Rakehell's Widow (8 page)

Sometime before midnight the majority of guests
departed, leaving only Octavia, Charles Allister, and the
rather elderly bachelor Lord Gainsford. They sat comfortably in the drawing room, enjoying a liqueur with walnuts and raisins, and the great windows stood open to
let in the cool night air. The smell of the plane trees wafted
in from the square, together with the sound of occasional laughter from the direction of Gunter’s, where a number of people had adjourned after the theater. The drawing
room was a magnificent chamber, its walls hung with red silk and its ceiling a marvelous confection of gilt plaster-
work, scrolls and leaves, lozenges, and spirals. On the
floor was a Kidderminster carpet, woven especially to echo
the ceiling design, and the whole thing was set off to per
fection by the furniture upholstered in dark-ruby velvet. Dominating everything was a white marble and ormolu fireplace, a prime example of Adam’s genius, and in the
corners of the room stood particularly handsome candle stands, their metalwork gleaming in the soft light.

Octavia sat comfortably on a shield-back chair, glancing
appreciatively around. “This is a beautiful room, Alabeth,
I find it quite perfect.”

“My father would be delighted to hear you say so.”

“No doubt, which is why I would never tell him.” Octavia chuckled.

“You are quite incorrigible,” she replied, smiling.

Lord Gainsford nodded, his white wig leaving a dusting
of powder on his otherwise impeccable black velvet
shoulder. “Always were a regular wretch, Octavia, takin’ great delight in makin’ a fellow’s life a misery.”

The Duchess beamed, smoothing her russet taffeta
skirts. “You had your chance Gainsford, but you missed it
and let me marry Seaham instead.”

“M’dear, I couldn’t afford you; you’d have made a
beggar of me inside a month.”

Octavia’s eyes were speculative. “I wonder what sort of go we’d have made of it? I admit to always liking that
wicked look in your eyes; it promised all manner of enter
taining things.”

He flushed a little and cleared his throat. “Not in front
of the little gel, Octavia, it ain’t done!” He glanced at
Jillian.

Octavia smiled again. “Come, now, I’ve said nothing to
make Jillian blush, have I, my dear?”

Jillian shook her head. “No, of course not.”

“You’re looking quite delightful tonight—isn’t she,
Gainsford?”

“Yes, quite devastating. You remind me of my dear sister, for she was an exquisite little thing too.”

Octavia pursed her lips wickedly. “Your sister always
said you were a tyrant, never letting her live her own life
and vetting every single beau who had the temerity to come
calling.”

“It’s a fellow’s duty to see his sister comes to no grief,
and I did well enough for her, got her a Marquis.”

Octavia looked even more wicked. “She said you were a
tyrant, and when I realized that your name was on Alabeth’s list tonight, I simply couldn’t resist placing a great
deal of money on a certain nag in the Derby.”

“What nag?”

“Why, Tyrant, of course!” Octavia was almost hugging
herself with glee.

Charles tore his eyes away from Jillian to look at
Octavia. “The horse has never won anything in its life; I’ve even heard tell it has a wooden leg.”

Octavia was unruffled. “The creature will not dare to lose for me, especially as I am celebrating the King’s birth
day the next day.”

Lord Gainsford was smiling. “Well, I wish you well,
Octavia, although I can’t say I approve of ladies involving themselves in gambling.”

“Don’t be so pompous,” she retorted. “Besides this
isn’t gambling, it’s backing a certainty.”

“I suppose you are in with a knowing one?”

“With the Duke of Grafton himself, to say nothing of
the jockey, Frank Buckle. They inform me that Tyrant
cannot fail, and I believe them. I shall be there myself to
cheer the brute home.”

Jillian was shocked. “You are going to the Derby, Your Grace?”

“Why, yes, I wouldn’t miss it, Epson has the most
in
iquitous
EO and faro tables!”

“But don’t they also have fairs and crowds of the most
disreputable sort?” asked Jillian, obviously shocked that a
lady of such high rank should be attending so vulgar and popular a race meeting.

