Natalya (18 page)

"I must speak to dear Fanny Smithfield," Mrs. Lynchford said, smiling. "You'll excuse me? Have some champagne, my dear. It will put you at ease."

She plucked a crystal goblet of golden liquid from a passing tray and gave it to Natalya before disappearing into the crowd. Natalya sighed, then decided to follow her hostess's advice and sipped the champagne. She would have been grateful if something as simple as a beverage could put her at ease. She peered intently into the mass of guests, searching for Adrienne.

Natalya had been in many beautiful homes in her lifetime, but none had been quite as dazzling as this one, just as she had said to Mrs. Lynchford. However, several other adjectives came to mind as well, gaudy, ostentatious, and decadent among them. Apparently the entire third floor of the duke's home had given over to this ballroom, which boasted an ornate domed ceiling covered with paintings of cherubs and dreamy-looking women in various states of undress. Mrs. Sykes had pronounced it "very romantic; quite divine!" The ceiling and its supporting pillars were further ornamented with tiered chandeliers fringed in gold and carved scrolls, fruit, urns, and other gilded decorations. The chairs that ranged along the walls were gilded as well, and there were more paintings than Natalya had ever seen. The nearest one featured a centaur carrying off a naked woman.

"Hello, beauty," a low male voice murmured from behind her.

Natalya turned to discover a rather portly gentleman at least twice her age standing so near that she could have, had she been so inclined, counted the tiny spider veins blossoming on his cheeks and nose. "Have we met, sir?" she inquired politely.

"A thousand times." He smiled then, bloodshot eyes crinkling. "In my dreams, beauty. A thousand times in my dreams."

She noticed that his words were a trifle slurred, so that
dreams
became
dreamsh.
Because of the incredible crush of people, it was impossible for Natalya to offer an excuse and slip away from this old lecher, so she was forced to stall for time. "It's exceedingly warm in here, don't you think?"

"Only where you are, beauty," the gentleman replied.

Nearby, another, younger man was watching the exchange between Natalya and her admirer. Sir Christian Laidlaw was an accomplished rake whose style was admired for its subtlety. He had seen Natalya enter with Mrs. Sykes and instantly fallen under her spell. He was certain that she was the most enchantingly glorious woman he had ever seen and immediately undertook to learn her name from the woman he assumed was her patroness. Even the conditions Mrs. Sykes placed on an introduction to Natalya did not daunt him. Now, after working his way through the crowd to stand near her, Laidlaw decided that she was even more beautiful than he'd originally surmised. She was a vision of springtime in peach muslin over ivory silk, a tantalizing suggestion of her breasts peeking above the bodice. The high-waisted gown skimmed the curves of her body, hinting at the delights hidden beneath rather than advertising all like so many of the other women present here tonight. Natalya wore no plumes or jewels in her hair; instead, she had woven sprays of tiny wildflowers through the cloud of burnished curls surrounding the Grecian knot atop her head. There were simple pearls in her cars and round her creamy throat. Laidlaw thought this a wise choice, for no amount of costly ornamentation could have competed with that utterly exquisite face.

Sir Christian meant to have her, but first he would have to get rid of Lord Pondsmarsh. As usual, the old fool was deep in his cups and lusting after a woman beyond his reach, not unlike most of the other men present. Nearly all of them had wives, as did Laidlaw and Pondsmarsh, but wives played little part in their lives beyond providing a veneer of respectability when the occasion demanded.

"Excuse me, my dear Pondsmarsh, are you well?" Laidlaw slipped past the couple nearest him to hover over the aging marquis. "You don't look at all the thing. Perhaps you ought to take a spot of air."

Natalya looked up gratefully as her admirer snuffled in surprise. "Well?" his lordship echoed. "Of course I'm well. Never felt better in my life."

Laidlaw gave Natalya a knowing smile. "Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Beauvisage. I am Sir Christian Laidlaw, and I am honored to stand before so celebrated a lady. All of London desires to meet the lovely author of
My Lady's Heart."

