by Regina Darcy
Lord Oakland, who approved of the brisk manner in which Rowland Beecham had handled his sister’s attempt to insert herself into a matter for her brother and fiancé to discuss, looked alarmed at this comment.
“I am sure that your brother will want you to dress in an appropriate wedding gown,” he said, deftly delivering responsibility for the dress back to her brother. The family member who as guardian to Frederica, would not release her or his financial responsibility for her, until she was pronounced Lady Oakland.
Cumbershire glowered but did not dispute the matter. The gentlemen, mostly Lord Oakland, chatted in the carriage. Frederica had nothing to offer and her opinions were not sought, leaving her free to look out the carriage window and wonder whether the Earl had arrived yet at the Autumn Ball.
Honora Dennington, who had been Honora Westing when they were at school together, hugged her friend as she greeted her.
“Freddie,” she exclaimed.
Lord Oakland disapproved of the diminutive form of his future wife’s name and he frowned.
Still, the Denningtons were members of the ton and it was a relationship worth cultivating. He managed a wan smile.
“We must have a chat tonight,” Honora said.
“I would like that,” Frederica agreed.
Marriage certainly agreed with her friend. Honora had never looked lovelier. It was not only that she was outfitted to perfection, in a pale green bunched silk gown layered with white lace, with jewels at her throat and wrists—emeralds and diamonds—to match. Marriage had matured her into the ripeness of womanhood. There was something within her, as if she had a secret.
“You must meet Michael,” Honora said. “He was here a moment ago.”
“I look forward to it.”
Frederica had never met her friend’s husband, surprising as that was. The Denningtons had taken off for a lengthy honeymoon shortly after their marriage, and then they had gone to their country estate, spending little time in London.
The on-dit was that they were very much in love after what most agreed was an exceedingly unorthodox courtship. To be sure, no one was entirely certain quite what the courtship had consisted of, and there were whispers, but if the rumours troubled Honora, she gave no sign of it.
“You look exquisite, Freddie. That colour is perfect for your hair.”
How kind Honora was to overlook the lack of fashion and instead remark on the colour. Frederica felt the warmth of her friend’s hospitality envelope her.
Clearly not everyone was as critical and parsimonious with praise as her brother was.
“Lady Beecham,” Lord Oakland interrupted. “You have not introduced me to the Marchioness.”
Honora looked to him politely. “Lord Oakland, I believe we have met, have we not?”
“Have we—oh, yes, so we have,” Lord Oakland permitted himself a brief laugh. “It was at another ball.”
“Yes,” Honora said calmly. “It was at my engagement ball to the Duke of Ivanhoe.”
“Yes,” Lord Oakland answered. “I did not wish to introduce an unhappy topic into the discourse.”
“You need have no qualms for doing so,” Honora said. “Women do not always marry the men to whom they are engaged.” She smiled widely, an expression of humour so good-natured that it could not be taken amiss and yet . . . Frederica was quite sure that Honora had intended for the barb in her comment to meet its mark.
Lord Oakland frowned as they left Honora and proceeded into the ballroom. “What an odd statement,” he commented. “Of course women marry the men to whom they are engaged. Whom else would they marry?”
Federica did not bother responding.
Rowland was already bored by the pleasantries. Spotting acquaintances, he excused himself and crossed the floor where he soon disappeared into one of the side rooms. Rowland did not gamble, leaving Frederica to wonder for what purpose her brother had taken his leave.
Lord Oakland regretted that, owing to the painful condition of his bunions, he could not dance with her. However, he said magnanimously, he would permit her a single dance with any gentlemen who sought to partner her. Although this was, by the standards of London, rather generous of him, Frederica was irritated by his ownership of her very feet now that he was her betrothed. Perhaps M’sieur de Bois might have thoughts on the subject at a suitable time.
She enjoyed the dancing very much, all the more since Lord Oakland was not able to partner her. He made a marvellously negligent chaperone, as he was engaged in a conversation with several grandmothers of dancing young ladies and sharing his experiences with his martyrdom to gout. And, because she didn’t need to fret over attracting a potential husband, liberated from that onus by her engagement, however dismal, to Lord Oakland, she was free to enjoy each dance for its own sake. She was not quite sure how it happened, but at one point she was dancing with one gentleman when suddenly, the dance steps brought her back to a new partner, the Earl of Gilberton.
He was looking splendid in a fashionable black tailcoat and trousers, a white cambric shirt and perfectly knotted cravat, and boots that gleamed from polishing.
She was accustomed to seeing him in rather dishevelled attire and—her cheeks reddened—once in his dressing gown. She stopped and stared at him.
He raised one eyebrow at her hesitation.
“Will you not dance with me, Lady Beecham? We shall impede the progress of the others if we continue to stand here.”
She gave him her hand. He accepted it, and for the duration of the song, she danced with feet which seemed to fly and a heart which was as light as if it had been formed out of air.
He was an excellent dancer, masterful in his lead and accommodating to her as his partner, all at the same time. She would not have expected such skill from a man whose scarred face told a tale of exploits which had not taken place on the ballroom floor.