Octavia chuckled again. “Of course they do, my dear. There are similar crowds at Ascot, only there they mas
querade as high society. You’ll see for yourself when you
join my house party for Ascot week.”

“Are we joining you?” Jillian glanced uncertainly at
Alabeth, who nodded.

“Why, yes, Octavia has kindly asked us to be her guests
at Stoneleigh Park, which is barely a mile from Ascot race
course.”

Lord Gainsford beckoned a footman to refill his glass.
“I don’t know what the world’s coming to,” he grumbled. “This damned Peace of Amiens has sent the whole world
mad, completely mad. There’s more money being
squandered on leisure and pleasure this summer than ever
before, and all because people are foolish enough to
believe Bonaparte to be sincere.”

Jillian was fearful that the conversation would turn
upon the boring topic of the First Consul’s political machinations, and she hastily intervened. “Well, at least the peace means that Count Adam Zaleski will be coming to
Town.”

Lord Gainsford nodded, “Aye, a pretty fellow from all accounts, guaranteed to have all the ladies swooning at the
sight of him.”

“What is he like?” asked Alabeth. “Has anyone here seen him yet? Octavia?”

“No,” replied the Duchess. “Like Gainsford, I only
know what is said of him. He’s reputed to be quite the
most divine of creatures, all golden and angelic, and yet
full of Polish fire. Why do you ask? Have you heard some
thing interesting?”

Alabeth lowered her eyes. “No.”

“You’ve aroused my curiosity—”

“It’s nothing, truly it isn’t.”

Jillian warmed to the subject of the Count. “I simply
can’t wait to see him.”

Charles was scornful. “I’m given to understand that
he’s nothing more than a salon musician, a little gaudy,
and reliant upon his looks to carry him through.”

Jillian’s eyes flashed with annoyance and Octavia
reproved him a little. “Nonsense, Charles, you don’t know
what you’re talking about. I have it on most reliable
evidence that he is indeed a virtuoso of the first order and can bring forth more life from the pianoforte than anyone else in the world.”

Charles was determined to be unimpressed, and Alabeth knew that it was because he was jealous of Jillian’s interest
in the Count, for he went on, “I trust you are right,
Octavia, for I am already heartily sick and tired of hearing
the fellow’s name. Zaleski, Zaleski, Zaleski, that’s all one
hears from morning till night, in every drawing room, club, or pleasure garden.”

Jillian was superior. “And you will continue to hear of him, sir, because he is a genius, a veritable magician of
music, and I pray with all my heart that I will be fortunate
enough to be one of his pupils.” She looked at Octavia.
“He
is
still going to give tuition, isn’t he, Your Grace?”

“I believe so.”

Lord Gainsford eyed Jillian for a moment. “I presume,
then, that you are a talented player yourself, Lady
Jillian.”

“I play a little,” she said, flushing prettily and with a
genuine modesty, which probably made Charles Allister
even more wretchedly her slave than he already was.

“Then I don’t know whether I should advise you to seek
tuition from the Count,” said the old lord, smiling at her,
“for he is said to be most unorthodox, thinking nothing of
playing a black key with his thumb, or of crossing a longer
finger over a shorter one.”

Jillian was nonplussed that anyone of such stature could
disregard the basic rules. “Surely you are wrong, sir.”

“I believe that that is how he achieves such fluency, but
what he can master so effortlessly would surely be impossible for lesser mortals. I gather that his own compositions are so diabolically difficult that another fellow attempting to emulate him was well advised to have an
eminent surgeon at hand to attend the finger damage
which resulted.”

Octavia and Alabeth laughed, Jillian looked primly dis
approving of such criticism of her idol, and Charles looked
baleful, obviously despising the handsome Count well in advance.

Lord Gainsford chuckled a little and then smiled kindly at Jillian, “I am teasing you, m’dear, so don’t take me seriously. I have always liked to hear a pretty gal playing the pianoforte, so will you indulge me a little and play for
us now?”

