Beloved

by Stella Cameron

Devlin leaped to his feet and strode across the room. “Saber! This is a surprise!”

  “Evidently,” Saber muttered.

  Devlin drew down his arched brows. “I came to pay my respects to Ella and her family.” He inclined his head significantly, and Saber followed the motion to an array of stunning bouquets set upon a gilt console between two windows. “Struan and Justine are out visiting. The dowager duchess is here, but she’s gone to rest.”

  “Overwhelmed by so much coming and going,” the woman in yellow said fatuously. “I’m the dowager’s companion, Blanche Bastible. I’m also the Marquess of Stonehaven’s mother-in-law.”

  At that Saber spared the woman an interested look. “Grace’s mother?”

  A large bosom rose beneath the yellow gown. “Such a trial,” she said. “Daughters. One cannot rely upon them to provide for one’s comfort in times of difficulty. Such a cruel stroke that I should have been granted only a daughter, when a son would have known how to ensure that his mother never worried for a moment of her days.”

  Saber remembered the story of Blanche Wren Bastible and how she had all but forced her daughter into marrying Arran to secure her own good fortune. Good fortune had truly come in the form of the eventual outcome of Grace’s stormy courtship—if that was the correct term for what had been described—with Arran.

  “I am Countess Perruche,” Margot said suddenly. She nodded at Blanche but went directly to sit beside Ella. “We met briefly at the charming soiree at the Eagletons’? There was no opportunity to get to know each other.”

  If Ella was delighted to meet Margot, she disguised her happiness well. “A memorable evening,” she said, looking not at Margot but at Saber. “Unforgettable.”

  He absorbed the jolt that struck him in places best forgotten at this moment. “Indeed,” he agreed stiffly. “I wanted you to meet Margot. She is a very dear friend of mine.”

  “Is she?” The chill was unmistakable. “We met in India,” Margot told Ella. “Saber was so very kind to me.”

  Ella’s face became marble cold. “Saber can be very kind, it seems.” She threaded her fingers through pleats in her deep-green dress. “I’m lucky today. First Devlin. Then you, Saber. So much attention.”

  There was something in her voice, something completely unlike her. Annoyance, perhaps? Suspicion? He favored Devlin with a long, contemplative stare. His friend had made no mention of any intention to visit Ella.

  “A girl making her first entry into Society should receive much attention,” Margot said, twinkling as only Margot could twinkle. Today she was utterly charming in a blue-gray promenade dress and wide-brimmed, matching bonnet. “Of course, in France things were not so—er—not so simple is perhaps the word I search for. I married my husband, Count Perruche, and went to India. But that is my story, and it is not interesting, I assure you.”

  Blanche Bastible’s avid attention irritated Saber. “We are detaining you, Mrs. Bastible. I’m sure my grandmother must depend very heavily upon you. Please don’t let us keep you from her.”

  “Oh, you aren’t,” she said, her round blue eyes very wide. “Please check on her,” Ella said flatly. “The countess will be an excellent chaperon, won’t you, Countess?”

  “You must call me Margot. Of course you must go to the dowager, Mrs. Bastible. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

  Blanche opened her mouth, obviously about to protest, but shut it again and left the room without another word.

  When the door had closed, Saber said, “I’m here for the reason we discussed, Ella,” and detested the formality in his voice. “I have decided—and Margot has kindly agreed—that with her in attendance there will be no question regarding my attentions to you at upcoming functions.”

  He saw the immediate glitter in Ella’s eyes. She quickly looked at her hands in her lap.

  “Isn’t Saber clever?” Margot said at once, covering Ella’s hands but flashing a warning glance at Saber. “He does always think of all things. He has persuaded me that if he is apparently escorting me, his attendance upon you will be seen as nothing more than appropriate family concern.”

  “I see,” Ella said. She extended a slender wrist upon which a bracelet—the bracelet he had selected—of emeralds winked. “I love this, don’t you? Devlin was kind enough to put it on for me.”

  Saber cleared his throat. “A lovely thing, indeed.” He scowled at Devlin. Had he come here and overplayed his hand? Did Ella suspect her tributes had come from Saber? “Looks as if you’ve already gathered a gaggle of admirers, young Ella.”