When the dance ended, he did not return her to Lord Oakland who, she was pleased to note, was so engrossed in a sharing of physical maladies with the older ladies who must have suffered from an equal multitude of ailments, that he did not even realise that music had changed to a different tune.
The Earl danced her to an alcove near the ballroom, so expertly that it took a while for her to realised she was being directed with deliberate intent.
“My lord!” she protested. “My brother is here—”
“He is not, actually. He left approximately three-quarters of an hour ago. I daresay he will return by the time the ball is ending, but for now, he is not with us.”
“I saw him go into one of the rooms,” she protested.
“Rooms have doors. Now then, Lady Beecham, have you anything for me? It is four days until I must prove my case and I own that I am a trifle nervous as the date approaches speedily.”
Despite his words, he did not seem nervous as he stood before her. Federica bit her lower lip, she regretted that she was about to disappoint him.
“I have searched in his study every time that he has been away,” she said. “I have looked everywhere. I have read his ledgers; they make no sense to me. All I have is this piece of foolscap from the last time he was in his study. He discarded it and I found it on the floor, beneath his desk. I doubt that it is of any significance.” She took the paper from her reticule and handed it to the Earl.
She watched as the Earl’s grey eyes scanned the words on the paper. He looked up.
“You may just have saved my life,” he told her.
Federica looked at him in surprise. For a brief moment she basked in the knowledge that she had pleased him. Then their gaze locked and Federica felt a weakening to her knees. Never had she been thus perturbed by a man. His eyes were suddenly hooded like a hawk. Then, bending lower, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss which would not have passed the tests of propriety imposed upon young women by convention. Federica lost her breath.
George Gilberton knew what he did was wrong, but as he had drank in Lady Beecham’s innocent beauty, accentuated by the complete trust that shone through he
r eyes, he found himself unable to restrain the emotions and urges that had been building up over the last couple of days.
He would taste the sweet nectar of her rosy lips, all else be damned.
As his lips made contact with hers, he was drawn into the enchantment of her fragrance. It was something light but enticing; the texture of her dress rustled against the sleeve of his tailcoat; her ringlets brushing against his face. He savoured her as if she were a sensory banquet, falling prey to the innocent allure of her beauty, youth, and charm.
Abruptly, before he did something so scandalous that they both regretted it, George broke away from his kiss and stood straight.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Beecham,” he said. “I have allowed my euphoria at your discovery to overpower my manners.” He bowed and turned away, leaving her alone in the alcove. Gritting his teeth he forced his legs to walk away from what his heart and body yearned to conquer.
He had barely made it out of the enclosure, only to encounter the Marquess of Dennington whose duty it was, as host, to explore the alcoves and sequestered rooms and hidden corners lest amorous adventures take place which would jeopardise his household’s reputation for proper conduct.
Dennington gave the Earl an inquiring look.
“The Earl of Gilberton off alone in an alcove with an engaged woman? You cannot claim that you kissed her on behalf of the King,” he said, partly in jest.
“No,” George replied curtly. “I cannot.”
His tone of voice caught Dennington by surprise.
“Tell me, Gilberton,” he said, “are you amusing yourself at Lady Beecham’s expense? She is engaged, you know.”
“She is engaged to a dolt.”
“Perhaps,” Dennington replied, not disputing the insult, “but engaged nonetheless. Surely you are not succumbing to Cupid after all these years?”
“Not so many years,” George refuted. “How old do you think me to be?”
“In terms of experience? I’d rather not hazard a guess.” Dennington replied ironically. “She is Honora’s friend,” he added.
“Are you warning me off?”
“I have asked you what your intentions are,” Dennington replied, all joviality suddenly leaving his voice. “I should not like to see her hurt. Honora thinks highly of her and Lady Beecham is, by all accounts, well-bred and gracious. Are you dallying or are you contemplating a coup of the heart against Lord Oakland?”
“I don’t know,” George replied without dissembling. “She is wasted upon Oakland.”
With a tilt of his head, Dennington conceded the truth of this. “She is not the first woman to be wasted upon an inferior choice of husband.”
“He is not her choice, he is her brother’s choice.”
“It makes little difference,” Dennington asserted. “Marriages are rarely accomplished at the will of the woman.”
“Yours was, if the rumours are true.”
Dennington smiled. “Some of the rumours are true,” he said, “but I may have fallen for her before she was ready to accept it. Adversity whets the appetite.”
George thought of his own situation. Whatever trials Dennington had endured in his quest for Honora Westing’s heart, he had not faced a noose and an ignominious grave. Before George had any hope of confronting his own confusing responses to Lady Frederica Beecham, he first had to free himself of the threat against his name. Whatever his heart or body was yearning for had to wait until he had more than the calamity he was involved in to offer.
EIGHT
When George and the Marquess of Dennington emerged from the alcove, there was no one to notice. The dancing was in full swing and George spotted Lady Beecham with another partner.
His trained gaze swept across the room. Lord Oakland was still deep in conversation with the ladies hovering on the side of the dance-floor; George wondered if his throat was not parched from so much conversation. Then he spotted Cumbershire, and Cumbershire spotted him in return.
