“I must blow out the candles,” Carmen said with a heavy sigh, pushing back her chair, and hobbling to extinguish the many candles that lit the room. Once each light had gone out, the room was cast into darkness; bar the pitiful fire that burned low in the grate. The heavy curtains that covered the windows blocked out any hint of daylight, and the effect was most eerie.
Carmen’s hand reached out to take Lydia’s, causing her to start until she realised that it was only the Gypsy’s; there were no ghosts here yet. The old woman took her other hand, and held them together in her own on the black piece of cloth on the table. In a language Lydia did not recognise, Carmen began to chant a prayer of some sort.
“I have summoned the spirit world,” she said softly as her chant came to an end, “But when the door to the other world is open, I have no control over who comes in. You have been warned.”
The hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck stood up with fright at the dark warning, and from her seat in the corner she could hear Marguerite whispering a prayer in French. For a minute that was the only sound, until -
“Who’s there?”
Carmen’s hands gripped Lydia’s, her body rigid with tension. Marguerite gave a low moan as the fortune teller looked wildly around the room, searching for the invisible visitor.
“There’s a woman here,” Carmen whispered, her words rasping, “Do you see her?”
Lydia looked nervously about the room, but all she saw were the twinkling scarves that had been draped everywhere for decoration.
“She says her name is…Kathryn.”
Lydia’s heart stopped as the Gypsy spoke her mother’s name. Her hand gripped the old woman’s so hard that Carmen let out a grunt of pain and batted her away.
“That’s my mother,” Lydia whispered, afraid to say more lest she burst into tears.
“There are two small children with her,” the Gypsy continued, staring at a place behind Lydia’s shoulder.
Lucy and Lila. Lydia turned in her chair, desperately wishing that she could see what the old woman saw, but behind her there was just empty space, and not the sisters she so longed to see.
“Do they look at peace?” Lydia asked urgently, for her dreams were plagued by images of her two sisters, calling out to her for help.
“Oh yes,” the Gypsy was firm, as she stared hypnotically into space. “In fact - they are worried about you.”
“About me?” Lydia frowned, there was nothing to worry about, she was the one who had lived.
“Your mother is afraid you are lonely with only the French girl for company.”
At the mention of her name, Marguerite gave a frightened shriek.
“Shh,” Lydia scolded, now was not the time for hysterics from Marguerite.
“Your mother says she wishes you would find a husband,” Carmen continued.
A husband? Unbidden, an image of the tall, blonde Marquess popped into Lydia’s head; Sutherland was of the firm belief that his ancestors had fornicated happily with Vikings and Lydia was inclined to agree.
“She sees in your future a dark and handsome boy,” Carmen whispered excitedly, leaving Lydia feeling suddenly deflated. She knew no dark and handsome men, bar her cousins, and she wasn’t going to marry one of them.
“An Italian, she says,” Carmen whispered, “Your future lies with an Italian man.”
“I don’t care about a stupid husband,” Lydia whispered, annoyed that this longed-for conversation with her mother was turning into a replica of every conversation she had had with her Aunt, “I want to say sorry for not having said goodbye. Will you tell her that, will you tell her I’m sorry?”
The Gypsy fell silent, though her warm hands still held Lydia’s.
“She says there is no need to apologize for not saying goodbye, because she never left you,” Carmen said simply after a moment’s silence. Lydia’s eyes welled, and she turned in her chair again, wishing that she could see what the Gypsy saw, but as she did so her hand caught the cloth that covered the table, bringing everything that lay upon it crashing to the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cried, bending to retrieve Carmen’s pipe, “Can you ask her -”
“They are gone.”
The blunt words crashed through Lydia’s consciousness, and she froze on her hunkers on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Carmen said, standing to light the candles once more. “If the peace of the room is disrupted sometimes the spirits leave.”
“Can’t you call them back?” Lydia asked, trying to keep the note of desperation from her voice. If Carmen had summoned them before surely, she could do it again.
