by Anne Gracie
And how impossible in others!
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
At five o’clock, Zach and Gil, elegantly dressed and looking perilously close to what Gil muttered were dashed pinks of the ton, called at the big white house in Berkeley Square.
The butler opened the door. Gil, standing in front of Zach, presented his card. “Gilbert Radcliffe and Mr. Zachary Black to see Lady Davenham—Lady Beatrice, that is—and Miss Chance.”
The butler glanced at the card. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the ladies have gone out.”
“Blast!” Zach muttered, causing the butler to frown and try to peer at Zach over Gil’s shoulder.
“What dashed bad luck,” Gil said, visibly cheering up. “Tell them we called, will you?” And he turned and gave Zach a little push toward the street.
“Of course! They’ll be in the park at this hour,” Zach said. “Come on, Gil, we’ll run them to earth there.”
Gil started at him. “Are you mad? Hyde Park? At the fashionable hour? When all the matchmaking mamas and their daughters are on the prowl?” He shuddered eloquently. “Thank you, but no.”
“I need you, Gil.”
Gil’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Why? Anyone can enter Hyde Park—there’s no butler there.”
“You’re acquainted with them, and I need you to introduce me—an introduction in public; she can’t wriggle out of that.”
There was a short silence.
“Be a good fellow, Gil, I’ve got to do something. She refuses to see me. She doesn’t believe a word I tell her.”
“Can you blame her?”
“No, but I have to try. Otherwise she’ll marry that oaf.”
“You mean that rich and titled, highly cultured gentleman of the ton?”
“He’s a crashing, pretentious bore—you told me that yourself. He’ll marry her for her beauty, not caring who she really is, and squash all the life and the joy out of her.”
“It’s her choice,” Gil pointed out dryly.
“No it’s not, not when there’s another choice to be made.”
“That choice being a man who might, just might end up at the end of a rope?”
“Dammit, you know I’m innocent. And in any case, I have to try. If I don’t do something soon, by the time I get free of this mess, she’ll be married and it will be too late. You’ve got to help me, Gil, you’ve got to.”
“You do realize if you appear in public at the fashionable hour, you vastly increase the risk of someone recognizing you?”
“Too late to worry about all that now—besides, it’ll all come out next week at the hearing. Though why on earth should they? For all intents and purposes, I’ve been dead for the last twelve years.”
Gil sighed. “I don’t see how it will help, but I suppose if I don’t agree, you’ll come up with some even madder ploy to see her—climb onto her balcony or some such thing.”
“Good man!” Zach clapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t hold your excessive caution against you, by the way—comes of sitting in an office all day scribbling notes. We men of action are used to taking risks.”
“You men of action should just shut your mouth or I’ll be off to my club and you’ll be without your introduction.”
* * *
Lady Beatrice and the girls were taking exercise in the park. It was a mild, sunny spring day, and all the ton was out promenading at this most fashionable hour of the afternoon, the ladies dressed in their most elegant walking gowns and gentlemen accompanying them dressed in the pink of fashion.
But Lady Beatrice was not happy. Her preferred form of exercise—as she had stated loud and clear on a number of occasions—was to ride graciously through the park in her landau, bowing to other ladies, stopping to exchange greetings and small talk from time to time, perhaps taking up a couple of friends for a short ride while she caught up on the latest gossip. And, she pointed out repeatedly, all the time she was observing her surrounds and breathing. Breathing a great deal; the air in the park being well known to be extremely healthful.
But the girls had said no—they would ride there in the carriage and then they would all walk.
Lady Beatrice’s second favorite form of exercise—and the one she had argued strenuously in favor of today—was to be carried in a bath chair by a pair of hefty footmen.
“For seeing them sweat does me a world of good, my dears,” she argued. “Truly it does.”
But on this her nieces were adamant. The doctor had said Lady Beatrice needed to walk for her health, so walk she must.
