All the Pleasures of the Season (5 page)

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

G
ilbert turned Salvation toward the docks. He could still taste Miranda on his lips. Every step away from De Courcey House made the pain in his chest worse, but he kept going, for her sake and his.

A woman's silken laughter rang out across the park, and Gilbert looked up at the lovely Anthea Endersly. He pulled Salvation to a halt.

The lady was riding in a curricle with none other than Lord Anthony Kelton. Anthea had her arm linked through his intimately on the high perch, and she leaned in to whisper in his ear, pressing her famous bosom against the earl's sleeve.

A flash of blue caught his eye as Anthea turned, threw her head back, and laughed again.

Sapphires.

More precisely, Miranda's sapphires.

Gilbert's hands tightened on the reins, and he wished he were wearing a sword. He reminded himself that no matter what his feelings for Miranda, it was not his fight. Not anymore. He watched the pair ride past him.

Phineas had said that Kelton was in the market for a new mistress.

Apparently, he'd found one, the most notorious woman in the
ton
, and he had paid for the privilege of her favors with Archer sapphires.

Perhaps Phineas would be interested in
that.

But Phineas was out of Town.

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

M
iranda managed to avoid Marianne for the rest of the morning, She went into the library and lingered there, pretending to read, and then she went upstairs and pretended to nap. At last Marianne sent a note insisting that Miranda
must
come down for tea. Half the
ton
was expected to call, since the news of Miranda's betrothal was now common knowledge.

Miranda stared at her face in the mirror. Her lips were swollen and soft from Gilbert's kisses, her cheeks red from his beard.

Or perhaps it was her own mortification.

She had proposed to Gilbert Fielding, begged him to marry her, and he had refused. As her maid did her hair, Miranda stared at her betrothal ring.

She did not want to marry Kelton. She realized now it would be a dreadful mistake. If Gilbert had agreed, she would be halfway to Scotland, or Shropshire, or even Spain by now, with or without her shoes.

But unlike Kelton, Gilbert was a man of honor and good sense. He cared for her happiness, her future. He was the true gentleman, and she would not settle for less. Not now. He had made her feel worthy of someone better than Kelton. Gilbert had been right, of course. Grandfather would be angry and disappointed by her decision to follow her heart instead of good sense. Would he send her away, lock her in Carrington's highest tower? Perhaps he would disown her, like Phineas.

It had taken Grandfather years to forgive Blackwood. Now that the family was restored, Miranda would destroy the happiness of so many other people by breaking her betrothal. There must be another way to make Kelton see reason.

She went down to the salon and stared at the place on the floor where she had kissed Gilbert. She glanced up toward the spot where Kelton had kissed her. Her stomach tensed. There was no comparison.

Marianne smiled, and touched Miranda's hot cheek. “Your face is red. You look like you've been well kissed by your handsome fiancé. Every lady who calls will be exceedingly jealous, I daresay. Every gentleman will wish they were Kelton.”

Miranda blinked at her sister. What would Marianne say if she knew it had been Gilbert Fielding, not Kelton, who had kissed her so passionately? She would probably go out and shoot the upstart lieutenant, if he had not sailed away by now. If nothing else, the truth would wipe the smug look off her sister's face.

“You must smile as if you have a secret, let them think it is truly a love match,” Marianne rattled on. “I suppose that's true enough after last night.”

“No!” Miranda said, the word slipping out involuntarily. “Marianne, I don't love him. I
can't
love him, I think—”

The door opened. “Viscountess Miles and Lady Gibbs.” Northcott announced the first guests, his tone plummy.

Marianne grasped Miranda's hand. “For goodness sake, calm yourself. Lady Gibbs is one of the worst cats in the
ton
! It's just nerves, Miranda. Every bride suffers from them.” She pinched her sister's arm. “
Smile
!”

Miranda held up her chin and smiled under the scrutiny of the gossips. They took their places and made polite small talk until more visitors arrived. Then they moved to a corner and began whispering behind their teacups, casting sidelong glances at Miranda.

