Leslie Lafoy (40 page)

“Actually, Lady Aubrey went over in a dead faint two seconds into the brawl,” she supplied with a sigh. God, she was suddenly so tired. She nodded toward the man’s saddle on the nearby stand. “Lady Simone will ride however she pleases, Haywood.”

“Oh, God. Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“Saddle her a horse for traveling,” she instructed, nodding. “You can teach her to ride on our way to London.”

“London?”

“Yes, London,” she repeated, squarely meeting his darkening gaze.

“I should try to talk you out of this.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“Well, scandal isn’t entirely bad,” he said with a halfhearted smile. “It does get people’s attention, and as long as you’re not the scandal-ee, being noticed can advance one’s public recognition in a rather positive way. After a bit of time, of course.”

She sighed and shook her head in dismay. “Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?”

“Well,” he said slowly, tilting his head to the side as he considered her, “would you rather I mention that Drayton might not be all that thrilled to see you?”

“No,” she assured him. “Thank you for sparing me. I apologize for accusing you of being self-centered.”

“Well, now that the cat’s poked its head out of the bag,” he said, “we might as well let it all the way out. He’s a man, Lady Caroline. He’s not likely to have closed himself up in his room and tried to forget you. At least not alone.”

It had been delicately, kindly put, but the impact was none the less for the effort. Her heart aching, she swallowed her fear and admitted, “I have thought of that possibility.
But hearing it actually put into words is a bit more disconcerting than I expected.”

Haywood looked genuinely regretful when he said, “I’m sorry that we’re not nobler creatures.”

“Still,” she said with a shrug, “I have to go to London. I can’t bear another minute of wondering. If he’s forgotten me or replaced me, then at least I’ll know that and I can get on with my life without him.”

“Do you think that’s possible?”

Bless Haywood. Under all the spit and polish and predatory tendencies, there was a very soft heart. “If it has to be, it will be, Haywood,” she promised him. “Pride will save me. It always has.” Taking his coat off and handing it back to him, she said, “Saddle Simone a horse, please. And could I get you to have the coach readied while I go pack our things?”

“Not quite so fast,” he admonished as she started to turn away. He waited until she’d squared up to him again to ask, “Is Lady Aubrey coming along?”

He really had to ask? “No. She’s not invited.”

“All right,” he said slowly, his gaze fastened on something in the distance. “I’ll see you safely to London on one condition. You’ll agree to go to my brother’s home and not Drayton’s.”

“Isn’t he at his—or someone’s—country estate like everyone else?”

“Well, he is, but his wife isn’t,” Haywood explained. “Margaret hates the country and always stays behind in the city. She’ll be a suitable chaperone. And I assure you that she’s considerably more tolerant than Lady Aubrey.”

Anyone would be more tolerant than Lady Aubrey. Caroline considered the suggestion, the fact that she’d be essentially moving into a stranger’s house just as strangers
had moved into hers. To be guilty of preying on the expectations of hospitality . . . She didn’t know if she could do that. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Of course, if Drayton had taken a mistress and she were to walk in unexpectedly and find them together, it would be horribly embarrassing. Not to mention acutely painful.

“Did I say that I must insist that you go to Margaret’s?”

She nodded, focusing on a growing glimmer of understanding. It wasn’t so much that Haywood thought a chaperone would be an effective deterrent; he knew them better than that. “Going to Margaret’s instead of going to Drayton’s,” she ventured, “will give you time to warn him that I’ve come to town for a reckoning.”

His smile was small, but hugely guilty. “Well, yes, and that, too.”

And save me the pain of actually finding another woman in his arms.
“You’re really very good at manipulating people.”

“I try to use a light touch at it whenever possible.”

“All right, Haywood,” she conceded. “I’ll exercise some common sense. Just for a while. I’ll go to your sister-in-law’s.”

He smiled broadly and gave her an exaggerated bow. “Then I shall see that Lady Simone’s horse and your coach are readied at once, madam.”

“Thank you, Haywood.” She left him, but got only as far as the stable threshold before pausing and looking back. “And a cart, please,” she added, her mind whirling through all that needed to be done and how to best manage it. “For the baggage.”

“Women,” he grumbled, his eyes sparkling. “Could you have Winfield pack my bags?”

  Twenty-one  

“
AND WITH THAT
,”
LADY HAYWOOD SAID IN QUIET TRI
-umph as the young man walked away from them, “your dance card for the evening is filled. You have done beautifully, Lady Caroline. Beautifully.”

“All I’ve done is nod politely and say ‘I am looking forward to it, sir.’”

“Not every woman can do that, you know,” she countered, gathering her skirts. “I’m going over to speak with Lady Rhys for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

“I won’t move from the spot. Or talk to strangers.”

Lady Haywood stopped and turned back. “Unless, of course, the first dance begins before I get back. Do you remember which one Lord Rufus Collins is?”

The one with the feet as big as boats.
Caroline nodded, then watched Haywood’s sister-in-law flit off to speak with the patroness of this evening’s gathering. Which was, now that she had a moment alone to fully consider it, an interesting affair. According to Lady Haywood, Tristan’s wasn’t as glorious as Almack’s and not nearly as difficult to get into for an evening of dining and dancing. Two factors that made it, according to Lady Haywood,
the perfect place to begin an assault on the pillars of London society. To that end, Caroline was to eat like a bird, smile pleasantly at the men Lady Rhys brought over for formal introductions, and allow them to sign her dance card while saying as little as possible. Be absolutely circumspect and preserve the feminine mystery, as Lady Haywood had put it.

