“Ungrateful, unnatural son—”
“Now, now,” he interrupted. “Do not cast aspersions upon my mother’s good name. The gossips would surely rejoice if I called you out, but I don’t believe you would enjoy the experience.”
The viscount fought to control the fury bubbling just beneath his florid surface—even as Vickers gloried in his struggle. This. This was his life’s work. Once he’d been a blind fool, believing that duty and family honor comprised his purpose. Now he knew better. He was the silent witness to his father’s sins. The constantly pricking thorn in his sire’s side—and he’d developed an inventive knack for the work.
“Wicked ingrate!” His father pointed a shaky finger at him. “You disgrace your name with every breath you take. Bad enough you must spend your life rolling about the gutters. I’ll thank you to stay far away from anyone associated with me.” He whirled on his heel and stalked off.
Frowning, Vickers watched him until he was lost in the crush. What about that little exchange had shaken his father so? They’d had far more acrimonious encounters in the past.
“Good heavens,” Hestia said from behind him. “I haven’t seen him so angry since our friendship first began.”
“Yes, it’s been too long since I’ve touched a real nerve.” And as always, his father’s anger fueled his own. Hestia, thanks to all the powers that be, had shown him how to tame the beast, pulled him from the brink of destruction and taught him how to focus his fury so that it did not destroy himself or others. But the old rage still lurked in the basement of his soul.
“Not for lack of trying, surely,” Hestia said with a grin. “What did you do to rile him up?”
“I’m not sure,” Vickers mused. “I think perhaps he’s annoyed that I’ve had contact with a couple of his old mistresses.” He flashed Hestia a grin. “You know what that means.”
“Do I?”
“It means that now I must speak to them all!” His chuckle lacked humor. “God knows the list is long enough. I should be able to annoy him all Season long.”
Hestia gazed thoughtfully after the old man. “Be careful, my dear. Something tells me there’s more here than meets the eye.”
Vickers grinned. “Good. I’ve been quietly humiliating him for too long.”
“And now?” Hestia asked.
“Hmmm.” James still stared thoughtfully after his father. “Now I find I’m in the mood to create a scandal.”
“The very image of propriety. That is what you must project this season.”
Miss Adelaide Stockton jumped when her Great-Aunt Delia poked her in the side.
“Listen now, my young miss. You’ve looks enough. That picture of innocence you portray is appealing to many men and you’re prettier overall than most of these hen-wits.” She gestured and nearly struck a passing gentleman with her quizzing glass. It was getting to be a tight fit in Lady Dalton’s crowded ballroom tonight—even in the matron’s corner, where they sat on spindly chairs and watched the dancing. “But your dowry is merely adequate—no inspiring amount—and you’ve your mother’s sins to live down.”
Addy bit back a protest. Her mother had been in love and acted accordingly—which didn’t count as a sin in her book.
“Almost worse—you’re saddled with my alley cat of a daughter for a chaperone.” Great-Aunt Delia snorted. “It all adds up in the columns stacked against you.”
Addy sighed.
“I know. It doesn’t look good for you, gel. Your father should never have accepted that position with the East India Company. What was he thinking, taking off for the East, abandoning that baby daughter and leaving before he saw you settled?”
“He wasn’t thinking,” Addy replied. She knew well enough why Papa had gone. He’d been feeling—feeling as if he couldn’t bear to stay here and be reminded of Mama at every turn.
“How just like a man, to cater to his own shortcomings and leave you here, stranded with the likes of my Rosamond.” The old woman shook her head. “In any case, he took pains to tell me that you are not like other girls. Spirited, he says you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “I know what that translates to, missy. Trouble.”
Addy tried to look innocent.
Her great-aunt shook a finger at her. “It’s true enough, a bit of fire in your belly would have been a boon back in my day. My generation knew how to live life with spice and a taste of drama.” She sighed. “Those days are gone now. It’s all rules and propriety now, girl. These modern gentlemen want a girl prim and proper and laced up tight—so that’s what you’ll have to give them. There can be none of the shenanigans you got up to at home.”
