Vivian Roycroft (6 page)

Wednesday, March 17, 1813 continued

As yesterday's brilliant sunshine had created crowds, so the unhappy drizzle encouraged empty streets, with anyone disposed for venturing forth not making it past the closest coffee house, the nearest bookstore or haberdashery. Sassenach's steady trot carried His Grace past the Corinthian columns of the Royal Institution, north from Piccadilly, the groom's horse puffing a half-stride behind. Not even a face at the windows they passed, merely grey brick, grey stone, grey skies, grey pavement, grey rain.

And a claret-colored tailcoat. Darkened by the drizzle. Chestnut hair plastered across a broad forehead, and a decent pair of white breeches ruined. No topcoat, no hat, no gloves; someone was not having a good day.

Excellent.

Fitzwilliam splashed through a spreading puddle in the road's center, finishing off the breeches, and pounded on the door of the first townhouse beyond the Royal Institution's final column. It seemed safe to assume who lived there and what his errand entailed, which meant this wasn't the young man's first visit of the day to that house. One might also presume that his first visit had not been a peaceful nor successful venture, if he'd departed without his outerwear. His Grace drew rein and dismounted as a young footman opened the black-painted door, the red trim of his livery startlingly bright in the dullness.

"Mr. Fitzwilliam—" the footman began, then broke off, dark eyes widening, staring over Fitzwilliam's shoulder.

"Left my blasted—" But Fitzwilliam broke off, too, and swiveled around. His eyes narrowed, perhaps at the water dripping into them, and his mouth grimaced. A grim and foreboding expression, that one.

His Grace handed the reins to the still-mounted groom. "Keep him moving and don't go beyond a whistle's reach." Then, as the horses sauntered off, "Is Miss Beryl at home?"

Fitzwilliam scowled.

Over the threshold and into graceful marble, floor, staircase, pilasters, all still grey, but offset and overwhelmed by rich blue panels, carved oak table, gilt mirror, and a soaring vaulted ceiling picked out with clouds and sky and beautifully rendered songbirds. Quiet, quiet as a church, with only the ticking of a case clock and the footman's heels on the marble's frozen swirl. As if the house held its breath, waiting for the next act in their drama.

As well it might.

The footman collected His Grace's outerwear as a second footman produced another set, handing hat and gloves to Fitzwilliam and shaking out a camel-colored cape. But, scowl deepening, Fitzwilliam thrust his forgotten clothing back. "I know she's at home; I was just here."

"An hour ago," the staid butler said, standing beside the almost comically astonished footmen. "Miss Beryl is awaiting callers with Mr. Wentworth."

Her father. Indeed. His Grace let a small smile drift across his lips, savored Fitzwilliam's grim jaw. The game was progressing nicely.

The butler announced them, his voice steady despite the hint of apprehension in his lowered, tilted chin and drawn-together eyebrows. A pause, then more boot heels, at first muted, then suddenly clacking, as if stepping off carpeting onto the sweep of marble. The butler slid aside and back, gesturing. Fitzwilliam barreled past and into the room beyond; perhaps not the most diplomatic of actions, but he seemed in no mood to acknowledge precedence. Even if the lady or, more importantly at this stage, the lady's father, expected it.

But then, it seemed young Fitzwilliam had reached the game's crisis and wasn't thinking in his normal rational, more-or-less straightforward manner. Even better. He'd see the bait properly, without his usual preconceptions, when she was presented to him. And in excellent time.

A lighter room entirely, the sitting room, all pale blue and white, with pink and red roses everywhere, embroidered on cushions, hand-painted in petal-dripping cascades between the pilasters, a bouquet of fading ones in the excellent watercolor above the mantel. In sunny weather, a single large, northeasterly-facing window would pour light over the shoulder of anyone sitting on the little gilt settee. For less inclement days, a larger sofa and several matching chairs were bracketed with tall candelabras, brass roses and trailing ivy forming the frames. A stick of candles burned against the day's dullness, lighting the man standing in front of the fireplace and Miss Beryl. She held an embroidery hoop with a dangling edge of shimmering gold satin, and had been crossing the room to stand with her father, but as His Grace's sweep of the room concluded, she paused near but not beside him, as if hanging on her heel and awaiting her next cue. Her pale blue morning gown and dainty slippers could have been made to match the sitting room, and quite possibly had.

