Rules for Being a Mistress (38 page)

“A perfectly respectable young woman, of course,” Benedict said hastily. “I would not be staying
with
her, of course, in the not-so-respectable hotel. I was thinking that completely separate hotels might be best. I would hate to do harm to a young lady’s reputation.”

“You’d not want to get yourself mixed up with any of the lasses in these parts,” Thady warned. “Look what happened to Lord Lucan. Cut down in his prime.”

The Irishman kept up a steady stream of idle talk as the coach rolled through the western limits of Dublin. Benedict very soon lost track of what was to his left and what was to his right. The view from his window was one of unvarying wilderness, broken only occasionally by a small clearing, and, once, by a distant view of a round tower. Finally, as night fell, he closed the curtains, and closed his eyes.

What seemed like only a few minutes later, he opened them again. The coach had stopped. The door was open and Thady was standing outside with a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“I was hoping,” Thady said apologetically, “to murder your lordship at the gates of Castle Argent itself, and have your carcass fall dead at Cosy Vaughn’s feet, but I’d not want to be upsetting the other young lady, so, if you don’t mind, my lord, I’ll be murdering you here and now, in this Godforsaken place.”

About three weeks after Ben had left Bath, Cosy received a small parcel from her native country. Opening it, she discovered a man’s ring, a black onyx set in gold. With it was a silver watch and a note on black-edged paper. There was no need to look at the inscription on the watch. She knew perfectly well it was Ben’s.

The note began, “My dear Miss Vaughn,” but, as she had already glanced at the signature at the bottom, Cosy knew this to be sarcasm.
It is with great sorrow,
Lady Oranmore’s note continued,
that I write to inform you of the death of my dear grandson, Sir Benedict Wayborn. You are sincerely to be pitied for your loss, my dear. To have clawed one’s way out of the mud; to have climbed to the heights of Dublin society, such as it is—to have come within a hair’s breadth of actually marrying Lord Oranmore—to have had a fortune of some five hundred thousand pounds almost within the grasp of your greedy fingers—only to be tossed back to the mire from which you came—is a torment I can only guess at as I sit in my beautiful mansion on St. Stephen’s Green—or St. Stephens’s Green, as you no doubt call it.

Let it haunt you, Miss Vaughn, that your doomed lover died on his way to Castle Argent to fetch your harp. Let your only comfort be in knowing that his last words on this earth were—and I quote—Tell Cosy I love her.

“Ben would never say that, you lying bitch,” Cosima said aloud.

She told no one of the note. She hid Benedict’s watch and ring in her dressing table, next to her grandmother’s pearls, and locked the drawer. She would hold them for Ben until he returned. It was only a cruel prank. Ben would explain when he got back.

But Ben did not return to explain anything. The following week, Benedict’s manservant returned from Ireland without his master. Five or six couples were practicing the waltz in Lady Matlock’s drawing room when Lady Dalrymple brought the news, having heard it from Mr. King. Sir Benedict Wayborn had been shot and killed, robbed by a highwayman on an Irish road.

Lady Serena gasped, “Oh, thank God!”

All eyes turned to her, and she hastily added, “Thank God he did not suffer!”

Lord Ludham had been dancing with Miss Vaughn, but when he saw Serena’s agony, he left her abruptly. “My dear Serena! You are distraught.”

Cosima stood quite alone, as cold and white and remote as marble.

Serena clung to him as if for strength, and even managed a few tears. She actually was distraught, but not about the sudden death of her betrothed. As soon as she could shake off the sympathy of her friends, she went by sedan chair to Camden Place in the hopes of retrieving her bills. Pickering was wrapping the knocker of No. 6 in black crepe when she arrived.

“It is only some silly letters I wrote to him,” she explained as he let her into his master’s study. “I would hate for my letters to fall into the wrong hands,” she added, wiping her dry eyes with her lace handkerchief.

“Of course, my lady, of course,” the manservant murmured.

But a thorough search of the room failed to unearth Lady Serena’s bills. “I daresay,” Pickering concluded, “your ladyship’s letters were of such value to Lord Oranmore that he kept them on his person always.”

Serena’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Then they would be with him now at the bottom of the bog or whatever. Thank you, Pickering! That is a great comfort to me.”

As she left the house, she came face to face with Miss Vaughn, who looked at her with cold green eyes. Shock and disbelief had carried Cosima this far without tears. “What are you doing here?” she demanded of the other woman.

