Rakehell's Widow (26 page)

“I wish I was back in Charterleigh,” said Alabeth miserably.

Octavia grinned. “Oh, I rather think I’d like a sovereign
for every time you’ve thought
that
recently.”

“You’d be even more disgustingly rich than you already
are.”

“Yes, I know. Come now, let’s think of more pleasing things—like this wondrous regatta, for unless it begins soon I fancy the weather will wash it away.”

“But the sun is shining and the sky is quite blue,”
Alabeth protested. “There isn’t even much of a breeze.”

“It’s going to change very shortly—or so I’m reliably informed by my bargeman. He feels it in his— Well, I
won’t tell you where he feels it, but suffice it that he and
the other bargemen sense there to be a fine old summer
storm on the way.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I do, for if Old Jarge says there is, then there is.”
Octavia nodded in the direction of a particularly weather-
beaten bargeman, seated grumpily near the prow carefully
cleaning his clay pipe.

Alabeth looked at him and then inevitably looked
beyond him at a small pleasure craft which was being
rowed out onto the river. Piers lounged on the cushions in
the stern and Adelina was beside him, her full lips rosy red
as she smiled beguilingly up into his eyes. On a nearby vessel Alabeth also saw Harry Ponsonby, his handsome
face as stormy as the weather Old Jarge was so confidently
forecasting.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Octavia, also watching the
scene. “I suppose that puts the lid on your enjoyment of
the day.”

“I came here knowing what to expect.”

“I’d tell you to forget him, if I didn’t know from ex
perience how fatuous advice like that can sound at times. Still, cheer up a little, for at least you are to be spared the
odious Count and his wretched pianoforte today.”

“I am?”

“I am reliably informed—”

“By Old Jarge again?”

“Hardly, my dear, he don’t have access to Court!”
chided Octavia good-humoredly. “As I was saying, I am reliably informed that the dear Count won’t be here as he’s to play for Their Majesties this evening.”

“Would it be a dreadful pun to say that you appear to
have changed your tune about him?”

“It would, but I will excuse you.
Of course
I’ve changed
my tune about the wretched fellow, for after what you told me of him at the masquerade, I doubt that I’ll ever be able to say a civil word to him again. He was odious to you and
that puts him most firmly beyond the pale as far as I’m
concerned. He may be the lion of the Season, but he’s proved himself to be a shameless alley cat.”

Alabeth smiled fondly at her. “Oh, Octavia, you are surely the finest friend anyone ever had.”

“I know,” replied Octavia infuriatingly, and then she
glanced up as a breath of unexpected wind swept across the
barge. “You see, Old Jarge was right, there’s a different
feel to the air, don’t you agree?”

Alabeth looked across the water, which was not as
smooth and shining as it had been, for the breeze was rippling the surface. The canopy overhead stirred and the yellow ribbons on her bonnet fluttered prettily.

Octavia was pensive. “Old Jarge is always right; he was
right all those years ago too.”

“Right about what?”

“About the mistake I was making marrying Seaham.” Octavia grinned. “I’ve learned to pay attention since then,
as becomes a mere Duchess when being advised by wise old
retainers.”

* * *

Dusk was falling as the flotillas of boats and barges
returned at last to the shore, having witnessed an excellent
afternoon and evening of racing, although toward the end
the weather had begun to interfere, making the water
choppy and rowing difficult. The wind had continued to
rise and clouds had begun to scud across the sky, although
as the sun set it was still very pleasant and no one felt
deterred.

The Seaham barge was moored to its quay and Octavia and her guests stepped ashore, intent now upon adjourning to the Rotunda for the feast and the fireworks display, which would take place much later. Octavia was in high
spirits, having satisfied her desire to gamble by placing a
number of successful wagers, and now the prospect of
something good to eat was most inviting.

Alabeth was not in such high spirits, having endured an
afternoon throughout which she had been afforded a view of Piers and Adelina together in their boat. They walked
ahead of her now, making their way through the
illuminated gardens, where a hidden orchestra was
playing, toward the Rotunda, which was already echoing with the noise and chatter of the elegant guests.

The interior of the wooden building was made bright by
thousands of candles protected by glass cases and by
immense chandeliers suspended from the ceiling far above.
There were scarlet and gold hangings festooned every
where, and baskets of sweet-smelling flowers, and another
orchestra was playing music on a raised stand to one side.
The walls were lined with private boxes where the guests
could take refreshment in some degree of privacy, and Octavia and her party repaired immediately to theirs and
were served with ice-cold champagne and succulent cold-
chicken salads.

Octavia looked impatiently around. “Where’s Charles?
He told me that he would be here in time to eat and
yet he isn’t. Ah, I do believe I see him now. Charles?
We’re over here!” Her raised voice echoed over the clamor
all around, and Charles turned immediately, the smile
on his lips fading when he saw that Jillian was not present.

Octavia patted the seat next to her. “I’ll have to do
instead, m’boy.”

He took his place dutifully, glancing at Alabeth.
“Where is she?”

“She has a headache and didn’t come.”

“Oh, well, at least I know she isn’t with that prinked music-master!”

“That’s quite enough of that, Charles,” reproved
Octavia. “You said your piece at the masquerade and we
don’t want to hear it again, no matter how strongly you
feel. Come now, eat up your chicken like a good boy and
be agreeable.”

“Very well, I’ll be agreeable and tell you a piece of news
I have just this moment heard.”

“What news? Is it scandalous?” Octavia was all interest.

