replied, his gaze fixed on her eyes. The tears sparkled on the ends of her long lashes.
Helena furiously dabbed away her tears, and William tore his gaze away from her perfect face. How he longed to find words of comfort, but nothing came to mind. Finally, he said, “Perhaps we should stop for today. I will come back tomorrow, if you like, or any day that suits you.”
“Yes, that is probably best.” She turned to the clock on the mantelpiece. “We must prepare for dinner, in any case. Here, please take the notebook as a memento of bygone days. I’m sure my husband would have wanted you to keep it.”
* * *
That night, Helena dressed carefully in a rose satin gown with embroidered roses at the bodice and down the pleats at the back of the dress. She had worn the gown many times before her widowhood, but this was the first time she had put it on since. She stared at her reflection in the glass, trying to see the carefree woman she once had been. She felt mortified that she had let anyone see her cry, even Lord Brandon. It was so unladylike and weak of her. She had promised herself that she would be strong. Of course, Lord Brandon had responded like a gentleman. He was so truly sympathetic. Nevertheless, it should not happen again. She pulled her face into a smile and girded herself for the ball.
Lord Brandon arrived punctually at Lady Pantage’s ball but discovered Lady Carlyle already surrounded by admirers. She wore the dress she had worn that night they danced together at Almack’s, and the memory overwhelmed him. As he didn’t think his nerves could withstand watching other men’s idle flirtations with her, he took himself off to the card room and found Northcutt in the middle of a game of faro. William was not a gambling man by nature and had only dabbled since his Oxford days. However, he knew enough of faro to know that Northcutt was experiencing his usual run of luck. He watched the game for a minute and then stepped into the hall. Someone behind him muttered, “Damnable.”
William turned. Reginald had followed him from the room. “I beg your pardon?”
“Not you. Northcutt.” Reginald, a small, thin man whose tailor had sought to correct the deficiencies of his person with large amounts of padding, affected a dandyish style that was more imitation than art. At this moment, his sour expression did nothing to add to the felicity of his appearance. He toyed with a profusion of fobs on his watch chain, which clinked together furiously. The sound was profoundly irritating.
“What do you have against Northcutt?” William said.
“He is a conniving snake.”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if you value your position in society,” William replied with some asperity.
“Don’t tell me he has you fooled? I thought you were more intelligent than that.”
William refused to be baited. “What wrong do you charge him with?”
Reginald shrugged. “He is a cheat and a liar, and I find his arrogance insufferable. If society knew half what I know, they wouldn’t hold him in such regard.”
William eyed Reginald shrewdly. “So, he has cut you out in some fashion? With a lady, perhaps?”
Reginald shot him a look. “I will only say that if Lady Carlyle thinks he will make her a good husband, she is sorely mistaken.”
William felt a spasm of disgust to hear Lady Carlyle’s name on Reginald’s lips, but controlled his expression. “Lady Carlyle is very beautiful. You can hardly fault Northcutt for pressing his suit with her.”
Reginald laughed contemptuously. “I am sure it is her money that attracts him, not her looks. My cousin knew what he was doing. Her widow settlement has all but beggared the estate.”
“And it is the money that tempts you also?” William said angrily.
Reginald hesitated.
“Your silence gives the answer. I wish you felicity in your hunt for a rich bride.” He turned on his heel and left, too furious to control his actions any longer.
William returned to the ballroom and saw Helena, still surrounded by admirers. She had that passive, polite look on her face that she wore when engaged in tedious conversation. He had seen it often enough in Edinburgh, out in society with Carlyle. Then she looked up and their eyes met. It was as if he could read her thoughts—she was trapped and seeking release.
He heard the band tune their instruments in preparation for a waltz and an idea came to him. He marched over to the group. “Excuse me gentlemen, but you must give way. Lady Carlyle, you promised me this dance and I will not be turned back from my purpose.” He held out his hand imperiously.
“But Lady Carlyle does not dance,” sputtered an elderly admirer.
Lady Carlyle smiled up at Lord Brandon with relief and placed her hand in his. “I have decided I must integrate fully into my old life,” she said to the others. “I’m sure I have strength enough tonight to dance.”
William pulled her away from the group. “I am sorry to force your hand, Lady Carlyle, but I could think of nothing else to do.”
