One gentleman in an absurdly tall toupee, stockinged legs that showcased padded calves and an armful of rolled parchments, and who had arrived in the anteroom only minutes before, dared to voice this silent resentment, saying in a whining voice,
“I say! But if her ladyship becomes Countess none of us will ever see the inside of that bookroom. I for one won’t. She don’t like poetry. She don’t like poetry at all.”
Jane couldn’t help a smile at this pronouncement, which was light relief amongst the general run of conversation about Lord Salt’s need for a wife that had brought the heat into her pallid cheeks. The wife saw this and before her husband could launch into an attack against the young man in the absurdly tall toupee, said in a loud whisper,
“Husband, hush now about his lordship. We have put this young woman to the blush with all our talk about wives and children for Lord Salt and we’ve no right, not if she has come to join his lordship’s household. Oh, and look, the footmen are opening the doors!” She turned to Jane with a bright smile. “Mr. Ellis will soon be out with the list, so you won’t have to suffer the cold for much longer.”
“My good woman, pray don’t raise the beauty’s expectations,” pronounced the gentleman in the absurdly tall toupee, which Jane noticed wore clothes cut from cloth befitting a gentleman. “Until Lady St. John makes her grand exit, there is little hope of a winter thaw anytime before spring.” He snorted so loud at his own wit that a fine dusting of powder from his wig settled on his upper lip, causing him to sneeze and his armful of parchments tubes to fly up in the air before descending to scatter and roll away under chairs and across the marble floor. In panic did the gentleman-poet get down on all fours to scurry across cold marble with little thought to his rich attire, to retrieve his precious collection of poems, much to the delight and amusement of the petitioners.
Jane felt sorry for the young man and immediately went to retrieve one of his cylinders that had come to rest in her corner of the anteroom behind the gentleman with the Malacca cane. She had to stoop to pick it up, had it in her hand and was about to rise when a female voice, close, clear and authoritative spoke above a general commotion of leave taking. Accompanying this voice was a heady feminine scent that, as if by sorcery, made Jane instantly nauseous and she sank down on the cold marble. It was not that the perfume itself was offensive. It was sweet smelling with hints of lavender and rose, and had it been used in moderation no one could have called it offensive. But to Jane, it conjured up echoes of the past and she was forced to put a hand over her small nose and breathe deeply through her mouth, telling herself that the wave of nausea would pass, that there was no reason to panic.
She remained sitting on the floor, waiting for the sickness to subside, the poet’s rolled parchment in her lap, feeling foolish that a particular perfume had the power to create queasiness within her. It did not take above a minute to place where she had smelled such a distinctive perfume before and the feminine voice that owned it. Recognition rode the waves of nausea that washed over her. She had not smelled it before or since the night her baby had willfully been taken from her before its time. Her father had condemned her as the most sordid and immoral creature alive and wanted nothing more to do with her for having lost her virginity so cheaply, but giving birth to the rotten bastardized fruit of her immorality, as her father had brutally branded her unborn baby, was never a choice.
Jane peered through a break in the row of ribbon-back chairs that faced into the anteroom, to put face to the owner of the offending perfume. The lady was standing so close that had Jane stretched out an arm between two chairs she could have laid a fingertip on the lady’s wide-hooped petticoats of rich velvet. Two liveried footmen and a black pageboy in a bright green silk turban stood to one side of this magnificently dressed creature, who had to be none other than the Earl’s majestic cousin, the Lady St. John.
Her ladyship fluttered a fan of delicate silk against her white bosom, upswept powdered hair draped with pearls, ribbons and feathers, and her beautiful face carefully made up with cosmetics, a mouche at the corner of hazel eyes, completing her toilette. She neither looked left or right at the crowd of petitioners but straight down at the gentleman-poet groveling at the toes of her silk covered mules.