Were they assuming she was a woman in love? She was indeed. She just wasn't in love with her fiancé. Miranda felt her skin heat, but with anger, not embarrassment. Reports of her kiss-swollen lips would probably add to Kelton's mystique as the perfect man, and it was a reputation he did not deserve. She was tempted to get up on her chair and declare out loud that it was Gilbert Fielding, not the
ton's
golden god, who had kissed her, thrilled her, stolen her heart.

But it would embarrass Marianne, and Gilbert was gone. She would face shame and scandal, and it would fall upon her family. She swallowed the bitter taste that filled her mouth and sipped her tea, agreeing with Miss Lamb's observation that roses were indeed the most appropriate flower for a bridal bouquet.

She answered a dozen other questions about her wedding gown and the weather. She was careful, since she had not yet told Marianne that she would not be going to Carrington for Christmas, or her wedding. When tea was over, she would have to tell her sister, and then go upstairs and write to Carrington. The prospect hung over her head like a storm cloud.

It would be the first Christmas she had ever spent away from Carrington and Cumbria, and it would be her first as a married woman, a countess with a home of her own. She supposed her mother-in-law would oversee Christmas this year, arrange things the way she was used to. Miranda would be far from her family, and no new festivities, no matter how grand, could replace them.

In the corner of the salon, the old cats continued to whisper, the venom of their gossip rising into the air like poison vapor. Miranda did her best to ignore the looks they cast in her direction, but their eyes almost glowed with wicked delight.

Witches, she thought, and sent them a smile. They cackled and went back to their conversation. Miranda felt her skin heat. They were probably betting on how soon it would be before she produced an heir, or if the Prince Regent would attend their wedding.

The whispers grew, and the
on-dit
quickly passed from woman to woman, carried on the rattle of teacups.

“Lady Anthea Endersly has taken a lover!” Miranda heard.

“She's barely out of mourning!” Miss Lamb said, delightfully shocked. “I wonder who it could be?”

Miranda shook her head. It didn't matter to her in the least under the circumstances.

Then she saw Marianne's face. Her sister stiffened, drew back as the whisper reached her. She turned pale, and sent Miranda a stricken glance, her face a caricature of shock and dismay.

Miranda felt her heart lurch. Not Adam, surely. He loved her sister, disapproved of men who strayed. But everyone was staring at
her,
not Marianne, and Miranda felt her body go numb. It wasn't Adam after all.

Kelton.

Her stomach threatened to push the tea back up her throat, and she swallowed. She forced herself to take another sip, to smile placidly as if she did not understand the hints and innuendos. She set her cup down and mentioned the weather yet again, nodding at the reply, which she didn't hear.

She couldn't marry him now. She would not. A whole regiment of cavalry horses could not drag her to the altar. Still she smiled and smiled and smiled, until the last guest was shown out.

“Miranda—” Marianne began.

“Would you excuse me?” she said stiffly, still smiling sweetly, unable to do anything else at the moment, treating her own sister like a stranger. Marianne looked upset, but Miranda didn't know what to say, couldn't speak words that would comfort her.

Kelton had been Marianne's choice. She had talked of nothing but his handsome face, dashing manners, and charming way with the ladies.

Ladies like Anthea Endersly.

Since the betrothal, Marianne had done nothing but gloat about her expert skills as a matchmaker. Miranda stepped away from her sister's hand on her arm. “I need to write some letters,” she said.

“Many men keep mistresses,” Marianne said, following her up the stairs.

“Not Adam,” Miranda said. “You would not allow it. Should I do differently?”

Her sister stopped on the stairs behind her and Miranda turned, glared at her. “I will not be my husband's second choice,” she said. “Or live on the leavings of his time and affection.”

Marianne was crying. Perhaps Miranda should be crying as well, but she was too angry. “What will you do?” Marianne asked.

Miranda closed her lips on the first reply that came to mind, since ladies could not call out their fiancés and shoot them dead in Hyde Park. Silently, she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

She took off the hated betrothal ring and set it carefully on the dressing table, resisting the urge to toss it out the window into the gutter.

