A Prince Among Men (9 page)

Chapter 5

W
altzing with Charles, Lord Dent temporarily exhausted Ophelia's store of ballroom chatter. Apparently Lady Searle had given Dent a hint that Ophelia favored his suit, and it was difficult to dislodge an idea once it became fixed in Dent's brain. So she had labored to steer his mind from his family and found that he could be reasonably engaged in a discussion of the weather.

Beside the column where they stood between sets, she plied her fan steadily, resting the smile muscles in her cheeks, nodding at her companion whenever he seemed to expect it. With the orchestra silent, babble and heat filled the crowded room. Ophelia's curls were damp and wilted, and a decidedly unladylike drop of perspiration trickled down her back while decorum constrained her to stand still and straight.

Since she'd left Alexander, she'd been unable to sit or read or think—in short, unable to occupy herself in any rational manner. Dancing seemed her best hope for relieving the odd sensation of bottled energies swirling inside her.

She'd smiled and flirted and accepted partners for every set. Still, she could not shake Dent, and her cousin Cecile glared at her each time they passed.

"Poor Ophelia," said a voice in her ear. "Looking so forlorn."

She stiffened, but didn't turn. "Go away, Wyatt."

"I don't think so, Sprite," he whispered, taking an intimate, conversational stand beside her, as if he, not Dent, had been her partner. He greeted Dent, who with little encouragement was led back to the subject of his family. It was a deliberate sabotage of the conversation, as Wyatt let her know with a sly, mocking glance.

It was a look they would have shared last season, one that made a joke of Dent. Seeing it in Wyatt's eyes, Ophelia could not recall how she'd once found him so handsome. The dark curling hair, straight brows, and perfect symmetrical features were the same, but his countenance now struck her as smug and cruel.

"But Dent, is that everyone?" Wyatt asked. "I thought Frederick Holdsworth was a connection of yours."

Dent looked alert. "Well, yes. He's a cousin to my mother's brother-in-law, Cornelius, the one who went to India. Frederick himself—"

"The one who's here tonight?"

"Frederick, here? I didn't know." Dent looked around eagerly.

"I believe I saw him in the card room just now," said Wyatt.

Dent glanced toward the door and back at Ophelia. "I beg your pardon, Lady Ophelia. If
you'll excuse me, I must pay my respects.
"
To Wyatt he said, "Do you mind keeping Lady Ophelia company?"

"
I'll come with you, Dent,
"
Ophelia offered. "I could meet your cousin."

"Not necessary, Lady Ophelia, not necessary at all. I'll just be a minute." He gave her an abashed look, as if he might be conscious of his own tediousness, and hurried off.

Ophelia turned to Wyatt. "Don't you have some other victim to pursue?"

"Not when I see an old friend so in need of rescue. You look quite—wilted—by Dent's ardor."

"Hardly."

Wyatt shook his head. "Dent won't do the job, Ophelia.
"
He took her fan and studied the names of her partners written on the sticks. "But there's a man or two here who might."

Dozens of eyes were watching their exchange. Ophelia snatched her fan back. She managed a smile. "You're despicable, Wyatt. Go away."

"Ophelia, you wound me. As a friend, I can't let you play Pri
ncess Charlotte to Dent's Saxe-Coburg."
He ran his hand up her arm. "You lack the fat."

She shook him off. "I certainly won't play Caro Lamb to your Byron."

"Ah, that's what I like about you, Sprite, the wit."

"Don't call me that. What you liked about me, Wyatt, was the trusting innocence, and now that it's gone, there's no reason for you to pretend interest in me."

He laughed, leaning very close, his breath ruffling her curls. "What I liked about you was the sweet way your heart fluttered at the sight of me, the way you trembled in my arms." His gaze lingered on her bodice. "And best of all those tiny buds, so charmingly concealed tonight by thin silk, puckering in my hands."

Ophelia felt her color drain away.
You're one of the hot ones, Ophelia.
He knew just how to evoke her humiliating weakness. That he still had any power to embarrass her with past folly made her insides quiver with sick anger. A new set was starting, the crowd shifted around them. Her next partner approached. She gave Wyatt a swift, hard parting look. "You've the soul of a toad."

Her new partner had less conversation than Dent. Uncalled, words of Wyatt's came back to her. It was he who had pointed out the lovers in society, making her aware of the looks exchanged, the carefully timed arrivals and departures. He made her world, which had seemed merely frivolous, seem wicked indeed.

Then, when she had gone into his embrace, he had mocked her for imagining that he loved her, told her she must not expect love or fidelity in marriage, and offered to be her first lover once she had married.

She had discovered then that her heart had not been thoroughly engaged by him. Rather she had been his dupe, as she had often been the dupe of her older brothers. Whenever as a child she'd succumbed to some prank, they had teased her with the old saw
more hair than wit.
After Wyatt, she'd cut her hair.

But there was no mistaking what she'd learned about herself. She had a passionate nature.

