The assembly howled in laughter and the servant’s darkened face nearly matched his coat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said stiffly.
“Good. You may leave. Now. Marley, show him out.”
“With pleasure, Your Grace.” Smiling broadly, Marley put his hand under the servant’s arm and hauled him away. His attempts at protest were followed by a loud “Ow” as Marley moved his hand from the youth’s arm to his ear.
“The things you get into, Your Grace,” Constance scolded.
“Young Ramsfield is a fool, and so deserves to be treated like one.” Gareth returned to his chair, crossed his legs and tried not to look at Julia. Her fingers tugging at her ear and her fear-darkened eyes should have flattered him. Instead his heart hammered against his ribs with the kick of musket’s discharge. He needed to leave. Now.
Lady Strickland leaned forward in her chair, a gossip-eager sparkle lighting up her still very pretty eyes. “I want to know what exactly that pup Ramsfield said or did to so inflame Your Grace that he now feels he must challenge you,” she said. “It must have been quite an insult indeed.”
“There are ladies present ma’am, including yourself,” Gareth said quietly. “And as such I will not foul the air with his remarks. He is throwing a spoiled child’s tantrum, nothing more. Let us speak of more pleasant topics.”
“Look, here comes Marley again,” William said. “Why do I have the feeling he’s still not happy?”
The old butler’s departing smile had collapsed into the previous, furious scowl, suggesting that all was not right with the world, or at least in this corner of it.
He produced another note and gave it to Gareth. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but—”
“Never mind, Marley.” Gareth opened the paper, shook it out, and read aloud the single word. “Coward.”
“Damnation!” Cheswick’s shout rose above the swell of the other guests’ angry voices. “Who the deuce does Ramsfield think he is?”
“It hardly matters.” Gareth gave an exaggerated yawn and got to his feet. “It seems I must duel. I’m sorry to leave your company, Lady Pettigrew, but honor must be answered. Come with me, William. I can count on you to be my second?”
“Of course.” William stood and bowed to the company.
“Connie, I’ll see you tomorrow. If you will excuse us?”
Followed by Marley, the two men set a leisurely pace across the lawn. One would think they had no greater concern than an appointment with their tailors, but with their departure, a gloom descended among the remaining guests, and overhead a flock of ravens croaked a matching chorus of dismay.
“Oh, God,” Julia whispered, finding her voice at last. “Lord Cheswick, can’t you do something to stop this? Gareth—I mean His Grace—will kill Ramsfield!”
Cheswick frowned and said, “If I understand all this folderol correctly, Ramsfield insulted you, Lady Fleming. And now he’s insulted Harrow.”
“I can live with insults!” Julia snapped. “It isn’t worth killing over!” Oh Lord, I never thought to see Gareth again. Even if he can never be mine, please don’t let him die.
Cheswick propped his elbow on the chair’s arm, put his chin in his hand and regarded her solemnly. “A man stupid enough to challenge Harrow deserves to be shot. You don’t insult one of Wellington’s best officers unless you’ve got something to back it up. Ramsfield should have thought of that before he penned the first word.”
“But Dash,” Constance insisted. “Edward Stevenson is a child.”
“Yes, he’s certainly acting like one,” Cheswick said grimly. “And sometimes children need to learn a hard lesson.”
“But—” Julia tried again.
“Lord Cheswick.” Lady Strickland wagged a finger at him. “Ramsfield is the Marquess’s only son. If he dies, there is no heir. If you don’t try to stop this piece of tomfoolery, I will leave here at once…and tell…your…mother.”
If impending tragedy did not hover over them, her threat would be laughable.
“Oh Lord, don’t do that,” Cheswick groaned. “Sometimes being the only son of London’s leading hostess—no offense Lady Pettigrew—is a pain in the backside. Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”
He hauled himself out of his chair, bowed to the guests and headed to the house. Silence followed his departure and the guests exchanged worried glances. Julia bit the inside of her mouth to keep from bursting into tears.
Lucy took her hand. “Don’t worry, sister,” she comforted. “His Grace will come to no harm. I’m sure of it.”