A delicate flush spread over Natalya's cheeks. "You exaggerate shockingly, Sir Christian, but I am flattered," she replied. "Perhaps you can help me. I must seek out my cousin; I did not mean to become separated from her. The crowd is so dense that I cannot penetrate by myself, but—"

Laidlaw waved a pale hand, dismissing such a notion. "You must not spoil your own evening with such worries, Miss Beauvisage. I met your cousin just a few moments ago, and I can assure you that she is safe in the care of Mrs. Sykes."

This did not set Natalya's mind at rest, but she refrained from comment. At least she had been rescued from Lord Pondsmarsh's slurring attentions. And this Sir Christian Laidlaw—tall, slim, blond, and impeccably turned out—was not only attractive, but appeared to be reasonably sober. At his urging she accepted a fresh glass of champagne and drank it down.

"There, you see?" said Sir Christian, with a pleased smile. "Nothing like champagne to make one forget one's cares, what? Have another."

Trapped in the hot, decadent splendor, surrounded by high-pitched laughter and pinned beneath the hungry admiration of two noblemen, Natalya seemed to have little choice. Perhaps reality might be more tolerable if it were a trifle blurred. Holding out her hand, she accepted the glass from Sir Christian.

"You're very kind," she murmured.

"My dear," Laidlaw replied, thinking that she looked absolutely succulent, "I can assure you that the pleasure is mine...."

Chapter 12

April 2-3, 1814

It was nearly midnight, dinner would not be served for three hours, and Grey began to feel bored even before entering the ballroom where the rout was in progress. Covering his mouth with a gloved hand, he yawned.

Gib paused in the doorway and glanced over at his friend. "Look here, Grey, perhaps I ought to remind you that this was
your
notion of a rousing good time. Observe: There, spread before us, is the cream of London's demimonde. Dozens—nay,
hundreds
of beautiful cyprians all waiting to take the place of your dear Alycia, waiting to help you forget the trials of the past years in the most delightful ways possi—"

"Dear old Gib, you're in danger of becoming a prattlebox," Grey murmured. "Must you lecture me at every turn?"

The Honorable Osgood Gibson positively bristled. "I say, there's no need to be unpleasant!"

They both took glasses of champagne, drained them, and took seconds from the same tray. "Devilish hot in here," Grey remarked. "Where's the duchess?"

"In Kent, no doubt, with her grandchildren. Roundwellen only installs her here these days when there is some sort of state occasion, if you take my meaning."

Nodding, Grey stifled another yawn and leisurely surveyed the packed ballroom from the safety of the crowd's edge. As Gib had asserted, there were indeed a great many lovely young ladies. There were also many dandies much younger than he, all strutting like peacocks in exaggeratedly narrow-waisted coats, tight trousers, and impossibly high collarpoints shooting up over their flawlessly tied cravats. Holding canes or quizzing-glasses in one hand and hooking the fingers of the other in their waistcoat pockets, every one of them assumed a nearly identical
degage
attitude. With an inward start of surprise, Grey realized that he no longer belonged in their ranks.

In the not-so-distant past, it had been important to him to meet certain standards, to pass muster with people like Beau Brummell. Now, all that seemed... rather frivolous, an amusement of his youth. Looking at the simpering young dandies and eager girls, some of whom appeared to be scarcely out of the schoolroom, Grey suddenly felt much older than he had even during the time he'd spent in London two years ago.

"Do you know, Gib," he said ruefully, "I feel rather like one of those old reprobates I used to mock—those aging noblemen who come to slightly decadent routs like this one and lick their lips as they survey the newest crop of demireps."

"Nonsense, old chap! You're only thirty-six."

Grey's eyes met Gib's and his brows rose meaningfully. "Exactly so."

He reached for another glass of champagne as the thought occurred to him that he no longer cared for this sort of life. Quickly he drank before his mind could proceed to the point of wondering what all this meant regarding his future.