Maybe it made sense to marry someone like Dent, who would never stir her desire. He was complacent and easily managed and would not notice her trips to Hetty's. She could work on a manuscript under his very nose without arousing his suspicions in the least.

She dismissed the idea. Life had to offer more than the prospect of deceiving a dull-witted husband. Surely somewhere in society there was a sensible, reasonably self-restrained gentleman to whom she could entrust her fortune and her person. Perhaps she should launch a canoe on the Thames and see who came to the rescue.

Hours later it seemed, she was dancing with Dent again when Jasper caught her eye across the room. She smiled, and at the end of the set, he claimed her from her Dent. "You look fagged, Sprite. Too much dancing?"

"Too much Dent."

Jasper laughed. "There must be someone who's more your style, Sprite."

"I haven't found him."

"Come to the Candovers' with me tomorrow. You'll find a livelier set, and no Dent."

"Sounds appealing." She looked at him. "Are you going to pursue Miss Candover?"

"I'll leave that to Sebastian. I'm following Prince Mirandola's set about."

"How is the search going?"

"Badly. I can't seem to find any friends who've seen or heard from him recently. They love to tell school stories about him, but nothing that really helps. He's apparently got his own tailor and more coats than you'll find on Bond Street. He sold all his horses at Tatt's a couple months back.
He must not have a feather to fly with, but we already knew that." Jasper looked glum. He was staring at the dancers, and she followed his gaze.

"Why do you suppose fellows like Trevor Nash get the plum Foreign Office assignments?" he asked.

"Jasper, there's no mystery in that."

He looked at her in surprise.

"His late mother had tremendous influence with the foreign secretary, the prince, everybody."

"You don't think he's actually good at diplomacy?"

"Not at all."

"Devil take it, I will find Mirandola, then they'll have to take me seriously."

A
heavy rain woke Ophelia, drumming on the window and making the solid mass of gray mansions across the square disappear behind veils of gloom. She hugged a shawl around her nightdress, wishing the rain away like a child. No doubt Alexander would be pleased not to have her ordering him about. He would tend the horses and likely have the day free. She tried without success to picture him loitering about the Running Footman Tavern the way other grooms did. The idea did not seem to fit him.

She moved to the hearth, letting the fire warm her nightdress. Where would he go? What would he do with his free hours? The questions made her restless and discontent, overcome by a wretched impatience to inquire of her groom how he meant to spend his day, as if he could charm away the dullness of the rain. Then she
remembered the manuscript Solomon Gray had asked her to read, Berwick's new poem, "The Prince of Balat." Bless Solomon Gray for rescuing her from idleness again.

The brown paper wrapping around the loose sheets crackled as she removed the manuscript from its hiding place under her shifts. It was just like the sound of the paper as Alexander had slipped the package under his shirt. She clutched the bundle to her chest, closed her eyes, and willed her mind to think
about
…
Berwick.

He was the only young man in the Grays' set that Hetty talked about with interest. Hetty's prospects were no more exciting than Ophelia's, except that Hetty believed in love. Berwick was apparently a regular at the Tuesday night dinners. Though he was a poet and had no certain income, his family had a small estate in Hertfordshire that would eventually belong to him as the only son. By marrying Berwick, Hetty would rise in the world. However, Ophelia wasn't sure their minds were equal. Berwick's talent was for a vein of popular, satiric verse, while Hetty's was deeper, more lasting, truer poetry in the end. Once again Ophelia imagined attending one of the Grays' dinners, where she could judge Berwick's character for herself.

She wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and settled in a chair with her morning chocolate and Berwick's poem. It would require hours of close attention. He had a diffuse, unvaried style and could not resist embellishment to save his life. It was the kind of thing she was good at, seeing the merits of a work in spite of flaws in the writing.

Though few his years, all ancient Balat knows

Young Azim's fame;—beyond the emerald shores,

'Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek,

He fought where liberty was lost and weak,

There felt those godlike breathings in the air

Which mutely told her spirit had been there.

Betrayed by foes, his ship to rocks consigned,

He 'scaped cruel fate, his life for fame designed.

And now, returning to his own dear land,

Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand,

Haunt the young heart, Azim sets out to free

His fettered land from ministers too vain,

And bring its rightful glories back again!

Ophelia read on as the shipwrecked prince, abandoned by evil counselors who meant to take over his realm, made his way from the shores of southern India to his capital along the banks of the great Ganges. Disguised as a beggar, the prince first met and befriended a beardless young lad fleeing the port city. Ophelia strongly suspected the delicate boy, Kamala, was a maiden.

Soon Azim and Kamala saw the road darkened by a moving line of black and discovered a great army of spiders advancing to the capital. As they watched, the spiders broke into small companies and swiftly spun their webs in the trees, catching flies and insects as a fisherman fills his net with herrings. The spiders were dividing this spoil when a very grand spider came through the ranks, drawing salutes along the
way. Azim resolved to approach him and know the reason for the army's march toward the capital.

