Oh, God. Alex hadn’t thought of that. “Perhaps I shall,” he said as lightly as he could manage.
Tom pressed his shoulder. “Don’t look so downcast. Your mother will come through this all right, you’ll see.”
“Yes. Thank you, Tom.”
“Would you look in on my family for me while you’re there—I mean, once things are settled with your mother?”
Alex had run tame at Riddlefield during his boyhood, and besides, Tom had done no less for him over the past few years. “Of course.” He hoped he didn’t sound too reluctant. It was bad enough to begrudge an old friend a favor, but even worse to show it.
And so, five days later, Alex rode up the gravel drive to Tom’s comfortable country house some two miles from his Derbyshire seat. He swung out of the saddle, relinquished Pyrrhus’s reins to a groom, and marched with measured tread up the wide front steps.
The door swung open scarce seconds after his knock, and facing him stood not a Riddlefield footman, nor even the butler, but the very vision he’d been both hoping and dreading to see, the loveliest girl he’d ever laid eyes on. If people were drinks, then Roxana Langley could only be champagne—sweet, bubbly, silver-blonde. And, unfortunately, she had the same way of going to Alex’s head.
Or more than just his head, for when she threw open the door she wore such a brilliant smile, and such a joyful light lit her wide blue eyes, every inch of him from crown to sole seized up in an absolute paralysis of yearning.
Then her smile abruptly faded, and the eager light faded from her eyes. “Oh, it’s you, Ayersley,” she said with a disappointed sigh, as if he’d been absent for only five minutes instead of the better part of five long years. “I was expecting Major Wyatt.”
* * *
Roxana’s mother was in the drawing room working on the week’s menus when Roxana led the Earl of Ayersley—rich, good-looking and painfully dull—in to see her.
“Ayersley!” Lady Langley sprang to her feet. With the impulsive affection typical of her family, she went to hold him at arm’s length, looking him over with an almost maternal pride. “I can hardly credit it’s you. It’s been so long since you were in these parts.”
He looked down. “Matters in London have kept me away.”
It had never surprised Roxana that her mother doted on Ayersley. Not only was he her brother’s oldest friend, but he embodied the sort of bland virtue every mother coveted in a son. Tall and slender, he had the Winslow family coloring—jet-black hair, slim dark brows and eyes of a deep blue. He possessed a straight, patrician nose, a good-natured smile, and lashes even a girl would envy. Too bad all those looks were wasted on him. In a fellow with a bit of dash, they would have been devastating.
Unfortunately, Ayersley was a pattern card of starchy respectability. Occasionally Roxana spotted his name in the newspaper, where reports invariably described him as working on some important Whig reform or sponsoring some worthy bill in the Lords. No breath of scandal or hint of intrigue ever attached to him, for he ate, slept and breathed dry duty.
Despite this sense of noblesse oblige, the earl had taken her in dislike. Back when she was seventeen and they attended the same assemblies, Ayersley had been the only gentleman present who never once asked her to dance. Instead he’d stood across the room, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, looking glum and unsociable. She’d even tried a few times to catch his eye, smiling at him in what was meant to be friendly encouragement. He’d always frowned and turned his face quickly away.
Thank heaven she’d had George to liven up those long-ago gatherings. He’d sidled up to her just when one of Ayersley’s snubs had sent her school-girl confidence crashing to the ground, and said with a grin, “When our noble friend over there is done charming you with his eloquence, perhaps you might spare me a dance?”
Now Lady Langley took a seat on the sofa. “Roxana and I are glad see you, Ayersley,” she said, blithely putting words in her daughter’s mouth. “She heard you were in the neighborhood, but I refused to believe it until I laid eyes on you myself.”
Though Roxana had long since taken a seat as well, the earl remained standing. Lady Langley waved him into a chair. When he had finally settled himself stiffly there, she asked, “How does your mother do?”
“Much better, thank you. Doctor Massey came this morning and seemed pleased with her progress.”