“You have my warmest gratitude. I could not think how to break free. You are the most understanding man.” She looked up at him with a playful expression. “It will be just like old times. I hope I still remember how to waltz.”
&nb
sp; He felt a rush of emotion so powerful that it prevented him from rational thought. “You wore that dress the only time I ever danced with you at Almack’s and it was like heaven. I have never forgotten.”
The music started in earnest and so she was prevented from replying. His arm encircled her waist, and his hand clasped hers firmly. He guided her for several measures, but then her body remembered the steps and she fell into the easy rhythm of the dance. Truth be told, she didn’t remember the occasion he mentioned, but now she realized that he was indeed a fine dancer—firm in his guidance about the floor. She looked up into his face and found his warm brown eyes fixed on hers, a charmingly lopsided smile playing about his mouth.
She studied his face, with its high forehead and long straight nose and strong chin. Lord Brandon was handsome, she realized with a start. She supposed the brilliance of Carlyle’s features allowed her to overlook Lord Brandon’s compelling attributes. And what had he meant about heaven? They did dance well together, she supposed... even effortlessly. Although, he probably danced well with anyone. So why was he yet unmarried?
William savored the warmth of her body close to his as they glided across the floor. It was strange and wonderful to finally have her in his arms, even if only for the duration of the dance.
His thoughts slid unbidden to other dangerous scenarios where the coordination of their movements could be amply employed. He tried to focus on anything else, no matter how mundane, but the visions of her in his head with her alabaster skin and her—no, he had to stop. And yet, he couldn’t help himself.
When the dance ended, Helena was besieged with requests for the next dance, and the next. Lord Brandon faded back into the crowd, and she later heard from her aunt that he left the party early. The last dance of the evening was claimed by Mr. Northcutt.
“I am delighted that you saved the best for last, Lady Carlyle,” he said as he led her to the dance floor.
“I suppose I shall determine the truth of that statement after I have seen how you dance.”
Northcutt smiled. “I do like a challenge, Lady Carlyle, but we have surely danced before, have we not? I distinctly remember dancing with you when you were still the entrancing Miss Dunham.”
They lined up for the country dance. “Ah, but that was a lifetime ago,” she replied.
“Not in my memory,” he said.
They took the first pass of the dance.
“Memory is a strange thing is it not? Some memories are clear in the mind while others fade. I am afraid my Season as Miss Dunham is somewhat vague,” she said.
They separated and then he came back around.
“Not to those who were privileged to experience it. I don’t think there was ever such a debut.”
“You flatter me beyond all reason.”
“I am known for the sharpness of my memory, so I do not think it can be at fault.”
They each moved away in the figure of the dance, and when they came together again, Helena desired to wean Mr. Northcutt from useless flattery, and so she said, “Then you must remember my husband well from your days together at school. At some moment, I would love to hear any stories you might share that are fit for a lady’s ear. I found some notebooks of his from that time, but I can make neither heads nor tails of his scribbles. Something about Black Kings and whatnot.”
“Notebooks? One can only shudder to think what inanities may be contained in their pages. Surely, you do not wish to remember your husband as a callow youth.”
Helena chuckled. “No indeed, Mr. Northcutt. But I am still young in my grief, so any fresh story of my dear husband is delightful to me.”
“Far be it from me to prevent your delight.” The song ended. “Let me take you for some refreshment.” As they walked to the supper room, he proceeded to tell an amusing story about a practical joke Mr. Northcutt and Lord Carlyle had played on a friend that involved ink, a ball of string, a field mouse and a large cat. Predictably, the scheme had gone horribly wrong.
Helena left the party regretting that she had not danced before, because it had been the most delightful evening she had spent since Carlyle’s death.
Chapter Four
Helena awoke the next morning feeling more sanguine about her future than she had in many a day. She decided to linger in bed longer than usual, feeling that a Saturday morning was just such a morning for indolence. When she finally made it down to breakfast, she was alone in the dining room; her aunt, like many older people, having a taste for early mornings. She ate her eggs in peace and was about to pour another cup of coffee from the pot when the butler, Abbott, informed her that Lord Brandon awaited her in the library.
