Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (18 page)

Clarissa smothered a laugh behind gloved fingers. So that was it! The waxy glow beneath Lady Everleigh’s lace bodice had been manufactured by bees.

“Now there’s something worth flinging about the throat,” Heloise said admiringly as she nodded toward the doorway where a lady in bronze crape wore a single strand of brilliants about her neck. “Of the First Quality. One knows, of course, by the blue-white fire. Such
savoir-vivre!”

Clarissa had noticed before her aunt’s new habit, begun after their the visit to Vauxhall, of liberally sprinkling her speech with French phrases. Before she could comment on it, Heloise said brightly, “At last! Dearest, look who’s here!”

Clarissa turned her head toward the door, her heart beating a little fast. But the gentleman standing in the archway was not Lord Ramsbury. He was tall, amazingly so, with broad, slightly stooped shoulders, and an angular body that appeared strong though no longer young. His dark hair was longer than fashionable and his clothing seemed a bit old-fashioned for all it was in excellent repair. This was not the first time he had appeared at a function they were attending. But as his dark gaze fixed so pointedly upon her aunt as she moved toward him, Clarissa experienced the barest hint of alarm.

“Princess. Can’t believe my luck at finding you alone!”

Clarissa turned to find Emory Blackburne smiling eagerly at her. “Mr. Blackburne. Tell me, sir, are you acquainted with the tall gentleman who’s conversing with Lady Arbuthnott?”

Emory glanced at the pair standing in the archway. “That’s De Valmy. Notorious old dog.” He looked at once contrite. “Forgive me, Princess. Indelicate phrase for a lady.”

“You may be frank, Mr. Blackburne,” Clarissa replied, for she knew nothing about the man other than the fact that he was the French “cavalier” from Vauxhall. “I am concerned since the gentleman in question seems to have forced the acquaintance. Lady Arbuthnott is a widow with a not inconsiderable income.”

“I say! Can’t have that Froggy incommoding a lady. I’ll just see him off.”

Clarissa looked up at him over the hem of her veil and laid a restraining hand on his arm. “I should not like to embroil you in a scene, sir. Perhaps you could simply tell me more about this Monsieur De Valmy.”

“If you wish,” Emory replied, but a scowl remained on his face as he continued to gaze in the Frenchman’s direction. “Rumor has it that De Valmy was one of the young radicals who deserted his aristocratic family to join the
sans-culottes
during the early days of his country’s revolution. As you know, they soon turned on their own, butchering those who would have led them, or so Hadrian says.” Mention of his brother deepened Emory’s frown but he dismissed the thought. “The story is that his entire family was guillotined; parents, wife, and children. Somehow De Valmy escaped.” Though he held back the words, the sneer in his voice clearly labeled the man a coward. “Been an
émigré
ever since. That is, when he’s not hying back to the Continent for what Hadrian calls ‘unofficial’ government business. He must have just returned.”

Far from deepening her doubts about the man, Emory’s tragic tale of betrayal and loss lessened Clarissa’s immediate concern for her aunt. “Since your brother knows Monsieur De Valmy, I should speak to him. Are you expecting him to join you here tonight?”

Emory’s tone was full of contempt. “He’s a touch above us these days. Makes his plans to suit the
haut monde.
Rubs shoulders with princes and kings. Has the Regent’s ear, they say. But I think he’s just too proud to show his face where he might be snubbed.”

Startled, Clarissa said, “Snubbed? Why?”

“You were present the night my brother caught Tibbitts cheating at cards. You heard Tibbitts call Hadrian a cheat in return. Yet Hadrian has refused to respond to this slur on his character. Some now question his courage. Others, his pride.”

“Would your brother not be dignifying Mr. Tibbitts’s claim by offering him satisfaction?”

Emory’s black brows rose. “Gad! Never try to explain honor to a lady.”

Clarissa smiled and refused to be insulted. She had cooled many a hothead in her day. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, she said, “Perhaps not, but then you may explain the game of whist to me while we stroll toward the cardroom. I had despaired of having a partner until you arrived.”

Charmed for the moment beyond the black mood which had accompanied him from his Club, Emory gladly spent the next hour with Soltana. Though he had not yet told her of his plans, she was at the heart of them.

Despite her protest that she had never before played, she won the handsome sum of fifty pounds at the whist table.

“It was your superb partnering,” she assured Emory when they had quit the tables in favor of the small salon where a fiddler, flutist, clarinetist, and double bassist supplied music for the few couples who had elected to dance. “You’ve a natural ability with cards.”

