Lord Lightning (18 page)

She hunted in vain for some clue that might reinforce his idea that his father’s mistress, rather than Lady Hartwood, was his real mother. But she could draw no firm conclusions. The chart drawn for his supposed birth time described him too well. Born at another time, he would not have had Uranus atop his midheaven. She couldn’t imagine Lord Lightning without it. And yet, there
was
some secret the chart was hiding from her. The square between his Sun and Moon did show a strong conflict between his parents. And what was she to make of how closely Uranus aspected his Moon? Didn’t it suggest there was something very unusual about his mother? But of course, she realized with a start, if Lady Hartwood really wasn’t his mother, the chart she held in her hand wouldn’t have
been
his chart.

It was all too confusing. She had lost her objectivity. She could no longer convince herself that she understood Lord Hartwood’s personality. She could no longer translate the cold symbols on the paper before her into flesh and blood. When she tried to consider what a change in his birth time might do to his Mercury, she could hear only his teasing voice so alluring, so irresistible. When she looked at the change it made in his Venus, his handsome face swam up in her imagination, blotting out all thought. And Mars! She couldn’t bear to think of Mars, for to think of Mars was to remember what it felt to be clasped in his strong embrace, his hard manhood pressing against her, awakening hungers it was forbidden to satisfy.

Disgusted with herself, Eliza changed into another of Violet’s filmy gowns—a translucent cornflower blue muslin which she found surprisingly comfortable in the present heat—and went downstairs, intending to find a maid to accompany her on the walk Lord Hartwood had recommended. But just as she did so, it started to pour again, so she had to abandon any thought of escape.

Regretfully she made her way toward the library, feeling all the more irritated by the need to stay inside. Her annoyance was increased when she found the heavy velvet curtains in the dark paneled room pulled closed so only the dimmest light could filter in. She supposed this was to protect the books from the fading effect of light, but the library’s gloom depressed her.

She gazed at the spines of books on the shelves. A gentleman’s library, probably purchased by the yard and selected entirely for the richness of the bindings. But as her eyes ran along the books she could not long maintain her dismal mood, for here and there she spotted titles of interest—in particular, some ancient Greek works that she had heard of but never had the pleasure of seeing before.

She removed one volume from the shelf, the
Lysistrata
of Aristophanes in a Flemish edition from the previous century. She stopped for only a moment to appreciate the luxuriant feel of the red morocco binding. Then, after opening the curtains so they admitted enough light to read by, she made her way to a large leather-upholstered armchair by the window and began to page through her find.

Her attentions were quickly engaged by the words of the ancient dramatist and she spent a happy half hour immersed in his comedy, startled by its earthy tone and its frank discussion of those physical relations between men and women that were only whispered about by the moderns.
Perhaps, she thought with sudden understanding, the frankness which the ancients brought to such subjects explained why girls were not encouraged to study the classics.

She had settled into her chair and kicked off her shoes to make herself more comfortable when she was startled to realize she was no longer alone in the library. She had been joined by Lady Hartwood, who had entered surprisingly quietly for a woman of her size. She was dressed as usual in widow’s weeds, walking slowly with the aid of a cane. Seeing her make her way across the room on her own so successfully, Eliza wondered why the wheeled chair had been necessary the previous evening. Was Lady Hartwood, like her son, addicted to the use of theatrical display to make a point?

Lady Hartwood’s gaze was fixed on the book in Eliza’s hand, and, despite herself, Eliza blushed at the thought that the older woman might guess how affected Eliza had been by the play’s bawdy dialogue. But she quickly recollected that any embarrassment she might be feeling on that subject was misplaced. Her behavior with Lord Hartwood the previous day had ensured Lady Hartwood must believe that Eliza was not merely reading bawdy scenes but playing them out in real life. So she put the book down and fixed her gaze boldly on the broad expanse of black bombazine enfolding her protector’s mother.

“So you can read, can you, girl?” Lady Hartwood
said with a sniff, “I wouldn’t have thought it.
Your
kind rarely can.”

