The Golden Season (31 page)

He waited ten minutes before entering Spencer House, unaware of the admiring and speculative glances that tracked his progress through the ballroom. Ladies with histories who had written Ned Lockton off as too genteel paid renewed attention to the pantherish stride of the tall, black-clad captain, and young girls who had deemed him perfectly congenial shivered with sentiments not in keeping with congeniality. He barely noticed the snowstorm of lace handkerchiefs that fluttered at his feet as he stalked along the room’s perimeter.

He hadn’t meant to touch her, to kiss her. He’d only meant to begin again his courtship after a two-week hiatus, during which he’d lain in his bed, feverish and furious. Though Tweed’s stray bullet had only scored a shallow furrow in his scalp, the wound had grown septic. He had done what he could to curtail gossip about the duel, and as Tweed had been spirited out of the country by his friends and those remaining behind had not wanted to be associated with so dishonorable an event, it had not proved too difficult.

A letter from Lydia had arrived soon after the duel, just after his fever set in. In her few terse, anxious lines he’d found the wherewithal to hope. But honor demanded that he keep the confidence of those who’d attended the duel, and so he passed a fitful fortnight, wanting to contact her, but unable to do so.

Borton alone was privy to his situation and condition—both of his wound and his heart. He arrived soon after the duel, inquiring after Mary—and really the man would have to address his continued infatuation with Ned’s persnickety niece—then roundly cursing Ned’s nephews—who never did arrive to offer their concern for his health let alone their thanks. Then, apropos of nothing, he’d announced, “You might as well make a run at Lady Lydia Eastlake” and with those few words revealed that he understood that Lydia occupied his heart and that there was not, and never would be, room for another tenant.

If only Lydia were half so discerning. His eyes, already flinty, grew darker.

All evening the unfamiliar claws of jealousy had raked him as he watched her dance first with one man, then another. All around her, heads turned to watch, not just because of the beauty of her gown but because of the woman it adorned. Whispers followed her, eyes marked her, conversations stilled, drinks were held suspended.

Everything about her had radiated pleasure and excitement. The impression haunted him. Even though a gold mask covered her expression and hid her eyes, she had never seemed more vibrant and alive than she had tonight, shimmering and glittering like a ray of sunlight transferred to a mortal frame. Why?

Was she falling in love? Had she already fallen in love with someone? Who? The Ivanhoe with whom she waltzed? The cardinal? He did not recognize himself in the tense, hot-blooded man that stalked her movements with his eyes.

But when she’d quit the dance floor, he had followed. When she disappeared down the dark footpath, it was not jealousy that spurred him after her, it was concern. He’d only meant to warn her to have a care for her reputation, but then she’d feigned not to recognize him and he’d fallen in with the game.

But the rules had changed as they played, and the words took on other meanings and before he’d realized it, he was kissing her and from there? Madness, pulsing, yearning madness shot through him like lightning through a touch rod, setting him afire.

His eyes closed briefly on the memory. He had never been tested so harshly. Nothing he could recall had ever been as hard to give up as what he had denied himself the moment he’d set her from him. Only her gasp had recalled him to the place and the circumstances and that he was within minutes of taking her like a doxy.

And Lydia? How could she think he would
not
know her? His hand splayed at his side. The fact that she honestly did not think he recognized her struck him like a blow, stunning him. How could she think he would,
could
, feel such desire for any woman other than her?

He could not allow that misconception to stand.

Lydia found Eleanor in an anteroom playing whist with Emily as her partner. She waited until the cards were being collected for a shuffle and Emily had gone for a glass of punch before causally moving forward to stand behind the duchess. She leaned down and spoke to her in the softest of undertones. “Do not ask why, but I would rather no one knew who I am.”

Eleanor understood her role at once. She was an old hand at the games of subterfuge played amongst the
ton
. She did not even turn around to look at Lydia, but instead maintained a haughty immobility.

Everyone knew Eleanor and she were great friends. If Eleanor paid her much attention they would conclude that the mysterious Aurelia was in fact Lady Lydia Eastlake. And they would know it for a certainty if they left together.