“They say His Grace is one of the best shots in England,” Mr. Conrad offered helpfully. “There’s no way Ramsfield can hurt him.”
“That,” Julia whispered, “is not what I am afraid of.”
Chapter Nine
“Oh Lord, this waiting is interminable!” Julia paused her pacing long enough to peer out her upstairs drawing room windows before taking up her back-and-forth journey across the carpet. “Duels are fought at daybreak! It’s an hour after that. Why is there no word?”
“Perhaps that’s a good sign,” Lucy yawned through her fingers. “If there was bad news, surely we would have heard.”
Yesterday had crawled to a close, but the news of Ramsfield challenging Gareth had spread around London like wildfire. Julia had refused an invitation to dine with a friend, knowing listening to the gossip would break the fragile hold she had on her nerves. Last night, sleep again had proven nearly impossible. Maria had offered to make them one of her sleeping draughts but Julia refused as had Lucy. If bad news came, Julia would face it clearheaded.
But please God, please. Make a miracle and don’t let anyone die. Especially not Gareth.
The doorbell’s chime filled the house, followed by Maria’s hurried footsteps down the stairs. From the foyer, a male voice could be heard and a minute later, the click of Maria’s shoes racing back up the stairs. Julia pulled her robe more tightly about her and waited.
“It’s Mister Conrad,” Maria gasped from the parlor doorway. “He said Lord Cheswick thought you might need a companion to stay with you and Miss Heaton this morning while you’re waiting to hear what happened.”
“Bring in more coffee, Maria,” Julia said, her hands playing with her dressing gown’s sash. “Then show up Mr. Conrad.”
Grabbing Lucy’s arm, she propelled them both from the parlor. In the bedchambers, they stripped off their nightclothes, bathed at the washstand and paused at the wardrobe.
“Buttons or laces?” Lucy asked, staring at the array of dresses.
“Buttons,” Julia replied. “I don’t think I can trust my fingers to laces.”
Even with helping each other, it took longer to dress than Julia would have liked, but finally the last flounce was smoothed, lace collars tweaked into place and sensible shoes pulled on.
“Hair?” Lucy snatched a brush from the dressing table.
“Our sleep braids are fine,” Julia muttered. “Hang fashion.”
Masculine laughter erupted from the parlor. With Lucy on her heels, Julia charged back to the parlor to find Lord Cheswick and James sipping coffee. The older man smiled and raised his cup in salute. “Good morning, ladies! An excellent and much needed cup of coffee.”
“For God’s sake, tell us what happened!” Julia shouted.
“The most delicious piece of fun I have ever witnessed,” Cheswick declared. “I’ll be able to dine out on it for a month. Do sit down, ladies. You’ll need to, to appreciate it.”
“I’ll hear it standing up.” Julia wrapped her arm around Lucy’s waist to keep her knees from buckling.
“All I can say, is thank God for mothers—”
“My lord,” Mr. Conrad interrupted. “Just tell them.”
“Oh, very well.” Cheswick put his cup on a nearby table. “The opponents and their seconds met as agreed at Hyde Park just after six this morning. Gareth, ever the soul of gallantry agreed to let Ramsfield bring his own pistols. Probably never been fired, but I digress.”
<
br /> “Is anyone dead?” Julia demanded.
“Lady Fleming, you must let me tell this in my own way,” Cheswick chided. “Anyway, word had gotten out of course, and a nice size crowd had gathered. Just as Gareth and Ramsfield were about to step off, a coach and four comes tearing through the park like the very Devil was driving, and who should pop out of it but Ramsfield’s mama.”
“What?” Julia’s mouth dropped open with disbelief. “The Marchioness of Gladwell came to the duel?”
