Lady Windermere's Lover

by Miranda Neville

  A fair and slightly stout young man had been hovering nearby and spoke to Damian in a language she didn’t understand.

  “Allow me to present Count Becker from the Bavarian embassy,” Damian said.

  “My lady,” Becker said with a stiff bow and a click of the heels. Cynthia gathered her wits for her first conversation with a foreign diplomat. She didn’t know a word of German, but the blatant admiration in his wide blue eyes boosted her courage. Still, she’d like to make an impression for more than her looks. If Lady Belinda was watching, and she’d wager on it, she wanted to appear a success. And emphatically not simple.

  “Gnaedige Frau,” he began, and thankfully continued in accented English. “I heard you speak of Christmas greens. I miss the customs of my native land.” He looked at the unadorned magnificence of the Radcliffe’s saloon with undiplomatic disapproval.

  “How would you decorate your rooms in Bavaria?” Cynthia asked, and Damian gave her a quick nod of encouragement. “I have never traveled out of England but I am most interested in foreign customs.”

  The count was easy to talk to, and she enjoyed hearing about fir trees festooned with cakes and sweetmeats. If she could only avoid Lady Belinda and other more alarming company, she would be able to get through the evening. It pleased her that Damian remained at her side, contributing an occasional reminiscence of a Christmas spent in Berlin. She had rather expected him to leave her to sink or swim. Of course, he wouldn’t want her to embarrass him. He was probably terrified she’d make a faux pas and damage his standing in the Foreign Office.

  The undemanding charms of Count Becker afforded only a short respite. Her host came over to lead her into dinner. As he seated her on his right, at the head of a long, lavish board gleaming with silver, crystal, and hothouse flowers, she tried to suppress her instinctive dislike. While the fact of him being her husband’s mentor wasn’t a recommendation, it was her duty to be on good terms with him. Wondering if she had anything in common with this worldly man, the only thing she could think of did not make her feel better: Their spouses had once been intimately involved and might very well still be.

  Lady Belinda sat at the other end of the table, apparently greatly amusing all within earshot, including Windermere seated a couple of seats to her right, diagonally across the table from Cynthia. It reminded her of spotting him at the theater, completely oblivious to the presence and even the existence of his wife. Did Sir Richard know? Of course he did. Surely there was little those shrewd eyes missed.

  “Do I gather that you prefer country life, Lady Windermere?”

  “I spent my early childhood in a country village but most of my life I lived in Birmingham. Though some call it provincial, it is scarcely rustic.”

  “Not when so much of the wealth of the nation is generated there. I believe Joseph Chorley is your uncle.”

  “Indeed. Are you acquainted with him? I would think you inhabited different circles.”

  “A wise man has many interests.”

  The lavishness of Sir Richard’s home and hospitality spoke of great wealth. They dined off priceless Sevres plates, which were replaced by another set for anyone who turned down turtle soup in favor of lobster in a butter sauce. A large turkey and a haunch of venison dominated the sideboard, but she suspected they were only nods to the traditions of the season. The Radcliffes’ kitchen was undoubtedly overseen by a French cook, or several.

  To ask about the source of her host’s income was out of the question, so she pretended to misunderstand him. “I see that you are a connoisseur of painting. Is that not a Rubens?”

  “Unmistakable, isn’t it.”

  “Has it been in your family for long? Is collecting a Radcliffe tradition?”

  “Not at all. Everything in this house is my own acquisition. I’ve been lucky enough to have a number of fine works fall in my way.”

  “I noticed a pair of mythological scenes that I believe must be the work of Poussin.”

  “You are quite the cognoscenta yourself, Lady Windermere. I would assume Damian had taught you, had he not been absent. But there is no one with a better eye for a painting than the Duke of Denford.”

  She put down her fork and fussed with her napkin for a few seconds. When she looked up, Radcliffe’s pale eyes with small pupils regarded her beadily. His eyelashes were so light as to appear nonexistent, and she wondered if that was why she found him sinister. Certain that nothing he had or would say was insignificant or without motive, she tried to keep her wits about her. Talking to Sir Richard reminded her of dealing with her uncle. She felt she had been thrown into a game in which she did not know the rules.