Fortunately distraction appeared in the form of Mrs. Sykes. Grey saw her standing not far away, also on the edge of the crowd. Next to her was the flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked Venetia Hedgecoe. They were conversing with a young nobleman whom Grey recognized but could not place. Deeper in the crush, he spied Adrienne Beauvisage, looking more beautiful than he remembered, her chestnut curls drawn back from her lively, glowing face. So young! How could Mrs. Sykes have brought her into this den of sin? Adrienne wore a simple, virginal-looking gown of white muslin, but the effect was spoiled by the sight of the man paying her court. Viscount Pryce was one of the most notorious members of the Carlton House set, a truly infamous libertine.

Distractedly Grey rubbed the scar on the back of his hand through the glove that covered it. "Gib, do you know anything about Mrs. Sykes? What is she about with those girls she's taken in?"

"There's
a tale," Gib said, with relish. "After your father broke with Mrs. Sykes, she apparently decided that her chances of finding another... sponsor, were growing slim. After all, even Lord Hartford didn't really
keep
her, as you're well aware. So, Mrs. Sykes shifted boats and became what she calls a 'patroness.' She brings girls into her home, grooms them, I suppose you'd call it, then introduces them into the demimonde. Here's the kicker: She charges what she terms a 'presentation fee.' Every man who wants to meet one of her girls has to pay for the privilege, and apparently there are additional charges if Mrs. Sykes decides to let matters progress to their natural conclusion."

"How do you know all this?" Grey asked, his throat suddenly dry.

"Oh, it's common knowledge at the clubs," Gib answered gaily. "I know all sorts of fellows who've paid that presentation fee, and Valbourne made one of her girls his mistress last year. Keeps her in lovely rooms near Covent Garden. Incredible, hmm?"

"Yes.
Quite"
His mind was racing while his eyes raked the crowd for Natalya. Was it possible...? "Gib, have there been many girls? I mean—"

"Under Mrs. Sykes's wing, so to speak? Gad, yes! A dozen or so, at different times, of course. Rumor has it that she now has two new ones, but I haven't had a chance to see them for myself because I've been occupied with Mary." He looked at Grey and blinked. "Perhaps you're right. We
are
getting old."

"You'll have to excuse me for a short while," Grey said. "There's a matter I must attend to."

"Certainly. Go right ahead. More than enough people here to keep me occupied."

Grey went straight to Mrs. Sykes, who looked up in surprise to find him looming over her, his face stormy. A smile faltered on her lips.

"What an unexpected pleasure this is, my lord. I didn't see you before, but then that's hardly unusual given the number of guests. Are you well, my lord? I do hope so. My dear Natalya speaks so kindly of you, and I'm—"

"Is she here?" he cut in, eyes narrowing.

"Natalya? Miss Beauvisage?" Mrs. Sykes laughed nervously and put up a hand to adjust the peacock feathers that swept upward from her coiled hair. "Yes, yes, indeed she is. I must assure you, my lord, that it was entirely her own idea. I mean—"

"That I won't have to pay a presentation fee to speak with her?"

"Ha, ha, ha! How amusing you are, my lord! My, such a wit. Wherever did you get such a notion as that?" She was growing increasingly pale behind her painted cheeks.

"I'll deal with you later regarding the younger Miss Beauvisage and"—he glanced down at the round-eyed, confused Venetia—" this young lady. First, however, I'll thank you to direct me to Natalya."

Mrs. Sykes was on the verge of proclaiming her innocence, but the stare Grey suddenly leveled at her cut her dead. The smile wilted on her red mouth. "She's back there somewhere," she told him sourly. "Near the painting of the centaur, last time I looked."

Without another word, Grey started into the sea of jostling, laughing people. Others had tried to move around the ballroom without success, but the energy surrounding Grey's tall, broad-shouldered body seemed to precede him, and the crowd parted before him. The air was warm and heavy with the odors of perfume and champagne. The women's gossamer-thin muslin gowns were slipping off their plump shoulders to afford glimpses of the rouged tips of their breasts, while the men had begun to perspire in earnest, as much from lust and drink as the heat. Grey moved through them without acknowledging either the greetings of acquaintances or the curious, admiring gazes of the women. His eyes were shot with silver as they sought Natalya.