A Lady Like No Other

by Claudia Stone

  “And so, what if it was?” Lydia’s violet eyes were nearly black with anger, and the feather on her ridiculous turban quivered as she spoke, such was her rage. “At least I can say I was forced into his company. Nothing compelled you to come here with Miss Marnell, did it Gabe? Nothing except your trousers.”

  Gabe stood stunned at her outburst; he had never seen Lydia display such emotion. She was usually cool as cucumber, unflappable - but from the death stare she threw him, he gathered she was seething with rage. She was gone in an instant, racing out the door without a backwards glance, a rather shocked Dowager Duchess trailing in her wake. Gabe’s righteous indignation had slithered out the door along with Lady Beaufort. How could he have been so stupid to think that he had the monopoly on jealous rage? Of course, Lydia would be upset to have seen him with Kitty, she didn’t understand that he was only doing it to catch Zitelli. Though now that Gabe thought on it, how would she have known? What she saw was Gabriel standing with a beautiful actress, looking to all the world like he was out for a night of seduction. How ironic that Kitty had brought him to make a lover jealous, and they had unintentionally made Gabe’s sweetheart jealous instead.

  “You look as glum as I feel,” Kitty observed as Gabriel returned to her side. The call went up for the second act, and actress and Marquess looked at each other balefully.

  “I really can’t stand Shakespeare,” Gabriel said helplessly.

  “Nor I,” Kitty admitted, “Boring old git. What say you to a trip to Nuit Noire?”

  Gabriel nodded, he did not feel like going home to wander his house restlessly until dawn came and he could call on Lydia to explain himself. So he called for his carriage, and he and Kitty Marnell left the Theatre Royal and their battered hearts behind.

  Nuit Noire, Sebastian’s gaming hell in Pickering Place, was as usual brimming over with privileged aristocrats and the demimonde. Raucous laughter filled each room, and Gabriel quickly lost Kitty to a group of louche Lords playing hazard in one of the antechambers off the main room. He prowled the periphery of the gaming room in agitation, wondering why on earth he was there. Would it not be better to be stalking the rooms in his own home, rather than the velvet draped rooms of Sebastian’s den of vice?

  “Good God Gabe, your face would halt a funeral procession.” Sebastian, his dark hair tousled rakishly, materialized at Gabriel’s side, grinning at his insult. Sebastian, who usually looked most at home among the tables of the gaming club, looked tonight, like a foreigner visiting a strange land. His blue eyes watched soldiers, sailors, diplomats, and lords, gamble their money recklessly with a detached resignation. He exuded none of the joie de vivre that he usually did, when watching men fill his pockets with money.

  “I might look mournful Seb,” Gabe countered, “But you look like a ghost, you never told me you’d decided to make a living haunting social gatherings.”

  Sebastian laughed ruefully, his eyes still scanning the room.

  “I’m just remembering nights gone by,” he admitted, a slight touch of sadness to his smile. “I’ve sold up, just this very night. Nuit Noire will have a new name above the door tomorrow.”

  “What?” Gabe was sure he was almost shouting as he digested the news. “But why, and to whom?”

  The gaming hell in Pickering Place had been Sebastian’s kingdom for near on a decade. He had made thousands from the wealthy gentlemen who poured through its doors, and had never once even insinuated that he would like to sell it.

  “I don’t have the time anymore,” Sebastian gave a Gallic shrug, “A place like this needs constant attention, it constantly demands hours from your day - and I don’t have any spare hours to give.”

  Because of his wife.

  He didn’t say it aloud, but Gabriel knew that Sebastian’s life now held greater lures than watching the young men of the ton fritter away their inheritances. He had a wife, a home and soon he would have a child to care for. Gabe felt an alarming stab of jealousy for the domesticated pleasures that Sebastian had to look forward to.

  “And who will take over?”

  “Briggs.”

  The intimidating Briggs was Sebastian’s right-hand man, an ex-alumnus of St. Giles’ and a former solider. Gabe smiled, Sebastian could not have entrusted his club into more capable hands.