  “I am acquainted with Denford. In fact he was the one who told me about your Poussins,” she continued boldly. “Otherwise I might not have recognized the artist. What is their history?”

  Radcliffe smiled thinly, as though well aware of the reason for her interrogation. “They belonged to Lord Maddox. Fortescue, as he then was, wanted them but they came to me instead.”

  So far he had confirmed Julian’s story. She stole a glance at Damian, as she had throughout the meal. He was in his element: sleek and self-contained, his face giving nothing away, the perfect diplomat. In this mode she believed him capable of anything.

  She turned back to Sir Richard. “You were fortunate to have heard about them.”

  “News of great pictures for sale always spreads. Denford may have lost the Poussins, but he has bought and sold many fine works. I hear he has an especially important collection on hand now.”

  “If so, he hasn’t said anything to me. You should ask him yourself.”

  “Sometimes these things require a certain delicacy. If you should hear anything, Lady Windermere, it would be a favor to me if you sent word of it.”

  Remembering Julian’s bitterness, she doubted he’d wish to sell anything to Radcliffe, however much he needed the money. Nor did he ever discuss his business with her. It wasn’t part of their friendship, a friendship that seemed likely to end.

  Sir Richard beckoned to one of the army of footmen to fill their wineglasses. “I prefer a burgundy with game,” he said. She sipped the red wine cautiously, not wishing to face Sir Richard—or his wife, for that matter—without a full and unclouded set of wits.

  The topic of the burgundy carried them though the ragout of pheasant, then Radcliffe abandoned wine talk as they switched to claret. “You wish to assist Damian in his work, do you not?” he asked.

  “My husband has told me of the duties of a diplomat’s spouse. I gather,” she continued, “the first rule is never to say what one means.” Perhaps a sip or two from each glass of wine had rendered her indiscreet, or maybe she was tired of Radcliffe’s polite intrusions.

  “Very good. You are obviously born to the role, and also wise enough to know you may be frank with me.” He gazed down the length of the table toward his wife. “I am blessed with a spouse who spares no effort on my behalf. If you will do the same, there is no limit to the heights Damian may attain.”

  “I’m sure his talents will take him as far as he wishes to go, with or without my interference.”

  He ignored her modest disclaimer. “There are times, Lady Windermere, that you may have to do things against his wishes, even without his knowledge. For his own good, you understand.”

  “I fear I do not understand.”

  “You will. I am so glad we can speak bluntly to each other. I foresee a long and fruitful partnership.”

  “I didn’t know we were on such terms,” Cynthia said, swallowing a growing unease.

  “We have the mutual goal of dear Damian’s advancement.”

  She was really beginning to dislike the word dear. “What do you mean?”

  “Maintain your . . . friendship with Denford.”

  “I am sure you are aware, Sir Richard, that Denford and Windermere quarreled.”

  “That is why it is so important you stay on terms with the duke. Continue to see him, and if you discover anything along
the lines I mentioned before, be sure to let me know.”

  “Let me get this clear. Telling you about some paintings Denford may or may not own will assist my husband? I fear the world of diplomacy is far too convoluted for my poor brain.”

  “You can ask Damian, if you wish. But should you prefer not to raise the subject of Denford with him, I offer my services as a conduit for any intelligence you gather.”

  If Radcliffe believed that she was having an affair with Denford, and quite likely he did, he was encouraging her to continue it. The man possessed nothing that she would recognize as morality, and she wondered if her husband did either. Would he be so indignant about her perceived infidelity if it hadn’t been with Julian? Her mouth went suddenly dry and she reached for the famous Radcliffe claret. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of water.

  Suppose her husband expected her to bestow her favors in pursuit of his career? She had always assumed his first priority from her would be an heir, but he showed no great urgency.

  “Do you have any children, Sir Richard?” she asked.

  He took her abrupt change of subject in his stride. “Lady Belinda and I have not been so lucky. I have a son and a daughter by my first wife, both well settled.”