“You might so inform my brother,” Emory answered, as enmity sailed across his expression.

“You and your brother are not … ?”

“ ’Tis common knowledge that Hadrian and I cannot bear the sight of each other.”

“But that’s terrible,” she replied truly distressed by his words. “Brothers should not be at odds.”

“Hadrian’s fault,” Emory blurted out before thinking how childish the remark would sound. “Stuck his oar in where it wasn’t wanted. A gentleman’s got a right to keep his business private.”

“Perhaps he thought he was being helpful,” she said gently.

“But what has his meddling come to? He’s squiring about princes while I’m left—” Emory broke off as he realized he was embarrassing himself with an emotional display.

Clarissa had realized from weeks of polite conversation that Emory Blackburne was like a splendid high-strung horse. He was beautiful to watch and, with the least bit of encouragement, made charming company. Young and virile, he had yet to come to a full acceptance of the reins of responsibility, preferring to snort and dance away from any sign of control over his life. But like a spirited horse, if left unbroken and out of control, he would indulge his passions and ignore all restraint until sooner or later he caused injury to others and ruined himself. When his face went chalk white, she knew that he had faltered badly. Emory was in desperate trouble.

“Would you like to make a confidante of me, Mr. Blackburne? I cannot pretend to great wisdom, but I have a compassionate, loyal, and utterly discreet heart.”

Emory lifted his head, a curl shading soft green eyes dark with doubt and caution. “Do you truly care?” His gorgeous mouth formed the words slowly.

The leading question made Clarissa smile. Lord, but he understood the power of his beauty to charm. Byron must be his model. “But of course, Mr. Blackburne. I care for all God’s creatures. How could I feel less for a gentleman who’s been nothing but kind to me?”

She knew she was leading him on, but she hoped that in doing so she would ease that not-quite-hidden pain behind his eyes, as well as learn the cause of it.

Emory regarded her with a new sense of his feelings for her. Here was someone who did not view him through the distorted lens of family and friends. When she looked at him, he no longer felt like an inept young man, handsome but callow, well dressed but lacking in the more perceptive arts of common sense and reason. And, most important, he did not feel the absence of a coronet. It took him no more than five heartbeats to realize that perhaps the smartest thing he had ever done was to fall in love with her.

Brimming with emotion, he reached out and took her hand. “Come away with me, and I will tell you everything!”

“Mr. Blackburne!” she cautioned him and withdrew her hand. She lifted her skirt a little. “Oh, I see I’ve caught my trim. I will retire to the library to repair it.” She met his gaze easily. “I shouldn’t be surprised if you were to find me there, after a timely interval.”

Emory’s smile of gratitude made her wonder as she walked away why the new Season of ladies did not sigh with adoration each time he entered a room. It must be his own disinterest that kept them from seeing him as they should. She would have to encourage him to pay more court to the younger ladies. Doubtless by the end of the month some lucky chit would have him eating from her hand.

She found the library without incident. Unlike the Chethams’, this library was without dog or secreted strangers. Several gas lamps burned brightly, erasing all deep shadows. When she had seated herself next to an open window which looked out onto a side yard, she extracted needle and thread from her reticule and proceeded to repair her torn lace.

She had just set the final stitch in the cloth when she heard a woman’s loud and piercing scream. She rose to her feet in indecision. Quick footfalls sounded along the hall and then a door slammed. Immediately afterward other voices were raised in alarm.

“What on earth?” she exclaimed and tucked her needle and thread away. As she moved quickly across the room, she again heard footsteps in the hallway and then saw the door latch jiggle as if it were about to be opened.

When it did not, she reached the door and lifted the latch from her side, saying, “Emory, where have you—?”

The man in the hallway was in the act of bending over to retrieve something from the carpet. For a moment she saw only gleaming Hessians, skintight breeches, and the swallowtails of a formal coat. Then he straightened and Clarissa gasped in pleased surprise. “Lord Ramsbury! What are you doing here?”

Far from being pleased by her look of welcome, Hadrian was scowling at her, his light eyes diamond bright. “Expecting my brother, were you? Is this, perchance, yours?”

As he extended his hand, Clarissa saw first a bright flash like water spilling from his hand. Then she realized that he held a strand of diamond brilliants like the ones she had seen earlier about the neck of the lady in the bronze crape frock.

