He pulled out a rose, one as creamy as her lovely skin, and offered it to her. “I do thank you for caring, Chas. But I know my own path best. My apologies to Lady Elf, but I am not up to a visit from her today.”
She took the rose. “Just don’t do anything foolish.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I don’t know. But I fear it’s a family trait.”
“Malloren or Ware?”
“Both.”
Elf had made herself sit quietly in the reception room, even when enough time had passed to tell her Fort would not see her. She was tempted to go up and force herself upon him—she knew the way, after all—but force was unlikely to work any miracles.
And anyway, it had belatedly occurred to her that meeting him in that room with that bed, that bench, that mirror might prove to be too much for her nerves.
So she was not entirely devastated when Chastity returned with one rose in her fingers.
“So he didn’t throw them out the window?”
“He’s pretty well confined to his chaise still.” Chastity shrugged and passed the rose over. “It wasn’t clear, but I suspect he wanted you to have it. He won’t see you, though. He seems firm about it.”
Elf rose and took the flower to inhale the sweet perfume. “Did he say why?”
“Not too coherently, but he mentioned not wanting to commit murder or suicide. Perhaps time . . .”
“No, not time,” said Elf, leading the way out of the house. “Time just lets some things set harder.”
They had sent the coach home, so set to walking the few streets between Abingdon Street and Marlborough Square.
“But what can you do?” Chastity asked. “I don’t think it would help to force yourself on him.”
“Sting him,” said Elf.
And when they passed a toy shop, she went in and bought a ball and cup, the ball attached by a long string. She ordered it sent to Walgrave House with the compliments of Mademoiselle Lisette.
Fort was dismissing Dingwall.
“Have I failed to give satisfaction, my lord?” asked the man. For once he was showing a reaction, and it seemed to be hurt.
“I’m sure you satisfied your employer, Dingwall. But he is dead. I have decided it is time to bury him.”
“Bury him? My lord, are you suffering some minor instability of the mind—”
“Running mad? Like my father? You would love to have charge of me in chains, wouldn’t you? On the contrary, I am coming to my senses, and I realize I don’t need a resident penance anymore. I will instruct Mr. Jellicoe to pay you your wages and a handsome gift for your long service. I am trying to correct my father’s errors and omissions.”
Dingwall was probably in a rage, but it merely showed by a quivering about his mouth. “It is my job to watch over you! I must—”
“You must take your dismissal.”
“You are not worthy to take your father’s place.”
“Then I am sure you will be happier serving a better master.” Fort picked up the toy, let the ball fall out to the length of the string, then flicked it. The ball missed the cup.
He smiled up at Dingwall.
“You are right, my lord.” The expression in the man’s eyes might even be compassion. “I have tried, but there is nothing I can do.”
He bowed and left.
Fort flipped the ball again and it settled neatly into the cup. “One ghost dealt with,” he said.
Chapter 18
Jack Travers arrived at his friend’s room to find him idly flipping a wooden ball into a wooden cup.
“What the devil’s that?”
“A toy.”
“Yes, but why?”
Fort looked up at his friend. “Perhaps it’s a message. Does the ball seek the cup, or seek to escape? Is the string a fetter or a guide?”
Jack looked around, concerned. “Has that damned sawbones been giving you new medicine?”
“Not at all.” Fort put down the toy, but picked up a bouquet of roses. “I am forcibly made aware of the fact that no one thought to sweeten my prison with flowers.”
“Flowers?” Jack was ruining his neat hairstyle. “Look, my dear fellow, perhaps we had better have the doctor back . . . Where’s Dingwall?”
“I dismissed him.”
“Well, then.” Jack smiled. “Perhaps you are in your right mind. At last.”
“Quite. I am merely in a strange mood from being damnably bored. Play hazard with me.”
“Of course,” said Jack, relaxing. “I know it must be tedious having to just lie about.” He pulled over a chair and a small table, adding, “In fact, a group of us thought we could have a party up here if you’re willing. Wine, wenches, and high play.”
“A delightful prospect, but leave out the women. I’m not up to it, and have no desire to watch you all making fools of yourself.”
“Oh, of course.” Jack flushed slightly, and Fort realized that as far as his friend was concerned he was still sunk in his strange apathy toward women.
That needed to be corrected, too.
Fort picked up the dice and rolled them. “When I am fully recovered, let’s stage a magnificent orgy in honor of the occasion.”
Jack grinned in relief. “That’s the spirit! The best damn orgy since Heatherington’s do at Rood House.”
The next day, Tuesday, not long after breakfast, a scroll arrived, a pretty item on pink paper tied with silver ribbon and decorated with a spray of tiny silk roses. Unrolled, it proved to be poetry, presumably written out in her own hand and cleverly decorated with blossoms and flying birds.
To a Nosegay on Lord Walgrave’s Breast.
“Must you alone then, happy flowers,
Ye short-lived daughters of vernal showers,
Must you alone be still thus blessed,
And dwell so well on Walgrave’s chest?
