The Affectionate Adversary (11 page)

But tonight was not one for sadness. He had come with a mission, and he intended to make the most of the event. James Locke was right. Perhaps Charles would meet a lovely young lady who might distract him from his woe over the rejection by Mrs. Carlyle. He might even make the acquaintance of a woman of wealth who could find love for him in her heart. If so, he would make the tea enterprise a reality and fulfill his own longing for a happy home.

To that end, Charles had dressed in his finest tailcoat of black wool with split French cuffs and a high collar. He wore a blue waistcoat of striped Valencia, cream-colored kerseymere breeches that ended just below the knee, and a pair of leather gloves. New black shoes provided good support for his injured leg and set off his white stockings. As a final flourish, he had tied a silk cravat at his neck, set a cocked hat upon his head, and taken up an ebony cane with a silver knob. Restoring his wardrobe had further strained Locke & Son’s dwindling assets, but James had insisted upon it. At least Charles knew he dignified his rank, such as it was, and he would not bring any shame to his friend.

Now as he labored up the steps, several acquaintances greeted him. He had seen none of this social set since departing London five months before, but he might have been away no more than a fortnight. Everyone expressed great sympathy over his recent misadventure and urged him to join them at their dinner table. But none offered to assist him or waited while he made the difficult climb.

Once inside the house, Charles was swept into the crowd of partygoers as though an ocean wave had overcome him. The fragrance of French perfume and burning candles swirled above his head. Gowns of blue, gold, green, pink, and silver flounced about. Frothy lace spilled from men’s collars, and ribbons tumbled over extravagant mounds of ladies’ coiffures. Music swelled and pitched amid the hubbub. Footmen helped remove fur-lined cloaks. Gentlemen doffed top hats and overcoats. Servants navigated the shifting currents. They bore drink-laden silver trays, which they dipped now and then to some passerby or another.

Disoriented, Charles made his way across the foyer to the main ballroom. After a moment standing in a queue, he was shown toward the reception line. A footman took his card.

“Mr. Charles Locke,” the servant announced to the evening’s hosts.

“Locke! How very good of you to come!” Sir Alexander grinned broadly as he welcomed Charles. As cheerful as ever, the young man was eager to show off the lovely woman at his side. “May I introduce you to my fiancée, Gabrielle Duchesne, daughter of the comte de la Roche? My dear, this is Mr. Charles Locke, of whom I have told you so much.”

“I am honored to meet you,” Charles said, bowing deeply in response to the lady’s curtsy. Considering the current turmoil with France, he was surprised that his friend would choose a Frenchwoman as a bride, but Sir Alexander’s choices in life had often been less than judicious. “I had no idea you had taken such a bold step, my good man. Madam, may I assure you that you are engaged to marry the finest gentleman of all my acquaintances.”

“There, Gabrielle, what did I tell you?” Sir Alexander beamed with satisfaction. “Of course Locke ought to have been sent an invitation. He is my dearest and oldest friend in the world. But, Locke, what is this news I have heard of you? Were you truly attacked by pirates and nearly killed?”

Aware that the line of greeters behind him was growing restless, Charles tipped his head at his host. “Indeed I was, and I shall give you the entire account at your leisure. And you must tell me news of your brother and your sisters.”

“Most certainly,” Sir Alexander replied.

Moving on, Charles greeted the young man’s parents, Laurent and Beatrice Chouteau, the elderly duke and duchess of Marston. They asked after the health of his father and then seemed eager to pass him along down the queue in favor of other guests. They had not changed. Nor had Sir Alexander, for he was as affable as his father was arrogant. But apparently Sir Alexander’s fiancée had not wished to include the son of a former steward on their invitation list, and whether a friendship could survive that sort of censure was doubtful.

Determined to make the most of an opportunity that might be his last, Charles spotted a gathering of gentlemen among whom he could claim several acquaintances. At once, the tale of his sea voyage was seized upon as the topic of interest. With as much heartiness as he could muster, Charles recounted the pirate attack. Like moths drawn to light, ladies gathered around, eager to know every detail. They gasped and fanned themselves as the story progressed to its climax.