  “Now we have unearthed the reasons behind my glum countenance, let’s talk about what’s causing yours. Because you look like a right miserable git Gabe.”

  Gabe sighed deeply and so loudly that a few heads turned to stare.

  “I have upset your cousin.”

  “Lydia?” Sebastian’s tone implied that he didn’t believe this possible, it was usually Lydia herself who did the upsetting.

  “She is upset with me because she saw me in the company of Kitty Marnell tonight, when last night we came - well we almost came - to an understanding.”

  “An understanding?” Sebastian bristled with cousinly concern. “Am I going to have to call you out Gabe?”

  “I’d be wearing a smile not a frown, if you’d anything to call me out over,” Gabe reasoned with a rueful laugh. His hands still ached with longing at the memory of holding Lydia’s small waist; if he had managed to steal a kiss, he was certain he would be skipping with joy not mooching around a gambling club like a puppy that had just been kicked.

  “Touché,” Sebastian’s tone was casual, though he still regarded his friend suspiciously. “Why on earth were you with Kitty tonight then if you and Lydia have an understanding?”

  “I was spying on that Count Zitelli,” Gabriel confessed, “I had it on good authority that he was meeting with fellow revolutionaries, under the guise of attending the theatre.”

  “Zitelli?” Sebastian frowned, “The pompous prig who’s mad after Lydia?”

  “The very one.”

  Sebastian gave a howl of laughter, that left Gabriel feeling rather startled.

  “That imbecile probably can’t even dress himself without a valet, I highly doubt that he’s capable of arranging a political assassination.”

  “I have it on good authority -” Gabe drew himself up defensively against Sebastian’s ridicule, but the dark-haired man cut across him.

  “Whose authority?” Sebastian asked, “Blackmore’s?”

  “No,” Gabriel admitted, his fervent belief in Zitelli’s guilt beginning to dampen from the doubt that Seb was pouring on it. “From one of Bernard’s colleagues, Amberford. You know him, the dark little fellow with the spectacles.”

  Sebastian’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, and he scratched his chin, which was beginning to show signs of a shadow, thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know Gabriel,” he finally conceded, “Perhaps he’s just pretending to be an idiot, but I just don’t think he’s a political mastermind. Why don’t you tell Blackmore of your suspicions? Or Bernard for that matter, he’s heading the investigation.”

  “Bernard,” Gabe’s brother in law had near slipped his mind, but now that Sebastian had reminded him of the philandering politician Gabe decided that tomorrow he would kill two birds with one stone. He would find out if Zitelli was really a candidate for suspicion - and he would punch his brother in law square in the jaw for all the hurt he had caused his sister.

  “You look more cheerful now,” Sebastian remarked.

  “Oh, I am,” Gabe smiled, “Believe me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Would you like to hold her?”

  Lydia eyed the tiny bundle of blankets, which her friend Isabella was proffering to her, with wary eyes. She felt like a cornered animal - there was no way she could refuse to hold the baby Flora without insulting her hostess.

  “What if I drop her?” Lydia ventured, hoping she had found a way out.

  “You won’t,” Isabella’s tone was firm, “And besides she’s a chubby little thing. If you drop her I’m sure she’ll bounce.”

  “Oh, but I’m so clumsy,” Lydia protested, but her words were ignored, and Lady Flora Linfield, first child of the
Duke and Duchess of Blackmore, was deposited into her arms by her doting mother.

  “Oh,” Lydia breathed nervously, she had never held anything so small in her life. “She’s tiny.”

  “I know,” Isabella beamed, her beautiful face both proud and excited, “My favourite thing to do is watch Michael hold her. I love watching him hold tiny things because he’s so big. He’s said it’s a welcome change from me making him hold my reticule for my own perverse amusement.”

  Lydia laughed at the image of her enormous cousin carrying an endless assortment of small objects for his wife’s pleasure. The Duke of Blackmore was to most people a formidable man, and to think that Isabella had him wrapped around her finger was delightful. The baby Flora stirred in her arms, disturbed by the vibrations of Lydia’s giggles.