And being unable to resist the combined forces of all her nieces, she did. With a very bad grace, for the ground was damp and the air was chilly. “And pray, what use is walking when the veriest bores can accost one with the greatest of ease? One has to run, positively run, to avoid them!”
“Do yer good to run,” Daisy pointed out, and received a withering glare in response.
Lady Beatrice spotted an old friend, Sir Oswald Merridew, and waved. The sprightly old gentleman hurried over. “Now run along, gels, and leave Sir Oswald and me to chat,” she ordered them, and the girls drifted off.
* * *
“There she is.” Zach indicated Jane, strolling with several other young women and the old lady he’d seen once before: Lady Beatrice. As he and Gil watched, the girls broke into pairs and, arm in arm, strolled away, leaving the old lady talking to a nattily dressed elderly gentleman.
Zach and Gil followed Jane. Gil informed him she was walking with her sister, Lady Davenham.
“Ah, so that’s Abby,” Zach said. Jane had spoken of her sisters. They didn’t look much alike.
As Zach and Gil approached, Jane glanced back and saw them coming. She stiffened, said something to her sister and the two marched quickly away.
Zach and Gil followed.
But every time they drew near, Jane and her sister hurried away.
“Enjoying this a lot more than I thought I would,” Gil confided as the girls marched off for the fourth time, almost running this time. “Quite puts me in the mood for hunting season. Why don’t you take a flying tackle, bring her down in the mud? Or perhaps I should send for my hunter and some hounds and you can run her to ground that way.”
“Delighted to provide you with some amusement,” Zach muttered.
It was no use. He couldn’t very well chase her all over the park. There had to be another way. He glanced back at the old lady. With that stick, she wouldn’t be doing any running away.
“Introduce me to Lady Beatrice,” he told Gil.
“Very well, but watch yourself, she’s cannier than she looks.”
Zach snorted. “I can handle an old lady.”
“She’s with Sir Oswald Merridew. Knows everyone, Sir Oswald. Knew your father quite well.”
Zach nodded. “Better wait until he’s moved on, just in case.”
It took a few moments, but when Lady Beatrice was approached by a couple of fashionable ladies, Sir Oswald, with an elegant bow, moved off. Zach and Gil reached the old lady just as the ladies were drifting on to their next encounter. It was what the fashionable hour in Hyde Park was all about—seeing, being seen, chatting and moving on.
“Good afternoon, Lady Beatrice,” Gil said. “You’re looking wonderfully well.”
She lifted a lorgnette and scrutinized them one after the other, from head, Zach noticed, to foot—quite a shameless examination for an old lady, practically stripping him bare. He repressed a grin.
“Gilbert Radcliffe,” she said. “Long time since you’ve been seen in civilized company. How is your mother?”
“In excellent health, ma’am, thank you.”
The lorgnette was directed at Zach again. “And who is your handsome friend?”
“Allow me to introduce Zachary Black, m’lady,” Gil said. “Lady Beatrice, Mr. Black.”
&n
bsp; “Recently arrived from Italy,” Zach added with a bow. He ignored Gil’s blink of surprise; an Italian connection would help create a bridge to her nieces.
The lorgnette raked Zach again. “Italy, is it?”
“Yes, m’lady. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Are you?” She eyed him narrowly. “Why, may I ask?”
Zach gave her a disarming grin. “Because I wish to meet your nieces, the charming daughters of the Marchese di Chancelotto. I suspect we may have friends in common.” He glanced across to where Jane and Abby stood glaring at him. “Is that—could that possibly be the young ladies concerned?”
Jane, arms folded militantly, glared across the meager grass at him and pointedly turned her back on him.
Lady Beatrice gave a caustic snort. “It had better be, since you’ve spent the best part of half an hour chasing them all over the park. Or should I say chasing Jane.”
Zach blinked. He darted a quick glance at Gil, who was trying to swallow an I-told-you-so look, though not very hard.