Marianne knocked on the door, but Miranda didn't answer. She waited until her sister had gone away.

Then she picked up her cloak, and slipped out of the house.

 

C
HAPTER
N
INE

T
he Earl of Westlake's shipping offices were an oasis of elegance perched above the London docks. Two stories below the wide windows, the fetid waters of the Thames caressed the hulls of Westlake's sleek fleet of merchant ships. Gilbert watched burly sailors carrying heavy bales and boxes up the narrow gangplank as
The Edmond
made ready to sail in with the early winter dusk.

Westlake's office looked like his study at De Courcey House, except for the fact that there were crates and bundles of precious cargo stacked neatly on shelves and tables. Locked mahogany cabinets held priceless tea and spices. Pots filled with exotic plants for the earl's famous botanical collection were lined up along the windows. Bolts of exotic silk and brocade lay draped on polished tables. Gilbert stared at a length of sky-blue satin, the exact color of Miranda's eyes. It would make a perfect wedding gown . . .

He turned away.

Adam entered the room. “Good afternoon, Fielding. What brings you here?”

“I went to De Courcey House, but they told me you were here,” Gilbert said.

“Yes, the
Edmond
is setting off this evening on a trading mission to India, Ceylon, and a number of other destinations. Wool and English goods go out, and spices, exotic woods, silks, and coffee come back,” Westlake explained. “My investors find it an extremely profitable venture.”

“I haven't come for that,” Gilbert said quickly. “Can I book passage on the
Edmond
? I would like to sail to Spain—now, this evening—if you have space to take me.”

Westlake's brows shot up like seabirds taking flight. “So soon? Most regiments are in winter quarters.”

“I wish to depart as soon as possible.”

Westlake sat down, and indicated a chair across from him. “Is there something afoot I don't know about? A battle or an invasion, perhaps? Have you received orders?” he asked, his calm tone suggesting that he did not truly believe that to be a possibility.

Gilbert forced a smile. “Just eager to be off.”

“I see.” Westlake regarded Gilbert in silence for a moment, his head cocked, studying him, as if he were listening to his thoughts.

Gilbert got to his feet. “Is there space or not, my lord?”

Adam tented his fingers in front of his chin and continued his perusal. “I am always curious when people are in a hurry. A foible of mine. I shall, of course, need to check with my captain to see what space there is. Can you wait for a few weeks if the
Edmond
is full?”

Gilbert shifted his feet. “I'd rather not.” He met the earl's deep gaze. “My lord, there is something you should know before I leave, regarding Lady Miranda,” he said.

Adam didn't move. “Oh?”

“I saw Lord Kelton in the park on my way here. There are rumors that he has taken a new mistress.”

“Lady Anthea Endersly,” Westlake murmured. “Who hasn't?”

“Taken her, or heard the rumors?” Gilbert asked.

Westlake's lips pursed. “Both, I'd imagine. My wife keeps me informed on gossip, but I occasionally have the pleasure of hearing certain bits of information before she does, like this one. I feign surprise, of course, but this particular gossip is sure to be hurtful, since it concerns Miranda.”

She'll be devastated,” Gilbert murmured. “When I saw her this morning, she was searching for a sapphire necklace that belonged to her mother. She thinks she lost it in the salon at De Courcey House last night.”

“And she didn't?” Adam said, his brows climbing again.

“I saw Lady Anthea Endersly wearing it this afternoon. She was riding in the park with Kelton.”

Westlake sat very still for a moment. Then he rose and crossed to the mahogany cabinet. “Would you care for a drink? Whisky perhaps?”

Gilbert shook his head. “If Miranda finds out Kelton has a mistress, she will be hurt, Westlake,” he said. “If she finds out he gave her mother's jewels to another woman, she'll be furious.”

“Archer women do not share their husbands,” the earl murmured, as if repeating a rule drilled into his head by constant repetition. “Not that one Archer woman isn't enough for any man.”

He poured two glasses of whisky anyway, and set one in front of Gilbert. “I must ask why this matter interests you, Mr. Fielding. Have you seen Blackwood recently, perhaps?”