Oh, would the gods but hear my prayer,
To change my form and place me there!
I should not sure so quickly die.
I should not so inactive lie;
But ever wandering up and down,
From swelling shaft to fading frown,
Enjoy ten thousand thousand blisses,
And print on each ten thousand kisses.”
With a laugh, Fort recognized a play on a poem by Jenyns, but that one had been written to a lady addressed as Pancharilla. In the original, the fanciful wandering had been restricted to her breasts!
He read it again, his “shaft” indeed swelling at the words. If he were weak enough, with just a few words he could make fancy fact. He could have Lisette/Elf on his breast, showering various appreciative parts with ten thousand kisses—
He crumpled the paper into a ball and hurled it across the room.
Vespa indeed.
The damned woman was impossible! Just like all the Mallorens, she thought her will was law.
When Wednesday passed without another intrusive gift, he thought he was safe. He knew himself to be oddly disappointed, but that was doubtless just because of boredom.
He’d settled in bed for the night when the singing started.
Cursing, he seized his crutch and hobbled over to the window to peep around the curtains at the torch-lit group. Venetian-style, the musicians beneath his window were cloaked and masked in a way designed, surely, to remind him of Vauxhall and Lisette.
He rather thought the singer, whose voice was truly exquisite, was the castrato Gioletto, currently the adored star at the Opera House. Two guitar players and a flute accompanied him. No figure looked like Elf.
Damn, but the music touched his soul, even if the song was some silliness about a rejected lover languishing in misery, fading away for lack of sight of the beloved . . .
He came to his senses and staggered back to the bed to ring his bell and command that the caterwaulers be driven away.
On Thursday a small box arrived containing a fine topaz ring with a wasp engraved so as to appear to be trapped within the jewel. It fi
t his ring finger exactly.
He had kept the crumpled poem and the roses, though the latter were now beginning to droop. He was loath to part with this offering, but in the spirit of the game, he replaced the jewel in its box and called for paper and pen.
His note was brief.
Lord Walgrave regrets that it would not be proper for him to accept such a valuable gift.
He sealed it and sent box and note to Lady Elfled Malloren at Malloren House.
Moments after his footman had left, he knew he’d made a tactical error. He had acknowledged her existence. Her plan was working, too, in that he was now obsessed by her gifts, heightening his obsession with her.
It was lying about in this room that had trapped his mind in nonsense. So, gritting his teeth, he grasped his stick, pushed himself off the damned chaise, and began to move around the room.
Recently his doctor had urged exercise, though he had instructed that a footman be on hand in case the leg gave way. Be damned to that. Fort defied pain and worked his way out into the corridor, heading toward the stairs that would lead to the outside world.
To freedom.
He reached the top and halted, clutching the carved knob on the newel post, already running with sweat. That’s all he needed, though. The outside world.
He’d order his chair and be carried to one of his clubs. Perhaps he’d even be carried to the House. A boring, long-winded debate about the slave trade would at least stop him thinking about Elf, wondering what the next gift would be . . .
How was he going to get down the stairs, though?
Should he put his injured leg down first so it had to bear his weight, or the good leg first so the injured one had to bear his weight? There should be rules for this.
He shifted his weight to the wounded leg and immediately desisted with a hiss of pain.
Someone knocked at the door, giving him an excellent excuse to put off the trial until tomorrow. I would definitely be beneath his dignity to be caught trying to hobble crab-wise down the stairs.
He turned back toward his room, then paused. Perhaps the knock heralded the ring flying back to him. However, it was merely a liveried messenger with some papers to do with business of Parliament. Fort scuttled hastily back to his room, his overexerted leg already hurting like blazes. He didn’t want the footman to find him like this.
He staggered back into his room and collapsed on the chaise. He’d study the papers seriously, though. It would be a distraction. Moreover, he was determined to rebuild the honor of his family, even if few people knew just how badly his father had tarnished it.
It was a lonely task. Chastity had her own life, and would soon be gone. Verity was already abroad with her military husband. Victor was in Italy.
He had friends, but he couldn’t involve friends in family or political affairs. His friends were the friends of his carefree youth.
Strangely, the closest he’d come to a new friend, a friend of his new self, was a certain scarlet lady. If only she truly had been a doxy called Lisette, looking for a rich protector. He’d pay her handsomely to be his mistress, and treat her as well as a wife . . .
Marry Elf Malloren, said a tempting voice. Then you can have it all.
“Never,” he said out loud. “Never.”
On Friday the package came in the regular postbag. He opened it to find a narrow box and a neat little note.
Vespa regrets overstepping the bounds of propriety, and can only offer as excuse the power of her feelings. She prays that Lord Walgrave will accept this trifle in place of the ring.
The long narrow box proved to contain a silver-and-black fan. He took it out, shaking his head. Some fops had taken to using fans, but he wasn’t one of them. It would be an unexceptionable gift, however, from a suitor to a lady, and she’d borne in mind his habit of wearing mourning.