Directly behind the dazzling Lady St. John was a tired-looking woman whose plain but well-made attire and small lace cap proclaimed the lady’s maid. And behind her, two children in rich silk costume, the girl dressed in a replica of her mother’s attire, the boy younger and sickly but quite the little gentleman in his matching silk breeches and waistcoat. Jane recognized them as the niece and nephew of the soft-spoken stranger she and Tom had met in front of the lion enclosure. Neither resembled the happy, laughing children at the Tower Zoo.
“My dear Mr. Wraxton! Why ever are you scuttling about on Lord Salt’s floor?” Lady St. John wondered with a mischievous smile. She waved her bejeweled hand out in front of her. “No! Do not get up on my account. You look very well indeed down there. In fact, I do believe I have never seen a gentleman more fitted to playing the part of devoted beagle hound. But with that interesting hairstyle you could be mistaken for a flamingo! Or perhaps it is as a pig snuffling for truffles that you snort about the floor thus?” She turned her beautifully coiffured head left and right, as if it was a matter of course that the assembled company would find her wit diverting. “Yes, I do believe it is truffles you are after. Truffles of approval from Lord Salt for your little creative endeavors.” When the gentleman-poet in the absurd toupee managed to scamper to his feet, clasping to his chest the salvaged bundle of rolled parchments with one hand, while the other kept his tall toupee from slipping into his eyes, she poked tentatively at the parchments with a long fingernail. “Why! Are these more poems for Lord Salt’s amusement?”
“A final selection of poems, dear Lady St. John,” Hilary Wraxton announced proudly.
“If they’re as absurd as the last lot, then they are bound to provide his lordship with an amusing diversion, however fleeting.”
Hilary Wraxton beamed, Lady St. John’s sarcasm completely passing him by, despite several bewigged heads in the anteroom openly sniggering at his expense. “Thank you, my lady. I am in expectation of Lord Salt’s patronage with a view to their publication.”
Lady St. John lifted her arched brows and turned down her painted mouth in complete surprise. “So you think, Mr. Wraxton? Far be it for me to disillusion you, but if they are as ludicrously inane as your previous efforts then you have wasted Lord Salt’s time. I know just what view his lordship has in mind for them… up in flames in his fireplace.” And with this cruel pronouncement and the appreciative laughs of several bored gentlemen sitting about the anteroom, Lady St. John swept out of the Grosvenor Square mansion with her retinue, leaving Mr. Hilary Wraxton to nurse his wounded pride and rolled parchments to his bosom as if they were under imminent threat of being turned to cinders.
“I do believe Lady St. John was in jest, sir,” Jane told him kindly, handing the gentleman-poet the parchment she had retrieved. “But you need not take my word for it. Ask Mr. Ellis, who surely will confirm that your poems in Lord Salt’s possession are unharmed.”
“Miss Despard!” exclaimed the secretary, thick leather bound appointment book hugged to his chest as he scurried down the long anteroom to Jane’s side. He bowed to her. “Have you been kept waiting long? I had supposed Mr. Jenkins would’ve informed me of your arrival. I apologize for the delay. His lordship had some uninvited visitors…”
“Lady St. John and her two children?” asked Jane with an understanding smile at his look of exasperation.
“Indeed,” replied the secretary, unable to hide his displeasure. He quickly regained his smile and ushered Jane forward, “Please, come into the bookroom where there is a fire.”
“I say, Ellis! Wait up!” Hilary Wraxton interrupted anxiously, wedging himself between Jane and the secretary. “Are my parchments safe, man? Has Lord Salt seen ’em yet? What does he think of �
�em? He hasn’t turned ’em to ash, has he?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wraxton?” Arthur Ellis replied in shocked accents. “I cannot tell you if his lordship has read any of your poetry, sir, but I can say irrevocably that Lord Salt has done no such thing as put your poems to the flame. Now, if you will excuse us. Miss Despard…?”
Jane hesitated, a glance at Billy’s parents who were smiling at her encouragingly, and touched the secretary’s sleeve. “Mr. Ellis, Tom has not yet arrived, so we must wait. Perhaps, in the meantime, Lord Salt could see these good people, who have come three Tuesdays in a row?”
