Rumors That Ruined a Lady

by Marguerite Kaye

  She jumped to her feet, her fists clenched angrily at her sides. ‘What if you had been serious?’ she demanded. ‘What if your intentions had been honourable? And why, now I come to think of it, assume that they were dis-honourable?’

  ‘To be fair, Caro, the evidence was rather stacked against me.’

  She turned on him furiously. ‘You told me yourself that you never seduce innocents, and though I scarcely knew you at all I believed you. I’d have thought your father would have realised—why did he not defend you?’

  ‘Oh, by that time I had become so ingrained in my habits as to make it impossible for me to change, according to my father,’ Sebastian said, unable to keep the sneer from his voice.

  ‘You were four-and-twenty not four-and-fifty, for goodness’ sake. And you might have been a rake, but you were also a gentleman.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady, but it seems that was a matter of some dispute at the time.’ Sebastian got to his feet. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, my father was in the right of it and I knew it. My reputation was such that your being in my company could only be detrimental. You deserved better.’

  ‘I deserved better! Well, thank you kindly, my lord, I certainly got what I deserved.’ She caught herself up on a sharp intake of breath. ‘No. That is unfair of me. It was not your fault. You left. I did as I had always intended and made the match my father desired. I would have done so without his manipulating and scheming behind my back. He should have known that.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Stupid Caro, of course he did not. He has proven quite conclusively not only that he doesn’t love me but also that he doesn’t know me at all.’

  Relieved to see her smiling again, Sebastian held out his hand. ‘Just think how mortified he will be when he discovers that you have been plotting an orgy on his very doorstep.’

  ‘If only your father was still alive, we could kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Holding orgies at Crag Hall would merely be confirming my father’s expectations of me.’

  ‘It seems we are both cursed with parents who don’t understand us at all,’ Caro said. ‘But yours is dead now, Sebastian. Why not be rid of him once and for all, put your own stamp upon the Hall, claim it for your own, rather than shut it up like some sort of mausoleum to his memory?’

  ‘Because ghosts belong in a mausoleum,’ Sebastian said drily, ‘and I intend to keep this one firmly closed.’

  London—autumn 1828

  The ripple of tepid applause which greeted the end of the first act roused Caro from her reverie. She’d come to the Theatre Royal hoping that, by immersing herself in Rosalind’s travails in the latest production of Mr Shakespeare’s As You Like It, she might divert herself from her own myriad problems. It hadn’t worked. Instead of concentrating on the play, she had spent the last half-hour cudgelling her brain, going round and round in circles in an effort to decide what else, if anything, could be done to ascertain the whereabouts of her youngest sister.

  It was very worrying. A few months ago Cordelia had eloped and simply disappeared off the face of the earth. Though she had twice written to reassure their sister Cressie that she was well, neither Cressie nor Aunt Sophia had any clue as to Cordelia’s whereabouts, nor even whom she had eloped with! As if that wasn’t enough, to everyone’s astonishment Cressie herself—logical, sensible Cressie—had run off with an Italian painter, leaving Bella in a state of complete shock. With Papa detained in St Petersburg unable to do more than cast his diplomatic net by proxy and Aunt Sophia laid up in bed with the gout, Cordelia had been temporarily consigned to whatever fate she had chosen for herself. Unless Caro could find her, which, though she had been extremely glad of the excuse to escape to London, she had so far signally failed to do.

  She fidgeted with her brisé fan, folding and unfolding it nervously. It was French, antique, made of ebony and beautifully carved. An expensive present from their trip to Paris three years ago when she’d thought, she really had believed, that finally she’d got her life back on a straight and narrow path. Alone in the theatre box Lord Armstrong maintained, though very rarely used, Caro got to her feet to stretch her legs, shaking out the skirts of her evening gown. Newly delivered by the modiste this afternoon, it was made of emerald-green velvet, fitted tight to the waist in the latest fashion, with a full skirt and very full puffed sleeves. The bodice and the hem of the gown were embroidered in silver, an intricate pattern of scrollwork and ferns which looked vaguely classical. The décolleté made the most of her modest cleavage and pale shoulders. Though she would never be described as voluptuous, she’d filled out these last two or three years and no longer had the coltish look of her first Season.

  Returning with resignation to her seat in preparation for the beginning of the next act, Caro felt her skin prickle with awareness. Anxious to avoid having to make small talk with any acquaintance, she opened her fan again, shielding her face as she surveyed the other private boxes.

  Oh, dear heaven.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She forced herself to breathe deeply. So many times these last four years she’d thought she had caught sight of him. A tall figure with the same shade of hair, or build, or even just a similar gait, and her heart would jump and her mouth would go dry. A second glance invariably revealed that the hair was too light or too dark, that the shoulders were not broad enough, the legs were too short, or that there was not enough of an easy swing to the stride. It was never him.

  She forced herself to take another look. The man who had caught her attention had turned away to address his male companion. He was tall, his broad frame straining the shoulders of his evening coat, which was unfashionably cut in the shape popular several Seasons ago, for the waist was not nipped tightly in, the sleeves were too fitted. This man was broader, surely, than Sebastian—though in four years he, like her, would have filled out. And his hair, it was a lighter shade of brown, more caramel than chocolate, and streaked with gold. A strong resemblance certainly, but that was all.

