by Sandra Heath
Turning the corner into Park Lane, the horse trotted steadily past the park wall, and came to a halt opposite the seminary, as directed. Nadia looked out once more, but there was no carriage. There were, however, some small boys playing marbles on the corner of Curzon Street, and somehow they looked as if they had been there for some time. She leaned out and told the bemused hackneyman to call the boys over. He earned out this latest instruction and watched as Nadia held up a coin to the boys.
“How long have you been on that corner?”
“An hour, maybe two,” said the largest boy, his eyes on the coin.
“Has a carriage returned to the seminary?”
“A carriage? No miss.”
“You are sure?”
“Positive, miss. We always wait around, hoping to be asked to look after horses and such-like, and so we’d know if a carriage came to the school.”
She surrendered the coin and the boys hurried back to their post on the corner. The hackneyman looked down at her. “Where to now, ma’am?”
“Nowhere. We wait here.”
“Here? Yes, ma’am.” Wearily he put down his reins and drew his damp blanket more tightly around his cold knees. Foreigners, he thought darkly. Strange lot, all of ‘em!
Nadia sat back in the darkness, but almost immediately she sat forward again, for a carriage was approaching down Park Lane from Tyburn. It didn’t halt at the seminary, but drove on to Curzon Street and vanished from sight; it was Imogen. So she had returned at last from Oxfordshire. For a moment Nadia contemplated going straight to Longhurst House to tell her friend what had been going on in her absence, but then almost immediately she discarded the thought, for it would mean probably missing Leonie’s return to the seminary. It was important to see who brought the schoolteacher and her wretched charge home, and so Imogen would have to wait for the time being. Shivering in the damp, cold darkness, Nadia settled back again to continue her vigil. She could hear the steady drip-drip of water in the darkness, and she thought longingly of the continuous hard snow of a Russian winter. This in turn brought thoughts of the imminent arrival of her troika. How foolish she would look now, taking delivery of a sleigh when there was no snow to be seen! Disgruntled, she shifted her position and started angrily out at the seminary’s discreet dark green door.
* * *
Nadia had been mistaken when she thought Rupert and Edward were not at White’s, although she could be forgiven for so thinking, since they had gone to some lengths to conceal their presence from her. Guessing that she would follow them, Rupert had left his carriage outside Almack’s, in nearby King Street, and then he and Edward had walked to White’s. Since arriving, they had been playing cards at a crowded table, but Rupert found no pleasure in the play. Throwing down his hand and tossing in his lost bets, he got up and went into an adjoining room, flinging himself down on a sofa and snapping his fingers to a footman to bring him some cognac. A moment later Edward left the table and joined him. “Your mind wasn’t on your play tonight. Are you regretting dumping the fair Benckendorff after all?”
“If that was the case I could go to her swiftly enough. The lady has made herself tediously available.”
“So it seems. But she evidently has…er, charm, for you go back to her.”
“Gift horses, and all that.”
Edward gave a short laugh. “Yes, I take your point.” He beckoned to the footman, who immediately brought him a glass of cognac too.
“I knew she’d follow us tonight,” said Rupert.
“You went out of your way to give her reason,” pointed out Edward. “You hardly troubled to reassure her where the fair Leonie is concerned.”
“Isn’t there anything that slips unnoticed past you?”
“Very little. I’m very meticulous. You still have a fancy for the schoolteacher, don’t you?”
“Is there any point in denying it?”
“Not really.” Edward glanced slyly at him. “So, you’re dancing attendance on Mama’s appalling Jamaican, bedding the beautiful Russian, and all the while you lust after the delectable English rose. My dear fellow, your love life is a positive maze.”
Rupert gave a slight laugh. “It may seem so to you, my laddo, but I know my way through the maze well enough.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re wasting your time with Leonie Conyngham, though, for the lady simply doesn’t like or trust you.”
Rupert was pricked by this. “Don’t underestimate me.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“I can succeed with her, if that’s what you mean.”
“Perhaps it would be intriguing to lay a small wager on the matter.”
“You would lose.”
“You think so? What if I were to bet you that I will succeed with her first?”
“You?” Rupert sat up in surprise. “I didn’t know she was of interest to you as well.”
“Because I haven’t said anything until now doesn’t mean that I’m immune to her considerable charm. I’m certainly interested enough to make an effort to beat you to her bed.”
Rupert looked at him for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “I accept your wager. We’ll make it official by entering it in the betting book.”
Edward smiled. “But of course,” he said lightly.
They went to the table where the book was kept, and Rupert picked up the quill, pausing for a while in astonishment as he read some of the previous entries. “Good God above,” he said, “I see that Percy Rosse and Lord Dunsdon have twenty guineas resting on a race between two woodlice.”
“A fellow must amuse himself somehow,” murmured Edward. “Besides, I understand woodlice have been known to go quite well.”
“No doubt.” Rupert was still perusing the book. “I had no idea there was such overwhelming curiosity about my matrimonial plans. There seems to be a staggering number of bets resting on them, a staggering number….”
“You should have recourse to the sacred book more often, dear fellow, or you’d know about these things.”
“You know everything, I suppose.”