  “Did you know that the vast majority of my uncle’s fortune is to be settled on my son? If I do not give my husband an heir, Windermere will not reap the full benefit of his marriage.”

  She didn’t have the impression the news came as any surprise to Radcliffe. Doubtless Damian had discussed it with him before he agreed to the bargain. “An unusual if not unprecedented arrangement,” he said, waving it aside.

  “I’m breaking the rules again, but we are speaking bluntly to each other, aren’t we, dear sir. My priority as a wife must be to do my duty to secure the Chorley fortune. I shall not have . . . time . . . to pursue other interests, such as the Duke of Denford’s art collection.”

  Chapter 16

  After leaving the premises of Hamble & Stoke the previous day without drawing blood, Damian had taken a hackney to Grosvenor Square and demanded he be excused from any further involvement in the Alt-Brandenburg affair. All he wanted to do was put a bullet through Denford’s black heart. Sir Richard had not proved sympathetic to his thinly veiled pleas. Finally Damian came out into the open about his wife’s relationship with the duke.

  “Naturally I heard about it,” Radcliffe said. “And you will just have to swallow your finer feelings until you’ve completed your task. Only a weak man allows personal considerations to get in the way of his duty. You, my dear Damian, are not weak.”

  “Perhaps I can choke the information out of Denford,” he said.

  Sir Richard’s thin lips stretched into a sympathetic smile. “That’s the spirit, my dear boy, although I trust it won’t come to that. Wouldn’t be very diplomatic, would it? These things happen when a young woman is left alone,” he added. “I’m afraid it’s your own fault for dashing off to Persia like that instead of taking care of your new bride. You shouldn’t have ignored my advice. I expect to see both of you at our Christmas dinner tomorrow, and no more of this nonsense.”

  As a result, Damian now watched his wife and Sir Richard Radcliffe deep in conversation at the other end of the table and wondered what the latter was saying to her. Never had he felt less in sympathy with his mentor. He didn’t like to think of his innocent wife under the influence of Sir Richard’s devious worldliness. A ridiculous thought since Cynthia had proven to be the farthest thing from an innocent. Damian just didn’t seem to be able to keep that fact from slipping his mind.

  As the covers were changed for the next course, Sir Richard turned to the lady on his other side and Damian’s heart leaped into his mouth. Cynthia’s new partner was Prince Rostrov, an attaché at the Russian embassy, who, as far as he knew, spoke not one word of English. The Russians, of course, all spoke French better than they spoke their own language. Poor Cynthia was going to endure a difficult hour.

  He had to pay a little attention to his own neighbor now that Belinda, thank God, had stopped dominating the conversation. A few minutes later he glanced up the room to see Cynthia and the prince chatting. Rostrov’s English must have made huge strides in the past year, unless she was laughing at his accent and bad grammar, which wouldn’t be at all like his kindly wife. Rostrov, he now remembered, had an eye for a beautiful woman and was probably paying her all sorts of compliments. She blushed prettily at something he whispered. Damian felt the urge to do violence that was becoming distressingly common.

  The day stretched into twilight; candles were lit, curtains drawn, and course after rich course paraded from the kitchen; glasses emptied, faces grew redder, conversation more desultory; even the most stiff-backed European aristocrats slumped in their chairs. Damian wished he could get away from the overheated luxurious confines of the Radcliffes’ palace and breathe fresh air. When Lady Belinda arose and announced that, since it was Christmas Day, the entire party, gentlemen as well as ladies, would proceed to the drawing room, there wasn’t a single male complaint. Even the most dedicated toper had sated himself on the contents of Sir Richard’s famous cellar.

  One of the last to leave the dining room, Damian joined the rearguard of the party in time to see Prince Rostrov presenting Cynthia to the Grand Duchess Olga, sister-in-law to the Russian ambassador. Since there was absolutely no chance that Her Serene Highness, on a brief visit to London, had troubled to learn English, Damian hastened forward to assist his wife with a difficult encounter. To his utter amazement, he discovered them in animated discussion about the best linen drapers in London. Lady Windermere spoke fluent and almost flawless French, in accents that would not have disgraced a duchess at the late court of Versailles.