The Gypsy shook her head stubbornly, and as the room once again glowed in candle light, Lydia saw that she wore a look of pure exhaustion.
“I am too tired,” Carmen said with a sigh, shuffling over to Marguerite, and shooing her from her chair, “And the dead need their rest too. Leave now Miss and think over all your mother told you.”
Lydia and Marguerite found themselves unceremoniously pushed from Carmen’s inner sanctum, back out into the rain, the front door slamming loudly behind them. Marguerite was watching Lydia as though she were a dangerous prisoner escaped from Newgate, and followed a step or two behind her as they made their way back to the carriage. Once inside the dark compartment however, she pounced on her mistress.
“What ees wrong with you?” Marguerite hissed, as Henry drove them through the streets of London, “You should not play at talking to zee dead. You will be ‘aunted by spirits forever.”
“Do you think so?” Lydia asked, rather wishing that the spirit of her mother and sisters would make a return; she had not had a chance to say anything important to them.
“Oui! But do not smile so, zee Gypsy could have put a curse on you - and I will ‘ave to find a new job if that ees ze case. You are so selfish mademoiselle.”
Thoroughly in a huff, Marguerite drew her cape around herself for warmth, and ignored Lydia for the rest of the journey back to Mayfair. When Tabitha greeted them in the hallway, and informed Lydia that they were attending a ball at Lady Jersey’s later that evening, Marguerite declared she had a migraine and that Lydia would have to dress herself.
“Is she all right?” Tibby asked, watching as the pale faced French girl vanished in a huff, “She does look rather pale. If it was anyone but Marguerite I’d be inclined to think she did have a migraine.”
Lydia remained silent, her thoughts back in the dark room in Covent Garden. Her mother had to have been there, for there was no other way that Carmen would have known her name; Lydia had not even entrusted her own moniker to the Gypsy. A shiver of nerves ran through her; she had communicated with the dead, but instead of feeling at peace for having had the chance to say goodbye, all she felt was a greater longing for her mother. She wanted to talk to her about everything, not listen to silly advice about marrying an Italian. With a placating word to Tibby, who appeared rather alarmed by her lengthy silence, Lydia slowly began to climb the staircase to ready herself for the ball. A night amongst the ton was the last thing she wanted to do, but life goes on, she thought sagely to herself, even when you’d rather it didn’t.
Chapter Five
The day after the Norton’s rout found Gabriel assisting his sister with her many, apparently endless, and pointless errands. Chaperoning his older, married sister about town wasn’t something that the Marquess usually engaged in, but Lady Caroline had received word that her husband was set to return from the continent after a year in Vienna. News which sent her into floods of tears, which continued whenever she was reminded of the fact that the inimitable politician was to return to British land.
Gabriel was, of course, thoroughly useless at any sort of conversation in which emotional tact was required, and so had spent the day on edge, worried that she was going to collapse in a heap in the middle of Harding Howell and Co., and equally worried that he was falling short in his role as a brother. It was difficult to offer Caroline his support however, when at nine and t
hirty years she was nearly a decade his senior, and saw herself in the role of a substitute mother for the Marquess. Despite the difference in age, sister and brother were as thick as thieves. Caroline had been called a blessed miracle when their mother had given birth to her at the age of five and thirty, after a childless decade of marriage to the late Marquess. When Gabriel had come along nearly ten years later, Caroline had said their parents had acted, not like he was a miracle, but more as if he was the Second Coming. Both children had grown up loved and secure, as the children of older parents often are, and after the death of their father first, then their mother many years later, they had remained as close as could be.
This was why, at three in the afternoon, with every debutante from Hull to Dover watching him agog, the Marquess came to be in the Pantheon Bazaar, just off the Tyburn Road, following his sister about like he was a sulky child and she was his governess, as she passed from stall to stall.
Caroline hesitated at the small shop, which housed an exotic pet stand. Scores of young children were staring agog at the listless monkeys and parrots contained in cages within.