The feminine mystery might have everyone watching her every move for one that wasn’t circumspect, but Caroline considered the high reputation of Tristan’s to be the more intriguing puzzle. The décor was nice—although the gold-fringed magenta curtains were a bit loud for her taste. The orchestra seemed to be good. The food was edible and plentiful and the tables were set attractively. It was the tables, Caroline decided. Placed practically end to end around three sides of the dance floor three rows deep, well, it was the same arrangement that could be found in any reputable social club. The only difference between Tristan’s and Walton’s in Bloomsbury was the degree of extravagance. And the pretensions of the patrons.

“Lady Caroline. This is certainly a surprise.”

And speaking of pretensions . . . “Aubrey,” she said. “You’re looking well,” she added, sparing him a brief glance before her gaze went past him in search of Drayton.

“And you. Where is Mother?”

“She’s not in London,” she provided, bringing her attention back to him. “At least that I know of. I abandoned Ryland Castle to her and her guests yesterday morning. I can only hope they don’t burn it to the ground before I get back.”

He considered her for a moment and then asked, “Why are you here?”

Well, that was blunt. “Would you like to hear something pleasantly dishonest, or the truth?”

Clearing his throat, he looked out over the dinner crowd. “I assume Haywood came back with you. Is he here this evening?”

“Actually, he’s out and about looking for Drayton, to warn him of my return to London. Apparently he’s been a good thirty minutes behind him all day. He was terribly frustrated at mid-afternoon. I can only imagine what he’s like now.” She quickly moistened her lower lip and then boldly asked, “Do you have any idea of where Drayton might be?”

“I’ve heard that he had a meeting at Westerham’s club and then was going for supper and some gaming to Lanter’s club. As for his more private plans after that . . . ” He shrugged.

He’d
heard
? He didn’t know for sure? Interesting. It seemed to imply a falling-out. No doubt over politics. As for the “his more private plans after that” and the shrug . . . Hardly a subtle insinuation that Drayton might be out—as men so euphemistically put it—chasing skirts. And an obvious deliberate effort to wound her.

“Well, I’m sure Haywood will eventually track him down,” she offered breezily, refusing to let the thought trouble her. She’d come this far for the truth and she’d simply have to take what she found—good or bad. There was no point now in worrying which it would be.

“Pardon the intrusion, Lord Aubrey,” a voice said from behind them, “but I believe I have this dance with Lady Caroline.”

She glanced down. Yes, Lord Boatfoot.

“He’s the third son of a baron,” Aubrey muttered as she accepted the other man’s arm.

“It doesn’t matter,” she tossed back over her shoulder. None of this mattered one single whit to her. All she was doing was killing time. And hoping not to permanently cripple anyone while she did it.

JUST TWO MORE DAYS, DRAYTON REMINDED HIMSELF AS HE
climbed the steps and his driver took the town car down the drive and toward the carriage house. Meetings with the architects and contractors all day tomorrow, dinner with Peters and Masters tomorrow night to go over the preliminary legislative drafts, and then a round of meetings to present them the following day.

After those obligations had been fulfilled, he’d be ready. For Parliament when it convened after the Christmas holidays. And for going home until then. Only heaven knew what he’d find when he got there and how everyone was going to feel about his coming back through the door. Hopefully, the gifts he’d spent the day buying would smooth out any rough spots. Simone would love the new épée and Fiona would be delighted by the fancy cage he’d found for Scutter.

Caroline, though . . . That had proved to be a tough one. Nothing seemed quite right. The diamond and sapphire tiara had had some appeal, but imaging the look on Caroline’s face when faced with the request to actually wear it . . . He’d winced, had it put back in the case, and abandoned the whole idea of a grand symbolic gesture. Of course that meant that at this point he didn’t have anything to give her except himself. A sorry gift if ever there was one.

“Good evening, Lord Ryland.”

“Good evening, Tilden,” he said, tugging off his gloves as the footman closed the door behind him. “Have the packages arrived?”

“They have, your grace. And been placed in your study.” He stepped up to take Drayton’s hat and added, “Where we also placed Mr. Haywood some time ago.”

Drayton froze, looking down the hall. “Haywood?”

“Yes, your grace.”

Leaving the footman standing there holding the hat, he headed down the hall, his heart pounding furiously as horrific scenes played out before his mind’s eye. Fiona attacked by a wild—rabid!—animal. Simone putting her eye out with any one of the weapons she didn’t know how to use nearly as well as . . . Oh, God, Caroline falling off a ladder. Or sick. Or blown up by one of Lady Aubrey’s idiot friends.

He charged into the study to find Haywood’s coat lying over the back of the nearest chair and the man himself leaning nonchalantly against the buffet, a drink in his hand and his gaze fixed on the battered wall.

“Damn, Drayton,” he chuckled. “You have some big, mean mice in this house.”

“Hello and why aren’t you at Ryland Castle?” he asked, stuffing his gloves in his coat pocket. “What’s happened?”

“Gawd,” he answered, shaking his head. “What
hasn’t
happened lately?”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because,” he said pointedly, lifting his glass in salute, “Lady Caroline’s come to London.”

Drayton stared at him, vaguely hearing himself say, “What?” as his mind chattered excitedly and his heart raced in earnest.