The spider king, for so he was, told them the sad tale of how the great lords and merchants in the capital, for their own profit, had developed mechanical looms to weave cheap webs. Now not even the humblest houses in the kingdom would welcome a spider in the
corner
, for all had machine-made webs in which to trap annoying insects.

Azim declared it a crime against nature to deprive the spiders of their weaving livelihood and offered to help them make their plight known in the capital.

The story charmed Ophelia as much as the excesses of Berwick's style irritated her. She would tell Solomon that "The Prince of Balat" was definitely publishable and much in need of editing. A review began to take shape in her mind, and she was puzzling over some obscure lines when her mother summoned her. Reluctantly, she shoved the manuscript back into her drawer.

D
inner at Searle House was an excruciating affair of multiple courses and as many removes and the dullest exchanges between her parents, each idea leading nowhere, like a stone dropped in a well. The duke listened to his lady's plans for the ball, his perpetually sad face troubled.

Ophelia had heard the plans already. The rain had altered her mother's schedule, and Ophelia had spent most of the day assisting her mother in such considerations as the number of violinists, the relative merits of crab cakes or lobster,
and the color of the icing on the cakes. The smell of damp dog, the obsessiveness of her mother's concern for detail, and the dreariness outside had fretted her nerves. She'd had no chance to return to the manuscript, no chance to walk or move or stretch her limbs. No word came from Jasper about his offer to take her to the Candovers'. At the end of an interminable day, she was left with the prospect of a musical evening with her mother.

She had tried to take herself in hand as she dressed, reminding herself that such an evening was nothing more than she was used to. She would not encounter Wyatt or Dent, and she could plead a headache and go home early. The rain would go away, and tomorrow morning she would ride. At her window she had seen patches of fading light as the clouds broke up.

A serious note in her father's voice made her aware that the topic had changed. "A disturbing event occurred today which I take as emblematic of the state of society," he said. "A Mr. Johnson stopped me outside the club this afternoon."

"No, truly?"

"You may imagine my surprise. The fellow makes porter."

"And is like to be lord mayor," Ophelia pointed out.

Her father shot her a quelling glance.

"Ah well, Searle," said the duchess. "I daresay the man's rich. Money will go to people's heads."

The duke jabbed an unoffending piece of the poached turbot with particular vehemence. "He put his hand on my sleeve."

The duchess stiffened, her fork poised above a bit of potato. "You set him down, I hope."

"Instantly, but I think we will soon drown in the tide of presumption sweeping the town." It was the sort of apocalyptic metaphor that made stocks fluctuate when her father spoke in the House of Lords.

The duchess nodded, and the duke laid aside his fork and patted his lips with his napkin. He was plainly preparing to enlarge upon his favorite topic. Ophelia saw the footmen escaping by the simple expedient of carrying off the empty platters. She glanced at the door longingly, and by a miracle Jasper strode in.

"Sir, Your Grace," he said with a quick bow. Ophelia flashed him a grateful smile, and his brows went up, acknowledging her situation. There was a little stir as Jasper inquired about their plans for the evening and the duke sent a footman scurrying to bring a glass of wine.

As the duke described L
ady Egerton's musi
cale, Jasper's gaze met Ophelia's. She gave him a pleading glance.

"But Ophelia must join me at the Candovers'," he said, taking the hint. "Surely you can spare her tonight, Mother?" He appealed to the duchess.

The duchess smiled at Jasper and shrugged. "Of course."

"I'm to dine with Hatherly first, but I'll call for Ophelia at ten and see her home later."

Ophelia demurely kept her eyes on her plate while Jasper remained in easy conversation with her parents. As soon as he'd announced his plans, a scheme had popped into her head. There
was no reason to go to Candovers' when she could go to Hetty's instead.

Ophelia had to admit that Jasper had a knack for distracting their parents from their own injuries. Jasper had them laughing about an encounter between Sebastian and an importunate old soldier outside his lodgings. The man had asked for a farthing, and Sebastian had given him a shilling, claiming to be unacquainted with the lesser coin.

When the duke and duchess retired to prepare for their evening, Ophelia walked Jasper to the door.

"See you at the Candovers'," she said.

Jasper turned away from the footman holding his hat and gloves. "Sprite, I told them I'd call for you here."

"Did you never tell them you were going one place, when they thought you somewhere else?"

"Thank you," Jasper said to the footman, dismissing the man with a nod. He regarded Ophelia speculatively, as if she were a puzzle he couldn't quite make out. "Where are you going?"

Ophelia raised her brows. "Never mind. It's entirely respectable, and I'll be perfectly safe. I'll take my groom with me."

"You'd jolly well better."

"I will. Meet you at Candover's." Ophelia gave him a light kiss on the cheek and retreated before he could change his mind. Her slippers had sprouted wings. She sent a hasty note to the stables.