“Blown overboard by exploding langrage!” a woman exclaimed. “Upon my word, I am all astonishment! My dear Mr. Locke, how have you possibly recovered your health enough to come here tonight?”

“I was pulled from the sea by the crew of the
Queen Elinor
, which had come to our rescue,” Charles told her. “The captain took one look at me and declared me dead. The women passengers began to stitch my shroud. At the very last moment possible, I gave some small signal of movement.”

“And your awakening startled all on board!”

Everyone in the group turned to see who had made such a bold addition to the tale. The young lady who had spoken gasped, “Oh, dear!” and covered her mouth with her hand.

Charles cocked his head inquiringly at the woman, whose large green eyes, full lips, and well-turned figure became her exceedingly. She blinked and gave an embarrassed shrug. “I believe I have heard the story before,” she offered in a low voice.

“From whom, may I ask?” Charles queried.

The lady’s cheeks blazed bright pink now, and she glanced to the side as if searching for someone who might come to answer his question in her place. “I heard it from … from round about,” she said. “You are Charles Locke, are you not?”

“I am. And may I ask your name, madam?”

“This is Miss Prudence Watson,” one of the men spoke up. “She is sister to Lady Delacroix.”

The young lady now appeared ready to burst into flame, such was the glow on her face. She fanned herself wildly, scattering bits of ostrich feathers about like ashes on a breezy evening. Charmed by her beauty and bemused by her discomfiture, Charles elected to ease the poor woman’s unease.

“Indeed, my unexpected return to consciousness caused quite a shock,” he confirmed. “From the deck I was taken into the charge of the ship’s doctor. My leg received adequate care, and my other injuries gradually began to heal. And that is the sum of it. I am well enough to return to society and resume the task of building my tea enterprise. The value of tea, as anyone may assume, can hardly be overestimated.

With Parliament’s action to remove power from the East India Company and to open trade with the Orient, the future of independent tea entrepreneurs must be healthy.”

As he spoke of his company, the sea of listeners began to drift away. The green-eyed young lady vanished, as did most of the other women. The onset of dance music drew the men, leaving only a handful of those who had once attended to his tale with such eagerness.

Charles pressed on, hopeful of interesting any possible investor. But before he could go into detail about his plan, one of the gentlemen mentioned another of Parliament’s actions—that of declaring King George incompetent and placing his son into power as prince regent. This brought a round of response both positive and negative from those gathered, for in his five years of power, the regent had garnered a vast number of both friends and enemies.

Though he tried to concentrate on the discussion, Charles could not help scanning the shifting crowd in the room. He had been fascinated by the pert Miss Watson, and now he wondered where she had gone. Her sumptuous beauty was the sort that drew men into rash, heedless deeds of derring-do meant to impress the object of their affection. Though appreciative of a woman’s graces, Charles had never been overly drawn to that kind of lush and bounteous female charm.

No, it was Miss Watson’s knowledge of the events aboard the
Queen Elinor
that intrigued him. How had she heard about his ordeal? And why—on realizing she had divulged her prior knowledge—had she reacted with such dismay? Someone must have recounted the story to her. Someone who had been on the ship.

The very idea that the
Queen Elinor’
s captain, the ship’s doctor, or one of the naval officers was in attendance compelled Charles. If he could speak to such a person—someone who had shared with him that life-altering event—he might find some peace at last. He had nearly lost his life. And he had most definitely lost his heart. But not even his father could fully comprehend the magnitude of the experience that had occurred at sea.

“The regent is said to be quite a reader,” one of the men was saying. “Can you imagine that? I understand he admires the novels of Jane Austen.”

Covertly searching the room for the green-eyed woman, Charles forced himself to participate in the conversation at hand. “Upon my return from sea, I purchased one of her novels,” he commented. “It is a comic account and truly brilliant in its wit. The regent has a great affinity for humor, I am told.”