  “Oh,” Lydia breathed again, looking down at the tiny baby girl. Flora’s eyes opened, then closed again; she seemed unimpressed with the new face but the mere act of Flora blinking thrilled Lydia no end.

  “Is she my second cousin?” Lydia wondered aloud, as the babe went back to sleep with a small mewl of contentment.

  “Maybe,” Isabella shrugged, rolling her green eyes. “Or perhaps she’s your first cousin once removed? Nobody actually knows these things Lydia, and if anyone claims they do, they’re just making it up.”

  Lydia smiled at Isabella’s confident certainty, very little seemed to bother the exuberant red-head.

  “You shall come visit me one day Flora,” Lydia whispered in a sing-song voice that she did not recognize as being her own. She had never held a baby before, but the cooing appeared to be a natural instinct when one was around babies. “You and your mummy can come stay with me in Ireland.”

  “Are you really leaving?” Isabella looked at Lydia sadly, and Lydia had to avert her gaze from her friend’s knowing eyes.

  “Yes,” she said firmly, though a small bit of doubt had begun to needle her. Returning to Ireland, and her father, had always been her main objective, but now that she was on the verge of leaving she was terrified. She had not realized, until that morning when she had declared to Tibby that she would sail in two days, just how many friends she had made in London, and how much she loved them all. One in particular, but her mind would not let her dwell on the Marquess of Sutherland, for it was too painful. The thought of being reunited with her father, after so many years, was overwhelming. She loved him dearly, but now that she had lived away from him, she knew that the life he lived was half a life, and that though he loved her, he loved the ghosts of his dead wife and daughters more.

  “Won’t you miss us?”

  The question was innocuous enough, but Lydia could see that Isabella was slightly hurt by the announcement of her sudden departure.

  “Of course, I will,” Lydia declared passionately, “And I shall visit, every year. For how could I stay away from my beautiful maybe-second-cousin-once-removed for too long?”

  Lydia could see that Isabella was slightly mollified by her answer, though a frown creased her brow.

  “Does it have anything to do with Lord Sutherland?” Isabella ventured nervously, “I know that Michael said he’s been making cow eyes at you all season.”

  “No,” Lydia lied automatically, too hurt to reveal that she had let her guard down with the libertine. “Nothing to do with him at all…”

  Which of course was the opposite of the truth; Sutherland had everything to do with her leaving. How could she stay in London and pretend that everything was all right? How could she be expected to watch him making cow eyes at Kitty Marnell and not her?

  She tactfully changed the subject, to talk of acquaintances and ton gossip, and after an hour declared that she must leave.

  “I shall miss you terribly,” she whispered to Isabella as she hugged her goodbye, “And I shall write often, I promise.”

  She left the imposing house on St. James’ Square without looking back, settling herself into her carriage with a straight back and a determined air. This confident resolution was still with her when she arrived back at Tabitha’s home, to find the Duchess taking tea with Count Zitelli in the drawing room.

  “Lydia,” Tabitha rose to stand as she entered the room, her face filled with hope. Lydia’s declaration that she was leaving England had left the Dowager Duchess in tears the night before, alarming her niece. Lydia had not realized just how attached her aunt had become to her, despite the endless lectures on etiquette, deportment, and husband hunting.

  “Look who just arrived,” Tibby gestured hopefully to Count Zitelli, who was resplendent in a coat of what could only be described as pink. Lydia was sure that some unscrupulous tailor had convinced the Count that the material was salmon in colour, but there was no getting around the fact that his coat was a very definite shade of feminine rose. No English man would ever dare to be so flamboyant in his dress, but Lydia was loathe to admit, that while the Count looked a tad silly, the coat contrasted beautifully with his dark colouring and pretty features.

  “Count Zitelli wanted to call on you and take you for a ride through the park,” Tabitha continued, fiddling nervously with the pearls at her neck. Her eyes did not meet her niece’s, and it was obvious that she felt Zitelli was the last hope that she had of keeping Lydia in England.

  “Thank you for your offer sir,” Lydia said, after a pause in which she admirably bit back a scream, “But I am afraid that I have much to do today. I have no time to ride.”