“Scandalous? Well, I don’t know. I do know I find it
surprising, in spite of all that’s gone on recently.”

“Don’t be infuriating and get on with it,” said Octavia
impatiently.

“I have it on good authority that Piers Castleton has asked Adelina Carver to marry him.”

Octavia stared at him and a murmur of interest went around the nearby guests. Alabeth lowered her eyes to the
plate of salad, seeing it in only a blur.

Charles looked well pleased with the stir he had caused.
“You see what I mean? Everyone has known of their association and yet no one really thought it would end in
him making a marriage offer.”

Octavia’s eyes fled momentarily to Alabeth and then back to Charles. “And who is this reliable authority who
told you?”

“Why, Adelina herself. I was talking with Harry
Ponsonby a moment ago when she came over to us. Harry
was most put out; he stormed away without another
word.”

Octavia was thoughtful. “And did Adelina tell you if she had accepted Piers proposal?”

“Eh? Oh, I don’t know, I was so astounded at Harry’s
conduct that I didn’t think of asking her.”

Alabeth found this latest thing the last straw, and she
folded her napkin and rose to her feet, looking apologet
ically at Octavia. “Forgive me.”

“I quite understand, my dear.”

Charles got up too, looking a little alarmed. “I say, I
haven’t said something wrong, have I?”

Alabeth smiled. “No, Charles, it’s nothing to do with
you.”

“Well, maybe I can escort you to your carriage, for I can’t say I find it as interesting when a certain person is not
present.” He smiled in return.

She had almost forgotten that she had no carriage. “Oh,
my carriage— Charles, can you take me home?”

“With pleasure.”

The wind had risen still more as she and Charles left the
Rotunda to cross the shadowy gardens where the leaves
rustled and the lanterns swayed. On the river the masts undulated and rigging flapped noisily as the gathering
storm swept inland from the distant sea. The promised gale
was almost upon them and Charles glanced up at the dark
skies, remarking that he doubted very much if the fire
works display would be up to much on such a night.

A string of carriages lined the curb, the coachmen and
footmen standing together in idle groups, some just talking, others more intent upon the turn of a card.
Alabeth’s skirts flapped as Charles handed her into his
barouche, and the wind threatened to seize her bonnet
from its pins and ribbons before Charles had climbed in
too and the door was slammed.

Charles remained tactfully silent during the return
journey, having realized that Alabeth’s reason for leaving
so suddenly had something to do with his revelation about
Piers and Adelina. As she alighted at last outside the house
in Berkeley Square, he took her hand, raising it gently to
his lips. “Forgive me, Alabeth, I would not have said it for
the world had I realized—”

“It wasn’t your fault, Charles.” She reached up to kiss
his cheek and then was gone.

It was with some relief that she learned from Sanderson
that Jillian was still asleep in her bed, for somehow she
couldn’t face the prospect of having a heart-to-heart talk tonight. She said very little to her maid as she undressed, and outside she could hear the gale howling around the
eaves, rattling the windows, and making the curtains move
as the draft found its stealthy way into the quiet bedroom.

The maid retired and Alabeth stood by the window for a
while, looking out over the garden where the mulberry tree
was swaying wildly to and fro and the flowers were bob
bing, their colors muted by the darkness. In the distance,
toward Chelsea, she saw the brief brilliance of some fireworks, but they were very few and after a minute or two there were no more.

She turned away, getting into the bed and curling up tightly, listening to the raging storm and trying to fend off
the tears, but she could not. She hid her face in her pillow,
weeping with all the agony of heartbreak.

She awoke the following morning to find that the summer
storm was still raging. The gardens and rooftops were rain-
washed, and low gray clouds sped swiftly across the
heavens. Each gust of wind lashed the rain against the windows and the scene outside was distorted and indistinct
—a world away from the glory of the previous morning.
London was transformed from a dazzling, elegant city into a dismal, forlorn place where few ventured out.

As her maid dressed her hair, she listened to the wind
moaning through the eaves and the tap-tapping of a
branch of rambling rose against the windowpane. There
was an unexpected chill in the air, making it seem more like January than July. She glanced at herself in the looking
glass. There was rouge on her cheeks, but it did not
disguise how pale she was. She felt very low, both because
of Piers and because of having to confront Jillian about
the rumors. All in all, it seemed set to be an odious day.

She turned to the maid. “How is Lady Jillian this morning?”

“Why, I don’t know, my lady, for she hadn’t stirred
when I came up to you. Her maid was still waiting to hear
from her.”

Alabeth stared at the girl and then looked sharply at the
clock on the mantelpiece. It was eleven o’clock and Jillian
still
hadn’t risen? Something was wrong! Gathering her
skirts, she hurried from the room, leaving her puzzled
maid standing with the comb and pins.

Alabeth knocked on Jillian’s door, but there was no
reply. She knocked again, but still there was no sound
from the room beyond. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside. It was still gloomy, for the
curtains had not been drawn back, but as she crossed to the
bed, she noticed incongruously that the doors of the
immense wardrobe stood open. How careless of Jillian’s
maid not to have closed them. She drew back the floral silk hangings and looked down at the huddled shape in the bed.

“Jillian?”

There was only silence. Jillian did not stir at all at the sound of her voice.

“Jillian?” Hesitantly Alabeth reached down to touch
the slumbering figure, but then her lips parted with horror,
for the shape was far too soft and yielding. With a gasp she flung the coverlets aside and saw that beneath them there was only a large bolster. There was no sign of Jillian at all.