When she opened the door, Lord Brandon stood beside the desk, his head bowed over a stack of papers. He looked up and stepped away from the desk. “Forgive the intrusion, but your butler said I could wait for you here, and I thought I might as well set to it.”
Helena smiled. “I have never met with such industry in all my life. Have you found anything of note?”
In response, he smiled his lopsided smile and walked back behind the desk. “Not yet, but I have been going through the correspondence. Perhaps it will produce results.”
She came beside him and picked up a letter. “My husband was an excellent correspondent. He had a manner of writing that both amused and described.”
William nodded and shuffled some papers, not once meeting her gaze. “One thought does occur to me,” he said. “Do we know who knew that Carlyle meant to travel to London? Were there many in Edinburgh who might have been able to anticipate his movements?”
Helena paused and mentally reviewed all the people who might have known. “There were few people in Edinburgh who might have known. Myself, and members of the household, of course, and Cousin Reginald. He called at the house and Charles informed him of the trip, but did not, to my knowledge, give him more of an explanation than I received for its purpose.”
“And who in London?”
“I wouldn’t know, except those who told me afterward that they met him before he died. Northcutt mentioned that they met briefly, and the solicitors, of course. He went to his club once or twice, I know. Did you see him, as well?”
William shook his head. “I was in Scotland at the time, attending to estate matters. I came to pay my condolences directly, if you recall.”
“Yes, of course. I am sorry not to have remembered. I was so distracted that I have very little memory of anything.”
William looked at her kindly. “Of course. It is hardly fair to expect you to remember my movements when you were grieving.”
She smiled. “I remember your kindness. I suppose it is not the moment, when I have taxed you with helping me find a murderer, to properly express the depth of my gratitude for your attentions upon Carlyle’s death. I have long wished to do so, but you escaped to London before I had the opportunity. I am so glad that we have met again, so that I may do so now.”
William frowned. “You have no need to thank me. I only did what another would have done in my position.”
“Always so modest, Lord Brandon,” she replied archly. “You know that you cannot deflect my praise of you now. We are alone and, unless you flee the house, you will have to listen to it.”
“No, please do not.”
“I must, and I shall, thank you. You have always been such a great friend to my husband and to me.”
He swallowed hard but did not reply.
She studied him. “I wonder at you, Lord Brandon. How is it that a man of your steady disposition and sweetness of temper is not yet married? For certainly, you were made to be an excellent husband.”
“I... Well, I mean—” He cleared his throat and would have looked away, but her eyes held him transfixed by their sapphire depths.
“I have never—at least— I suppose I am holding out for someone who—”
“I know you are a friend of Sir Stirling. Perhaps he could advise you.”
“I have spoken to Stirling, but I fear tha
t—”
“What can you possibly fear?”
Looking back, he wasn’t sure how he could have been so stupid. He should have gone back to Stirling and told him to set him up with someone—anyone—of the hundreds of eligible ladies at Almack’s every week.
At that moment, he should have stepped away from Lady Carlyle, made his excuses, and left the house, but instead he blurted out, “I am hopelessly in love with the one woman who will never have me.”
Lady Carlyle smiled as if anticipating the receipt of wonderful news. “Do I know her? Why, if there is some impediment, perhaps I can—”
And then he did an even stupider thing. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on her full, sweet lips, and when she didn’t immediately recoil from him, he kissed her again, this time with all the desire he had carried with him since he first saw her at Almack’s. It was brazen and reckless and totally unlike the careful and dependable Lord Brandon everyone knew him to be.
Lady Carlyle stepped away and looked up into his face. “How could? Why?” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. “I – I think you should leave.”
“Lady Carlyle, please.” He turned away, stung by her rejection. “I will leave, but not before I tell you that you are the only woman I could ever love. Indeed, I have lived in anxious hope since we first met.” He turned back, now angry. “As much as I loved Carlyle as a friend, I have loved you more. Infinitely more. Forgive me. I will not trouble you again.”
With that, he stormed out of the house.
That night, he stayed in his rooms and drowned his sorrows in some very good brandy he had laid by for emergencies. The next night, he resorted to wine. And the third, he simply sat by the fire, staring into the flames. On the fourth night, he retired early to bed and stared up at the figured fabric of the canopy until the candle guttered in the socket. Even then, he could not sleep, and passed one of the worst nights of his life.