Finally she became aware of the great din taking place at the far end of the hall. If sounded as if ladies were crying while gentlemen were roaring orders to the servants. As she lifted her head she saw Emory coming quickly up the hall, his face flushed and his eyes overbright. “Have you heard the news?” he began sheepishly, his gaze on Clarissa. “Some matron’s lost her emeralds. Now another’s discovered her diamonds missing. Devil of a dustup.”

Only then did his eyes focus on his brother. Surprise changed quickly to indignation only to dissolve into suspicion as his gaze fell on the diamonds clutched in Hadrian’s fist. “Where’d you get that?”

Hadrian gave his brother the merest glance before his eyes locked with Soltana’s. “Did you or did you not drop this?”

Clarissa felt as though he had upended a bottle of iced champagne over her. Was he asking what she thought he was asking her? Yes, she saw it in the wintry chill of his hard gaze.

She lifted her chin. “ ’Tis you, my lord, who are in possession of it. Perhaps you would care to explain that!”

“One dreads yet accepts the existence of highwaymen as one does a plague,” Heloise mused aloud as her carriage pulled away from the snarl of traffic produced by the number of people attempting to depart the soiree. “One may expect to be held up in a country lane or even in the city. Why, not long ago the Neapolitan Ambassador’s carriage, with two footmen on the box, was held up in Grosvenor Square. He lost both his gold watch and his purse. But to think that one is not safe within the doors of one’s equals, now that is remarkable!”

She paused, expecting a reply from one of her two companions. When it did not occur, she went briskly on. “One might consider the removal of Lady Everleigh’s bauble as the rendered judgment of someone of taste. Still, we may be consoled by the fact that Mildred’s strand of brilliants was restored to her. How fortunate it was that you happened along when you did, Lord Ramsbury.”

“Most fortuitous,” Hadrian replied stiffly as he sat across from the viscountess.

“Likewise, we are ever fortunate to have the benefit of your escort. An earl and an officer, no less. We shan’t fear for our safety now, will we, dearest Soltana?”

“So it would seem,” Clarissa answered with reserve. She was not quite certain how Lord Ramsbury had engineered his way into their carriage but, in the exigency of the moment and in the press of guests to leave the soiree, she had found herself seated next to him, an arrangement she might have contrived herself had he not made himself so odious from the moment of their meeting. Now, she held herself so stiffly away from him that her limbs had begun to tremble under the demand.

After all that had occurred when they were last together, how could he even suspect. For all she knew,
he
had taken the gems. If in her wildest imagining, she could have jumped to such a conclusion, then it would have been
she
who had caught
him
by opening the library door as he was about to pocket them.

That was the most disturbing thought of all. He was wealthy beyond need, yet he cheated at cards. Would he steal, too, if it amused him? She had heard stories of men whose experiences with the horrors of war had damaged their minds. Such men lost all sense of right and wrong, good and evil. Perhaps the earl’s extraordinary behavior had its source in his recent ordeal on the Continent.

Oh, how could he! Shame compounded by hurt and wariness augmented her anger. If she did not speak soon, she knew she would soon grow either too angry or afraid to do so.

“I’m certain his lordship will rest easier once we’ve arrived home without incident. One will never know whose gems might have been snatched by our passing carriage.”

“Soltana!” Heloise said, aghast. “I’m certain the intent to spy on us was not at all the reason why Lord Ramsbury chose to see us home.”

“You think not?” Clarissa questioned in open skepticism. “Rumor would have it my lord is steeped in intrigue.”

Hadrian gritted his teeth. “I have apologized for my error in judgment.”

“Indeed you have. One only regrets that you felt the need to make the remark in the first place. But then, I am a stranger, so naturally …” Clarissa let the thought drift and hoped he was squirming through every pregnant moment of it. “But it is done. I understand you are acquainted with Monsieur De Valmy,” she said evenly. “Perhaps you will share your knowledge with us.”

“I know little that is exceptional,” he answered tersely.

“Truly?” She could not keep back her scorn. “Then your measure of the commonplace is far broader than mine. Mr. Blackburne declared Monsieur De Valmy to be an aristocrat turned revolutionary who was forced to flee his homeland after his family were all killed.”

“Emory has a rattling tongue!”

“Not at all,” Heloise interposed smoothly. “The
comte
is far from reticent in the matter of his history. Nor does he boast of it,” she added with a meaningful look at her niece. “He is a man of reason. His sins are his own, and I judge he bears them with far greater dignity than men of slighter character who own lesser transgressions. I find his company stimulating, charming, and quite beyond reproach.”