The secretary glanced at the couple, sensed Jane’s nervousness and smiled reassuringly, “You would be more comfortable waiting for your brother in Lord Salt’s bookroom, Miss Despard. I will see what can be done for the Churches.”
With that he walked off, neither looking left or right at the crowd of petitioners whom he knew all eagerly tried to catch his eye for some sign that they would be granted an interview with the Earl sometime soon. He had learned to be blind to the pleading, sometimes hostile, always expectant, looks of the crowd who sought his noble employer’s benefaction but Jane could not help feeling, as she passed these silent, bewigged gentlemen, that they must think she had jumped the queue, just as Lady St. John had done before her, all because she was a pretty female. Little could these sullen faces know that she felt as if she was on her way to have a tooth pulled. No one could have the slightest idea that she was about to be married to one of the wealthiest and most politically influential noblemen in the kingdom.
The feeling did not subside upon entering the Earl’s bookroom, despite the long room possessing a fireplace at either end with elaborate mahogany over-mantles and blazing fires in each grate that radiated comforting warmth. This hallowed inner-sanctum was in such marked contrast to the sparseness of the freezing anteroom that Jane blinked and could not help gazing in wonderment. Everywhere candles burned brightly in elaborate sconces and two chandeliers filled the room with light. All was comfort and ease, and yet on such a lavish scale that the visitor felt anything but comfortable. Three walls were lined with floor to ceiling shelves crammed with leather-bound tomes, the higher shelves reached by climbing one of two mahogany ladders attached to a polished railing that ran the entire length of the bookshelves. The fourth wall had long sash windows framed by heavy curtains of gold and red velvet that were tied back with thick gold rope to allow a view of the goings on in the elegant square below. Oriental carpets scattered the polished wooden floor and central to the room was a massive two-sided mahogany desk with two wide chairs drawn up to it on either side, the only other furniture being an assortment of wingchairs and sofas arranged before both fireplaces.
At one fireplace three liveried footmen silently went about straightening furniture and cleaning up what appeared to be the remnants of a tea party. No doubt presided over by Lady St. John. The secretary ignored this activity and went to the desk and again Jane followed. Mr. Ellis carefully placed the opened appointment book amongst the neatly ordered piles of documents of differing heights, where also were a stack of scrolls, several books, and an elaborate Standish with quills and ink, seals and wafers. Jane noticed that nowhere to be seen amongst this well ordered clutter were the Earl’s gold-rimmed spectacles.
In fact she did not see the Earl until it was too late. His voice made her jump and spin about to face the second fireplace, where he stood before the fire in the grate. He was dressed more splendidly than he had been the day before, if that was possible, except today he did not wear powder but his own shoulder-length light chestnut-colored hair, simply tied with a black silk ribbon at the nape of his neck. His waistcoat matched his breeches that were of a rich embroidered cream silk, which, on closer inspection, revealed an intricate pattern of vines, fruits and small intricately woven birds, all in the Chinese manner. An elaborately tied cravat of delicate lace, diamond knee-buckles, white silk stockings and a pair of flat-heeled polished black shoes with enormous silver buckles encrusted with diamonds finished off this magnificent toilette. If Jane was selfconscious in her old wool cloak in the anteroom, here in the warmth and magnificence of the bookroom, coming face to face with a thoroughly unapproachable bridegroom made her feel positively inadequate to the task ahead.
Still, when the secretary remained at the massive desk and she was beckoned forward to stand before the Earl alone, she managed to put up her chin and appear unruffled, even when Salt looked her over and ordered the butler, who had trod softly up the room behind her, to take her cloak and fetch her a glass of wine.
“I would prefer hot chocolate, my lord,” Jane requested, shrugging out of her cloak and immediately spreading her frozen hands to the warmth of the fire. “I am sorry, but your anteroom could grow icicles.” When no response was forthcoming she glanced up and was not surprised that he was frowning down at her with mute disapproval. She presumed she would have to grow accustomed to such a look where she was concerned so resigned herself to the fact and added without apology, “I disposed of the clothes given me by Mr. Allenby which left only this gown and the wool cloak; all my father permitted me when he cast me from his house.”