“You wouldn’t call them shenanigans had you been there, ma’am.” Addy felt compelled to come to her own defense. “Unfortunately, the young men at home found my dowry to be more than adequate—especially the parcel of land that comes with it. Two of them made a bet—each convinced they could gain my hand—and the land—before the other.”
Her aunt looked suddenly interested. “And what did you do about it?”
“When I found myself being maneuvered into a compromising position by Theodore Longlath, I spun him a vivid tale about the red, itchy rash I’d been plagued with—all over.”
“Effective,” her aunt remarked.
“True. He was too busy scratching to try anything else.”
“And the other?”
“He got a bit more inventive. He feigned an accident on our estate, so that he would be brought back to the house to have his injuries tended to.”
Her aunt merely raised a brow.
Addy smiled. “He’d already heard about the rash, so I rubbed stinging nettles into all of his bed linens. After that he recovered quickly and was on his way.”
Great-Aunt Delia laughed. “I do admire your creative thinking, my dear, but it must come to an end now.” She looked around, frowning. “If I weren’t so cursed old, I’d oversee your debut myself, but there’s no question of it, I’m afraid. My bones won’t stand for it.” She winced as a woman behind her screeched a greeting at a friend. “Nor my nerves.” She sighed. “No, it’s Rosamond you’re stuck with—and she’s no great bargain. I’ve promised to add to the budget your father gave her for the Season—in exchange for a promise that she’ll be on her best behavior. But I’ll make no bones about it—her morals will likely last only as long as the money.”
The older woman reached out a hand. Addy took it, marveling at how soft and fragile it felt, so at odds with her favorite relative’s irrepressible personality.
“The situation is not ideal, my dear. You must make the best of it, and you’d do best not to dawdle over the matter.”
Addy nodded, turning away so her great-aunt could not see the utter bewilderment she felt at her own predicament. Did she even want to marry? It was what was expected of her. It seemed her only path—especially if she ever hoped to reclaim her sister. She closed her eyes against the pain of missing that sweet baby grin.
But having daily witnessed a great love—could she marry without it? And could she risk all the potential torment that came with it—the same pain that had led her father to leave her and little Muriel?
She didn’t know. She didn’t possess the answers to any of the many questions that beset her. She only knew that she couldn’t function with the weight of it all pressing down upon her.
Deliberately, she pulled in a deep breath—and let all the unanswered questions and worries go out with it. She had a Season in front of her—and two goals to pursue. She was going to listen to her great-aunt, explore what opportunities came and see where the fates led. And she was going to fulfill her mother’s last request and somehow arrange a meeting with Hestia Wright—famed ex-courtesan and philanthropist pledged to help any woman in need. Exactly how she was to make that happen, especially without violating Great-Aunt Delia’s rules, she wasn’t sure.
Luck might be with her tonight, though, as the rumor in the receiving line had been that Hestia Wright was actually here tonight.
Addy could scarcely believe it, but the ladies were atwitter and the gentlemen were buzzing with delight. Perhaps she could just meet her here, exchange a few words in a situation that looked merely like a social encounter, and arrange the rest through the post? It would be wonderful indeed to make the woman’s acquaintance and accomplish her mother’s mission so soon.
She let her gaze drift, thinking she would surely be able to pick out the famous beauty. She’d seen her caricature in the broadsheets. Not the most reliable reference, but how many ravishingly beautiful blondes could be here tonight?
She eased to the left so she could search another section of the ballroom. Ah. There. An elegantly coiffed head of blonde hair, set aflame by the chandelier as if the light had been manufactured only for such a purpose. But the woman faced away from her. Addy waited and watched while the she conversed with her group. The lady shifted to the side, moving with easy grace—
And Addy suddenly lost every sensible thought in her head.
Good heavens.
What was that?
