Stolen Love (12 page)

"I see."

"But I do not believe I am in love with her, or ever will be." If only Amelia possessed even a little of her cousin's quiet fire, he would have fallen in love with her long ago. Elizabeth lacked neither character nor substance. There was not a vain bone in her body, when—to be perfectly honest—there was every reason for her to be as vain as Amelia. "I think you might be in love with
Amelia," he said to Ripton.

"Not yet," Ripton answered. "But I could be one day, if I put my mind to it."

The conversation, short as it had been, cleared the air of a tension that had been building since Nicholas had arrived in London. They smiled; as always, they understood each other perfectly.

Three-quarters of an hour later, the two had done away with nearly the entire bottle of port. Neither was feeling any ill effects. In fact, they seemed inordinately pleased with themselves.

"Nicholas?" Ripton leaned forward to replenish the contents of his glass with what little remained in the bottle.

"Hmm?"

"What do you make of Elizabeth Willard?"

"Elizabeth? Why?"

"I haven't had the opportunity to become as well acquainted with her as you have."

"She's like a sister to me. I've known her since she was this high—" He indicated with one hand. "She's turned into a sweet little thing, you know."

"A sister." Ripton shook his head.

"Of course, a sister. How else would I feel about her?" Nicholas wondered why he sounded so defensive.

"She's everything you said she was. Well-spoken, kind, thoughtful." He pursed his lips. "She's also remarkably pretty."

"But?…"

"I have observed she seems somewhat lacking in confidence."

Nicholas sat forward. "Do you know, you are precisely right. With a little more confidence, Elizabeth would be more than a match for Amelia."

"She would make someone an excellent wife."

"Well, someday, perhaps."

"I understand Lord Lewesfield is looking about for a wife for his youngest son."

"He's too stupid for Elizabeth."

"Well, there's Lady Charles's brother, Gerald," Ripton suggested.

"He's in the navy. That's no life for someone as delicate as Elizabeth."

"How about Mr. Westgate? He's got a few thousand a year; they'd never have to leave London."

"He's too old."

"How about Kelsy Raeford?"

"He gambles."

"And badly at that. Frederick Smithwayne?"

Nicholas made a face. "Too young."

"And too stupid. I suppose your cousin Henry is too young as well."

"Henry?" Nicholas almost choked on the name.

"I admit, Henry doesn't seem right for her." Ripton shrugged. "I'm stumped, Nicholas. I don't know anyone who isn't too young, too old, or too stupid."

Nicholas peered at him over the rim of his glass. "She might be just the woman for you, Ripton."

"Me? I thought I was going to marry Amelia."

"Forget Amelia Willard."

"I'm not sure that I want to, Nick." He put a hand to his heart and looked upward longingly.

"When Elizabeth's a little older, she'll be a beauty, mark my words."

Ripton stared at his friend. "When she's a little older?" he repeated, putting down his glass. "Nick, are you blind?"

"Of course not, which is my point exactly. All she wants is a little confidence in herself."

"If I did not think you wanted her for yourself, I'd be playing the guitar and singing love songs under her window this very moment."

"Don't be maudlin." He made a face. "You might give her the confidence she needs."

"So could you."

"For God's sake, Rip! Elizabeth is my friend. One doesn't go about paying court to one's friends."

"Well, I don't know why not. I would if she was my friend!" He stood up without his usual grace and picked up his glass and the bottle. "Come with me, Nick," he cried.

Nicholas shrugged and followed Ripton to his study, where he watched him open his desk, carefully placing the bottle away from the edge. When he had arranged writing materials on its surface, he seated himself. "We shall need our greatest literary efforts, Nicholas, so draw up a chair."

"For what, if I might presume to ask?"

"To write a love letter to Elizabeth, of course."

"But
I
am not in love with the young lady," he protested.

"That is strictly your own fault."

"Forgive me for my confusion, Rip, but when did you fall in love with her?"

"Nicholas, you are very slow when you drink."

"I? You're the one who's making no sense."

"I will write the letter because if you did, she would no doubt recognize your writing."

"You don't wish her to know who is writing?"

"Good heavens, no. The whole purpose is to make her think she has a secret admirer."