“I do wish you’d hurry up and marry Gabe,” Caro said with a sigh, staring wistfully at a small, chubby, blonde girl who was squealing in delight over a boisterous puppy. Gabriel said nothing; marriage was something Caroline was always encouraging, despite her own disastrous one. His sister gave a winsome sigh as she watched the children’s amusement, Gabriel had long suspected that what had driven a wedge between Lady Caroline and Bernard Gives, her husband, was that they had never been blessed with children of their own. Though how the deuce he was supposed to bring that up in conversation was beyond him.
“But you never approve of any of my choices, sister dear,” Gabriel responded, grinning as his sister rolled her eyes at the mention of his previous paramours. “Every actress and widow I throw my cap in with is deemed unsuitable.”
“Well stop throwing your cap in with the demimonde!” Caroline retorted, allowing her little brother to steer her in the direction of another stand, which proudly displayed jewellery inlaid with precious stones.
The shop clerk was busy assisting a dark haired, exotic looking gentleman and so Gabriel and Caroline were free to peruse at their leisure.
“What about the Beaufort girl?” Caroline asked coyly, affecting interest in a matching set of ruby earrings and a necklace. “You seem rather fond of her, and she’s not as mad as everyone proclaims her to be.”
Gabriel knew that his sister, while pretending that her interest lay solely in the rubies, was watching his every move to assess his reaction. He cleared his throat, as he tried to formulate in words everything that had passed between him and Lady Lydia Beaufort, but words failed him.
The small silver case, which held Lydia’s portrait of Byron, seemed to burn through the Marquess’ breast pocket. Heated by guilt, he thought glumly, which was most unusual, for Lord Sutherland seldom found himself in anything other than a good mood. And while he was sure that he was very much in love with Lydia, after a night of soul searching - in Boodles, where all the best self-analysis took place - he had come to realise that he had no right to ask anything of her if she did not feel the same way. In fact, he would be a most horrible friend indeed, if he set an ultimatum that Lady Beaufort reciprocate his feelings or the friendship would end. A dastardly thought that had flashed through his mind in a moment of selfishness, induced by brandy. His memories had taunted him with one of his old flames, and actress if he recalled correctly, who had said that one day the rakish Marquess would find a woman who was immune to his charms and that she would break his heart. How right she had been.
This was too much to confess in the middle of the Pantheon however, so he merely inclined his head to the rubies in the glass display.
“Let me get these for you Caro,” he said brightly, pushing aside his own problems, and focusing instead on his sister. Jewels were a sure-fire way to cheer a woman up, he knew that much at least.
“It’s too much Gabe,” Caroline protested, but he waved her away impatiently with his hand.
“No, I insist,” he said brightly, “For I have so enjoyed having you stay for the past year, and will miss you sorely when you leave.”
Drat.
Caroline’s eyes welled up at the mention that she might be leaving the palatial St. James home that the Marquess kept when her husband returned, and Gabriel was only spared having to find a handkerchief by a loud altercation that erupted between the exotic man and the clerk who was trying to serve him.
“I apologize Count Zitelli,” the small, rotund assistant said, his face puce with embarrassment at having become embroiled in a scene. “But we can’t extend you credit, without first having a letter of some sort from your Bank. The diamonds are priceless.”
The last words were whispered, in order to save this Zitelli from gossip, but the Italian - for Gabe recognized the accent - refused to lower his voice.
“You have insulted me, sir,” the Count said ominously, before theatrically slapping the clerk across his chubby cheek.
“I say, old chap,” Gabriel called, abandoning Caroline to confront the insolent bugger, but the Count had already walked off with a flourish of his cape, and the man that he had struck motioned for the Marquess to let him go.
“My thanks, Lord Sutherland,” the fellow said, wringing his hands as he spoke, “But please, I’d rather just let him go. Scenes are bad for business.”
Gabriel gritted his teeth, but respected the man’s wishes; there was very little that a man of low stature could do in response to humiliation from the aristocracy, bar sweep it aside and pretend it never happened. It made his blood boil.