  He stood back and listened as Cynthia had one of the most difficult women in Europe eating out of her pretty little hands. She was incredible: beautiful, clever, and an asset such as he had never expected.

  When Lady Belinda joined the discussion, it appeared that the distinguished Russian guest had taken a dislike to her hostess. Belinda, in excellent French but no better than Cynthia’s, extolled the offerings of a particular merchant. The grand duchess, having visited neither establishment, insisted that the one recommended by Lady Windermere was preferable.

  “I am sure, Your Serene Highness, that the linens in your own land are superior to anything you can find in England.” Cynthia’s tactful speech failed to soothe, but succeeded in diverting the grand duchess’s ire. “Russians make ordures,” she said, consigning the products of her countrymen to the dust heap. “Only the French are any good, and they have all gone mad. Mon marchand favori in Paris was sent to the guillotine by the barbarians, therefore I must shop in London. So uncivilized, the English. They expect me to visit their establishments instead of coming to the embassy.”

  “You see,” Cynthia explained, “the selection of merchandise is so great that they could not transport it all to you. It is more convenient if we go to them.” She smiled winningly. “And it’s much more enjoyable to be able to explore an entire shop. I often find things I didn’t even know I wanted.”

  “Very well. We shall manage.” She turned her back on Belinda in a pointed manner. “And Lady Windermere will accompany me.”

  Bravo, Cynthia!

  “I should be delighted, Highness. There is nothing I enjoy more than shopping.”

  “Your dear little wife has made a success with odious Olga,” Lady Belinda said, maneuvering Damian away. “I wish her joy of the impossible woman.”

  “Lady Windermere is not little,” Damian said curtly.

  “I am far taller.”

  Damian said nothing and thought about his wife’s ideal proportions, and how well they’d fit together if he ever got the chance again.

  Belinda lowered her eyelids and smiled seductively. “You never brought me those Persian illustrations.”

  “Somehow they didn’t seem an appropriate gift for my hostess on Christmas Day.”

  “I
can’t think of anything I’d like better. I expect to see them no later than Twelfth Night.”

  He’d decided not to give them to her, until this morning. Despairing of sharing the poses with his wife, he’d ordered them placed in the carriage because they were entirely appropriate for this particular hostess, at any time of year.

  Now Belinda had annoyed him and he didn’t feel like indulging her. “I’ll send them around when I can lay hands on them.”

  “I’d rather you brought them yourself.”

  “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

  “And yet I get a notion all is not blissful in the Windermere wedding bower.”

  A notion! Sir Richard would have told her everything. He was sure they’d thoroughly discussed the situation and drawn all sorts of conclusions, most of them correct. It made him angry that his relations with Cynthia should be a subject for their gossip. What lay between them was no one else’s damn business.

  Removing her hand from his arm and himself from her perfumed proximity, he accepted a cup of coffee, hoping to shake off his postdinner stupor. Unlike every other guest, Cynthia looked fresh and sweet. Her white gown suited her perfectly and made all the other ladies look garish and overdressed. Dismissed by her new best friend the grand duchess, she stood alone for a minute or two, peering at one of Radcliffe’s famous Poussins. His stomach clenched. He didn’t want to think about the pictures because it was impossible to do so without thinking of Julian.

  He wanted to walk over and talk to her, except he didn’t know what to say, certainly not in a crowded room. At least he could bring her coffee and then he’d think of something. “A cup for Her Ladyship,” he said. “I will deliver it.”

  “Sugar, my lord?” asked the footman who manned the coffee urn. He had no idea if his own wife preferred her coffee sweetened, and that was exactly the kind of commonplace, intimate information he ought to possess. He stirred in a spoonful and hoped he was right. When he turned around she was no longer alone. He groaned at the sight of the Countess of Ashfield, an established pillar of the beau monde and an old friend of Damian’s father. The harangue was her normal method of address, but what she said to Cynthia must have been more than usually high-handed. Whatever he might think of his wife, he wasn’t about to let anyone else distress her.