"A secret admirer? Oh, yes," he said thoughtfully. "She did say something about a secret admirer once, did she not?"

Ripton picked up the pen and dipped it into the inkwell. "Yes, she did. And I suggest we provide one."

A glimmer of understanding finally came to him. "To give her more confidence in herself?" he said slowly.

"Exactly my thought. We shall see then if you're correct about Miss Elizabeth Willard."

"Of course I am."

The letter was finally written to their mutual satisfaction, and after blotting and folding the page carefully, Ripton wrapped it with a blank sheet. He wrote the words
Miss Willard of Tavistock Square
boldly across its face.

Nicholas finished his breakfast the next morning and was about to get up from the table to go to his orchids when Mr. Chester came in.

"Do you wish anything else, Mr. Villines?" he asked.

"No, Chester. I won't be going out until much later this afternoon, so you may have the morning off, if you like."

"Thank you, sir."

"Is there something else?" he asked when Mr. Chester did not leave.

"Yes, sir. I found a letter on your desk this morning."

"Letter?"

"This letter, sir." He produced the letter from his pocket.

"Ah, yes, that letter."

"Perhaps you would prefer that I put it away for safekeeping?"

"No, Chester. You may deliver it."

"To Miss Amelia Willard, then?"

"No, to Miss Elizabeth Willard."

"As you wish, sir."

"And mind you," Nicholas added, "no one tells her whom it's from."

"You wish an anonymous delivery?"

"Yes, Chester, an anonymous delivery."

Elizabeth and her uncle were sitting in the drawing room arguing over the morning paper when Mrs. Poyne came in and handed her a letter. "What's this, Mrs. Poyne?" Elizabeth asked after taking it from her.

"It just came for you, miss."

"From whom did it come?" she asked, gazing curiously at the cryptic address.

"I don't know. He wouldn't say."

"Who wouldn't say?"

"The boy who delivered it wouldn't say, miss."

"What's this?" Havoc asked, looking up from the paper.

"Mrs. Poyne says this letter just came for me, but can't say whom it's from."

Havoc took the letter and examined the outside. "Well, Elizabeth, this is Tavistock Square, and you are Miss Willard." He handed it back to her. "Perhaps if you read it, you will discover who sent it."

"Thank you, Uncle Havoc. I might never have thought of that by myself."

"You may go, Mrs. Poyne. And I," Havoc said when she had gone, "shall sit here and read the paper in peace."

Elizabeth opened the letter and let the outer wrapping fall to the table. "Goodness!" she said when she'd finished reading it.

"Well, whom is it from?" Havoc asked.

"I've no idea." She rang for Mrs. Poyne. When she came in, Elizabeth refolded the letter. "This wasn't for me, Mrs. Poyne. It's for Amelia." She handed it back to the housekeeper.

"But, Miss Elizabeth, the boy said it was for you."

"What does a boy know, Mrs. Poyne! I've read the letter, and it's obviously meant for Miss Amelia. Would you please give it to her? Tell her it was mistakenly given to me and that I apologize for reading her mail."

"Yes, miss."

"I say, Elizabeth."

"Yes, Uncle Havoc?"

"Listen to this." He had reached the editorial section of the paper. " 'I wish to express my deepest thanks,' " he read, " 'to the unknown benefactor who saved my life this Tuesday past. My faith in God and the decency and humanity of man was restored when I received in that morning's post a letter containing a sum of money sufficient to make it possible for me to devote myself to my painting. I wish my benefactor to know I shall not squander the gift and to know that I bless him with all my heart.' " Havoc put down the paper. "What do you think of that?" he asked.

"I think it's remarkable."

"I think the man's a simpleton to go throwing his money away on some fool artist."

"And I think, Thank goodness someone cares to help others who are in need."

"Pooh!" said Havoc.

"Listen to this, Mr. Johns." Alfred Wells snapped his paper to straighten it out and then looked at Percy to see if he had his attention.

Percy raised his eyebrows and sipped from his pint. "All ears, Mr. Wells."

" 'I wish to express my deepest thanks to the unknown benefactor who saved my life this Tuesday past…' " he began reading. When he was done, he sighed loudly. "That sort of thing never happens to me," he said.