Lady Serena sniffed. She had come out of the house almost giddy. All her debts and obligations had been swept away. She was free. She was not afraid of anyone, least of all this Irish upstart. “I have come to see Pickering,” she said with icy dignity. “What are
you
doing here, Miss Vaughn?”

Cosima couldn’t answer. She hadn’t even realized where she was going until she had found herself face to face with Serena.
He loves me,
she wanted to scream.

Her ladyship stepped back into her chair, leaving Miss Vaughn in the street.

Pickering coldly closed the door in her face.

By the end of the week, the house in Lower Camden stood empty, as it had stood before Cosima ever knew of Benedict Wayborn’s existence. Other than that, her world was mercifully clear of visible reminders of him. She had never signed the papers granting her access to his inheritance of thirty thousand pounds, but she still had them, along with the papers memorializing the sale of her house to the Duke of Kellynch, which she had never bothered to sign either. Now, of course, there was no need to sign anything. She hid the papers, along with a few hundred pounds that remained from the “reward” she had collected for the return of the personal effects Benedict had left in her kitchen on the night they met, in an old tinderbox under the floorboards in her bedroom.

At first, Serena wore black for Lord Oranmore, and garnered great sympathy in Bath as the bereaved fiancée. Within weeks, however, Lady Dalrymple began to observe signs that Lady Serena had begun to allow Lord Ludham to attempt to console her. Serena lightened her mourning to purple, which suited her beautiful violet eyes to perfection, and she allowed the earl to take her on long walks in the Sydney Gardens, which, judging by the roses in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye, proved to be a very beneficial exercise. No one could condemn her ladyship; after all, she was not a widow, and, as Serena pointed out, her dear Benedict would not have wanted her to mourn him. He would have wanted her to be happy.

In the spirit of what the dearly departed would have wanted, Lady Matlock decided that the engagement party of Lady Rose Fitzwilliam and Lord Westlands need not be postponed after all. It was to be the last great event of the Bath season, before the fashionable crowds veered off for the summer horse racing season, and, with the assistance of her now indispensable Freddie, Lady Matlock meant to make it memorable.

Of course it was very sad about poor Lord Oranmore, but…

Life goes on.

The last thing Cosima wanted was to attend a ball celebrating what she knew to be a sham engagement. Lord Westlands prevailed over her objections, however, by insisting that both Lady Agatha and Miss Allegra Vaughn be invited. Private balls, Lady Agatha was soon observing, were so much nicer than public ones, and she quite looked forward to it. As for Allie, the ten-year-old was over the moon at the prospect of attending her first ball. Westlands, her handsome cousin, the guest of honor, had promised to dance with her. For Allie, who would have been content to attend her first ball as a mere spectator, this was almost too much joy.

Cosima would have to be there to look after her mother and sister.

For the occasion, Mr. Carteret outdid himself. The countess’s ballroom was decorated with a surfeit of artificial and real flowers; the former for unfading beauty and the latter for their rich scent. Her house in the Royal Crescent resembled the garden of Eden, only with chandeliers and a parquet floor dusted with French chalk. In addition to the main ballroom, there was to be dancing outside in the Crescent Fields. On the night of the ball, this arrangement was to cause Cosima no end of anxiety, for her mother preferred to sit indoors while Allegra ran amok outside.

“Miss Vaughn,” Mr. Carteret remarked amusingly to Lady Matlock, “is like a worried sheepdog that cannot bear to have her little flock separated.”

“What is she wearing?” Lady Matlock asked, wrinkling her nose.

For the occasion, both Allegra and her mother Lady Agatha had splurged on new gowns. Lady Agatha looked quite the lady of fashion in her cream and gold striped silk. Over her wispy hair she wore a golden turban with a rakish tassel that hung over one eye. Miss Allegra was equally fine in a pale pink chiffon gown that swept the floor and was trimmed with ribbons of rose-colored satin. As a special treat, Cosima had pinned up Allie’s long flaxen hair and had permitted the child to wear their grandmother’s pearls. Allie felt quite grown up.

But Cosy had foregone all the gowns Lady Serena had given her and was making do with the ugly green dress she had worn ages ago to Serena’s card party. She sat down with her mother and refused to dance with anyone. She had to be there, but nothing could induce her to enjoy herself. And she was in no mood for a new gown.