Lady Langley smiled. “That’s most encouraging, coming from Doctor Massey. That man can find the cloud behind every silver lining.”
The earl regarded his glossy boots while the clock ticked away on the mantel. “And yourself, Lady Langley?” he asked at last, as if this commonplace question had just occurred to him for the first time. “How is everyone here?”
“Very well, thank you. Harry has just turned five and is always into more mischief than is good for him, but nothing too hair-raising. And, of course, Roxana’s Major Wyatt is back.”
The earl gave one of his tight nods. “So I’ve heard.”
“Yes, he took a ball in the shoulder and was invalided home ahead of his regiment. She’s been all smiles for two weeks now.”
Ayersley nodded again but did not venture any comment, and another awkward silence followed. Roxana asked him about his journey from London, and he replied it was uneventful. Her mother introduced the topic of the weather, and he agreed they had been relatively fortunate in the spring. They then discussed less agreeable weather of recent memory, until before long they had explored the almanac from cover to cover.
The earl lapsed into silence again.
Roxana could tell her mother was just about to take a final stab at drawing him out, when he turned to her. “I understand you and Major Wyatt are to be married soon, Miss Langley. I wish you every happiness.”
“Thank you.” Of course he would say the polite thing, though she knew how little he thought of her and George. Years ago George had told her Ayersley considered him conceited and found her frivolous and provincial.
“And you, Ayersley?” her mother asked. “You must be planning to marry soon yourself. When are we to learn of that happy news?”
The earl’s jaw dropped as if she’d accused him of robbing the mail coach. “Planning to marry? Where did you hear that?”
Lady Langley laughed. “Why, don’t tell me the notion has never crossed your mind. Is there no one special, then?”
He looked down and toyed with the seal hanging from the fob at his waist. “There is a young lady I admire…”
Roxana was not the only female in the family interested in gossip. Her mother leaned forward, all ears. “There is? You must tell us all about the girl.”
The earl continued toying with his watch fob. “Unfortunately, ma’am, I don’t believe she returns my regard.” His voice died away, and his ears turned pink.
“Why, what girl would refuse you?” Lady Langley said as if it were a complete impossibility.
Roxana resisted the urge to raise her hand, as Ayersley looked up with a strained smile. “I appreciate your faith in me. Perhaps some day I’ll have happier news to share.”
Lady Langley frowned. “Surely you don’t mean to keep the details to yourself?”
“I fear so—if you’ll allow me, ma’am.”
“You never were a chatterbox, Ayersley,” Roxana said.
He looked in her direction, as if he’d forgotten she was sitting just a few feet away. “No,” he said, still a little flushed.
“What news do you bring from London, then?” Lady Langley asked.
He let his watch fob drop and proceeded to assure them Tom was hale and happy. An ill-considered horse trade and a leak in his townhouse roof were the only misfortunes to have befallen him. From there, the ladies coaxed Ayersley into describing the city’s victory celebrations—state visits from the Russian Emperor and King Frederick, parades, fireworks, delicious royal one-upsmanship. Roxana wished she could have been there among the cheering crowds.
Predictably, however, Ayersley ended with, “
I’m afraid I’ve been too busy in the Lords to see it firsthand. In addition to all the wrangling last month over Huskisson’s corn bill, we’ve been endeavoring to make some headway on judicial reform.”
Now that was Ayersley to the core. Roxana’s mother blinked at him. “On what?”
“Judicial reform. The revision of the penal code, Lady Langley. We’re endeavoring to change the punishments for certain offenses.”
“Are you? I wish you luck in toughening them, then.”
Ayersley bit his lip. After a moment he ventured, “Actually, ma’am, the Whig objectives lie on the other side.”
Roxana remembered reading something about it in the papers. “Since the king’s reign began, Mama, over sixty capital offences have been added to a list that was already long. Some of them concern quite minor crimes.”