The Earl gave a huff of embarrassment and looked away into the flames. Inexplicably, her choice of words made him acutely uncomfortable, as did the gown she was wearing. He had last seen it when he had helped her out of it in the summerhouse. “Sir Felix’s twisted sense of humor, no doubt. By the way, that gown became you better four years ago.”
Her surprise that he recognized her attire overshadowed his disparaging remark.
“I hardly think my father saw any humor in my humiliation, do you?” she said quietly, a lump forming in her throat as she studied his handsome profile, and wondered if within him there was a sliver of regret for what he’d done to her. It made her say spontaneously, “I never betrayed you to him.”
At that, his head snapped round and he stared hard at her.
“You never betrayed me?” He scoffed. “Your kind doesn’t know the meaning of the word!”
“What kind is that, my lord?” she asked curiously, shivering at the viciousness in his delivery.
He gritted his teeth. “Touché, Miss Despard. You and I know very well, so you needn’t regard me as if I’m speaking an incomprehensible foreign tongue.” He looked down at her and added with a sniff of disdain, as if reading her thoughts, “And you needn’t imagine I carry the slightest remorse for what happened to you.”
“Don’t you?” Jane replied bravely and shrugged, though his words stung more than she would ever let on. “No matter. I take responsibility for my actions, no one else.”
Her simple response put him off-balance. “Very noble, Miss Despard, but your ignoble actions show you up for what you are.”
She smiled sadly. “Sometimes actions mask what we truly feel. But I have never lied to give another false hope.”
At that, Salt couldn’t help himself. He was so angry he grabbed her about the upper arms and jerked her close, face thrust in hers. “How dare you feign to be the guilty party in this contemptible union!” he hissed. “How dare you pretend that you must marry me! Must? Ha! That’s just a ploy, to justify to yourself why you’re putting me through this—this hell. Have you no conscience that you’re taking up my offer of a coronet under despicable circumstances? I wish to God I could lay the damn thing at your feet and walk away!”
Jane stared into his handsome face, distorted with pent up rage, and willed herself to remain calm. How she wanted to fling his coronet at his sneering countenance and run away, never to see him again. But she knew this for a lie. She had thought about him so often in the past four years, that it was surely unhealthy. At first she had blamed him for her predicament, but she was not a hateful person by nature and so the loathing quickly evaporated leaving her with the sad dull ach of longing and in the tragic knowledge that she still loved him. Not this incarnation that sneered down at her, but the man he was four years ago who was kind and l
oving and honorable. This being she did not know at all and had no wish to marry, but she had to think of Tom and ruining his future should she not go through with the wedding. She wished her stepbrother was with her now. She wanted the ceremony over with as much as this stranger who held her so tightly she was sure both her arms were bruised.
“My lord… My arms…”
Instantly, he let her go. She was so frail and had such slender limbs that he was sure he had hurt her. Remorseful and annoyed with himself for allowing anger to get the better of him he turned back to the fire with a muttered apology.
“Forgive me, Miss Despard. It was not my intention to hurt you.”
“Hurt me? Do you imagine this situation is less hellish for me, my lord?”
With a hand outstretched to the mantle, he looked over his shoulder and saw the tears in her blue eyes. “Only you can end the misery for us both before it begins.”
Her full bottom lip trembled and she dropped her gaze to quickly dry her eyes on a scrap of lace she called a handkerchief before bravely looking up at him. “I’m not about to cry off, my lord. I can’t. I just hope you do not intend to do so again because I—”
“I beg your pardon?” he interrupted, turning to confront her. “What do you mean cry off?”
“—I truly must marry and without delay,” she concluded and watched in fascination as his face drained of all natural color. He looked ill. She took a step forward in alarm, only for him to back away, not wanting the nearness of her.
Salt Bride: A Georgian Historical Romance Page 7