“The very same!” Cheswick grinned. “Almost didn’t happen as she didn’t return from Bath until it was almost dawn. Why the old Marquess insists upon traveling after dark, I’ll never know. My own dear mama and I were up half the night waiting for them to return. Mother stayed at the Marquess’ house while I joined the throng in Hyde Park. In a scene straight out of a gothic novel, the impassioned Marchioness forced the coachmen to drive her to the appointed site. While weeping buckets of tears, she threw herself at Gareth’s feet and begged him not to kill her only son. Right there in Hyde Park in front of God and everyone. I thought Ramsfield would wet himself from shame.”
He’s not dead. Gareth isn’t dead. Unshed tears of relief pricked Julia’s eyes, and she released a sigh while her heart began to slow its quickstep tempo.
“Then no shots were fired?” Lucy asked.
“Not a single one,” Cheswick said. “And Gareth, ever a gentleman, told Lady Gladwell one of his biggest faults was his inability to say no to a lady. He told her errant son to go home and not upset his mother again. Then he and William got into William’s carriage and left. And there you have it—a fait accompli.”
“Everyone is—” Julia’s voice broke. “Alive and well?”
“Alive, but perhaps not well.” Cheswick’s grin broadened. “Between his mama boxing his ears, hitting him with her reticule and kicking his posterior, young Ramsfield should be grateful that he’s alive. Lady Gladwell is lucky she isn’t about to be brought up on charges of attempted infanticide.”
“You see, Julia,” Lucy crowed. “I told you everything would turn out for the best!”
Julia expelled another sigh. “You did indeed, my dear.”
“And…” Cheswick stretched out the word with apparent relish. “Ramsfield’s father has banished him to the Continent until he ‘grows up and learns not to quarrel with heroes’. So say the early wags at White’s and so say we all. We’ll have no more trouble from Ramsfield, or anyone else, I should think.”
“Thank God for that,” Mr. Conrad declared.
“Thank God,” Julia echoed. “How can we possibly thank you for bringing us the news?”
“By promising to dance with me at least twice this evening,” Cheswick said. “I’ve decided to hold a celebratory ball tonight and I’ve a million things to do between now and then. Gareth, that sly fox, will be the toast of London by nightfall and I’ll be blessed if I let anyone honor him before I do. I’ll send you ladies details later. James, I could use your help. Come with me.”
“I’ll see you to the door,” Lucy offered.
“Lord Cheswick, would you do me a favor?” Julia asked.
“Of course, my dear. How can I serve you?”
“Please don’t invite Lady Rorem tonight.”
Cheswick’s eyes narrowed. “Has the old harpy been sharpening her talons on you?”
“Worse,” Julia told him. “She’s the one who told my father that James wanted to court Lucy.”
A crafty smile covered Cheswick’s face. “Did she now? Well, well, well. I think a little payback can be easily arranged. No invitation from me shall cross the Rorem threshold. And I’ll be sure to invite The Arbiters. They’ll put it out that Beatrice was not invited. The ton doesn’t call them ‘The Tabbies’ for nothing, and they’ll just love the chance to sharpen their claws on Beatrice Rorem. Hopefully the shame of not being invited tonight will stop her spying once and for all. Come, James.”
The men headed for the hall but at the doorway, Cheswick turned, and fixed his gaze on Julia. “You realize, Lady Fleming, that by tonight all of London will know that you were the reason for Gareth’s duel. Prepare yourself. You’re going to be very popular.”
And with Lucy and Mr. Conrad following, Cheswick stepped into the hallway.
Weariness overcame Julia, and she stumbled to a nearby chair and sank into its depths. Gripping the arms, she leaned back. “All this over some silly insult,” she fumed. “If I weren’t so happy he was alive, I just might shoot Gareth myself.”
Chapter Ten
The three Arbiters gathered beneath a marble column on the far side of the ballroom, watching the guests arrive at the Earl of Cheswick’s Mayfair mansion. They were the first and last word in the governing of Society. On their pronouncement hung the success or failure of those wishing to be described as “good ton”. They had made or undone countless aspirations. And even if those less than happy—or furious—with them had pettily nicknamed them “The Tabbies”, the trio’s power was absolute.
And for once, they were all in agreement in their prediction of tonight’s success.
“Just look at this place, my dears. Magnificent,” the lady in green said.
