by Karleen Koen
Of course, compared with Charles, one was not quite so impressed. Tony had lost much of his excess weight, but there was still a layer of fat to him compared with Charles, who was lean and fit. Tony could not be called handsome, no indeed, but without the extra fat he had carried for so long, his face was attractive. He had a snub nose and a nice mouth. And his shy, grave manners were quite winning. No, he was not dashing like his friend Charles, but in his own way, he was at last developing satisfactorily. She no longer had to push and prod so. In fact, sometimes she had the distinct impression that maturity would only make Tony better and better.
She saw him shake his head at something Charles was saying. She saw Charles begin to argue. She sighed. It would do Charles no good; Tony had developed a mind of his own. She did not know sometimes whether to laugh or cry over it. She might talk to him about something until she was blue in the face, and he would listen politely but then do as he wished. Now, for example, he had taken it into his head to stop wearing wigs. They were hot, he told her, and made him sweat. She frowned at his choice of words. She reminded him that they were the fashion, that no man wore his own hair. "I do," said Tony, and he let his blond hair grow long and wore it pulled back and tied with a ribbon. Seeing Charles's curling wig, she sighed again. She did not care that Tony's long hair somehow made his face more chiseled and masculine. Wigs were the fashion. One follows fashion if one does not wish to be stared at, she told him. And he had said, smiling at her (she did have a soft spot for that smile), "Perhaps I will set a fashion." Tony. Of all people. Eccentric. He was going to be eccentric like the Duchess. Well, thank goodness he was a duke and would be allowed to get away with it. And now she had heard that he had a mistress through Fanny from Harold. Not some quiet little shopkeeper or milliner, as might be expected, but an actress. Devil's spawn, all of them. Whores. Of course she wanted her only son to garner a little experience, but not with an actress. But it would do her no good to say one word. He was as stubborn as his grandmother.
On the terrace, the Prince de Soissons limped by Tony and Charles. A war wound, he had told her. She shivered. She did have a weakness for military men. After all, William had been a soldier. She waved her silk scarf and called Philippe's name. He stood still a moment, looking at her without smiling, but then a smile spread across his face. He had such even, white teeth, and Abigail found his dueling scar both attractive and a little frightening. She shuddered deliciously as he walked slowly toward her, leaning on his cane. As he passed Carlyle, he nodded coolly, and Carlyle simpered. Abigail sniffed. Odious, odious man.
"How charming you look," Philippe said, bowing over her outstretched hand. "Are you waiting for your daughter? I am searching for Roger. Have you seen him this morning? I called at his home, but his butler said he was coming here."
"Leave a message with one of the equerries and join me instead for luncheon. I have some fresh boiled mutton, and it seems such a while since you and I have had a chance to visit." She could not stop herself. She batted her eyes at him.
He smiled at her as if he understood her completely. She felt her breath catch. "You tempt me. But I must say no this time."
She sighed. "Well, then at least sit down a moment and visit with me until Mary comes. I cannot stand being alone in this room with Carlyle. One would think he came to witness a freak show."
"And has he not?"
She frowned. He was not usually so blunt. Perhaps the duel had upset him also. After all, Roger was his friend. "Barbara is not a freak show, merely an undisciplined, spoiled woman, as you and I have so often agreed. Discretion. She lacks discretion. Surely this disgrace will teach her the necessity of acquiring some. I know I am mortified by it. That poor boy. I hope the prince dismisses her from court for a year." (In a year, Abigail could accomplish so much.)
"A year," said Philippe. "Yes. That would be adequate. Look, Abigail, interest grows. Carlyle was merely early."
The room was filling. Several members of the prince's household were strolling by in twos and threes: Philip Stanhope, John Hervey, Mistress Lepell, Colonel Campbell and Mistress Bellenden and Mrs. Howard. They seated themselves in random chairs or at the card tables placed throughout the room.
Yes, thought Abigail, Mrs. Howard, the prince's mistress, would be more than interested in Barbara's disgrace. And the young Mistresses Bellenden and Lepell had been the beauties of the court until Barbara's arrival. She could almost feel sorry for her niece, but then she saw Tony and Charles coming into the room, and the expression on Charles's face as he leaned against the wall made any stirrings of compassion she felt fade completely.
The door from the Prince of Wales's private apartments opened. Conversation, spasmodic anyway, suspended itself to begin again almost at once as Mary Saylor closed the door and went to her mother. Abigail sighed. Mary was not pretty, and there was just not much that could be done about it. On Tony, pale brows and lashes did not matter (and Barbara, hussy that she was, combed hers dark) but on Mary, unmarried, and therefore not able to wear artificial aids to beauty, and possessing a square face anyway, they were fatal. She did have a good figure, and large, blue–gray eyes like Tony's, but compared to Mistress Bellenden or Mistress Lepell (or Barbara), she fell short. Not that it mattered. She was the sister of a duke and that was by far the most important asset of all to possess. But Abigail had been pretty when she was Mary's age, and Fanny still was. (You cannot make a silk purse out of a pig's ear, she could just hear the Duchess say.)