“I will take a hansom,” Lydia continued.

“What of Emily?” Eleanor murmured as she turned toward Lydia with a quizzical expression as if she had just realized she was being addressed. Anyone watching would think they had just met.

“If you could ask her to meet me on the street in five minutes, I would be obliged,” Lydia whispered.

Eleanor nodded as she rose from the table. She turned and said loudly in her quelling tone, “Young woman, I do not know ladies who do not mean to be known.”

Without another glance, she swept from the room. Lydia headed in the opposite direction.

At the entrance to the ballroom, Eleanor stopped and looked around for Emily. She did not see her at once, but she did see a very strained, very tense- looking captain emerge from the courtyard and stalk toward the billiard room. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She had not missed the leaves tangled in the gold netting around Lydia’s hem.

She did not like this. The captain hadn’t the blunt to set Lydia up in the fashion she required. He hadn’t the wherewithal to move in the same circles as Lydia. Or she herself. Few did.

The girl couldn’t have been so foolish as to have—

Her mouth tightened into a hard line. Whether Lydia fancied herself in love or not, whether she’d stepped over the lines of propriety or not, made no difference as long as no one knew.

And no one would.

 

The crowd outside Spencer House had begun to thin by two o’clock in the morning, those who made a living for themselves having gone home to bed and ceding the ground to gamblers, young bucks with their giggling consorts, aging prostitutes, old fops, and middle-aged swells, all pausing en route to the next game, the next gin parlor, the rout to see what might be seen.

One muscularly built man in his late forties leaned against the gate attempting to convince a very young and pretty soiled dove that he did indeed have the coin to purchase a few hours of her company. The girl eyed him dubiously. He had an air, true, and his accent was high-toned, but he’d clearly shaved himself, judging by the nicks on his jowls, and though made of fancy brocade, the seams of his coat had been turned more than once. He had the blistered nose of a drunk and his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

No matter.

“I’ll see this crown you speak of first, Mr. Fish,” she insisted.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting I lie?” he asked, his lips curling back in a snarl. His unsmiling eyes had turned to narrow slits and become very mean and the girl was about to run when the door to Spencer House opened and light and music spilled out across the lawn like golden coins. Two women emerged, one dressed like Mother Goose and the other like a golden statue in a gold gown that flashed and glinted like fireflies. She wore a gold mask.

Rapt, the girl—still girl enough to be enchanted—forgot all about her companion. “Gar!” she breathed.

The man turned to see what had attracted her attention and saw the two women getting into a carriage.

“You know who that is?” a handsome golden- haired youngster nearby asked the girl. He lifted the bottle he’d been holding and pointed it at carriage. The girl glanced at him and the glance turned into a stare, he was that good-looking.

“Nah,” she said saucily. “Who be that, then, m’lord?”

The boy grinned foolishly, clearly unaware she called any potential customer “m’lord.”

“That’s Lady Lydia Eastlake,” he said carefully. “Not only one of the most gorgeous women in London but also one of the richest.”

“And how would you be knowin’ that, m’lord?” the girl said, sashaying away from the older bloke and toward this much more comely gull.

“Because I saw her leave Lady Grenville’s house in Cavendish Square this evening when I was walking through on my way”—he stopped, glanced around, and put a finger against the side of his nose. He leaned forward—“to a gaming establishment.”

“Do tell,” the girl said. “Share?” She motioned toward his bottle.

The young man looked at it a moment and then at her. He handed it over and she took a swig.

“Then why’s she riding in an old cab if she’s so rich?” she asked.

This clearly flummoxed the young god. “Don’t know,” he finally admitted, retrieving his bottle.

By now the carriage bearing the golden lady and her companion had arrived at the gate and was waiting for the footmen to open it. It was so close, the girl could see right inside the cab. The woman the young buck had said was Lady Lydia was turned away from the crowd, talking to Mother Goose, who had removed her mobcap to reveal a pate of tightly curled red-gray hair.

“Whose the other one? The old one?” she asked.