Allie had her dance with Lord Westlands. She would have preferred to waltz with him outside in the fragrant air, beneath the moon and the stars, like a proper heroine, but Lady Agatha was too cold to venture out, and it was a spectacle her mother would wish with all her heart to see. To Allie it was a dream come true. When he returned her to her mother, she wanted to cry.

Westlands could not help but notice that Cosima was despondent. He thought it was because she was in love with him. “It will not be long now,” he whispered to her.

Cosima was watching the dancers. Radiant in a gown of lilac satin, embellished with glittering arabesques of jet, Lady Serena floated by in the arms of her cousin. They danced beautifully together, like a pair of angels. “No,” she agreed. She fully expected Serena to marry Lord Ludham. Everyone did now. He was so attentive.

Westlands gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“Aren’t you going to dance with Cosy?” Allie demanded.

“If I do not dance with my fiancée at once,” he told her with a quick smile, “I fear she will become jealous and marry someone else.”

Toward the end of dinner, Cosima was asked to play. She took her place obediently at the pianoforte and played the light-hearted Mozart concerto that was on the stand in front of her.

The mint sorbet had just been removed when Fletcher, Lady Matlock’s butler, descended to the dining room and announced Lord Oranmore in his stentorian voice.

Cosima’s fingers froze on the keys. Had she heard that right, or was it a hallucination? Slowly, she turned her head to look.

“Who?” cried Lady Dalrymple, dropping her spoon and fumbling for her quizzing glass.

“Must be the new one,” Lady Matlock remarked to Mr. Carteret. “How very good of him to come to Bath to pay his respects to me!”

“There’s nothing new about
him,
” Mr. Carteret remarked, looking at the new arrival with a critical eye. “Fifty, if he’s a day.”

Lady Serena suddenly stood up and fainted. Lord Ludham was almost too surprised to catch her.

“Ben!” shrieked Miss Allegra, getting to him in the quickest way, which meant scooting under the dining table and out the other side.

Cosima remained motionless on the piano bench. Benedict looked gaunt in his black clothes. He was sunburnt. His lustrous black hair had been cut down to an inch, and what remained was no longer black, but heavily dappled with silver. He was one of those unfortunate blue-muzzled men who must be shaved twice a day to keep them human. He needed a shave now very badly. His eyes were icy and gray as he looked around the room.

To her, he looked utterly beautiful.

“You look so old!” cried Allie.

“Good God,” murmured Lord Westlands, coming forward to shake his hand. “Good God! It
is
you. We thought you were dead, sir—er—my lord. What a pleasure it is to see you.”

“Congratulations, my lord,” Benedict replied, “on your engagement.”

Westlands flushed with embarrassment. “Everyone has been so upset about you—your—” he broke off in embarrassment. “We thought a little ball might cheer everyone up.”

Benedict’s face gave away nothing of what he might be feeling. Cosima tried to emulate his implacable self-possession as he finally approached her. She was shaking from head to foot.

She began to stammer like an idiot.

He bowed to her. “Please, don’t allow my presence to disturb you any more than my absence, Miss Vaughn,” he said dryly. “Please, finish your Mozart.”

Somehow she did not faint. Somehow she resisted the urge to throw her arms around him and cover his hard, angry face with kisses. Somehow she did not burst into tears. Somehow she kept her countenance. “I won’t,” she said faintly.

“You missed a key change in the middle of the adagio,” he said.

“You came back from the dead to tell me that?” Her voice shook.

“Play!” he urged as she sat staring at him. “You obviously need the practice.”

After a moment, she obeyed.

By this time, Lord Ludham had gotten Serena into an upright position and had persuaded her to take a little wine. Now he approached Lord Oranmore like an ambassador. “Serena has been devastated, my lord, as I am sure you can imagine.”

“I fear that my imagination is not as strong as your lordship’s.”

“Sir!” Ludham protested. “Serena has suffered a great deal. A little kindness from you would not go amiss. She has believed you to be dead for weeks.”

Serena smiled at him weakly. She was trying to look on the bright side. He was now the Marquess of Oranmore, and, it was rumored, he had been left a vast fortune. “My lord,” she said. “I can not tell you how h-happy I am to see you.”

“Clearly,” he replied. “I have arranged for us to be married next week.”