George made a brief, ironic bow. Cumbershire’s face looked as if thunderclouds had taken refuge there but he gave no other indication of displeasure.
It was best for all, however, if George did not remain in full view. His first task was to see to Lady Beecham’s safety. He went out to his carriage, where Hillard was waiting for instructions.
“Lady Beecham and her party remain within,” George said. “I want you to stay close by. Follow the carriage and remain close to her. I hope that I have not put her in harm’s way, but the Marquess is more known for being a choleric man than an affectionate brother.”
Hillard knew that his master had hired runners to surreptitiously follow Lady Beecham, should she venture anywhere on her own during the day. Or night.
It was a practice of the Earl that however much he might risk on his own life, he did not put others into danger if he could avoid it.
Hillard nodded. Carriage traffic in London after a ball would be slow-moving; he would have no trouble keeping up with the lady’s party when they departed.
Confident that he had done what was needed to protect Lady Beecham, George looked towards the Dennington residence. There was no reason to return to the ball; he had only gone in order to meet Lady Beecham in a setting where subterfuge would be surprisingly easy to manage amidst so many people.
There was, however, every reason to follow up on the information that Lady Beecham, entirely unaware of the value of her find, had provided him.
He returned to his carriage. Hillard had already vacated it. His driver, Jiggs, was in the box, placidly awaiting the Earl’s instructions.
“Let’s take a journey, Jiggs,” George said as he opened the door. “To St. Giles.”
He got in and Jiggs began to manoeuvre the carriage out of the long line of conveyances waiting upon their masters and mistresses within. For George, midnight suited his plans ideally.
He took the note he had been handed from his coat pocket. It was too dark to read, but he had memorised the words.
The Egyptian artefact whose theft he had been accused of had already been sent to its next destination in a path which had taken it very far from its origins in the Valley of the Kings. It had procured for the Marquess of Cumbershire a phenomenal amount of money from a fence who knew where he could entice a buyer who would pay even more than he had for the precious object. Such was the appreciation of art among the aristocracy, George thought sardonically.
Cumbershire liked his money, but he didn’t much like spending it. George’s practiced eye had noted that Lady Beecham’s frock was not of the current season. It was a tribute to her beauty that she had transformed the gown into something which complemented her colouring and frame, rather than merely looking like she was out of fashion. Such beauty as hers deserved to be showered in diamonds and emeralds.
The Gilberton sapphires.
George caressed his scar as wild thoughts swirled through his mind. The heirloom sapphires were only given to the Countess of Gilberton.
Though it could not be denied that only the Gilberton sapphires could do justice to those remarkable eyes of hers. He shook his head at the treacherous thoughts of his mind.
Had the Marquess been an affectionate brother he would have seen to it that his sister was attired in the latest style. Of course, an affectionate brother would not marry his sister off to a lump like Lord Oakland. The rotund lord was only eight-and-thirty years of age, not such a great difference, but he conducted himself as if he were in his dotage. Lady Beecham, with her spirit and charm, would find no match to her wits with Lord Oakland at the other end of the dining table.
And she was by all accounts virtuous.
She would not, as so many ladies of society did, take a lover after she had produced an heir for her husband. It was not uncommon for dissatisfied wives, once the ancestral lineage had been assured, to seek entertainment elsewhere.
Husbands, who had already found pleasures in the bedrooms of other women, were tolerant of infants who showed up bearing no resemblance wh
atsoever to the paternal line. But he doubted that Lady Beecham would be one of those women.
She was the sort of woman of whom Great Aunt Elspeth would approve.
George found himself smiling as the carriage made its plodding way out from the enclave of the other vehicles.
Great Aunt Elspeth would be less tolerant of M’ des Bois’ writings, however. He thought of the latest article that he had read, a blistering attack on the practice of child labour and a damnation to those wealthy industrialists and titled gentry who supported the practice because it was profitable. There was no doubting the genuine outrage which had propelled the pen into eloquent indignation.
No, such radical thoughts would not endear M. de Bois to Great Aunt Elspeth or to any other of the traditionalists of elite British society. But M. de Bois’ anonymity was perhaps an asset. A woman of wit and poise could manage her feminine role with ease, knowing that she had recourse to another persona, one that was hidden and unknown, but no less effective.
George smiled. He looked forward to the stirring words of M. de Bois and read them with interest.
He often agreed with the firebrand radical, just as he knew that his aristocratic comrades did not. How would Lady Beecham maintain her singular privacy with regard to her duplicate identity when married to the uninspiring Lord Oakland? He would not appreciate having a wife who had ideas of her own, much less one who published those ideas under an alias, and a male alias at that.
It was a somewhat amusing scenario, except that George had a regard for Lady Beecham and thought it ill-fortune that she should be paired with a man as undeserving as Lord Oakland.
Then marry her yourself.
He shook off the stray thought.
Clearly he had been spending too much time with Great Aunt Elspeth. There were other matters more pressing, and he was not called upon to solve the matrimonial dilemmas of young ladies, never mind how delectable they were. George glanced out the window of the carriage.
The landscape had changed dramatically. They were now in one of the areas of London which the elegant members of the ton never saw, except for those young swells who had gambling debts they could not pay with their own resources.