  “Does it?” She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “A gaggle, do you think? Or perhaps just one very determined man?”

  Devlin became exceedingly interested in carvings along the mantel.

  “What would make you think one man had sent so many gifts?” Saber asked, staring at Devlin’s back.

  Ella said, “Oh, the notion has been suggested.”

  Damn Devlin’s eyes. He’d overstepped himself this time. “May I see what you have been given?” Margot asked, getting up and offering her hand to Ella with the natural friendliness Saber so admired in the woman. “Come, I will not deny that I do adore pretty things.”

  Ella allowed herself to be led to a collection of jewelry boxes on the table with the flowers. Margot was soon exclaiming over the contents.

  Saber went to stand at Devlin’s side and said, “Why did you come here?”

  Devlin straightened, but did not look at Saber. “To pay a friendly visit on Ella.”

  “What would make her think so many different gifts might come from one man?” Saber asked softly.

  “Can’t imagine.”

  “You can’t imagine? It couldn’t be that you decided to turn my little plans around, could it?”

  “No idea what you mean.”

  Saber itched to force Devlin to turn around. “Are you sure you haven’t…? Well, have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Don’t be obscure with me, man. Did you say to Ella that … Did you?”

  At last Devlin gave his full, apparently puzzled attention to Saber. “You’re not making much sense, old man. Did I? You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Saber felt Ella glance at him and lowered his voice even further. “Did you say anything? To her.”

  “Oh.” Comprehension spread over Devlin’s face. “You mean … Oh, you can’t mean that.”

  “Did you say I sent all these things? Did you decide you know better than I what is good for her—and for me?”

  “Damn it all, Saber,” Devlin exclaimed under his breath. “I don’t like your tone. Or your suggestion. A man spends his valuable time trying to help a fellow out. Only to be accused of mischief? I say, that’s rum.”

  Saber’s spine stung. “Well… Oh, forget I made any such suggestion. I’m on edge.”

  “So you may be. But there’s no call to start doubting your friends. As it happens, I don’t agree with your decision on this matter. But I wouldn’t go against your wishes, old chap. Good God, I’m not your father, am I?”

  “Hardly.”

  Margot was chattering louder and louder while Ella openly, and curiously, watched Saber and Devlin.

  The arrival of Justine, a newspaper clutched in one hand, was a welcome diversion. Radiant in pale mauve, Saber’s cousin puffed with obvious excitement. “Struan has gone on to attend to some business with his solicitor. I came back to be here for your appointment with the modiste, Ella.” She smiled around, nodding recognition at Margot. “We’re about to have Ella’s gown made for her first ball.”

  Ella muttered something indistinct. “But I must share this with you,” Justine said, unfolding the paper. “I am simply amazed. Lord Wokingham’s puffed off his intentions to marry … Guess who? Come along—guess, all of you.”

  Her question was met with slowly shaken heads. “Oh, come along,” Justine said, her smile broadening. “Make a teeny guess. But make it a wild one.”

  “Mama!” Ell
a chuckled. “This isn’t like you. Tell us at once.”

  “Oh, all right. Precious Able. That very garrulous girl. The clergyman’s daughter. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “No,” Ella said. “Surely you mean Pomeroy Wokingham.” Saber shared Ella’s wish to hear that they could forget Pomeroy’s suit. “Read it again, Justine. It can’t be old Wokingham.”

  “Well, it is,” Justine said, sounding aggrieved. “Says as much right here. Greville, Lord Wokingham, to Miss Precious Able, daughter of, et cetera. There, you can’t have it plainer than that, can you?”

  Crabley, entering once more with measured steps, interrupted the conversation. “Come one, come all,” he droned, bearing a box before him. The box was fashioned of beaten silver and shaped like a large heart. “Another delivery. Don’t have to say who it’s for, do I?”

  Silently, Ella received the box. “Open it!” Margot bobbed. “Quickly. This is so exciting.” The hinged lid lifted to reveal iced confections, each decorated with a sugar flower.