“Yes, but I can hardly believe he would ever bother to open a book,” someone else said. “I supposed all his time was taken up with his plump little mistresses.”

There!
Charles spotted Miss Watson near the punch bowl. A cluster of men leaned forward to offer her and a female companion a total of seven cups of the pink beverage. Miss Watson laughed at their enthusiasm and coyly laid her head on her friend’s shoulder.

“I believe Miss Austen’s novels offer just the sort of entertainment the regent would enjoy,” Charles commented, even as his focus remained on the women across the room. “Her characters are endearing. Some are silly enough to bring a chuckle to the reader, while others are sober studies of human nature at its—”

The woman beside Miss Watson turned, and Charles caught his breath. What? In
this
company? Impossible! But how could he be mistaken? He stepped to one side in an effort to see through the constantly moving crowd. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A sweet, generous smile and a fair complexion.

His heart stumbled.

“I say, Locke, are you feeling ill?” one of the men asked. “A row of chairs is set up against the wall if your leg is—”

“That woman,” he cut in, gesturing with his chin. “The one who accompanies Miss Watson. Who is she?”

The gentlemen turned as a group.

“The woman in the blue gown? Why, that is Lady Delacroix, of course.”

Charles leaned on his cane. Lady Delacroix? Absurd! He knew this woman well. Had seen her many times. She could only be one person.

“Are you absolutely certain of her identity?” he repeated.

“Of course, Locke. She is widow to the late George Carlyle, Lord Delacroix, and aunt by marriage to Henry Carlyle, the current baron—though the latter is her elder by several years. See how she talks with him and her sister?”

“Miss Prudence Watson is her sister?”

“Lady Delacroix has two sisters. Miss Watson there. And Mrs. John Heathhill—dancing with her husband.”

Though he had been told a different name, Charles knew he was gazing at Sarah Carlyle.
His
Sarah. Sarah from the ship who had nursed him back to life and given him reason to hope again.

But this Sarah was much altered from the gentle, humble woman he had met on the
Queen Elinor
. Gone were the simple cotton gowns and loose knot of hair. Gone were the bare fingers that had so tenderly ministered to his wounds. Gone were the simple expression and natural, clear complexion of the woman he loved.

This creature—this Lady Delacroix—wore a shimmering blue silk gown dripping with lace, pearls, ribbons, flounces, and beads. Her hair sat high on her head in a mound of artful braids, ringlets, and curls. Her cheeks were powdered and her lips stained red. White kid gloves covered her hands and skimmed up her arms to her elbows. Dangling sapphire earrings, a gold necklace, and a tiara that glittered with diamonds accentuated the vision of this creature of incredible bearing and stature who glided through the crowd, nodding at one person and then another.

“It cannot be,” he murmured. “And yet it is.”

“You speak of Miss Watson’s beauty?” someone asked. “Her loveliness often renders men speechless. I am married these twenty years, and yet I must say it is difficult to think beyond the lady when she is about.”

“You would do well to set your sights elsewhere, Mr.Locke,” another added. “A hundred eager bachelors stand ready to heed her beck and call. She can have any of them she chooses, for she has not only her sumptuous features of which to boast, but she is tied to the Delacroix name.”

“And that elevates her to high society, of course,” Charles murmured.

“More than that! Through her sister, Miss Watson is likely to bring an ample dowry to her marriage.”

“Lady Delacroix married into wealth, then.”

“Hardly. Her husband was a pauper. It was her father, a highly successful opium merchant, who left his eldest daughter such a vast legacy. Lady Delacroix ought to be the object of your quest, Mr. Locke, for her riches might finance three tea companies, a fleet of ships, and enough warehouses to line the Thames for more than a mile.”

“Is that so?” Charles muttered, recalling his darling Sarah’s conversations with him about her father’s money. She intended to give it all to the poor, she had told him. She wanted to build schools and printing presses and hospitals. She looked forward to being poor herself. No better off than a beggar.