Harley Street

by Lynne Connolly

  “I want you to myself, Rose. I’ll get things under way quickly. We’ll have our own establishment ready for next season. It will mean a lot of shopping but I’ve never noticed an aversion to that in you.” His smile turned to a chuckle; I’d spent more money than I dreamed of in recent months.

  “I’ll enjoy that.”

  “I know.”

  “What about Gervase? Won’t he realise something’s different?”

  Richard frowned. “Not necessarily. We tend to feel each other’s close proximity and hurts, not pleasures, except for the occasional extreme emotion. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t tell him, if you agree.”

  “I think we should. If he suspects something, he’ll ask and if he knows, then he’ll also understand we want to keep it to ourselves for a while.”

  “He’s coming to dinner tonight. We’ll tell him then.”

  WE ASKED FOR GERVASE to be sent up to our sitting room before he went to the main drawing room and we told him there. He embraced me warmly and shook Richard’s hand, delighted by the news, and readily agreed to keep it to himself for the time being. “We’re fairly sure,” I told him, “but not entirely.”

  “And we want to find our own house,” Richard added.

  Gervase’s eyes gleamed in amusement. “Planning your escape, eh?”

  Richard answered with a grin of his own. “Wouldn’t you? You spent twelve years skulking in India. I always thought the fact you made a fortune there was only incidental.” A trifle unfair but he made his point.

  During the next week, we viewed several houses. They were all much smaller than Southwood House and much more to my taste. We chose one to our liking in fashionable Brook Street. My parents-in-law disapproved but didn’t object too strenuously, so we continued with the acquisition of the lease. When we viewed the houses, it reminded me forcibly of another time when we had viewed an empty house before we were married and I knew he thought of it, too, although neither of us said anything. We didn’t need to.

  I began to doubt I was pregnant. I felt no different than normal. I’d heard women got sick in the first few months but I didn’t, nor did I look any different. I don’t know what I’d expected but it wasn’t this.

  The only other person I let into the secret was Nichols. She had guessed, as she, too, could count but she also agreed to say nothing for the time being. The first few months of pregnancy were the most risky and I didn’t want anyone to know until I was sure. As far as we could tell, the baby was due in June, when the season would be over. I felt confident I could carry a child but the birthing process with all its attendant pains and indignities was something I dreaded. I’d helped Martha with two of her three births and although she assured me they had been easy, I saw nothing easy about them. It was something I didn’t tell people, as an unmarried woman in the birthing chamber wasn’t approved of but the opportunity to help had been irresistible. Now it was my turn.

  A FEW DAYS AFTER WE’D told Gervase, I was sitting over an early breakfast, prior to going shopping with Lizzie, when a footman brought a note was to me. It had been delivered by hand. I didn’t recognise the writing. I slit it open and began to read.

  Dear Lady Strang,

  It is a long time since we met last, is it not? So many things have happened since then. I have been married to my dear wife for nearly a year now but seeing you at Court reminded me what we once meant to each other. Allow me to say how lovely you looked, so different from the shy girl of our Exeter days.

  My wife and I have no reason to feel animosity towards you now, in fact, the opposite, as we were brought together by you. We would like to be comfortable in your presence and now that we are members of the same exalted society, we are bound to run into each other from time to time. I would like to be assured that you mean no insult to my wife when we meet and that you will acknowledge us with gentility, if not cordiality, is my dearest hope. Therefore, I would request a private meeting between us, to clear the air. I hope you can accede to this request, in the name of past friendship.

  Yours etc.

  Steven Drury.

  His signature had acquired a new flourish and someone else must have addressed the missive for him, otherwise, on recognising his handwriting I might well have consigned the note to the fire and not read it at all. I had cause to know his writing. Once open, I read it. At first I felt indignant and almost burned the note and thought no more about it but then I decided to find Richard.

  He was dressing, sitting in shirtsleeves and breeches at his dressing table with only Carier in attendance. He read the note, his face grim. He made to crumple it but then looked up at my face and sat back. “I know that look. What are you thinking?”