  “Oh,” Margot said, awed. “How extravagantly wonderful.” Justine folded her newspaper. “You are already a toast, Ella.”

  Saber watched Ella closely and all but exclaimed when she took a small card from inside the rich box. “You didn’t actually put a message in?” he whispered to Devlin. “What name did you use?”

  “You didn’t select sweets,” Devlin whispered back.

  “No, but I thought …” He looked sideways at Devlin. “Didn’t you select them?”

  “No. You didn’t say anything about sweets.”

  “But—”

  “Who are they from?” Justine asked. “We should all like to share this treasure, Ella.”

  “Who the devil are they from?” Saber muttered.

  Ella opened the card, read it, and replaced it in its envelope. She slipped the envelope inside her sleeve.

  “Well?” Justine said.

  Margot smiled and covered her mouth.

  Saber went to Ella. “Who sent the sweets?”

  She looked up at him. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it damn well does matter. Who?”

  Saber heard Devlin say, “Saber, old chap,” but ignored him. Ella sighed and produced the envelope again. She handed it to Saber. “Read for yourself.”

  The heavy cream envelope contained a matching card on which, in a spidery hand, was written: “Your humble servant, Knowlton Carstairs.”

  “Carstairs,” Saber exploded. “The bloody nerve of the man!”

  “Saber—”

  “I’ll deal with this, Devlin. I didn’t think you’d even met Carstairs,” he said to Ella.

  “The man who was your first suggestion as a husband for me?” she said. “I met him briefly at the Eagletons’.”

  “And he has the gall to approach you like this?”

  Ella looked around the room. “Evidently he is not the only one who has the gall.”

  Saber narrowed his eyes and finished reading the card aloud: “I hope I may call upon you.” He tossed envelope and card aside. “He hopes he may call upon you.”

  “Well,” Ella said, selecting a sugary morsel. “We must expect a visitor, then.”

  “Over my dead body,” Saber said through gritted teeth.

  He looked at Ella. She smiled, and popped the confection into her mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “T urn around,” Pom told Precious, twirling one forefinger. “All the way around, my pet.”MMM She did as he instructed, wobbling a little. Her hair hung loose tonight. In the glow from wall sconces in Father’s study, the long tangle of ringlets shone a harsh red.

  “Slower,” Father mumbled around a mouthful of dates. He all but reclined on a brass-studded leather chaise near the fire. “Do it again. Much slower.” His voice was slurred, his eyes rheumy.

  Pom made a slow circle with his finger. He sucked hock from his goblet, watching Precious as he did so. The smell of her was strong. Some French concoction she’d bought on one of the Wokingham accounts in the Burlington Arcade. She’d already bragged to him about “Woky” telling her to have whatever she pleased.

  The girl made another somewhat ungainly revolution. “Not so bad,” Father said, scooping up more dates and eating them from his palm. “Nice pair, hmm?” He made a vague gesture toward Precious.

  A pair meant to be used, Pom thought. And he intended to use them well. After all, the debts arising from this speculative venture would be his if it failed. But the venture would not, could not fail. His turn to win had come, to win and to wreak vengeance.

  Father waved his free hand again. “Always was partial to red there, y’know. Your mother’s was red.” His vision cleared for an instant.

  Pom didn’t like it when his father talked about the mother Pom didn’t remember. “I was surprised you decided to puff it off in the Times, Papa,” he said, changing the subject. “Makes it more difficult later, didn’t you know?”

  “How so?”

  Shrugging, Pom pushed to his feet and filled his glass. “Official. Means there’ll have to be a lot of explanations later.”

  “Round you go again, m’girl,” Father said, then, “I meant it to be official, Pom. Didn’t I, Precious?”

  She giggled.

  Pom detested her giggle. “We haven’t told you what we’re about this fine night,” Father said to him. “Shall we tell him, Precious?”

  “Ooh, yes,” she said breathily. “Better hold on to yourself, Pom. Wouldn’t want you to lose precious jewels in your trousers.”