There seemed nothing else to be said on that subject. With only the clop of hooves for company, the party of three fell silent. Heloise became wholly engrossed in the matter of a loose thread in her crocheted evening bag while Clarissa concentrated with all her might on the sights of gaslit London going past her window.

Hadrian spent the duration of the journey sorting through the mangled remains of his thoughts and feelings. He had kept his word to Colonel Selwyn by attaching himself to the Tsar’s entourage. It was a far more rarefied atmosphere than that of the usual social whirl of young ladies’ balls and soirees. For two weeks he had ignored his feelings and his emotions to carry out the duty assigned to him. Now he was regretting his ability to be so single-minded.

It was his first free evening in a fortnight, yet when he called on Soltana he had learned that she and Lady Heloise had gone out. Returning to his home, he had picked up all his invitations for the date and then begun a long and tedious journey from party to party in search of her. Three hours and several glasses of port later, he had entered the Grosvenor Square soiree to find Soltana and Emory, heads together. From that moment forward he had not been able to think clearly.

Turning his head ever so slightly, he glanced at the veiled profile of the exasperating lady sitting next to him. As if she sensed his perusal, she shifted farther away. The slight adjustment of her body communicated itself to him through the seat they shared. The sensation, strangely erotic, made him set his jaw in annoyance. It had been essential that he be away, yet the entire time all he had been able to think about was returning to her, being with her, and touching—oh, yes!—touching her.

Now she was close, so close that a mere shift of his leg would bring his knee against hers. Yet there might as well have been a three-foot-thick brick wall between them. And he was glad for it.

He knew without hearing the words that she and Emory had fixed an assignation before they parted in the salon. If her furtive action in slipping out of the room immediately afterward had not alerted him, then Emory’s sick-puppy expression would have. How his brother had gazed after her! His indiscreet adoration had quite shocked and enraged him.

He had delayed following either of them until his mind had served him up a series of romantic images that he could not ignore. If she had been in Emory’s arms when he found them, he was very much afraid he would have done them both harm. As it was, the discovery of the necklace had diverted his rage into a devious knot of miscalculated thinking that had led him to accuse her, not of being a jilt, but a thief!

Jealousy was a new emotion to him. It was not that he thought himself above it, it was merely that before Soltana he had never known a woman who could so engage his own feelings, or whom he wanted so badly to possess. Helene was already a faded if pleasant memory. He had long ago learned to master need with reason. Hardship and survival had taught him to divert the body’s clamoring into other channels. But Soltana had reached in deeper and attached herself to some hunger in him that was more essential than carnal desire.

He glanced again at her, willing the darkness to abate that he might see her eyes. As they rolled past a gas lamp, he caught the briefest glimpse of her face, all but obscured by her veil, but it was enough. His body’s reaction was so swift, he was forced to shift on the seat.

For most of his thirty-one years he had had complete and total mastery of his body. But since the night he had held this charming, elusive flirt in his arms, he had been nothing more than a sigh or quiver of desire away from wanting her with a raging intensity that quite amazed and disconcerted him.

Finally he could no longer stand the stifling aura of her nearness and reached forward to jerk open the window, saying shortly, “Too stuffy.” Neither of his companions responded.

The sighs of relief were audible from all parties as the Arbuthnott carriage drew up before the viscountess’s residence. The footman scrambled from his perch to open the door with the speed of one who senses that his passengers’ nerves have been stretched to the utmost.

The viscountess descended first, turning to Hadrian as she did so. “Do, remain seated, my lord. My driver will see you to your door.
Au revoir et merci, mon beau sabreur.”

The moment the viscountess turned her back, Hadrian flung an arm across the doorway to prevent Soltana from exiting. “This is not finished,” he said in a low and dangerous voice.

“I cannot think what you mean,” Clarissa returned frostily. “As far as I’m concerned, you no longer exist.”

“Don’t I just!”

She gave a tiny squeak of alarm as he caught her swiftly by the shoulders and pulled her across his lap. Without even attempting to lift her veil, he bent and slanted his mouth across hers. His hot breath wilted the fragile silk in an instant. The slight abrasion of fabric upon her skin did not prevent the heat and texture of his lips from reaching hers, nor did it stop him from using his tongue to rim her delicate mouth with possessive licks. Finally, he pressed the damp wisp of silk deep into her mouth as he found the moist sweetness of her.