  Carier found a chair for me and I thanked him with a smile. “All society knows animosity lies between us and the Drurys. We could make a spectacle of ourselves—or they could.” He nodded. “This would give us an opportunity to put it behind us. And we could watch them better, if their guard is down.”

  “So you don’t take the note at face value?” He tapped the paper with one beautifully manicured hand. The paper quivered, then stilled.

  I shook my head. “Not for one minute.” He made a small sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter but he didn’t interrupt me. “They’re both capable of bearing a grudge. What if we don’t let them see how it is between us? Let them think the dynastic, formal element has taken over?”

  He put one finger to his lips, then took it away again. “Wouldn’t that encourage them to make a move?”

  “But we would know what sort of move, wouldn’t we? With luck, they’d concentrate on that instead of anything more dangerous.”

  That caught his attention and a smile quirked his lips. “You do know your strategic thinkers, don’t you? Did you read Doria while we were in Italy?”

  “I may have done but I’m more familiar with Machiavelli.”

  He let out a short laugh. “Yes, it shows.” He paused, then read the note through again while he thought about my proposal. “It would be safer and anything which puts you out of danger, my love, especially at this time—” He paused and looked guiltily at me when I glanced at Carier, coming back into the room with a gleaming waistcoat. “He knows,” confessed my husband.

  Carier bowed. “I offer my felicitations. I can assure you, my lady, it will go no further.”

  “I know.” I smiled at him. “Thank you, Carier.” I brought my attention back to Richard.

  “So shall we ask them to call?”

  “Not until after Lizzie’s coming-out ball. They won’t be there and I’d like to concentrate on that and…other things for now. I’ll write to them, shall I?”

  He took my hand and kissed it. “If you don’t mind. No, on second thought”—his eyes gleamed—“ask Brangwyn to write.” I saw his point and agreed with him.

  George Brangwyn was fitting in well, coordinating our appointments and informing us where we should be and when. It was much easier to let him schedule everything and all we had to do was inform him which functions interested us and which did not.

  Lady Southwood continued to complain about our bedroom rule. “It puts out the whole routine of the house,” she said to Richard one afternoon over tea, between guests. “The servants have to wait to service your room until you have left it. It destroys their routine and I like them to work to a routine that I set. They are talking. The details of your personal habits will be all around London by now.”

  That was shrewd. Richard hated having his private life discussed in public. But he showed her none of this, raising a languid eyebrow and leaning back in his chair. “Dismiss them. The rumours and the servants. I’m afraid the rule is immutable, madam.”

  “I can overrule you, at least in this house. I may send a maid in anyway.” She met his gaze fearlessly but he was past her jurisdiction now.

  “If you do, I will personally chase them out, so it depends how many hysterical maids you think you can cope with. You know I prefer not to wear night
shirts.” His words were lightly drawled but the light in his eyes showed he meant it. “Besides, you won’t have to put up with us for much longer.”

  She drew herself up. “You are welcome in this house for as long as you choose to stay in it.” The stiffness of her tone belied her words.

  “I appreciate your kind offer, but I think the sooner we have a separate establishment, the more comfortable we will all be.”

  I had to agree with my husband. I was growing to hate this house.

  Chapter Eight

  RICHARD CAME TO SEE me in the morning room when I had just finished reading the letter Brangwyn had written to the Drurys. I was surprised to see him. “Why, I thought you’d be in the coffee house.”

  “I decided to come home and see you instead.” He gave me a fond smile. “Perhaps I’ll go out again in a little while.” He held his hand out for the letter and Brangwyn gave it to him.

  While Richard scanned the letter, I asked, “You’re a Welshman, Brangwyn. Whereabouts do you come from?”

  “In the south, my lady, near Swansea.” He had the faintest lilt in his voice. “But I’ve spent more time away from home.”

  “Working?”

  “Indeed, my lady. First as a tutor on the Grand Tour, now a secretary.”