“Doesn’t want to talk to you, does she? Can’t say I blame her. That’s the trouble with this place—anyone can approach anyone—or try to. Now there’s a bench—I’m going to sit down. All this dratted walking . . .” She sat down and brought up the lorgnette to scrutinize Zach again, dwelling on his face this time.
Zach felt a prickle of discomfort.
Her eyes narrowed. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Black.” He bowed again with a flourish. “Zachary Black, late of Verona. Italy,” he added, in case she didn’t know either her geography or her Shakespeare.
Her gaze sharpened. “Who was your father?” she demanded abruptly.
Zach said cautiously, “Ah, m’lady, ’tis a wise man who knows his own father.”
“His name, sirrah—and don’t be bothering with that continental flummery. All that bowing is exhausting me.”
“I believe my grandparents named him after a king.”
“Hah!” she exclaimed in triumph. “George. I remember him well. Didn’t like him much. Nasty temper on him.” She gave a brisk nod, as if confirming something. “Zachary Black, my foot. It’s Adam Aston-Black, if I’m not mistaken.”
It gave him a jolt. There was a muffled sound from Gil, which he turned into quite a praiseworthy cough.
Zach said, “Would you admit to it if you were mistaken?”
“Not usually.”
“Neither do I. However, I am not this Adam whoever-you-said,” he said gently, as if humoring an old lady. “I am Zachary Black, plain and simple.”
“Pah! You are neither plain nor simple, my boy, so don’t try and flummery me. I might be old but I’m not in my dotage and I know an Aston-Black when I see one. I attended your christening: Adam George Zachary Aston-Black, only son of the late Lord Wainfleet.” She grinned. “You howled the church down. No doubt the devil was in you even then.”
Zach swore silently. How the hell had she rumbled him?
The old lady continued, “You don’t much resemble George, except for the eyes—Aston-Black eyes if ever I saw them! And you have a great look of your grandfather, and him—before you try to deny it—I knew very well. Very well indeed.”
“My grandfather was a gypsy, madam.”
She gave a crack of ribald laughter. “He was many things, my boy, and a wicked rake to boot—the stories I could tell . . . But”—she fixed him with a severe look—“he was, underneath it all, a gentleman. As are you, I hope, whatever nonsensical game you’re playing.”
Zach didn’t know what to say. He glanced at Gil, who was trying to look as though he wasn’t convulsed with silent laughter.
The old lady continued, “So returned from the dead, have you, young Adam or Zachary or whatever you’re calling yourself? Thought you might reappear when I heard your cousin was petitioning for the legal ruling. Nothing like a greedy little weasel sneaking your inheritance to bring a missing boy home, eh?”
Zach gave a short, rueful laugh. “You’re very well informed, my lady.” He hoped she hadn’t heard about the murder charge, but he wasn’t counting on it.
“I have my sources.” She smoothed her skirt complacently. “So you’re pursuing my niece, Jane, eh?”
“I am, my lady.” No use in pretending now.
“Looks to me like she doesn’t want to be pursued.”
“We had a misunderstanding.”
She arched an elegantly plucked eyebrow at him. “Whose fault was that?”
“Mine,” Zach admitted.
The old lady considered that. “What are your intentions toward my Jane?”
“Everything of the most honorable.”
“I see.” She fell silent a moment, swinging her lorgnette back and forth meditatively. “You know she’s betrothed, I assume. Catch of the season—Lord Cambury. A triumph for a gel without a fortune. All the cats ready to scratch her eyes out.”
“She’s not married yet,” Zach said thinly.
There was another long silence, then Lady Beatrice said, “She’s a good gel, my Jane—sweet-natured and loving. Not just a pretty face.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Men don’t usually see past a pretty face and a lissome young body.”
“A pretty face is the least of her qualities,” Zach said.
“How would you know—having just arrived from Italy and all,” she pointed out sardonically.
“I’ve been meeting her in the park—the square opposite your house. We bonded over a dog.”
“Good gad!” She lifted the lorgnette again. Zach was getting heartily sick of it. “You’re the gypsy!”
