by Regan Walker
“Grace, I’m so glad the countess talked you into coming!”
“As am I,” admitted Grace as Emily hurriedly took her seat. “It is, I’m told by all, about time.” Noticing Emily’s gown she added, “That is a most becoming color on you. The amethyst is precisely the shade of your eyes.”
“Which is why I wear the color so often,” Emily said with a grin, her nearly black curls falling to her shoulder as she turned and winked at the countess. “Muriel, what do we know of this play we are seeing tonight?”
“Scandalous!” exclaimed Lady Claremont with a mischievous glint in her eye. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
The tilt of her head caused the emerald feather adorning the older woman’s silver hair to wave. Grace was amused by the countess’s most often worn frippery. And tonight the feather complimented well her emerald and puce gown. Her jewelry was always simple: a long string of pearls her former husband the earl had given her, and her bejeweled quizzing glass dangling from a gold chain around her neck.
“Then why are we here?” asked Grace.
“To usher you out of this last year of hiding, my dear. You need a change, and Lady Picton and I are committed to seeing you begin fall in the right way. What’s a bit of indecent dialogue between friends? Besides, it serves to attract young rogues.”
At the mention of the words “indecent” and “rogue” so close together, Grace shifted her gaze to the box across the theatre where a certain well-dressed rogue was taking his seat. Lord Eustace. Handsome, dashing and dangerous to any woman of virtue. The man of whom Lady Ormond warned her.
“Oh, by the bye,” said the countess, interrupting Grace’s thoughts. “I’ve invited a few of the rascals to our box for the interval, so prepare yourselves, the both of you, to flirt. You do remember how, Grace?”
“If I ever knew.” She tried to recall an instance when she had ever trifled with a young man’s affections or batted her eyelashes at a dandy. There were none. Flirting had never been one of Grace’s accomplishments. Nor, even as a girl, could she claim to be one who giggled or simpered. Her mother had died in a carriage accident before Grace came to womanhood, so she’d had no example. And she’d always thought the men who responded to such ploys lacked a good mind or a strong sense of their own self-worth.
“No wonder your father, Sir Richard, had to find you a husband,” said the countess. “Seems to me you are too proper by half. ’Bout time you met some young men, Grace. Embrace the future!”
For an older woman, the countess was quite spry, participating fully in the entertainments favored by the ton. Invitations to her balls were coveted by the nobility, and her wit was admired by young men and old. Beyond that, Grace knew her friend was a matchmaker with several marriages to her credit.
“I shall try, Muriel, but exactly what it is I’m to embrace is not clear.”
“It may be a ‘who,’ my dear. Best to keep sharp so you don’t miss him.”
* * *
Christopher joined the Ormonds in their box just as the curtain was rising. The candles still burned so the theatre was as bright as before, allowing him to scan the audience as they turned their attention toward the stage. Not a seat was vacant, not a standing space unoccupied.
After paying his respects to Lady Ormond and nodding to her husband, Christopher glanced at the playbill and chuckled. Leaning over to the marquess he whispered, “Is there a message here, old boy? Bachelor Miseries—really?”
“If the cap fits…,” Ormond said with a smile. “Oh, and I’ve managed to secure you an invitation to Lady Claremont’s box at the interval, where, I understand, the lady of your interest can be found.”
Overhearing, Lady Ormond frowned. Christopher smiled briefly at the marchioness then inquired of her husband in an incredulous whisper, “You’re helping me in the hunt?”
“Merely a gentle assist, my friend, since I observe it’s been two weeks since our wager was made. But it shan’t be repeated, I assure you.”
Christopher sat back and looked across the theatre to the Claremont box. Three heads rose above the railing, a silver one with a green feather, a black one and a pale blonde one, the last belonging, he was certain, to Lady Leisterfield. He noted, for the first time, she wasn’t wearing the gray of half mourning in which he’d last seen her. His timing, it seemed, was perfect.