She couldn’t know that he’d given it up and was wearing colors again.
He idly flicked open the fan, then laughed out loud. It was decorated with a series of pictures of a lady in scarlet stripes slowly raising her skirt to tie her garter, all the time smiling at the observer in a most inviting manner.
He turned to look at the other side and found it to be an unexceptionable picture of Vauxhall Gardens. Unexceptionable, that is, if Vauxhall did not hold memories.
Damnation, but he was hard again, swamped with memories of Lisette and the loving they’d done in this room. Some of the best sex he’d ever enjoyed . . .
Then he saw a paper in the box and unfolded it to find another poem. This time he did not recognize the derivation.
When I remember where our paths have led,
From park to prison, to voluptuous bed,
I am unable to arrest my mind
From appetites of the most scandalous kind.
Dark monk assaulting gently my most delicate skin
As he entranced me down the road of sin.
I pray, my lord, that when you are restored,
You’ll summon once again your scarlet bawd.
’Struth, but there was nothing coy about Elf Malloren! Was she seriously offering to return as his plaything?
But then, who had been playing with whom?
He couldn’t decide whether he felt delighted or disgusted by this bold behavior, but it certainly made him nervous. What would she do next? The woman was clearly capable of anything!
He was contemplating the scarlet lady on the fan when Jack appeared.
“We’re all set for tonight, Fort! Of course, we’re happy enough to hold our revels up here, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the ground floor now you’re a bit mobile?”
Fort riffled the fan closed. “An excellent idea. In fact, I’ll have a bed put down in the study for a while. What point in being up here at all?”
“That’s the spirit!”
“And this room has very disturbing memories.”
“Your father, eh?” Jack looked around. “Why not have it refurnished? Brought up to date. This heavy oak and velvet ain’t really the thing. Is that a fan?”
By way of answer, Fort spread it, Vauxhall side out.
“Oh-ho! Buying gifts for the ladies, eh? There’s life in the old dog yet.” He went over to the side table that held glasses and decanters. “Sure you don’t want us to bring along some pretty wantons for your pleasure?”
“Completely.” Fort made an abrupt decision. “In fact, I suspect I might soon be married.”
Jack turned, a half-filled glass in hand. “Married? You gave no hint—”
“I’ve had time to think on it. Lady Lydia North should do admirably.”
Jack stared at him. “Lady Lydia? Ain’t she that simpering chit with the big eyes? Never knew you were interested.”
“Her father has been wooing me assiduously. Though without particular imagination, I must confess . . .”
“What?”
“Ignore my whimsy. Let us just say that I have suddenly developed an interest in Lady Lydia.”
Jack turned back to fill his glass, but after a moment he said, “To be honest, Fort, I think she’ll bore you to tears in a week.”
“One never knows what lurks beneath an image of maidenly modesty. But at least she’ll be a shield against other ladies.”
Jack came over to press a glass of wine into Fort’s hand. “Don’t do anything rash, old boy. Trust me. Wait till you’re up and about. This room is turning your wits.”
“Surely Lady Lydia is exactly the kind of bride I am expected to choose.”
“Aye well, why start doing the expected now?” Jack sat and shook his head. “Ever hear the story about the man who shot himself for fear of catching the plague?”
Fort savored the wine. “Ah, but can’t you see the appeal of choosing your own form of demise?”
Cyn wandered into the drawing room in Malloren House, a piece of paper in his hand. “I’ve a strange invitation here.”
Elf and Chastity looked up from their stitchery and chat. “Why strange?”
> “It’s to Walgrave’s for an evening of cards.”
“He’s better, then,” said Elf, bright-eyed.
“Must be improved at least. But why invite me?”
“Will you go?” Chastity asked.
“Of course not. I’d likely throttle him.”
Elf paused in her needlework. “If only we were identical twins . . .”
He caught her meaning immediately. “Don’t be foolish. And a man and a woman can hardly be identical, can they?”
She pulled a face at him. “Very close in looks, then.”
“Well, you are,” said Chastity. “But not close enough for anyone to mistake one for the other, no matter how dressed.”
“And women can’t dress as men. It’s never convincing.”
“Well . . .” said Chastity, with a mischievous twinkle at her husband.
“I spotted you within moments, love.”
“That was before you advised me to stuff some padding down my breeches. That fooled those ruffians in Maidenhead.”
He pulled a face at her. “Need I point out that you’re putting ideas into my hen-witted sister’s head?”
Chastity stared at Elf. “You wouldn’t!”
“I don’t think I would . . .” Elf made them both wait a moment, then laughed. “But only because I’d be caught.” She looked between the two of them, sobering. “It is very . . . bothersome not to have seen him for so long.”
Chastity leaned over to squeeze her hand. “I understand. But if he’s holding entertainments he must be finding it easier to move. We’ll soon have him out among society again.”
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