And then she was free, being pushed into the night by the same hands that had held her immobile in his lap. “Good night, Princess!” he called after her, his voice full of triumph as she stumbled onto the sidewalk.

Insulted, infuriated, and shaken, Clarissa climbed the steps with a speed that was far from decorous to where her aunt stood waiting.

“Do—do you know what he did?” she sputtered, more enraged than abashed. “He—he kissed me!”

“Yes, dear, I know,” Heloise answered evenly. “I hope it was not too unpleasant an experience for you. Men will, upon occasion, become excessively domineering. Quentin’s always been fond of immoderate gestures. I see now that our impetuous earl possesses qualities that even I had not anticipated.”

Clarissa stared at her aunt. “I beg your pardon?”

“There, there,” Heloise crooned soothingly as the butler opened the door. “There’s no need to fret. The earl will be more than willing to make amends once his ardor has cooled. God bless men!”

“No one can speak of anything else. The seventh of July! It is to be the grandest celebration ever!” Lady Chetham’s pleasant face beamed with delight. “Only the
haut monde
will be included. All others must shift with the rabble.”

“The Regent is certainly enthusiastic with his proclamations,” Heloise agreed. “For the last week, London has been running over with Continental sovereigns and princes and their entourages, to say nothing of Tsar Alexander. I have not met the Tsar, but I hear from the Earl of Ramsbury that he is most delightful company. Isn’t that so, Soltana?”

Clarissa merely inclined her head in agreement. She had not exchanged a single word with the earl during the last two weeks. Not that this had prevented him from making the Holton residence one of his daily visits. Whether or not they were at home to guests, he merely left a calling card. As for his daily bouquets, they now adorned every room at Holton House—except her own.

“Lord Ramsbury is the constant companion of the Russian Ambassador,” Heloise offered by way of confirming the authenticity of her gossip. “He is often of an evening in the Tsar’s entourage.”

“What I have heard is that the earl is a favorite of the ambassador’s wife, Lady Lieven.” Lady Chetham added in a tone meant to encourage further confidences, “One might say a
particular
favorite.”

“One might expect as much,” Heloise responded serenely. “The Ambassador is much taken with matters of state, as one may expect with his sovereign on hand. Who better to escort his wife than a man of Lord Ramsbury’s impeccable taste and refinement?”

“Not to mention attractiveness,” the other lady added with a significant look over her lorgnette.

“A pleasant face may help pass the time more agreeably,” Heloise allowed and turned a brilliant smile on Clarissa. “That is why I am so pleased by Princess Soltana’s company. It would seem I am not alone in my estimation of her charm. Your son, Lady Chetham, has been a frequent guest for tea.”

Lady Chetham accepted this news with silence, but her smile remained brittle about the edges for the remainder of the brief visit. After a few more exchanges, Lady Arbuthnott and Princess El Djemal took their leave.

“I do not think it was wise to point out her son’s attentions to Princess Soltana,” Clarissa said as they strolled down the block to their next appointment. “She cannot find me to her taste.”

“She is more concerned about who will replace the emerald bracelet she lost two weeks ago,” Heloise assured her.

“Isn’t it strange how many thefts have taken place among the
ton
?” Clarissa mused. “If thefts they can be rightly called. Many of the ladies confess that their jewels may merely be misplaced. After all, they did not think to take an inventory until after Lady Everleigh’s lavaliere went missing. And yet one does become uncomfortable about other tales. Lady Walters claims she missed her ruby ring after an afternoon ‘at home.’”

“I cannot imagine,” Heloise answered. “Ah, here we are, Ramsbury House.”

Clarissa stopped short as she gazed up at the imposing edifice at the corner of Brook Street and Hanover Square. The Adams-designed house, set well back from the street, bore the stamp of its legendary designers’ penchant for Palladian styling lightened by touches such as a semicircular skylight above the door, many large windows, and a curving stairway that seemed to flow away from the entrance like a pleasant waterfall. Of pale stone, the effect was one of permanence without heaviness, grandeur without display, and a self-assurance of taste enduring beyond the equivocal fad for new architecture that had half of Regency London embellishing their residences.

Even so, Clarissa’s curiosity to see the interior was insufficient to overcome her reluctance to confront Lord Ramsbury in his lair. “I’m quite fatigued, Aunt. I believe I should prefer to wait in the carriage.” She turned back toward her aunt’s vehicle, which had been following them at a snail’s pace as they strolled down the street.