Edward nodded. “All that is necessary.”
“Why do so many believe I will marry in September or thereabouts?”
“It may have been a chance remark of mine.”
Rupert gave a short laugh. “If it was, my laddo, then you’d best get out your prayer mat that I do indeed come across on that date, for there are some names here which I would not wish to cross, and that’s a fact.”
“Cross?”
“Yes, for that is what you will have done if I fail to marry then.”
“I can’t imagine why I would be deemed to have crossed them, for the remark was made only lightly in passing, and I made it plain that it was merely a guess.”
“Did you?” Rupert raised an eyebrow. “If this scripture is anything to go by, they think you’ve seen the word brought down from the mountain on tablets of stone. However, we digress.” He dipped the quill in the ink. “How much are you prepared to risk on your skill as a lover? Five guineas? Or perhaps you’re willing to back up your bragging by making it a hundred?”
Edward gave another smooth smile. “Why be so timid? I was thinking more on the lines of ten thousand—to make it more interesting.”
Rupert stared at him. “Ten thousand!”
“You find that too steep? Dear me, you have been away from the good book for a long time, haven’t you?”
“I don’t find it too steep,” replied Rupert a little coolly. “I was merely admiring your immense courage in the face of such overwhelming odds. Very well, ten thousand guineas it is.” He began to write: “The Duke of Thornbury bets Lord Edward Longhurst ten thousand guineas that he will conquer the fair Leonie Conyngham first.” He smiled at Edward then. “And since you wish to make it interesting, may I suggest a time limit? Say, three weeks? No, I have a better idea—we’ll limit it to the day de Lacey’s house party commences at Poyntons, since that seems as good a day as any to choose.
What do you say?”
“I agree.”
Rupert added the necessary information and then tossed down the quill. “And may the best man win.”
“Oh, he will, dear fellow. He will.” Edward was still smiling. He watched as Rupert walked away. This was now set to be most diverting, for so much intrigue could be stirred by it…. He glanced again at the book, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the other bets to which Rupert had earlier drawn his attention. There were indeed a great many wagers on the wedding plans, and he felt just a little uneasy, for Rupert was right: there were names there which it would not do to cross. But for the moment, there were other, more pleasing things to think about.
Chapter 21
At Grillion’s they were almost at the end of their meal, and Stella was engaged upon her second large portion of apricot-and-chocolate gateau. Guy had put himself out to be an attentive and amusing host, entertaining them with many anecdotes about famous figures in society. He was the personification of charm and consideration, and with each passing minute Leonie felt herself succumbing more and more to the spell he so effortlessly cast over her. She knew she was falling in love with him, and there was nothing she could do to save herself from the inevitable pain and heartbreak of such folly. It was Imogen Longhurst he loved; he merely pleased his niece tonight by being kind to her teacher.
The conversation, which had turned upon many interesting topics, now turned upon Richard Conyngham, and Stella stopped eating to look sympathetically at Leonie.
“It must be quite dreadful for you,” she said. “I know how I would feel if such horrid and untrue things were said of my father. Isn’t there anything you can do to clear his name?”
Leonie shook her head. “It doesn’t seem so.”
Guy looked at her. “Have you been to India House?”
She smiled wryly. “Oh, yes, I went there, and I was practically thrown out for my impudence.”
His eyes darkened. “Surely not!”
“Oh, but it’s true. I spoke with a clerk, who was all politeness until he heard my name, and then he asked me to leave.”
“A damned clerk treated you like that?” cried Guy incredulously. “I cannot believe it! Didn’t you demand to see someone in authority? I happen to know that Sir Henry Fitzjohn would have received you sympathetically.”
“Neither Sir Henry nor I had the opportunity to find out, Sir Guy. The clerk summoned some other fellows, and I was again requested to leave. Rather than be forcibly ejected, I decided to go of my own accord. Needless to say, I’ve never tried again. My father would never have done those things, Sir Guy, I know that he wouldn’t.”
He studied her for a moment. “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes. I hadn’t seen him for many years, but he wrote to me every month and his letters were kind and full of little things to make me laugh. That’s how I remember him—when I was small and still living in Madras, before my mother died and I was sent back here.” She stopped for a moment. “I grieve for him, Sir Guy, but I can’t cry for him. I wish with all my heart that I could.”
For the briefest of moments his hand rested gently on hers. “We grieve in different ways, Miss Conyngham, and for some of us tears come later rather than earlier.” He took his hand away then, as if a little embarrassed at having made such an intimate gesture. “Would you like me to speak to Harry Fitzjohn about your father? Harry’s an old friend of mine.”
She searched his face, her eyes brightening. “Would you do that?”
“Yes.”
“I’d be very grateful.”
“Don’t build up false hopes,” he warned, “for a promise to speak with someone does not mean all will automatically come well.”
She smiled. “I realize that, Sir Guy. I just want someone to consider the man my father really was—he was honorable.”
At that moment Stella drew their attention by pointing across the room toward a man seated by himself. “Is that Lord Byron?” she asked.
“It’s very rude to point,” reproved Guy, “and no, it isn’t Lord Byron, who looks nothing whatsoever like that gentleman. Why did you think it was he?”