“Let’s have a look at what caused all the fuss,” Gabriel said brightly, peering at the glass display cabinet. Within was a hair pin, designed to replicate a tiara, beset with pearls, diamonds, and a stone the Marquess could not quite place.
“Amethyst,” the assistant helpfully supplied, his sales skills having remained intact, despite just having suffered a bodily assault. “A most unusual choice of stone, it was made for an Italian member of the Duchy of Tuscany who was overly fond of wine. Amethyst is said to protect the wearer from drunkenness as you may know.”
The assistant beamed at this little tit-bit of gossip, but Gabe had little interest in the drinking habits of a distant - and probably deceased - Italian woman. If the all Italian men were anything like Zitelli, no wonder the poor woman had enjoyed a snifter or two of gin. Instead, as Gabriel surveyed the glittering purple stones, he had an image of Lydia wearing the hair-pin. It would, of course, suit her striking, violet eyes, and would serve as a suitable apology present for his having pocketed the little silver case which contained Byron’s portrait.
“I’ll take it,” Gabe said, much to the assistant’s delight, “And the rubies for my sister.”
Fearing that the man was going to explode from the excitement of having two such large sales in quick succession, Gabe wandered back over to his sister to allow the man to wrap the purchases alone.
“Who was he?” Caro whispered, referring to the Italian Count.
“Some Continental upstart,” Gabriel replied with a shrug. During the war, there had been a small influx of nobility seeking refuge in London, though Gabriel could not recall having ever met this Zitelli fellow before.
“He was incorrigibly rude,” Caroline said firmly, though she fiddled with the pearls at her neck as she spoke. “Though very…pretty, for a man. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t think, dear sister,” Gabriel replied, hoping his eyebrows had not disappeared completely into his hairline. Honestly, did she expect him to objectively assess the beauty of a man he had nearly called out, and what was it about men from the Continent that made perfectly sensible English ladies turn into dithering fairies?
“Of course, you didn’t,” Caro replied, a smile crossing her face as the assistant returned with her rubies, elegantly wrapped in paper, and topped with a gold bow.
/>
Brother and sister returned to their carriage, and made the short trip back to St. James’ Square in companionable silence. Dinner was sparse for they were to attend Lady Jersey’s ball later that evening, and afterward Gabriel repaired to his room to prepare.
Lady Jersey was a stickler for dress, and so Sutherland dressed demurely, lest he offended the formidable Patroness of Almack’s. He wore a coat of black, over a grey waistcoat and cream pantaloons which came to the ankle. His valet insisted that the trousers were the height of fashion, and marvelled at the Marquess’ muscular calves.
“Other men have to have theirs padded, my Lord,” Wilkes had said, with a conspiratorial wink to a rather baffled Gabriel. Were men really so vain that they padded their pantaloons to look more muscular?
“And a few men of more, ahem, advanced years are known to wear a corset,” Wilkes continued, casting an assessing, worried eye on the Marquess’ midriff. Gabriel sucked in his stomach, appalled that his valet seemed to be insinuating that he might end up the same way; corseted and padded like a Cyprian.
“That’s years away Wilkes,” the Marquess said by way of dismissal, he wanted the younger man gone so he could check to see if his toned stomach was still toned.
“If you say so, my Lord…”
The door closed behind the valet as he left, and Gabe turned sideways to assess his stomach in the mirror: the man was mad! Sutherland’s stomach was as flat as an iron, and his waist still tapered - from his broad shoulders - into a narrow V. Thoroughly annoyed at having his physique called into question, Gabriel met Caro in the entrance hall to depart for the ball.
“Why must we take the carriage?” he grumbled, as he sat into the compartment opposite his sister.
“You can’t walk Gabe, it’s not the done thing,” Caroline admonished.
And so, the pair sat in the carriage for nearly half an hour, as the roads were filled with other carriages making their way to Lady Jersey’s, instead of walking the five minutes it would have taken if they had opted to go by foot.
A Lady Like No Other: A Regency Romance (Regency Black Hearts Book 3) Page 5