"Oh, be quiet!" snapped Abigail.
Philippe leaned toward her. "I beg your pardon."
"Nothing. A random thought…"
The door to the private apartments opened again. Again, conversation halted. It was Diana, and she took one look at the gathered crowd, so casually resuming their conversations, and said loudly, "Damn!"
Everyone heard, which did not seem to bother her in the least. It comes from running with Robert Walpole, thought Abigail, who stiffened as if someone had slapped her. Carlyle laughed behind his fan. He watched Diana walk over to her sister–in–law.
"Why are you still here?" Diana said, not bothering to lower her voice. "If you left, some of the others might follow. I never thought you would stoop to gloating, Abigail, but then Barbara has dampened quite a few of your plans, has she not?"
"I never gloat!" Abigail flashed before she could help herself. Her bosom swelled. She was not going to allow Diana to divert her into an unseemly quarrel. Not that she minded quarreling; there was a lot she had to say to Diana about her daughter—but not here, in Richmond Lodge.
"I was waiting for Mary," she managed to finish calmly, "and she has just now appeared. We are leaving. I have no wish to see my own niece humiliated, I do assure you."
"She is not going to be—"
"Ladies," said Carlyle, in a purring voice, looming like a giant bear just behind Diana. "May I join your little circle? I felt so lonely over there, and I must say, it does my heart good to see families clinging together in times of trouble."
Diana scowled and turned to answer, but then her mouth dropped open. Everyone saw it, saw her expression of complete amazement combined with chagrin, and turned as if they were one body to see what she was looking at. There was an audible gasp.
Barbara stood framed in the doorway, one hand resting on her husband's arm, the other hand on the shoulder of her page. All three of them wore mourning.
"Wonderful," murmured Carlyle. "Simply wonderful." He sighed and put a huge hand over his heart.
Charles, his eyes fastened to Barbara's profile as she passed him, stood like someone turned to stone. As did Philippe.
"Mama!" Mary said, too excited to be quiet. "Roger is with her!"
"We all have eyes in our heads," Abigail said acidly, irritated at feeling slightly overwhelmed herself by the impression their entrance was making. But then she happened to glance at Charles's face, and the anger and despair on it shook her to her soul. She felt the blood rush to her head from the shock of it. It was
not some infatuation, then. He was head over heels in love. She shook out her gown and swept forward grandly. What Roger had started, she could finish. And would finish, for Mary's sake. She met them halfway in the room, kissing Barbara's cheek and smiling determinedly at Roger.
"I am delighted to see the pair of you," she said loudly. (Everyone was listening anyway. It was simpler to speak clearly so that nothing would be repeated incorrectly when it was repeated, as it would be.) "Barbara, my angel, you have all my sympathy and support."
"Abigail," said Roger, leading his wife past her smoothly, "your sympathy and support are taken for granted."
The sight of Philippe, standing there, staring at her, with a white, grim face, his eyes like stones, made Barbara stop in her tracks. I will not speak to him, she thought. I will not. She began to tremble. Roger pushed her forward, and she found herself among her family.
"Barbara," Diana said, her violet eyes on Roger. She tried to pull her daughter off to one side unobtrusively. "It would be much better if you saw the prince alone. I have spoken with him and—"
"Diana," Roger said, "I could not help overhearing. I will not allow my wife to see the prince alone. Hyacinthe, you may go and inform the prince's secretary that Lord and Lady Devane both await his pleasure." He raised Diana's limp hand and kissed it. "I am sure you understand," he said. Diana was silent.
No one in the room was making any pretense of watching anything other than every move Roger and Barbara made. All eyes focused on Hyacinthe as he ran to do as he was told, then swung back immediately to Roger, who seemed to be the principal actor in a drama no one quite understood, but all felt a part of.
"Do you ever miss anything?" Roger said to Carlyle.
Carlyle forgot his affectation long enough to grin, but then Roger looked at Philippe, and the smile that had been on his face since he entered the room thinned at the edges.
"I did not expect you here today," he said.
"Nor I you."
Abigail caught her breath at the expression on Roger's face.
"You know me," Carlyle said quickly, stepping in between Roger and Philippe and waving his fan outrageously so that all attention centered on him. "I follow the drama, on stage and off. Your entrance was magnificent! There has been nothing like it for years. The armbands are an exquisite touch. My compliments. I would give my back teeth, yes, my back teeth, to be in that room for his expression when you walk in beside her. It will outdo anything seen in here. And I must say, my dear one, that it is very well done. Do you not agree, Philippe? It is certainly well done of Roger."
"Very well done."
Hyacinthe came scurrying out of the private apartments. Roger, glancing around the room, gave his arm to Barbara.
"If you will excuse us," he said to the room in general, "we have an appointment."
There was complete silence as they walked to the door, and a kind of collective sigh as the door closed behind them.