  He swivelled round. His face was deeply tanned. The lines on his brow were deeper, but his mouth still turned down at the corners. And his eyes, dark brown and locked on hers, were exactly the same. Caro’s fan slipped unnoticed to the ground as she clutched at her breast, for it really did feel as if her heart was trying to escape from her rib cage.

  * * *

  For several seconds, Sebastian could only stare. It was his first night back in London. Propriety dictated he should not even be here at the theatre under the circumstances, but spending the evening in the dark, familiar atmosphere of Limmer’s coffee room held no appeal. He had arrived home—ha! What a misnomer—at Crag Hall just over a week ago, to find that his journey had been a futile one.

  The letter which would have sped his return, which would have allowed him to reach England in time, had never reached him. He had not acknowledged even to himself how much he wished to try, not to forgive, never to forget, but at least to achieve some sort of détente, until fate took a hand and denied him the opportunity in the most brutal manner possible. Now there could never be any sort of reconciliation.

  Save for the lawyer and the staff at the Hall, he had spoken to no one. Holed up in the shuttered, gloomy house, he had been unable to face the mountainous pile of post, nor even to read the newspaper. He’d grown accustomed to thinking that this momentous event, when it finally came, would signal freedom. He had not for a moment considered the possibility that he would for ever be burdened with the weight of the questions he had never asked, for ever locked on the other side of some door beyond which lay understanding.

  At times, he was so angry with his father that it was almost physical, alleviated only when he had exhausted himself riding, walking, or practising alone with the rapier he had bought in Italy. For four years, he had travelled the world, wandering further and further afield, losing himself in the anonymity of new cultures, strange places, with no other responsi
bility than simply to experience. He had no reason to return to England. Indeed, his father had given him every reason not to.

  He had not been aware that the desire to reassess and reappraise, the wish to effect a fresh start, had been growing until it was too late. The turmoil caused by his father’s death had unleashed such a vortex of emotion, Sebastian wondered if he would ever know for certain how he felt or who he was again. Every fixed point in his life had moved, cleaving away the foundations of his world. Who’d have thought that the old man’s ghost would cast even more of a shadow than his presence?

  In the old days, a visit to the theatre would have been the prelude to a raucous night on the town. It would have been easy to join the throng in the pit, to renew old acquaintances with fellows who would know the latest fashionable places to see and be seen. Afterwards, they would fill him in on the latest gossip and scandal, introduce him to the latest toasts. But upon arriving at the brightly lit theatre, Sebastian had taken one look at the crowded pit with its crush of ogling beaus and preening dandies and recoiled in horror. Four years, most of it spent roaming far beyond the reaches of what these people termed civilisation, had changed him so much that he couldn’t believe he’d ever taken pleasure in such pastimes.

  Upon the brink of turning tail, he’d bumped into his cousin, and could not, given recent events, decline Bernard’s invitation to join him in his box, ‘for the first act, at least old chap, just to take your mind off recent events.’ One interminable act had proved more than sufficient. By the time it drew to a close, Sebastian was longing for solitude. Nothing, it seemed, could distract him from the whirl of his thoughts, the endless circles of questions and regrets, so he may as well be alone with them.

  As he was bidding his cousin farewell, the hairs on the back of his neck had stood on end. Someone was watching him. He had turned, and her presence hit him like a blow to the stomach, quite literally depriving him of his breath.

  She had changed. She’d lost the angular look of youth and the extreme slenderness too. She was still slim, but there was a softness about her now, and more defined curves. Her hair was as vibrant as ever, shimmering in the flame of the candlelight, and her eyes were still that remarkable shade of summer blue. Four years. He thought he had forgotten her. He was mistaken. Sebastian quit his cousin’s box and was rapping on the door of hers in seconds, pushing it open before she could respond. ‘Caro?’

  She was clutching the back of a gilded chair, staring at him as if he were an apparition. ‘Sebastian?’

  He pulled her into the dark recesses of the box, well away from prying eyes. She was the only touchstone left in his life. Right at this moment, she felt like sanctuary. ‘Caro. I can’t believe it’s really you.’

  He took her hands in his, and would have pulled her closer, but she resisted. ‘I heard about Lord Ardhallow,’ she said stiffly, ‘please accept my sincere...’

  ‘Thank you.’ He cut her short, having no wish to discuss his late father. His emotions, already in turmoil, now felt completely scrambled. She was the last person he’d expected to see. The silence hung between them like a void as they each recalled the last time they had spoken, that fateful night at Lady Innellan’s ball.

  ‘I’ve missed you.’ He was as surprised as she, when he blurted the words out. Even more surprised by the truth of them.

  ‘Don’t.’ She was staring at him, her expression stricken, her eyes over-bright. Caro hated to cry, yet a tear tracked its way down her pale cheek and she made no effort to stop it.

  ‘Are you here alone?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘I—yes. This is my father’s box. He is in Russia with Wellington, and Bella is at Killellan.’