  Richard gave him a wry grin. “I didn’t take the least bit of notice of my tutor on the Tour. Poor man, I led him a crazy dance.”

  “I got to see things that I couldn’t have otherwise seen, sir.” Brangwyn’s dark eyes gazed into the distance and he smiled, then looked back at me. “I am content.”

  “Well, I have no parliamentary aims,” Richard reminded him. “So the minute you get a better offer, you must come and tell me.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Richard gave Brangwyn the letter and he bowed. Noiselessly he left the room to seal and send it. Richard perched on the edge of the large desk. “He’ll do well.”

  “Indeed.” It had been nearly three weeks since we discovered Lucy Forder’s corpse and I had heard little of the matter. I didn’t like to bring the subject up, but now was as good a time as any. “Is there any news about poor Lucy?”

  He lifted a brow. “She’s still dead.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. No, there is no news. Enquiries take time, especially when I have to put queries over Europe.” He nodded when he saw my surprise. “It seems they travelled. I’ve put enquiries in train and so far, nothing, although that is news in itself. We know where she didn’t spend any time.”

  “So we wait.” I picked up another note. I wanted to change the subject as quickly as I could, dispel that melancholy I had brought to his face. “Martha wrote to me. She says she’s snowed under with preparations for the coming-out ball. She wants me to help.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. Not now. This is your first pregnancy and we have no idea how it will affect you. You came close to fainting away at St. James’ and I won’t have it happen again if I can prevent it.”

  I agreed with him. So far the faintness and a tenderness in my body were my only symptoms but he was right. A first pregnancy was venturing into the unknown. Besides, Martha had become too used to having me around to help her in the past. I would not become her adjunct in the future.

  The autumn sun streamed through the window, hit the great ruby on my finger and set it winking. “I was expected to be the spinster aunt. Martha would have liked me to stay at home and help her. Especially now.”

  He reached for my hand. “Five-and-twenty was no age to fall into flat despair.” He looked at me, holding me with his gaze. “I was lucky to get you.”

  I laughed, still not used to thinking of myself as a society “beauty” the gossip-rags insisted I was. “Exeter society had me for years and they didn’t think so.”

  He made a sound of derision. “Pearls before swine.” His smile showed me the sincerity of his words.

  THE GOWN I CHOSE FOR the coming-out ball was much more to my taste than the magnificent presentation gown. This was a French sacque, tight in the bodice and full in the skirt, in apple green brocade, embroidered, flounced and pinked, with a matching petticoat similarly embellished. The lace at my elbows and on my bodice was from Brussels, the fan an exquisitely delicate French creation. Nichols dressed and powdered my hair, then laced me into the gown and I looked in the mirror and saw the great lady I was only just beginning to be familiar with.

  Richard entered on his knock, bearing a long box. “I knew you were wearing green. I asked Nichols. So I got these for you, if you should like them.”

  He’d promised me emeralds in Venice. Now here they were in abundance, fashioned into a beautiful parure, the pieces so light and delicate they looked ethereal. The brilliant-cut small diamonds that embellished the green stones flashed when I moved the box. The design was of intertwining ribbons and bows, fluid and fragile.

  I lifted the necklace and he helped me put it on. I watched the transformation in the mirror. Nichols pinned the large brooch on my stomacher and the aigrette in my hair while I hooked in the earrings.

  The maid who assisted Nichols when I dressed en grande toilette left. Richard came up behind me as I stood before the large mirror. “You know why I’m giving you these?” He took the edge of my earlobe gently between his teeth before releasing it.

  “Yes.” I met his clear gaze in the mirror.

  “Because I love you.” He slipped his hands about my waist. “And because you’re so brave and so clever.” He kissed my neck.

  It had taken some time before I could accustom myself to such intimacies in front of Nichols. “It took both of us. Perhaps I should give you something.”

  “You already have.” When I turned to face him, Nichols slipped quietly out of the room, and I could kiss him properly without holding back. If it had been any other ball, we would have stayed at home.