In the days since the wager, notwithstanding Ormond’s remark, Christopher had not been idle. He’d made a study of his subject and was eager to begin his quest. He’d learned she was liked by women and respected by men. A passive observer of the ton, perhaps, but he had heard she could keep a secret. People of all ilks confided in her. With a woman of such affability who had been denied a man for so long, he was confident his task would be an easy one.
The first half of the play was mercifully short, and Christopher rose as the curtain descended, eager to begin his night’s work. Bidding Ormond and his wife a good interval, Christopher smiled to himself and looked toward the object of his wager.
As he arrived at the dowager’s box, he discerned he wasn’t the only one invited. Two other men were paying court to the two angelics.
“Our Corinthian is here at last,” announced Lady Claremont as he stepped into the box. “Meet two lovely ladies of my acquaintance, Grace, Lady Leisterfield, and Lady Emily Picton. Ladies, this is Christopher, Viscount Eustace.” Then addressing Christopher the dowager said, “I believe you already know Lord Alvanley and Sir Alex.”
Christopher nodded at the men and bowed before the two young women, taking the hand of each lady in turn, pressing his lips gently to her knuckles, lingering just a moment longer on the hand of Lady Leisterfield. He had seen both widows before and considered them untouchable, as they were usually in the company of the dowager countess. How things had changed. Lady Picton was a beauty, to be sure, with her violet eyes and dark hair, but his interest was only in Lady Leisterfield—who barely seemed to notice him. Just as well, for he had promised Ormond discretion. It wouldn’t do for the others to suspect she was the prey he stalked.
Having only observed Lady Leisterfield at a distance, he was struck by what a stunner she was up close. Her glowing countenance, perfect white teeth and blue eyes framed by unusual dark lashes and brows set her apart from the other beauties that caught his interest. Indeed, seducing this woman would be a pleasure.
He knew the other two bucks invited to the box. Both were fellow horsemen, and both were unmarried.
“Alvanley,” he said, acknowledging William Arden, Baron Alvanley. The dandy had been a longtime friend and fellow member of White’s. Christopher enjoyed his sublime wit, and they pursued many of the same sports.
“It’s a dark night when we must share the company of so lovely a collection of ladies with Eustace,” drawled Alvanley. Then, turning to Christopher: “Your reputation precedes you, dear fellow.”
“Like the hound to the fox,” agreed Sir Alex with resignation, “but we welcome you all the same.”
Both Alvanley and Sir Alex, Christopher was certain, knew of the wager.
“Sir Alex.” Christopher addressed Colonel Sir Alexander Abercromby, a fellow Whig and former British Army officer who’d distinguished himself in the war with France. “I assure you I am here upon the invitation of the gracious Countess of Claremont.”
“Very good. Are we still on for Tattersall’s on Thursday?” inquired Sir Alex.
“We are,” replied Christopher, noticing Lady Leisterfield watching him and happy to see Alvanley’s attention taken up with Lady Picton. Turning to the object of his pursuit, he asked, “Do you enjoy looking at good horseflesh, my lady?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so. As much as anyone,” she said. Her eyes, the color of a blue summer sky, appeared to study Christopher for a moment, and then she added, “Well, perhaps not as much as you, Lord Eustace.”
“I’m in the market for a matched pair of bays,” he explained with a smile. “Hence Sir Alex’s reminder of our outing. It seems Richard Tat
tersall has a pair he wants me to see.”
The blue gown she wore hugged her bosom nicely, serving him up a delicious view and bringing images to his mind of just how he would undress her. Perhaps a few kisses on her throat to begin with, a caress of her side, a thumb slowly meandering to her ripe breast…
“Saw one the other day, was a beautiful stepper,” remarked Alvanley, popping his head up from his conversation with Lady Picton.
“And Alvanley is notoriously picksome, too,” interjected Sir Alex.
“Really, gentlemen!” scolded Lady Claremont. “Enough talk of beasts. Surely you can find something the ladies might find more worthy of conversation in the brief minutes remaining in the interval?”