  ‘Your sister Lady Cressida is not available to accompany you? Forgive me, I know nothing of what has transpired in London since I left, I have made rather a point of not keeping in touch.’

  ‘Nothing? You mean nothing at all?’

  She was chalk white. There were lines around her eyes that had not been there before, and dark shadows too. Her features seemed more finely etched, and despite her more rounded shape, her appearance seemed more fragile, brittle even. Sebastian shook his head. ‘Most of the places I’ve been in latterly don’t receive post.’

  ‘And besides, you were not interested, were you? As I recall, you could not wait to kick the dust of London from your feet.’

  He was nonplussed by her apparent lack of emotion. The elation of seeing her again, the sudden shaft of light which was the realisation that she was the only person he wanted to see, both faded in the face of her reserve. ‘I beg your pardon, I see I have misjudged the situation. I should not have intruded.’ He sketched a bow. It was not that he wanted to leave, but he had no idea what else to do.

  ‘Don’t go.’ Caro reached for him as he made for the door, then faltered. ‘I mean, there is no need to go just yet. I was just thinking of leaving myself. I find the play does not hold my interest.’

  ‘Nor mine. May I—would you like me to escort you to...?’

  ‘Cavendish Square. I have my father’s carriage, but—yes. Yes, yes, you may escort me. We are old friends, after all, why not?’

  * * *

  The time it took to summon her father’s town coach from the long queue of carriages lined up outside the theatre seemed like an eon, the short journey to Cavendish Square an eternity. Caro had chosen to stay in her father’s town house rather than her own, which she never thought of as hers in any case. Being in Cavendish Square made her feel closer to Cordelia, most of whose clothes and possessions had been left there when she ran off.

  She sat beside Sebastian in silence. He was, she assumed, as confused as she by the atmosphere between them, a tension that both pulled and repelled at the same time. She could hardly believe they were sitting in a carriage together as if nothing had changed. Everything had changed. Except what she felt for him, that had remained unchanged. No, that was not at all true. Four years had passed. She was no longer a naïve young girl in love with the idea of being in love with a rake. Something precious had been lost along the way.

  Her father’s house was shuttered, the knocker removed, for her youngest sister’s elopement earlier in the Season had forced Aunt Sophia, who had been acting as Cordelia’s chaperon since Bella was indisposed, to close the place up. Caro inserted her key in the lock of the front door, and turned it with some difficulty. ‘There is only a skeleton staff here, and I have asked them not to wait up,’ she said to Sebastian, leading him to the small salon at the rear of the house which had always been the Armstrong sisters’ domain. On the wall above the sewing table was the drawing Cassie had sketched of Caro astride her favourite pony as a child. Atop the mantelpiece was the shell owl which Celia had made following a trip to Brighton. A battered and well-thumbed copy of One Thousand and One Nights lay hidden in the secret drawer of the escritoire.

  Caro was nervous. Her hand wavered as she applied a taper to the fire and lit the branch of candles on a side-table. The house was eerily quiet. Her father would be appalled if he ever found out she was here alone with a man other than her husband. Good! It was not that she blamed him for her choice, which had been entirely her own decision, albeit one he had previously approved, but she did blame him for the relentless ambition which had forced her into the yoke which he made for her in the name of duty.

  She unfastened the clasp at the neck of her evening cloak and cast it over the back of a wingback chair by the fireside. The buttons of her left glove were too stiff for her shaking fingers to undo.

  ‘Here, let me.’

  Remembering too late why she should have kept her gloves on, she tried to snatch her hand away. ‘No. It’s fine, I’ll manage.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She flinched as he caught her fingers, stifling a cry of pain. ‘You’re hurt,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  But
he was already unbuttoning her left glove, carefully unrolling it down her arm and easing the soft kid material over her fingers. An ugly bruise, purple fading into yellow and brown, covered most of her hand. Her fourth finger and the little one next to it were swollen. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Fell?’ He looked at her incredulously.

  ‘I was—a door closed on me. It was an accident. Please give me back my glove.’

  ‘Have you consulted a physician?’

  ‘No! For heaven’s sake, Sebastian, it’s just a bruise.’ She snatched the glove back but made no attempt to put it back on.

  ‘What’s wrong, Caro? Would you prefer it if I left? I would understand if you did.’

  ‘No! Don’t go. Not yet.’ She removed her other glove, throwing them both down on top of her cloak. ‘So, you are the Marquis of Ardhallow now,’ she said in an attempt to make conversation, though what conversation she imagined they could possibly have...

  Sebastian nodded.

  ‘That must be—difficult for you. You never did wish to walk in your father’s shoes.’

  He nodded again, more tersely this time. Stupid! She should have known better than to mention his father. Caro smoothed out a crease in the skirt of her gown. They had neither of them sat down, but were facing each other across the hearth, as if they were both afraid of making a wrong move. Was there such a thing as a right move? She should not be thinking of any sort of move. She should not have invited him in but neither did she want him to leave. She smoothed out another crease in her gown. ‘Things are not particularly easy for me either at present. There are things relating to—my sisters, my family. I went to the theatre tonight thinking to escape for a few hours.’