  We went down to the carriage together. I knew that I looked at my best. His attention had given me a glow not even the emeralds could better. Even Lord Southwood noticed it. “I’m not a ladies’ man, my dear, but damn me if I was, you’d be the sort I’d choose.” I took it as a compliment. I knew I could make my best effort because nothing would eclipse Lizzie on this night, her night.

  Although this wasn’t the season proper, the ball at Hareton House was successful enough to be voted a sad crush. Enough of a stir had been created about the Golightly girls for some people to make a special visit to the Metropolis for the occasion.

  Most of our particular friends were there; the Flemings, Louisa Crich, Freddy Thwaite sat or stood together, so we joined them. Freddy, a marvellous dark, earthy foil to Richard’s ethereal sensuousness, was Richard’s particular friend. His compliments were outrageous but I didn’t care. I knew he told everybody the same things.

  Martha had cleared the furniture from her largest saloon to use as a ballroom and had opened all the large rooms on the first floor for the use of her guests. The house dazzled with more candles than she would use in six months in the old Manor House, glinting off the gilded plasterwork above the large paintings, turning the guests into glittering icons.

  Richard, standing behind the sofa with Freddy and amusing himself by making acid comments about some of the guests, stopped and his hand gripped my shoulder.

  The warning came just in time. Coming toward us, smiling sweetly, was Eustacia Terry. Richard and Freddy made short bows and she curtseyed to us. “So charming of dear Lady Hareton to invite us.” Eustacia’s smile was beatific. “We didn’t know if we could come but we’re out of mourning now, so Mama said ‘why not?’.”

  “Why not indeed?” Richard’s tones were urbane, the edge in his voice inaudible to those who didn’t know him well. “You travelled all the way from Devonshire for this?” One wave of his elegant hand indicated the room and its inhabitants.

  Miss Terry beamed. “Indeed, sir. I would have gone a lot farther for it, too.”

  “Your first ton party?” Freddy enquired.

  “Oh, Lord Thwaite, how pleasant to see you again.
Yes, our first party in London, the first of many, we hope.”

  “That will depend on many things.” Richard’s voice held no particular interest but I knew he was speculating whether to give them their congé or not. To be cut by Viscount Strang here, in the heart of the ton, would be death to their social hopes but it was doubtful if Miss Terry realised it. He’d denigrated himself in her eyes by marrying me, a despised neighbour. She compounded her mistake by saying, “I must say, Rose, you’re looking as fine as fivepence.” I nodded coldly.

  “A great deal more than fivepence.” Richard moved, as did Freddy, so I wouldn’t have to turn my head to look at them. Eustacia’s pale eyes fixed on my jewellery. With an effort, she tore her avid gaze away and saw Richard watching her with some amusement. “Would you care to dance, Miss Terry?” He gave her his most enchanting smile. “Or are you completely bespoken for this evening?”

  She flushed, and dropped her eyelids, gazing up at him through her lashes. “I’m honoured, sir.”

  “Oh, the honour is mine entirely.” He held out his hand, palm down, for her to lay her own on the back of it.

  Richard was an exquisite dancer, born to it with a natural elegance he’d worked hard to enhance over the years. They were in time for the last of the minuets. People watched this country girl who had taken Richard’s fancy as he guided her through the steps, her naïve efforts at flirtation in response to his graceful approaches and I saw the speculation. Ladies gossiped behind their fans, surreptitious glances cast to where I sat serenely next to Caroline. I had nothing to fear here. Eustacia was fair haired, with pale blue, protuberant eyes and a small chin. She hadn’t the vivacity of my sister Lizzie, nor the intelligence Richard looked for in a woman. I wondered why he’d chosen to be kind to her. Perhaps it was because of the injustice we had done to her in the past, or maybe he felt sorry for her.

  He brought her back to where her mother stood with us and relinquished her to the care of Freddy, who promptly drew her onto the floor for the next dance.