“What about the shooting party at Wimpole?” suggested Christopher, feigning an innocent demeanor. “It’s only a fortnight away. Might you ladies be going?” He was certain they had received an invitation or he would not have mentioned it, but before he accepted he must know if Lady Leisterfield would be there.
“Lord Hardwicke is a good friend of mine,” announced Lady Claremont. “We shall all certainly attend; you may count upon it. Moreover, I’m told that Devonshire will be in attendance for the ball.” She sighed. “I have not seen the young duke for some time, as he’s been obsessed with his estate in Derbyshire. It will be good to see him again. The Hardwicke party should be a grand affair.”
Lady Leisterfield started to say something then apparently reconsidered, covering her lips with her fingers.
Those lovely lips.
“Bagging a pheasant is all the crack for those who love to shoot,” quipped Alvanley. “The earl’s estate in Cambridgeshire is the perfect spot for the birds, what? Partridge, too, I hear.”
“Well, then,” said Christopher. He looked directly at Lady Leisterfield, wanting to be certain she knew he intended to see her in particular: “I shall eagerly aspire to see you ladies there.”
* * *
Grace had almost spoken up to say she would not be attending the Hardwicke house party, given she could plainly discern it was Lord Eustace’s intention to do so, but then she remembered Lady Claremont’s gentle chiding and decided she’d best go. The countess’s words took precedence over the warning from Lady Ormond earlier that day. Besides, she loved the gardens at Wimpole and there would be plenty of horses for the guests to ride.
As the gentlemen took their leave, her thoughts focused on the man Lady Ormond had called the Redheaded Rake. Eustace. His escapades with women, both highborn and low, were legend. Among the bucks of the ton, he was known to drive his own horses, to box at Jackson’s, and to ride to the hounds, all the while dressing as well as Brummell. Perhaps that was why, notwithstanding his many women, he’d always managed to maintain the semblance of a gentleman and was thus accepted in polite society, admired by men as much for his accomplishments in the bedchamber as his work in the Lords.
In her mind, she could hear her friend Lady Ormond speaking of Eustace over tea only that afternoon. “You cannot believe what my husband the marquess has done now!”
“Here, have a cup of tea,” said Grace, “it cannot be as bad as all that.”
“You will think so when I tell you what mischief he has been about. For you, Grace, are the object of this ill-conceived wager between Ormond and Eustace.”
Grace set down her tea so quickly the cup rattled in its saucer. “The one they are calling the Twelfth Night wager?”
“The very one.”
“The devil!” Grace was stunned. Moreover, she was mystified. “Why me?”
“Ormond said he wanted to see Eustace set down. He respects you as he does few women in the ton. And most of those are old.”
“Oh.” Perhaps she should feel complimented, but the idea of being the object of such a wager did not resonate with her thoughts of a being a virtuous woman.
“Indeed. The thought has occurred there may be more to it than that. Ormond’s up to something, I just know it. The two men have been friends for too long for him to want Eustace brought low, though I daresay the rake deserves it. Still, I recall Ormond telling me once that Eustace saved his life when they were boys and Ormond fell through the ice one winter. I cannot envision my husband ever meaning the man harm.”
Lady Ormond had come calling only to advise Grace of this new ripple in the otherwise calm stream of her life. The marchioness quickly departed when the news had been conveyed, but on the heels of that strange turn of events, Grace had another surprise.
“A messenger has brought a note, my lady,” announced Smithson upon entering the parlour. The butler placed the silver tray carrying the note within her reach; she thanked him and lifted the envelope to study the handwriting. It was only her name, Lady Leisterfield, in unfamiliar script, but the message inside was more intriguing:
I have something of your husband’s I wish to discuss with you. Tomorrow I shall pay you a call. And it was signed, Lord P.
She had wondered at the time, who was Lord P? But thoughts of that note fled her mind with the unsettling visit of the Redheaded Rake to their box at the interval. What kind of a man would wager he could seduce a woman?