“I’ll bet Cheswick bought out every hothouse in London,” added the lady in blue.
“Only Cheswick could have pulled this off in twelve hours,” the lady in lavender pronounced. “The man is a genius.”
Thousands of candles, their flames flickering and dancing in their stands lit the rooms of the townhouse—the one boasting the city’s biggest ballroom and equally large chandelier. Bouquets of lilies and roses spilled over their vases, scenting the room, while in the gardens just outside the ballroom, lanterns suspended from the trees added to the magnificent play of starlight from the ebony sky overhead. A magical night awaited the guests.
Rumor had it that Lady Rorem had became hysterical when by two o’clock this afternoon—the time the last of Cheswick’s special messengers returned to his home—she had not received the gilt-edged invitation. For only a very select company had been invited to what Cheswick called “a celebration of life” and now, thanks to him for at least this one evening, Lady Rorem was persona non grata. Not quite socially ruined. But almost.
“Has she arrived yet?”
William’s quiet question startled Gareth out of his observation of the guests arriving from the third-floor landing.
Turning his back to lean against the railing, Gareth asked, “Has who arrived?”
William gave his tiger’s smile. Dressed in elegant black and white, he looked rested and at ease. “I was referring to she who sent you yellow roses this afternoon,” he drawled. “A widow sending a bachelor flowers. What do you suppose she meant by that?”
Gareth’s fingers sought the yellow bud pinned to his lapel. The box of flowers arrived at his rooms shortly after Cheswick’s invitation did, the card containing only a single initial—J.
Hoping to change the course of the conversation, Gareth feigned a bored yawn. “It’s just Julia’s way of thanking me for not killing Ramsfield, that’s all. If I had, it would ruin her sister’s first Season. Ramsfield’s mother sent flowers as well.”
“In baskets and she didn’t send roses,” William returned. “Julia—”
“Did you receive a note from the War Office this afternoon about meeting with them tomorrow morning?” Gareth interrupted. “What the Devil do you suppose the Prime Minister wants with us?”
William shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But at least they had the decency to hold the meeting at ten o’clock. I’m not crawling out of bed before eight, even for the Prime Minister. Ah. There’s Julia arriving with her sister.”
He need not have spoken. Gareth did not have to see her to know she had arrived. Even with his back turned, he had always known when she walked into a room. Her essence had carved itself into his soul, branding it for life. Even after all these years, even after her betrayal, she still aroused him like no other woman.
H
e did not want to remember loving her.
“I say, isn’t that James Conrad?” William’s voice interrupted Gareth’s thoughts again. “The one who appears smitten with Miss Heaton?”
Gareth turned and spotted the young man from Constance’s luncheon party yesterday. He was bowing to Julia and her sister, but even from here, it was obvious that Conrad had eyes only for Miss Heaton.
“Poor fool,” Gareth said grimly. “He’d have more luck asking for the hand of Princess Charlotte.”
“Look, Cheswick is beckoning to us.” William said, pointing to their waving host. “I suppose we should go down.”
Gripping the banister, Gareth looked past their host and watched Conrad and Miss Heaton slip among the other guests, Julia following behind them. She would not, of course, let her sister be alone with the young man. At least as a widow, she would not risk scandal if Gareth asked to speak with her privately for a moment.
“Gareth? Cheswick is waiting for us.”
Damn, why were his hands sweating? Gareth wiped them dry with a handkerchief from one pocket before taking his gloves from his other and pulling them on. “Let’s go.”
“Ah, there you are.” Cheswick greeted them at the foot of the stairs. “Come with me.”
He maneuvered between the guests to take a flute of champagne from the tray of a brocaded footman before stopping in the center of the room. “My friends!” he called.
The conversation died down and the guests gave the smiling Cheswick their attention. He slowly trained his gaze around the room. “My friends,” he repeated. “I thank you for joining me this evening for a celebration of life. For as you all have surely heard, this might have been an occasion for mourning. But motherly love intervened at Hyde Park earlier today, and so tonight we make merry.”
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