“Lady Lydia’s cousin.” He bobbed his head, sanguine. “And constant companion. Dotes on her something fierce.”

“What’s her name?” The girl’s by- now-forgotten would-be client demanded.

The lad shrugged at the older man. “Don’t know,” he said and then brightened. “But rumor has it she found her in an insane asylum.”

The man didn’t say anything else, he simply turned and walked away, leaving the girl relieved she wouldn’t have to test his temper when she turned him down or worse, have him in her bed should he really have had a crown. She cast a flirtatious look at her handsome new beau.

“What’s yer name, then, me lord?” she asked, wresting his bottle from him and taking another long draft.

He looked at her in delight. “Harry,” he said.

In keeping with a life devoted to controlling his family’s lives, Childe Smyth’s wretched grandfather had refused to die until he had seen his son knighted, his daughter married to a marquis, and his wife in her grave. That would be his third wife—the first two having already made good their escapes. He had achieved all this in spite of being repeatedly told he would not live to see Napoleon routed. The only one who had refused to bow to his demands had been Childe.

In his more frivolous moods, Childe had wondered whether his refusal to wed had actually extended the old man’s life beyond what nature intended for him. Without a doubt, the old devil had been living on vitriol and indignation for years. But then, what nature intended or wanted had never much interested Martin Smyth. Nor had anyone else’s desires and wants.

But now, finally, it appeared that even Martin Smyth could cheat death for only so long. He was well and truly dying. Not that this made him any more tolerant or less unpleasant or inspired him to reconsider his lifelong need to be obeyed. Not at all. If anything it had reinforced these unlovely traits.

The note that had arrived at the Spencers’ masquerade ball last night had been short and to the point. Childe’s grandfather was on his deathbed and demanded his only grandson attend him. Childe had left at once, and gone to find the old man sitting bolstered by a pile of pillows, the silk cap on his head falling over his ears, his sunken eyes filmy.

“Is the pimple here yet?” Martin had asked one of a line of doctors and footmen standing in watchful silence.

“Yes, Grandfather,” Childe had replied, dragging his feet to the bedside.

“Wed yet?” The words came out in a low croak.

“No, sir.”

He flicked his skeletal hand in Childe’s direction. “Don’t waste time defyin’ me, you atrocious boil. You’re too fond of being pretty to be poor.”

Unfortunately, he was right. Which is why Childe Smyth now stood outside Lady Lydia Eastlake’s town house door at one o’clock in the afternoon, seething inside even as he prepared a pretty speech designed to convince Lady Lydia to be his wife.

Kitty would be furious. Or worse, heartbroken.

God, he hoped it was the former. The thought of little Kitty sobbing her heart out was unbearable. But she was not an unreasonable woman. Surely she would understand. It wasn’t as if he
wanted
to wed Lady Lydia. He didn’t. Oh, he liked her well enough. She had a lively wit and presence and . . . well, she was handsome enough.

But she wasn’t Kitty.

She couldn’t make his heart beat faster with a casual smile, or hold at bay the cares of the day simply by toasting some cheese to share with him in front of the hearth. She couldn’t make him forget who or where he was by putting her pretty little head in his lap and demanding he feed her grapes. She couldn’t make him laugh with her purposely exaggerated accent or moan when she rubbed his feet.

But all that meant nothing compared to the status he would achieve by becoming one of the five wealthiest men in London.

Yes, Kitty would simply have to understand. He had his name to consider and that meant obeying the old man’s demand. And from the phlegmy sound the old scab had been making when he left him, he’d better be quick about it, too.

He rapped sharply on the door. A maid opened it and curtsied him in. She led him into a surprisingly modest morning room, where she accepted his hat and cane.

“If you’ll wait here, sir, I shall see if Lady Lydia is home,” she said and left.

Childe looked around with interest. For a woman known for the unique and rich manner in which she accoutred herself, the room was amazingly free of ornamentation. And furnishings, for that matter. A few paintings of unknown antecedents hung on the wall. An unremarkable mantel clock ticked away the hour. Even the carpet underfoot seemed disproportionately small, as though standing in for its big brother.