  She was coarse. Ladies might be carnal, but they were never coarse. Precious was no lady—and he did not like what he thought his father was telling him. “This so-called betrothal,” he said carefully. “We must be certain it in no way affects Precious’s chances for a good match afterwards.”

  Precious giggled again. “Stop there,” Father told her when she faced away from him. “Plenty to hold on to at the back door, too. Man of my maturity appreciates a well-developed female arse.”

  A soft arse, Pom decided, at the same moment when he threatened to do exactly what Precious had warned he might. His trousers bound him. He adjusted himself.

  “Look at him!” Precious dropped back her head and laughed raucously. She peeped at him over her shoulder and laughed again. “Do you have an itch, Pommy, darling? Should you like me to scratch it for you?”

  “Mine’s the only cock you’ll scratch until I tell you otherwise,” Father said, sounding petulant. “There’ll be no calling off the betrothal, m’boy. Before the night’s out you’ll be rutting with your future mother-in-law. The next Lady Wokingham. Don’t tell me the thought doesn’t appeal.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Never more so. Shall we tell him now, Precious? After all, this is going to be our present to Pom, isn’t it?”

  Pom’s stomach clenched. Conspiracy. His father had entered into some sort of conspiracy with this willing whore. Pom’s last swallow of hock rushed back up his throat, acid, foul.

  “Oh, don’t give me that look, Pom, m’boy. You know the way the land lies. That’ll never change.” Father winked, and his other eye drifted shut to match. “You’re my heir. You’ll get everything.”

  “There isn’t anything,” Pom snapped, approaching Precious. And older men than his father had produced offspring by females who’d found ways to press their sniveling brats’ claims. “Not a bloody penny, Father dear. So far we’ve pulled off an amazing feat—almost no one guesses, certainly no one of account.”

  “That’s what this is all about,” Precious told him, her chin resting on a plump shoulder. “It’s all part of the plan. A sort of rehearsal, isn’t that correct, Woky?”

  Woky. “Absolutely correct, my luscious little sweetmeat.”

  Pom took one of Precious’s ringlets and wound it around his finger. “You two seem to have been busy with your planning. In private.” He wound and wound, until Precious winced.

  “Planning for you, Pomeroy,” F
ather said with some asperity, asperity ruined only by a hiccup. “I’ve got to give our Precious a great deal of the credit, too. Mostly her idea.”

  Pom released the ringlet slowly. “I’m in suspense.”

  “It’s a practice,” Father said, grinning, spittle spraying with each word. “Isn’t that right, Precious?”

  “A practice,” she said. “We’re going to make sure you get it right on the day.”

  What interested him now was a real performance. “I tire of this,” he said, fumbling at the fastenings on his trousers. “Enough talk.”

  “Step away, Pom,” his father said, good-naturedly enough. “Sit down and do as you’re told.”

  “I said—”

  “Sit down, Pom. Be gracious. It’s unbecomin’ for a man not to be gracious when he’s given a gift.”

  “I want to—”

  “Sit down,” his father roared. “We’re going to rehearse your weddin’ day, you ungrateful whippersnapper.”

  Pom narrowed his eyes, but he subsided into a wing chair that matched his father’s chaise. For some moments there was silence but for the crackle of the fire. The room was over-warm. Heavy green damask draperies covered the windows. A worn, green and brown silk rug almost obscured the dark floorboards.

  Precious stood on a wooden footstool from which the cushion had been removed.

  She was naked.

  Lord Wokingham mumbled and sniffed, and struggled to a more upright position on the chaise. He said, “That’s what we’re going to do, isn’t it, my luscious? We’re going to ensure he makes the very best of his opportunities.”

  “Yes!” She squealed and drew up her shoulders. “It’s going to be delicious, Pommy. I can hardly wait. We’re going to go through every teensy thing tonight. Will you help your Precious?” She pouted.

  “Help her,” Father ordered. “Bring out the clothes.”

  Pom raised his eyebrows and asked, “What clothes?” Father waved toward a leather screen arranged across one corner of the room. “Behind that thing.”

  Spread on a bench behind the screen lay a creamy satin gown and various other female garments. Pomeroy gathered them up and carried them out. “What am I supposed to do with these?”