"The date of the paper?"

"Today." Mr. Wells shrugged, disappointed by Percy's reaction.

"Tuesday last," Percy mused.

"Are you going to put it on another list?"

Percy did not bother to answer the question. "Mr. Wells," he said, "do you think you could talk this artist into giving up the letter?"

"Whatever for?"

"Curiosity, mostly."

"I suppose I could try."

"Then do, Mr. Wells. Try your best."

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N
icholas sat in his bedroom determined to be in a bad humor. He felt he did not really want to be alone just now, but he could not think of a single person with whom he might want to pass the evening. He wanted someone to amuse him but knew that any attempt to do so would only be annoying. He stood up and went to the window to stare into the darkness of his gardens. He wanted a change, was all. It was time for a change. Ten minutes passed during which he did not move so much as a finger, and he might have stood for another twenty had the sound of someone ringing at the front door not brought him out of his thoughts. He turned when the butler came in to announce the visitor.

"Show Mr. Rutherford up," he said.

"Nicky! Glad to find you at home," Ripton said as he came into the room after Mr. Baker. He tucked his walking stick under one arm and tipped his hat off with the other when Mr. Baker was gone.

"Good evening, Rip." Nicholas took a few steps forward and held out his hand. Ripton was always so affable, so easy-mannered, that he found it impossible to be irritated with him even when, as on this occasion, he felt determined to be so. They shook hands, and Ripton dropped sideways into an armchair, letting his legs dangle over one side. His walking stick and hat he balanced carefully on his lap.

"I was hoping I'd find you at your leisure," he said. "Because I've come to take you away from it. Call Chester and get dressed."

"I do not want to go out this evening."

Ripton waved his hand. "Nonsense! And anyway, you've been home all night. I'm going to the club for cards and drink, and I want you to be the one to cheat me out of my money." He struggled to reach into his waistcoat pocket and take out his watch. He looked at it, then at Nicholas. "Call Chester. I won't be put off tonight." He replaced his watch. "We two gentlemen are going out, and that's all there is to it, and, if you please, note that I say this with an air of finality… Good," he said when Nicholas, after a sigh of resignation, rang for his valet. When Mr. Chester arrived, Ripton swung his legs to the floor. "Make haste, Chester. Dress Mr. Villines in his finest clothes."

Mr. Chester looked at Ripton. "Sir?" he said to Nicholas.

"Do as the man says, Chester."

"Where are we going?" Nicholas asked when he realized Ripton's carriage was not headed for St. James's Street.

"Oh, did I neglect to mention we are paying a call before going to the Phoenix?"

"Yes, you did."

"Well." He shrugged and grinned. "What does it signify if we do make a call first?"

"I am in no mood for any tedious society gatherings, Rip. Pompous old men, stuffy old women. I tell you, I'm in no mood for it. I shall be rude to all of them, and I promise you, you'll regret having forced me to come."

"You're too well bred to be rude, Nick."

"I shouldn't count on it, you scoundrel."

"One may rely on the breeding of a man whose cravat is always perfectly done."

"Damn it to hell," Nicholas muttered. Neither of them attempted to break the morose silence that followed until Ripton sat forward.

"Now, we're here," he said when the carriage stopped. "One hour is all I ask. Then we may go off to wherever you like." He waited while Nicholas stepped down beside him and then smiled at his surprise. "The Willards were having people over after the opera. I could not refuse the invitation when it was given me."

The house was blazing with lights, and when Mr. Poyne pulled open the door to let them in, the sound of voices could be heard. They handed over their hats and coats and followed Mr. Poyne upstairs.

Amelia Willard was sitting in a corner of the drawing room surrounded by a group made up mostly of men. She was wearing a dress of dark red silk that lent an exotic cast to her features. The effect was completed by the jet curls reaching below her bare shoulders. The sound of her laughter floated over the room and would have caught one's attention even if the woman did not, but it was impossible not to notice her. Her azure eyes were sparkling, and the color in her cheeks was more flattering still. She half rose from her chair when Nicholas and Ripton approached her after greeting Mrs. Willard.