Ayersley nodded, a keen look on his face. “Every year it grows worse. Forgery is a capital crime, poaching from a rabbit warren is a capital crime, willfully cutting down a landowner’s tree is a capital crime. A man may be hanged for taking as little as five shillings from a shop. Five shillings!”
“That does seem harsh.” Lady Langley frowned in thought. “But do you not think the laws provide a deterrent effect?”
The tongue-tied Ayersley of moments before had vanished. He leaned forward. “Often they work in precisely the opposite way. As the saying goes, ‘as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.’ When a man’s life is forfeit whether he commits a lesser crime or a greater one, why should he draw the line at the lesser offense?”
Roxana’s mother pursed her lips, considering. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Besides, humane sentences don’t breed crime, poverty does. With the war over, industry is sure to receive fewer government orders. At the same time, our ex-soldiers will be seeking work. Unemployment will rise, and more gin mills will spring up. We must develop a workable judicial code soon or the problem will only grow worse. As Byron said—”
“Byron?” Roxana broke in. “You know Lord Byron?”
The earl had been working himself into a speech, but at her interruption he stammered to a halt. “Yes. He’s a f-friend, actually.”
Somehow she could not imagine Ayersley as a friend to the great Lord Byron—passionate, mercurial, romantic, wicked Byron. It was like pious old Cromwell gadding about with Charles the Second. “Really?”
Lady Langley deftly changed the subject. “Did you know we’re giving a ball in two weeks, Ayersley? It’s to mark Roxana’s official engagement.” She threw her daughter a significant look. “She’s handling the invitations.”
Put on the spot in such a way, Roxana could hardly refrain from inviting him. “Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. I’ll get you your card.” She rose from her seat.
The earl, naturally, rose as well. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
“It’s no trouble.” Had two people had ever been less sincere in their attempts to appear gracious? She found him stuffy, and Ayersley thought even less of her. “I’ve had the invitation waiting since I heard you were in the neighborhood.”
“And you must give a ball, too, Ayersley, while you’re at Broadslieve,” Lady Langley said. “It’s been forever since you were here long enough to give one.”
“I will then, ma’am, since you wish it.”
Roxana fetched the card and gave it to Ayersley with every appearance of willingness. She would have to remember to tell George the earl was now invited. He wouldn’t be pleased. Even as boys, they had run with different crowds. George had always been part of the noisier band—the rowdy, fun-loving set.
Even now, he rarely referred to Ayersley as anything except that killjoy or the dull dog.
* * *
Miss Langley was graciousness itself, but she would never have a successful career on the stage. Taking the card she held out, Alex could sense the reluctance she was doing her best to conceal.
Lady Langley invited him to dinner, and it was a relief to make his excuses. “Thank you, but I only wished to stop in and pay my respects, and ‘unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone.’”
“I’d forgotten how fond you are of quotations, Ayersley,” Miss Langley said with the first genuine-looking smile she’d shown since admitting him. He wasn’t sure whether the expression indicated nostalgia for the boyhood years he’d spent at Riddlefield or whether she was simply pleased he’d finally offered to leave.
The ladies saw him out themselves. When they reached the front hall, he suddenly recollected the question he’d practiced during his ride to Riddlefield in case conversation should fail him entirely. “Would either of you ladies like a setter pup? My Hero has just had another litter, and two of the whelps are not yet spoken for.”
“Harry would doubtless love one,” Lady Langley said. “Are they likely looking pups?”
“Very much so. For once they’re really Leander’s progeny. Last time I was not so fortunate, and ended up with a litter that looked suspiciously like the gamekeeper’s terrier. I fear Hero is something of a jade.”
“A jade at Broadslieve? Surely that’s a first,” Miss Langley said with a mischievous twinkle.
Her mother frowned. “Vice is nothing to laugh at, Roxana.”
Alex put his hat on his head. “I suppose that depends on how it’s done.”
Miss Langley choked on a laugh—not so much the kind of laugh that meant she appreciated his attempt at witticism as that she was astonished to discover he had any sense of humor at all.