Gilbert looked away from the earl's disturbing, all-seeing gaze. “What does Blackwood have to do with this? I'm leaving. I simply hope you'll use your influence and do something. Miranda is very distraught at the loss of her mother's necklace. Speak to Kelton. At least make him give her a wedding at Carrington Castle. He'll destroy her spirit if he locks her away at Kelton Grange. She needs family and love, a man who appreciates her—”

Adam held up a hand. “Much of this is new to me, I'm afraid. Start at the beginning. I don't wish to have to ask my wife for the details.” He waited until Gilbert sat down. “Forgive me, Mr. Fielding, but I know you were often in Miranda's company last spring. Now, you sound as if—” Adam began, but the sound of running feet on the stairs stopped him—light, quick feminine steps, not the heavy tread of a sailor's boots.

Adam straightened his cravat. “That is probably my wife now, if she has heard what you have. Would you be so kind as to step into my clerk's office for a moment? Then we can finish our discussion.”

Gilbert entered the tiny antechamber, and waited.

“Miranda!” he heard Adam exclaim. “I wasn't expecting
you
. Is Marianne here as well?”

“She doesn't know I've gone,” Miranda said breathlessly. “She thinks I'm in my room, writing letters.” There was a pause, and Gilbert's heart clenched as he heard her sob.

“Adam, I can't marry Kelton.”

Gilbert's stomach clenched and his eyes burned into the half-closed door.

“I see. Have you told him yet?”

“No. I will send him a note. I cannot bear to see him.” Gilbert heard her rise to her feet, cross the room. Her voice rose, became breathless. “Northcott said you have a ship leaving tonight. I want to be on it.”

Gilbert swore under his breath. She was running away? He waited for Adam's reply, prayed the earl wouldn't allow her to take such an extreme course. Guilt prodded him. He'd come here for exactly the same purpose. He felt shame.

“Miranda, you know I can't let you do that.” The earl's voice was kind, brotherly, but Miranda's sobs only grew louder.

“Please, Adam. How can I tell Grandfather that I've disappointed him? It will kill him! It would be better if I simply disappeared. There would be no scandal, no shame. You could tell Grandfather I'm at Kelton Grange. Tell the rest of the world I'm at Carrington Castle, I don't care. Everyone will forget me soon enough, and Kelton will find someone else to marry.”

And someone else to make unhappy. Gilbert silently cursed the bastard. If he wasn't leaving, he'd call him out, cut him down, shoot the empty space where his heart should be.

“You're wrong, Miranda. You have a family—and others—that love you very much.” Was it Gilbert's imagination, or had Westlake's voice grown louder, as if he wanted Gilbert to hear the conversation?

“It is not the scandal of losing Kelton, but the loss of you that would kill Carrington. Where do you imagine you and Marianne and Phineas get your unique courage from, your insistence on flying in the face of convention and popular opinion when you see that it is wrong? Running away isn't the answer. If you are unhappy, we will stand by you, deal with the situation together. I will go and see Kelton myself, if you wish.”

“Don't tell Phineas,” she whispered. “He'd kill Kelton. He told me the match was wrong, and I didn't listen.” Adam didn't answer, and Gilbert waited.

“Oh, Adam,” she murmured. “How did it come to this? Is it because I did not love Kelton?”

“I think it would have been even worse if you had,” Westlake replied grimly. “Is there someone else?”

She hesitated, and Gilbert held his breath. “No. Not anymore,” she said, her voice breaking, “I had hoped, you see, but—well,
that
would have broken Grandfather's heart as well. None of it matters, since the gentleman does not wish to marry me, and he has left England.”

The silence thickened, fell like a blanket, and Gilbert shut his eyes. She thought he did not want her.

“Look, it's very nearly dark, and I can't let you travel home from here alone. I'll have Mr. Gibbs take you home. We can discuss this in the morning, decide what to do then,” Adam said gently. “Will that do?”

She must have nodded, for she didn't reply.

Gilbert heard a bell ring, followed by footsteps on the stairs. “Aye, my lord?” a gruff voice asked.