Chapter 3
Viscount Pickard arrived at two in the afternoon the next day. Grace had met him only once before, and that had been a chance encounter on the street in the company of her husband. Pickard was a bit of a loner, her husband explained, and had never married.
“Lord Pickard,” Grace said, greeting the older gentleman that Smithson escorted into the parlour. “Please join me.” She gestured to the sofa opposite the one upon which she sat.
“Perhaps we might close the door, Lady Leisterfield? The nature of my call is most private.”
Grace smiled at Smithson, who departed, closing the door behind him. She turned to consider the thin, nearly bald man with sallow skin and hazel eyes that held no warmth, and she had a sudden feeling of trepidation and was glad for the oval table between them. “Your note mentioned you have something of my husband’s.”
“Why, yes. I have waited for your mourning to end to approach you. It was a matter of some business between the late baron and myself that continued for several years. It concerns certain letters in my possession. Letters between your late husband and a professor of botany, a Mr. Akerman, Hiram Akerman.”
“Yes?”
“You are not familiar with the name?”
“No, I cannot recall it.”
“Yes, well, I suppose under the circumstances that is not surprising,” Pickard said dismissively, glancing at the painting of Charles hanging over the fireplace.
“Can you not be clearer, my lord? What is the nature of this business involving Professor Akerman?”
“It is a delicate matter, my lady. Most delicate.” Pickard shook his head as if in regret, but Grace was certain the emotion was feigned. “Ordinarily I would not broach the subject with a lady. However, my circumstances are such that it simply cannot be delayed any longer. The payments must continue.”
“What payments? You will excuse me, Lord Pickard, but you are being most obscure.”
“Then I shall be direct. Your late husband was having an affair of the heart with Mr. Akerman. I have brought you one of the letters in your husband’s own handwriting so that you may read it for yourself. The nature of their relationship will soon be apparent.”
He handed her the letter. Grace recognized both her husband’s stationery and his handwriting. My dearest Hiram, it began.
Grace read the missive, her shock growing with each line. Charles had been in love with a man! Her husband’s words made clear the relationship was not merely one of friendship but had involved a physical aspect she was loath to consider. No wonder he never touched me after consummating the marriage!
She looked up. “How long…?”
“I can assure you the relationship persisted for some years, certainly until his death. It began before you married him. The letters cover the entire period.”
Grace was stunned. “I had
no idea!” Charles had been gone for long periods, yes, but she’d always believed his absences were for his horticultural interests. His distance from her and their separate bedrooms now made perfect sense. Oh, Charles.
“How did you come by the letters?” she asked Pickard.
A faint smile crossed his lips. “I have my sources, my lady, and I never divulge them.”
“I see,” she said shortly.
“They seemed to have shared their fondness for…flora as well as each other,” said the thin man who had signed his note Lord P.
Grace returned her eyes to the letter, a new understanding of her husband filling her with dread for what it could mean to her and, more importantly, to David. But she was not so innocent as to miss Lord Pickard’s intent. Returning her regard to the man she said, “What you speak of is blackmail, is it not?”
“To put it succinctly, my lady, yes. Your late husband was making certain payments to me so that the knowledge of his affair would not be bruited about London. I believe, based upon the timing, it may have been one of the reasons he was in favor of your father’s offer of your hand in marriage. Not that your company was not a sweet reward, but to put it in the simplest terms, he needed the blunt.”
David. The one person who would be harmed the most was the one she would protect with her life. And Charles would have done the same. He would have paid any sum to keep his unlawful relationship secret.
“How many letters are there?”
“A dozen.”
Grace paled at the number. Even one was enough to ruin them, but so many made her wonder what more revelations awaited. And, in that instant, she hated the small man who would see her stepson ruined. She could not allow it.
“Can the letters be purchased in their entirety to put an end to the matter?”
“I would be willing to consider it, of course. For the right sum.”
“How much?”