Not what—who? She recognized the what—a man. A nobleman. Surely he must be the designated illustration for his kind—the ideal gentleman. Tall and slender, save for the wide breadth of his shoulders. Close cropped hair. Smoldering dark eyes over a finely crafted nose and a strong, stubborn-looking jaw. Almost unfair that any man should look so undeniably masculine—and yet utterly elegant at the same time.
Only one thing marred the perfection of the image; the cold, hard look on his face. It shouldn’t be possible for a man to smile politely and at the same time look dark and brooding—yet he pulled it off. He laughed at something the blonde woman said, yet the laughter never climbed as high as those piercing eyes.
She wished—suddenly, fervently—that she knew why. It struck her—this man had seen things, done things, things that she couldn’t yet imagine. That polite smile could not hide the message his eyes told the world—I am capable of anything. He would have stories to tell—the thought perked her up, piqued her interest and called forth a stabbing jolt of longing.
Stories. Tales. Imaginings. They had long been her blessing, her companions—or her curse, if her mother had been asked when Addy lost herself again and forgot to stitch on her embroidery, dropped the count of the linens or paused, frozen with her fork raised and food forgotten.
But she’d lost their comfort. After her mother’s death the words had dried up. Fantastic scenes had become colorless and dull. The fascinating people who lived in her head and her heart had disappeared
Now, staring at this handsome enigma of a man, she could imagine herself, curled up, in thrall, granted the privilege to hear his stories, to laugh with him over the amusing tales and soothe the sting of the painful ones.
The thought startled her and called to her at the same time—but she shook her head to dispel the silent pull.
It was ridiculous. She’d lost control. She willed herself to look away. Why was it suddenly so difficult? Good heavens, he was just a man—and she was perspiring, though she’d yet to dance this evening.
And then he met and held her transfixed gaze.
Nearly twenty years of innocence evaporated in a second. Suddenly Addy knew—for the first time—that she was a woman. Her heart sputtered, her body tingled and her womb awoke to send out a message.
Yes, please.
She reached again for the strength to look away. Too long. She’d been staring too long—when her Cousin Rosamond stepped abruptly into her line of sight.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her tone furious. “Wipe that look off of your face right now, young lady!” She whirled around, gaze searching. “Who are you ogling in such an appalling, country-bred fashion?”
Addy flushed as Rosamond gasped and turned back. “Vickers!” she whispered in tones of horror. She looked to Great Aunt Delia. “Mama, this stupid girl is mooning in public—over Vickers!”
Stupid? To react to such a man? It didn’t feel stupid at all, but eminently sensible. Inevitable, one might say. For one defiant moment, Addy considered challenging Rosamond to meet his gaze and remain unmoved.
But Delia was clucking her tongue. “Stop turning everything into a Cheltenham Tragedy, Rosamund.” She shook her head at Addy. “She’s right, though, child. You must learn to school your expression. You should not be indulging in such emotions, let alone allowing them to show on your face. That is not what making a marriage is about.”
“No, that comes later.” Rosamond preened. “If you are lucky enough to be made a widow.”
“At least you waited for poor Mitford to expire,” said Delia with a roll of her eyes. Her expression hardened as she turned back to Addy. “Nor should you feel such things about a scoundrel like Vickers. He’s a wickedly hard man, interested only in drinking, gaming, whoring and disgracing his family name. He’s nothing to offer a young debutante but trouble—so don’t tempt him into it.”
Addy nodded.
Delia pushed herself to her feet with the aid of her cane. “Rosamond, it’s your role to teach her such things. How can she learn to avoid the rakes and scoundrels if you are gallivanting about with a pack of them? Remember your promise. Stay here. Show her how to go on.”
“I will, if only to get this dull endeavor over with.” She shook a finger at Addy. “Now, mind my instruction and don’t make a fool of me, girl.”
Her great-aunt was scanning the ballroom. Addy’s heart sank as she indicated a younger, thinner, spottier gentleman. “There. Philpott’s heir will get the title and half of Hertfordshire besides. Go with Rosamond and obtain an introduction.”