He nodded.
“Why?” She stared at him in bewilderment. “Why on earth would Adam George Zachary Aston-Black dress as a gypsy to court a respectable gel?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Oh, I have plenty of time,” she said bitterly. “I have to breathe a certain amount of fresh dratted air before they let me go home. Wretched quacks! So go on, boy, explain. You clearly want—not to say need—my assistance, and I’ll hear the whole story before I make up my mind. The full tale with no bark upon it, if you please.”
Zach told her everything, held nothing back, not the murder charge, not anything. There was no point in trying to keep it a secret from her. She was apparently some kind of mind-reading witch, and besides, he needed her help. And since she’d clearly had a fondness for his grandfather . . .
When he finished, there was a long pause, then she gave a crack of laughter. “Better than a play indeed.” She sobered. “Well, young man, it’s a devil of a tangle you’re planning to drag my niece into. Why should I assist with that, eh?”
“I’m not planning to drag her into anything,” Zach said. “I just want to talk to her, make her understand.”
“To understand what?”
Zach just looked at her. What he had to say to Jane was private. For Jane’s ears only.
She laughed and patted his cheek. “Such a delicious glower. Your grandfather was just the same.”
“The problem is time,” Zach said. “It might take weeks to sort out the mess I’m in, and by then . . .”
The old lady nodded. “By then the gel could be married.”
“Exactly. His having the banns called has forced my hand. I wouldn’t otherwise involve her until I could come to her, free and clear.”
She nodded slowly, considering what he’d said. “The gel’s not interested in marrying for love, you know. Wants security above all. Had a difficult time of it as a child. Quite happy to make a convenient marriage.” She gave him a shrewd look. “You and Cambury both have a title, a fortune and property—or you will have when, as you say, the mess is sorted out. But Cambury is, I fancy, a great deal wealthier than you will ever be.”
Zach said nothing.
He knew that.
Lady Beatrice continued, “My Jane’s not a gel who likes to upset the apple cart—she likes everyone to be happy. If she were to brave the scandal that jilting Cambury would cause—and believe me, it would be the scandal of the decade—she’d need a dashed good reason. So, young Aston-Black, what can you offer her that she hasn’t already got?”
Zach looked her in the eye. “Me.”
There was a brief pause, then Lady Beatrice went into a peal of laughter. “A chip off your grandfather’s block indeed. Not a shred of modesty in that man either.” She wiped her eyes. “Well, nobody has ever accused me of being a spoilsport, so as long as you’re not playing fast and loose with the affections of my Jane—and you’re not, are you?” She poked him in the chest—quite hard—and gave him a beady look.
“No, my lady, I promise you I’m not.” And he meant every word.
She gave him a long look that stripped him bare in quite a different way this time. He wasn’t sure what she saw, but whatever it was seemed to satisfy her. “I believe you, dear boy.” She glanced at Jane’s rigid back, still pointedly turned, and chuckled. “Come to my literary society tomorrow. Two o’clock sharp. And it would be delightful if you could converse in Italian with my nieces—they will simply adore it.”
She fished in her reticule, pulled out a card and a pencil and scribbled something on it. “Give this to Featherby, my butler; he’ll admit you. And don’t fret, I won’t give you away. I quite see the need for discretion. You come too, young Radcliffe. We need more young men.”
“Delighted, my lady,” Gil said glumly.
Zach took the card. A literary society was a more public meeting than he’d planned on, but it was a start. He had to get her alone, had to make her believe him. And to give him time to show her . . .
He glanced across at Jane, bowed to the old lady and smiled. “Thank you, my lady, you won’t regret this, I promise you.”
The old lady laid a gnarled hand over her heart. “Oh, that wicked, wicked smile—it does take me back.” She gave him a wicked smile of her own. “The literary society has been getting devilish dull lately. The arrival of a handsome, Italian-speaking gentleman should liven things up nicely.”