“Of course I can read,” Eliza retorted, glad, for once, that her déclassé role allowed her to express the rudeness that Hartwood’s mother’s statement deserved.

Lady Hartwood came closer until she could clearly see the Greek print that covered the pages of the book that lay open in Eliza’s lap. “But of course, you’re lying. Don’t try to bamboozle me. If you really could read, you would know that the book you hold in your hand isn’t even written in English letters.”

“It would be very strange, indeed, if it
were
written in English letters,” Eliza retorted. “Since it contains a comedy of Aristophanes in the ancient Greek.”

“A comedy by Aristophanes?” Lady Hartwood’s brows raised in an expression of incredulity. “How would a woman like you have ever heard of Aristophanes? Surely they don’t perform his plays at the sort of theater where your kind can be found!” She held out her hand imperiously. “Give me the book.”

Wordlessly Eliza handed her the volume.

The older woman examined it for a moment, leafing through the first couple of pages with a sour look, then she snapped it shut and put it down on the table.

“A woman like you, reading a book such as this, is preposterous,” she announced. From the way
she’d examined the volume, Eliza suspected that Lady Hartwood, like most gently raised girls of her class, couldn’t read it, either. Only boys were taught Greek.

Lady Hartwood turned back to face Eliza. “You are not at all the sort of woman I would have expected Edward to have chosen as his mistress. Like most men of his sort, his taste in women runs to pink, rounded creatures who giggle too much—creatures he finds it easy to despise. But perhaps the appeal of such women has waned and he needs variety to provide the stimulus for his fading appetites. Tell me, when he first met you, were you a governess discharged without a character?”

“Not at all,” Eliza said, staring boldly at her interlocutor in a way she knew to be very rude.

“Then you must be some girl from the provinces, lured to the city by some rake, seduced and then abandoned. You are trying to act the harlot, but your diction is too good for a woman of the muslin company, as are your table manners. You show some signs of good breeding, no matter how far you might have fallen.”

That cursed fish fork. Lady Hartwood had not been fooled.

“Since you appear to be gently bred,” her protector’s mother continued, “I shall do you the courtesy of assuming you find yourself in your current position through some personal misfortune rather than an inclination toward vice. While
I cannot condone what you have done, I am not lost to Christian charity and I will do my best not to judge too harshly the situation you find yourself in. Especially since you probably don’t understand how very dangerous it is.”

Lady Hartwood fixed Eliza with one gimlet eye. “You must not delude yourself Hartwood will fall in love with you,” she warned. “He is incapable of it.”

“So he has told me,” Eliza replied. “He seems rather proud of that facet of his nature.”

“Your levity is misplaced. My son’s crimes are nothing to joke about. He is the most dangerous kind of man—a handsome, charming, lascivious rake who has no concern for damage he does to the women he uses.” Lady Hartwood paused, studying the effect of her words.

Though Eliza struggled to maintain her composure, his mother’s words disturbed her, echoing as they did, her inmost fears.

“Your paramour is a murderer,” Lady Hartwood continued. “You didn’t know that, did you? But it’s true. He caused the death of a poor deluded creature and thought so little of it, he went out dancing before her body was cold.”

Lady Hartwood leaned forward, resting much of her weight on her ebony cane as she continued to speak in a low, conspiratorial voice. “You are not of the ton, and your connection with my son is very recent, so perhaps you weren’t aware of his history. But if you are wise, you’ll heed my warning.
You must not trust Hartwood’s promises. He’s a very dangerous man. If I, his mother, tell you this, you must assume there’s some truth to it.”

Eliza struggled to compose herself and shrugged as she imagined Violet might have done upon hearing such news, noticing as she did so how her bosom, scarcely covered by the frilly blue muslin, quivered as a shiver ran through her. But she forced herself to remain calm. She knew there was no truth in Lady Hartwood’s accusation. “Why should I believe you?” she demanded. “Edward tells me it is
you
who cannot be trusted.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? For he must have known I would warn any poor creature who found herself in his power what kind of man he really is.”