Sighing, Addy followed. Titles and land came with this sort of young man, but no stories, she’d wager. Making her way across the ballroom, she steeled herself. She already knew what they would speak of: the pranks of his old school chums, the triumph he felt over his new matched pair or the shining racing curricle he planned to commission. Only a few weeks in Town, just a few introductions to young gentlemen of her own age, and it had been the same with them all.
She sneaked a last glance back. Vickers. With that sort, she was certain, she would hear some hair-raising tales and likely live out a few of her own.
“Adelaide!” her great-aunt hissed.
Yes. Propriety.
She allowed herself one long, lingering look, then turned dutifully away to see what she could make of her future.
Several weeks later . . .
The ton could not have ordered up better weather for their afternoon outing in Hyde Park. A brilliant blue sky, the sun just warm enough, and a slight breeze wafting through, pausing to ruffle the leaves on the trees and the hems of the ladies’ skirts.
Vickers stood beneath the shade of a large oak and watched Society’s glittering promenade pass. He felt the need to re-acclimate to light and gaiety again. The task he had set himself had led him lately into darker territories.
Following the string of his father’s mistresses had not been a happy duty. None of them had gained the better of that particular bargain. He understood their plight. Who knew better, in fact, how much his father demanded of a person. How it felt at times as if he drained your very life away. How one was left bitter, dry and as empty as a husk after he’d done with you.
Anger and determination had grown apace as he searched them out. Most of the early ones he’d found in brothels and gaming halls. Many of them had been left tired and disillusioned, many too broken or unwilling to enter the demimondaine again. But the later ones? Some of them he’d found not at all. They grew more skittish and reticent, less willing to talk to him. A couple he’d found were unable to converse at all, lying insensate in gin halls or hovels.
He’d talked with all that he could, documented everything he could find, and let his father know exactly what he was doing. Then he’d done what he could for the poor souls, with his meager funds and with Hestia’s help, but his anger grew as their predicaments worsened. Invariably, these women had been left in bad straits after dealings
with his father.
Except for one.
Rosamond, widowed Countess of Mitford. She’d been his father’s last mistress, as far as he could tell. She’d stayed with him for only a short time, at the beginning of the year—and it appeared she was the only mistress so far to emerge intact and unscathed.
At first Vickers had thought the brevity of their affair accounted for it. But the further he moved along the list of mistresses, the more incensed his father grew. He’d sputtered and fussed at first, but then he’d begun to appear almost . . . panicked. Last night he’d threatened dire retribution should his son not leave off.
Which of course only heightened his ambition to see this through to the end.
Lady Mitford appeared to be the end.
And Vickers wondered if there was a reason she’d passed through the viscount’s fire un-burnt—and if perhaps that reason might be what had catapulted the old man into leaving scolds and lectures behind and into making actual threats instead.
Vickers’ old hatreds entwined with new excitement and flared high. He must find out what had his father so agitated. He had to talk to her.
But the notoriously accessible Lady Mitford had turned unaccountably shy. In the past she’d been eager to flirt a bit, and quick to hint at more. But now she passed him in Bond Street with barely a nod. She’d been ‘out’ during her at home hours yesterday and just happened to leave a ball immediately after his arrival last evening.
So today he lay in wait in the park, watching for her while a pack of his young contemporaries gathered around him to debate the merits of the passing ladies.
“Straighten up, chaps!” young Lord Beeton called. “Here’s Mrs. Hervely!”
The group of young bloods grinned and bowed as the popular hostess, widely known for her fondness for initiating young men into the pleasures to be found in Society, passed in an open barouche.
“Who shall you dance with tonight, Beeton?” The conversation resumed as Mr. Nowell turned back to the group. “Now that Miss Jane Tillney is to be married, you’ll have to find someone else to appease your mother.”
An Encounter at Hyde Park Page 8