  “Beautiful women are often the busiest of people,” the Count conceded, eliciting a thrilled giggle from Tabitha. “No mind if you cannot ride, but your Grace, may I request a moment or two alone with your niece?”

  Tabitha’s face turned beet red, and she nodded, almost curtsying to the Count as she left the room - Lydia’s protests that time alone was not needed falling on deaf ears.

  “My Lady,” the Count stood, his eyes blazing with passion, “I have yearned for this moment since the day we met.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say the same sir,” she replied, her anger beginning to swell. She had more important things to do than to battle off the amorous advances of a lusty Italian.

  If the Count heard her, he disregarded what she had said, and continued to slink across the room to where she stood, as though he were a tiger and she was a delicious morsel of meat.

  “The first time that I saw you, I thought there she is. There is my heart,” the Count continued, his eyes transfixed on hers. Close up, Lydia saw that his usually tanned face seemed a trifle pale, and that his jaw showed patches of a shadow of stubble, as well as a few small cuts where it had been nicked by a razor. Either the Count had hired a new valet, or he had attempted to dress himself without one.

  What man is so incompetent that he cannot shave his own chin?

  This was the thought that was in Lydia’s mind as, to her horror, Zitelli dropped down onto one knee before her.

  “Lydia,” he crooned, while subtly checking his appearance, which was reflected in the copper coal scuttle to the left of Lydia’s leg, “I ache for you. I yearn for you. I love you. Make me the happiest man and agree to be my bride.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Zitelli’s jaw dropped. “But we are meant to be. It is written in the stars Lady Beaufort; how can you not see?”

  “No, it’s not written in the stars,” Lydia snapped, her patience well and truly worn, “Nothing has been written in the stars, since the Greeks, Count Zitelli. And I fail to see whatever it is that you see, because my head isn’t lodged up my own bottom like yours.”

  Zitelli gasped, insult written across his pretty face, and his features were rendered momentarily ugly as he glared at Lady Beaufort with venom.

  “They tell me you are crazy,” he said in a low, angry voice. “Loopy Lydia Beaufort they call you, did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Lydia shrugged, it was not the first time she had heard the moniker and she had to award points for alliteration if not originality.

  “But I looked past all that and tho
ught I would offer you the protection of my hand,” Zitelli continued pompously, his eyes scornful. “But I can see that my charity was misplaced, you are mad my Lady, to have turned down a man as perfect as I.”

  “And you are mad sir, to think that my refusal had anything to do with a lack of mental clarity,” Lydia replied, her tone implying she was achingly bored, “When in fact it is probably the sanest thing I have done in my life.”

  “Addio!”

  The Count left, with a dramatic slamming of the door, that sent Tibby scurrying back into the room, her face wreathed in dismay.

  “What happened?” the Dowager Duchess cried, “Did he not ask you to marry him?”

  “Oh, he did,” Lydia shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips, “But he didn’t seem too pleased with my answer.”

  “Oh Lydia,” Tabitha sank onto the velvet settee, wringing her hands anxiously. “Why on earth did you refuse him? He would have made a lovely husband; exotic, exciting, handsome…”

  “Perhaps you should marry him then, if you feel so strongly Aunt Tibbs,” Lydia replied dryly. What was it about Italian men that sent seemingly normal English women into silly raptures?

  “Don’t be ridiculous Lydia,” Tibby waved a dismissive hand, though her cheeks were flushed pink. “He’s half my age, and I could never marry a man who wore pink, for it’s my most becoming colour.”

  Lydia glanced at her Aunt to find that her eyes were dancing with mischief, and she felt a rush of affection for the older woman. Tabitha had only been trying to make her happy, even if her actions had been a tad wide of the mark.

  “Find another Italian then,” Lydia urged with a giggle, “One in possession of a wardrobe with a more muted colour palette perhaps.”

  She walked over to where her Aunt sat and squeezed her hand, with what she hoped conveyed all the gratitude that she felt for the past four years of trying to help her write her own love story, even when she hadn’t wanted to.