“Because he limped when he came in.” Stella studied the man for a moment. “I suppose if I’d thought properly about it, I’d have known it couldn’t possibly be Lord Byron, who must be far, far more handsome than that. Lord Byron is handsome, isn’t he?”
Guy smiled. “There is a school of thought which would have it thus.”
“School of thought? Oh, you mean every lady in London.” Stella applied herself to the gateau again. “I don’t think I’d ever be so boring as to swoon over the same man everyone else was swooning over. I don’t want to be another Countess Lieven.”
“Countess Lieven?” Guy raised an eyebrow. “How does she come into it?”
“She was chasing Lord Byron.”
“Was she indeed? And how do you know that?”
“I listen,” she replied simply.
“At keyholes?”
“Certainly not!” she protested indignantly. “I merely sit there and they forget I’m present.”
“They?”
“Yes. That’s how I know that Countess Lieven wanted Lord Byron to be her lover, but he wasn’t coming round to it, and so she turned her attentions to Lord Palmerston instead. He’s her lover now.”
“Miss de Lacey,” reproved Guy, “I’m surprised and shocked.”
“Why?”
“To think that my niece knows about such things.”
“Well, if they will talk about it in front of me, what else do they expect? Anyway, they realized I was there then and dropped their voices and I didn’t hear any more.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. But who exactly are ‘they’?”
“I couldn’t hear what they were saying,” she went on, not hearing him, “but I know they were being absolutely horrid about someone. They were like the three witches in Hamlet.”
“Macbeth,” he corrected automatically. “Who were?”
“Countess Lieven, Miss Benckendorff, and Imogen. They were being absolutely beastly—you could tell by the way they whispered together. Whoever it was they were talking about, I felt very sorry for.”
Leonie’s heart had almost stopped with dismay. Guy was annoyed. “Stella,” he said quietly, “since you couldn’t hear what they were saying, I cannot see that you are in a position to make any judgment.”
“I didn’t have to hear them,” she replied unguardedly, “I know what Imogen’s like when she’s plotting something.”
“That’s enough,” he said abruptly.
She flinched a little, and then the old rebellious look crept back into her eyes. “I haven’t said anything that isn’t true,” she said defiantly.
“Unless you intend to apologize for saying unkind things about Imogen, I suggest you hold your tongue.”
“Apologize? Why should I? She’s horrid, Uncle Guy, she’ll make you dreadfully unhappy, and I hate her as much as she hates me!”
A dreadful silence fell upon the table. Leonie felt quite awful, and she could sense Guy’s rising fury. Oh, Stella, Stella, she thought, why on earth did you have to spoil it all like this?
Stella had gone too far now to withdraw. “Please don’t marry her, Uncle Guy.”
“You’ve said more than enough,” he replied coldly.
“Why can’t you see her for what she is?” cried Stella, her voice rising emotionally. “She made you send me away because she hates me!”
“She didn’t make me do anything. I sent you away because your conduct was unacceptable to me. Tonight I truly believed you had changed, but it now seems you are as rude and undisciplined as ever. You haven’t improved in the slightest, and you can therefore forget any notion you may have of coming home, or of coming to Poyntons next month. You will remain at the seminary until you learn some manners!”
Stella’s eyes were huge and tear-filled. With a sob she got up. “I hate her!” she
cried. “And I hate you!”
Her voice carried clearly over the entire dining room, and all conversation died away as everyone looked at her in disapproving astonishment.
Hot, mortified color flooded into her cheeks, and she ran from the room, cannoning into a waiter as she did so. He stumbled sideways and knocked a vase of flowers from a sideboard. It fell with a resounding crash.
Leonie flung down her napkin and hurried out after the sobbing girl, catching her in the vestibule and doing her best to calm her. But Stella was almost hysterical now, weeping inconsolably and causing a great deal of commotion.
Guy was pale with fury as he came out to them, and it was upon Leonie that he vented his wrath. “I trust, Miss Conyngham, that this isn’t a sample of your influence, for if it is, then I made a very grave error entrusting my niece to your care!”
Her lips parted with hurt, and then she was suddenly angry. “The grave error you made, sir, was in entrusting your niece to anyone else in the first place! She should be with you, not with strangers.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,” he replied coldly, “for I have no use for them.”
“Have you any use for anyone or anything except yourself, sirrah?”
“Have a care, madam!”
“Why? So that you can be unspeakably rude to me again? Since you’ve chosen to find fault with me, I think it only fair that I should return the compliment. You handled things very poorly a moment ago, Sir Guy de Lacey. Indeed you handled it as well as a carthorse with a phaeton! You reduced your niece to tears, and you did it alone.”
“It seems to me, Miss Conyngham, that the fault lay entirely with her. She only had to apologize.”
“Evidently it has escaped your notice that she had been doing just that all evening. Why else was she doing her best to please you? But no, you had to leap instantly to Imogen’s defense, when I can assure you that the lady is more than capable of defending herself. Mr. Kean’s performance tonight has evidently gone quite to your head—you think you’re Shylock and you want your pound of flesh and the blood to go with it!”