“This is my first mate, Elijah Gibbs. Mr. Gibbs, this is my sister-in-law, Lady Miranda Archer. Would you escort her home to De Courcey House?”

“Evening, my lady,” the sailor said politely. “I'm ready to leave when you are.”

“I'm ready now,” she sighed. “Thank you, Adam.”

Gilbert waited until her footsteps faded down the steps before returning to the office. Westlake was standing by the window, watching the sailor hand Miranda into the coach.

“She'll be all right,” he said, and Gilbert wondered if he was talking to him, or himself. “She wouldn't have been, if she'd married Kelton. Phineas warned me just as you did, but I thought he was simply being overprotective.”

“What will you do?” Gilbert asked.

Adam turned to face him. He leaned on the wide windowsill and folded his arms over his chest. “I? I think the more important matter is what
you
will do, Mr. Fielding. It has been obvious for some months that you have feelings for Miranda. I believe she returns your affections. She seems to think you have left England already. That I can prevent, at least for the moment, by denying you passage on my ship.”

Gilbert wondered if the earl was daft. “You can't be suggesting I make an offer to marry her? Carrington would have me shot for my presumption, then make a rug out of my hide for the servant's entrance. I'm the son of a minor baron—an ordinary man, Westlake—with no fortune and no land.”

Adam regarded him as if none of that mattered in the least. “You have potential, brains, and character. Kelton has none of those qualities. Money, a handsome face, and a title won't make up for the lack, not with Miranda. She values honor and family and love. Is it fair to say you are in love with her? I doubt Kelton feels any such emotion. To him, she is an acquisition, something necessary. I suppose it is her dowry he really wants, and the connection to Carrington.” He studied Gilbert. “Yet you don't care about any of that, do you? You want
her
. To you, her wealth and connections are an impediment.

“Love and honor won't feed her and clothe her.”

Adam shrugged. “I daresay wealth is easy enough to come by. How much does it cost to purchase a commission? You could still spend that money in other ways that would offer greater scope for your particular talents. And Miranda's. Do you by any chance know anything about weavers, Mr. Fielding?”

He wondered if the earl had lost his mind, until he described Miranda's plans.

“It could be done at a much more modest estate than Kelton Grange. In fact, it would likely be the making of such a place, with the right landowner—and Miranda—in charge.”

Gilbert stared at him, dared for an instant to hope. “Then it's possible that she might—” He stopped, swallowed.

“I believe you'll have to ask Miranda that yourself. She will be free again once her betrothal to Kelton is ended. Possibly as soon as tomorrow. In my experience, once an Archer woman makes up her mind to do something, she rarely changes it.”

“I'd have to see Carrington,” Gilbert said. Facing a dragon, or riding into battle against Napoleon himself would be less terrifying. Still, for Miranda, he'd face anything, do anything.

“Yes,” Adam said. “He loves Miranda as much as you do. Since you both want the same thing, to see her happy, I doubt it will be nearly as bloody as you expect.”

The pain in Gilbert's chest ebbed, and hope took its place, a warm glow that made him feel like laughing. He put his hat on. “I hope you're right, Westlake. If you'll excuse me, I've got some business to see to. May I call tomorrow?”

Adam nodded. “At a suitable hour, if you please.”

Gilbert went to Horse Guards first, and resigned his commission. Since Wellington was winning almost every battle, there were plenty of men willing to purchase it.

Next, he visited a friend of his father's who was in Town to sell a small estate in Shropshire, and bought it.

He found the most exclusive modiste's shop on Bond Street, the one patronized by the Archer ladies, who were widely regarded as the most fashionable women of the
ton
. He spoke to the weaver's daughter. She was only too glad to accept his offer of a home for her family in Shropshire. Madame Mathilde kissed him, wished him the very best of luck, and offered to sew something scandalous for Miranda's wedding trip if he was successful in his quest.

Then Gilbert went and did what was hardest of all. He sold his stallion, and used the funds to buy a betrothal ring and a plain horse that would carry him to Carrington Castle to face the duke.