“I need no such warning,” Eliza said stiffly. “Your son loves to shock others and to play at life, but I see nothing vicious in him. Indeed, I find it hard to understand how he has earned such a wretched reputation. I believe he has a good heart and could learn to love given the right circumstances.”

“That is only because you choose to ignore the fate of the poor deluded creature he drove to her death.”

“There you are wrong,” Eliza said vehemently. “I am fully aware of the details. Your son explained the entire situation to me before our arrival.”

“Then you are far more hardened than I gave you credit for, and there can be no point in our discussing the matter further.”

Eliza knew she should take this opportunity to end this conversation, but the injustice of Lady Hartwood’s accusation made that impossible. The blame she had placed on Edward’s youthful shoulders had already done him so much damage. She wondered how he had survived it. If she felt this uncomfortable after being the target of Lady Hartwood’s contempt for only a few brief moments, what must it have been like for him to have been forced to live with it for a lifetime? And he had been so young when he had first come under such a devastating attack. No one had ever stood up to defend him, not even himself. At that thought, something rose up within her and demanded she be the first. “You are wrong,” she protested. “There is more than enough reason to discuss this matter. Consider what your son did for your family—the sacrifice he made for you! I find it strange that you feel no gratitude toward him.”

Lady Hartwood had already begun the ponderous process of turning her bulk toward the door, aided by her cane. Now she stopped and again faced Eliza as an unpleasant smile played across her hawk-like features. “Gratitude? You believe I should feel gratitude to him for blackening our family name? For living a life of open vice before the eyes of all the world?”

But who had started him on the path toward vice? “Your words only make me trust Edward more, since they confirm what he had told me. You abhor him not because he has sinned, but because
he refuses to hide his sinfulness behind a façade of false respectability.”

“I see he has converted you to his Jacobin philosophy. But yes, I should have liked to have my son behave like a gentleman and keep his indiscretions to himself. That is the way a gentleman behaves.”

“Or a hypocrite.”

Lady Hartwood gave no hint Eliza’s bolt had struck home. Instead she took another step toward Eliza. As she drew nearer, Eliza smelled the scent of her perspiration mixed with the heavy perfume that she favored.

“You parrot his words easily, don’t you, girl. You think you know it all. But you young girls always do. A man need only turn on you the power of a handsome face, a charming mode of address, and all sense goes out the window. But he is a very dangerous man, that handsome son of mine, with a penchant for destroying the women who love him. Don’t you forget it.” Lady Hartwood stopped to take a breath. “Or are you too far gone in your own misguided passion to care? If that’s the case and you choose to ignore my warning, I’ll give you one more warning you would be foolish to ignore.” She gestured toward the door with her cane. “I want you out of my home as swiftly as possible. Mark this, my girl, and do not ignore me.”

She put the cane down and with only slightly less hostility added, “If you heed my words, I would be willing to help you remove to some shelter for repentant Magdalenes, where you would
be taught a useful trade and could begin your life anew. No matter what my son may have told you, I am not a heartless woman.”

How could this woman be so self-deluded? “I do not wish to be rescued from Lord Hartwood’s protection,” Eliza replied haughtily. “I am quite happy in my current situation.”

“You will regret it.”

But though it was very clear that this was supposed to be Lady Hartwood’s parting shot, the older woman would not let Eliza break away from her gaze. Instead, she stood unmoving, fixing Eliza with a glare that grew increasingly troubled, as if she herself wished to break away from their confrontation but could not. Finally a flicker of something akin to confusion passed over Lady Hartwood’s face, and she hobbled out the door.

“Well, that takes the cake!” Eliza heard Lord Hartwood exclaim as he threw open the door to the library and bounded toward her. He had just arrived back at the house after completing his errands, and the amusement that filled his features made his normally handsome face even more attractive. “My mother just greeted me with the news that while I was gone, you insulted her beyond bearing by pretending—shameless hussy—to be reading Aristophanes in the original Greek.”

“Well, so I was. It was
Lysistrata.
Quite shocking really. I finally understood why my aunt wouldn’t allow me to read it.”