"Magnificent," said Carlyle, snapping shut his fan.
Diana frowned at the closed door.
"Philippe," said Abigail, who like everyone else had found herself watching the Devanes until the door literally closed in her face, "do reconsider and have luncheon with—why, Philippe! What is wrong? You look ill."
He bowed blindly in her direction. The dueling scar showed red–pink against the extreme whiteness of his face. "If you will excuse me this time, Abigail. I find I have a sudden headache. I will walk a while in the gardens…" And his heels made a clicking sound as he limped away from them all, straight through the terrace doors and down the steps out onto the lawns.
Other people were leaving also. Diana's glance swept the room and returned to Colonel Campbell, a close friend of the prince's. Her eyes narrowed. She swayed toward him, smiling beautifully, and they left the room together. Mrs. Howard, leaning on Philip Stanhope's arm, laughed at something he was saying as they walked away.
"There, at least," said Carlyle, "goes one person who is happy to see the Devanes reconciled." He waved his fan pensively.
Abigail took her daughter's arm, ignoring Carlyle. He might have been invisible.
"Come along, dear. I never meant for us to stay so long. I must say Barbara was fortunate Roger has such a strong sense of duty. I want to speak with your brother and Lord Charles before we leave—"
"Oh, no," Mary said, pulling back.
"I cannot abide unnecessary shyness. Pull yourself together, Mary," Abigail snapped. "Do move out of the way, Lord Carlyle! Charles will be delighted to see you."
"Not today," Mary said. But her mother was sweeping her along…just as she always did.
"A wise woman," Abigail was saying in a low voice, while she smiled in the direction of Tony and Charles, "ignores a man's infatuation with a woman he cannot possibly marry. And even Charles Russel cannot compete with Roger Montgeoffry if Roger has decided to reconcile. Not that she will make him a good wife, but that is neither here nor there. What is here and there is your future—Tony, my dear boy. Give your mother a kiss. Lord Charles…so good to see you. I had a letter from your mother just the other day. Before all this nonsense, of course. You remember my daughter, Mary, do you not? I was just telling her that it seems an age since you have visited us. Your mother and I are such dear friends."
Carlyle smiled behind his fan at Abigail's maneuvers. Superb. Charles Russel could barely wrench his eyes from the door to the private chambers, but Abigail Saylor was forcing him to, forcing him to smile and act as if everything around him were normal. How fortunate that I decided to come today, thought Carlyle. So many pieces of a puzzle lying about, no rhyme or reason to them, and in ten minutes the overall design becomes plain, if one only has the sense to see it. Ah, life, how wearying it all is. And he snapped shut his fan and strolled out of the room. And finally, so did Abigail and Mary.
Only Charles and Tony were left. The two of them lounged against the wall, both big, one of them angry but self–possessed, the other shy and grave. Both of them stared at the door to the private apartments, and a muscle worked in Charles's cheek.
In about a quarter of an hour, the door opened. Roger and Barbara, with Hyacinthe, came through, and the moment the door closed behind them, Barbara took her hand from Roger's arm. She wiped at her face quickly, angrily. Tony and Charles straightened up. Both looked at her. Her face, for a second, crumpled. She ran toward Tony, and he opened his arms.
"I will not cry," she whispered into his chest, crushing his satin lapels in her clenched fists. His hand came up to stroke her hair, but he caught himself. Roger's eyes went to Tony's face at that arrested gesture. Charles stood to one side, his face grim and uncertain at the same time.
"Lord Charles Russel."
Charles looked at the footman standing at the door to the private apartments. His hand went out to Barbara, but he, too, caught himself, and then he strode toward the door. He and Roger locked eyes. The resemblance between them was striking. Charles might have been his son. He stopped in front of the older, and yet still more handsome, man.
"I owe you an apology," he said abruptly. His face was flushed, but he met Roger's eyes squarely.
"You do," Roger said. "But there has been enough scandal, therefore I will accept on my wife's behalf." The stress he put on the words "my wife" was lost on no one in the room, except, perhaps, Barbara. "I need not remind you a gentleman does not intrude where he is no longer wanted. Need I, Charles?" Roger's voice was soft and deadly.
Charles's nostrils flared. He looked as if he wanted to kill someone, but he bowed shortly and strode through the door to the private apartments.
Barbara said into Tony's coat, "I was so ashamed for him to reprimand me! If Roger had not been with me—"
"Well, it is over now. All over."
She stepped away from him at those words and looked up into his face. "So it is. Everything is. Tell me the truth, Tony. Are you ashamed of me?"
Very slowly, a smile spread across his face. It changed the contours and lit his eye
s. For a moment, he was almost handsome. He shook his head.
"Go to Tamworth, Bab. I think you would do better there."
"Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I am going to do." She hugged him. "You will write me? You will visit me?" She hugged him again. "I love you, Tony."
He stepped back, nodded once to Roger and left the room, his blond head bowed.
"There is no need to see me home—" Barbara began, but Roger interrupted.