“Oh, I don’t know….”

Charles was brighter suddenly. “Please do, Lady
Jillian.”

“If you would really like to hear me….
”

The two gentlemen stood immediately, Lord Gainsford
managing somehow to offer her his arm first. “Of course
we would, m’dear, it would be the perfect end of an excellent evening.”

Alabeth and Octavia commandeered Charles between
them, the Duchess chiding him just a little as they ascended
to the music room some way behind Jillian and Lord
Gainsford. “Do smile a little, Charles, for you look so
gloomy that I fear poor Alabeth will think she has lost her
touch as a hostess.”

He was aghast. “Oh, please, Alabeth, never think that.”

“I shall if you continue to frown.”

“You both know why I’m frowning.”

“We do indeed,” Octavia replied firmly, “and I, for
one, think you’re going about it all the wrong way.”

“I’m not a beau. I haven’t got the wiles of a skilled
lover,” he grumbled.

“No, you’re just moping around with spaniel eyes, and
it ain’t the way with a minx like young Jillian,” said
Octavia. “Ignore her a little, it will do her good.”

They entered the music room, where an alert Sanderson had already placed some candles, and Jillian took her place at the pianoforte and began to play. The beautiful notes of a Mozart minuet stole out into the silent room, her delicate little fingers moving softly and expertly over the keys. The performance was faultless, the work of someone who was
already very accomplished.

She smiled with justifiable pleasure when they all
applauded her afterward, although her smile froze a little when Charles made so bold as to take her hand and raise it to her lips. She was not interested in him and she showed it
in the way she coolly removed her hand, her eyes flickering
on to smile at Lord Gainsford, who was most effusive with
his praise. Octavia frowned a little at Jillian’s conduct, especially when she saw how low the snub had brought
poor Charles.

He went to where Alabeth was standing by the window.
“Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry—” she began.

But he was suddenly and surprisingly firm. “She is the
one for me, Alabeth, and I’m set upon winning her.”

“Nothing would please me more than to welcome you as
my brother-in-law, Charles, but I cannot say that I have seen anything encouraging in her manner toward you.”

He smiled a little ruefully. “Nor I, but I must try, for I have never before felt this way.”

Alabeth glanced at Jillian as she rose from the stool and once again took Lord Gainsford’s arm. “I wish you well,
Charles,” she said softly, “but I swear she does not
deserve you.”

“She is the most perfect of creatures,” he breathed,
unable to take his eyes off Jillian as she left the room on Lord Gainsford’s arm. “I adore her with all my heart and
know that there is no other bride for me.”

Alabeth said nothing more, but she felt very sad, for she
was sure that Charles was destined for nothing but heartbreak, for Jillian was completely indifferent to him.

On the third of June, the Duke of Grafton’s horse Tyrant won the Derby with great ease, and Octavia returned in triumph from Epsom, not only having picked the winner but also having scored a notable success at an EO table. After such an excellent day, she had no doubt at all that her ball would be similarly memorable, as indeed it was.

The day dawned sweet and clear, and as it was the King’s
birthday, the carriages thronging London’s streets were
decorated with sprays of flowers, the coachmen and footmen adorning their hats with similar sprays. There was only one cloud on Octavia’s horizon, and that was the fact
that she was summoned to Court during the afternoon,
and this necessitated an unfashionable step back in time of
nearly fifty years, the King and Queen always insisting that
hooped skirts, high headdresses, painted faces, and a great many diamonds were the only suitable fashion for such an occasion. Octavia had squeezed herself into the obligatory
sedan chair, her skirts folded around her and her head
bowed to protect the ridiculously high confection of wig
and feathers, and she had been borne to St. James’s,
feeling excessively conspicuous, for she attracted too much
unwelcome attention from the vulgar—usually an
unbridled mirth which made her fume at the monarch’s
refusal to move with the times. However, the ordeal
behind her, she returned to Seaham House and the prepar
ations for the ball began in earnest.