“We appreciate the call, Ayersley,” Lady Langley said as they emerged from the house to discover a groom holding his horse. “We know how committed you are to your responsibilities. It was good of you to find the time.”
He made his way to Pyrrhus’s side and swung himself up into the saddle. “How could I resist the spring air? ‘For lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and…’” He trailed off as he realized how ridiculous he must sound.
“Another quotation.” Miss Langley’s forehead creased in an apparent effort to recall the source.
“The Song of Solomon,” Alex said, wishing he hadn’t cropped out in something so effusive. He raised his hat to her and took his leave.
Well, that hadn’t precisely gone well, but it could have been worse. At least he’d managed to get through it without calling her “M-Miss L-Langley” the way he had when they’d last met, so he still had that modest claim to self-respect.
Then he remembered the invitation in his breast pocket and how the announcement of her engagement to George Wyatt was only two weeks off, and his hard-won sense of achievement promptly faded.
Chapter Two
But all was false and hollow; though his tongue
Dropp’d manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason…
—John Milton
“So she still won’t say who the father is?” Fanny Sherbourne asked as Roxana twisted about in front of the pier glass, trying to get a better look at the back of her gown. Fanny was sitting on Roxana’s bed, likewise dressed in a silk ball gown, waiting for her friend to finish dressing.
Roxana could hardly believe it was here—the night of her engagement ball. All day she’d been beside herself with nervous excitement, watching the clock, impatiently counting the hours until she would become an official bride-to-be. Now that it was nearly time for the first guests to arrive, she was happy, breathless and jittery.
“Not a word,” Roxana said. “Philip Hammond has been courting George’s sister Sophie, and Sophie says Miss Hammond has been completely mum about the baby’s father. I suspect she met the man in Brighton. After all, if it were one of the local gentlemen, we’d have noticed him making up to her, wouldn’t we?”
Fanny’s sweet, heart-shaped face registered uncertainty. “Whoever he may be, do you really think she can bring him up to scratch? She hasn’t any dowry or family connections to s
peak of.”
“And what if he already has a wife? Remember the famous Beauty of Buttermere. She believed she was marrying the Earl of Hopetoun’s brother, but he turned out to be an imposter with a wife still living.” Roxana had been little more than a girl at the time, but she had pored over the newspaper accounts for weeks, fascinated by every shocking detail.
Fanny shook her head. “Poor Miss Hammond. Her life is as good as over. She can’t even show her face here tonight.”
“I did send her an invitation. It didn’t feel right, somehow, leaving her out when I’m not even supposed to know what’s happened. Mama says I should be grateful the whole family sent their regrets, since the other guests would have cut her.”
Fanny shuddered. “It just shows what can happen to a girl if she allows a gentleman to take liberties.”
Roxana nodded. As madly as she loved George, she couldn’t imagine being in poor Miss Hammond’s shoes. In fact, the girl’s fall was all the more baffling to her now that George had returned. Being in a man’s arms was rather like exploring the Amazon. It sounded like a thrilling adventure—until one actually found oneself there, in which case it turned out to be strange, inhospitable and surprisingly hazardous.
Just the day before, she and George had gone for a stroll together in the park behind Riddlefield. It should have been a perfect outing. Roses bloomed along the terrace, the grass had a new-mown smell, and butterflies flitted over the yarrow. George tucked her arm under his, and she had only to turn her head to admire his rugged profile and the way his broad shoulders strained against the snug green kerseymere of his shawl-collared coat. As they walked she peppered him with questions about the battles he’d fought, and he told her stories of Vittoria and Salamanca.
But then he broke off in midstory, pulled her to a stop under a cherry tree and fixed her in a long, lingering appraisal. “At last, a moment to ourselves.”
She glanced about and was almost disappointed to find no sign of life except the greenfinch twittering in the boughs above them. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if she were a lamb and he were a wolf that had missed its breakfast. “It’s not very private out here.”
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