James Wentworth — of course His Grace knew of him — despite his plebian origin, had done well for himself and his family with his warehouses of silk and spices, and his earned wealth was evident in the townhome, its location and décor, Miss Beryl's clothing and education. Even the roses cascading across the sitting room's panels showed excellent skill, probably created by a professional painter rather than one of the daughters of the house, although of course His Grace had no doubt of their own meritorious accomplishments. Wentworth had no reason, in His Grace's perception, for humility nor amazement, and yet both could be discerned in his bow. As if he'd had little inkling of his daughter's sweet allure, nor how high such an innocent inducement could reach. And her eyes—

Ah. Miss Beryl's eyes held a note of panic. Quick panting breaths lifted her chest, appealing yet sobering for all that, and her hands twisted about the embroidery hoop and its trailing golden satin as if to wring comfort from them. A matter for deep concern, that.

Not all of her anxiety could be laid at his door; his game had not progressed so far, so fast, and the tension he'd designed and implemented should have been felt by Fitzwilliam, not by this sweet, spirited young woman. Something else had to be weighing on her spirits. His Grace could do nothing about the other, not until he'd identified the problem, but he could ease the game's pressure and therefore her distress of the moment.

With care, he kept all threat from his smile as he returned her obeisance. "Miss Beryl, how charming of you to accept a visit on this dreary morning. Presumably this is your esteemed father. Will you do me the honor of introducing us?"

Another scowl from Fitzwilliam, then a whirl on his muddy heel and a short stalk to the window. Her glance shot his way, following his path, and her eyes widened another impossible bit, her sweet lips rolling together. And Wentworth's glance too trailed Fitzwilliam's steps, not at all with a kindly mien.

None of which would assist Miss Beryl's nerves.
Gentlemen, please; have a care for the lady. She deserves your consideration. All ladies do.
If only he could say it aloud.

"Of — of course. May I present Mr. James Wentworth, my — my father, of course, you know that. Papa, the Duke of Cumberland."

His Grace held out his hand. "My good sir, you have a lovely daughter."

Wentworth's clasp was firm. No resemblance showed between the two generations; his eyes were a warm brown, incredulous and slowly becoming delighted, and the stray wisps of hair encircling his middle-aged tonsure weren't clustered with sufficient thickness for their color to be discerned, except that they were pale, grey or blond or sandy. Only the chins, both firm and graceful, could be said to link father to daughter.

"Thank you, your grace." A paternal arm snaked about Miss Beryl's waist.

The gesture didn't seem to calm her. Rather, she stiffened and almost shuddered, the muslin of her morning gown quivering as if her nerves were determined to make themselves known to all.

But the proud father — and proud he should be — didn't seem to notice her aggravation. Vexing, that.
Pride should be tempered with awareness, not with possession.

"Actually, I have three lovely daughters. The eldest was married last year, and the youngest awaits her opportunity."

Another little shudder. The younger sister, then, was not a comforting thought, either. Possibly the other source of Miss Beryl's pressure could be traced to a chained young lady, anxious to come out.

And finally Wentworth's eyes turned aside, toward the window overlooking the street. His delight vanished, and if Miss Beryl had truly set her heart on Fitzwilliam, her father's current crop of disapproval could also distress her. "Fitz."

Fitzwilliam turned from the window. The scowl seemed perhaps permanently etched about his mouth and hardened eyes. His glance shifted rapidly — Wentworth, Miss Beryl, His Grace, Wentworth, His Grace again — never alighting for more than a moment before sweeping on, and his bow was equally sketchy. "Mr. Wentworth, I hope to find you well this morning."

"Yes, thank you, Fitz. And—"

But Miss Beryl pulled away, stepped back. Gave herself breathing room, it seemed, even as she laid her embroidery hoop and its golden train aside. Her eyes seemed unfocused, watching some middle distance between her father and him, unwilling to see either of them. A trickle of unease tightened His Grace's neck and his thumb pricked.

"I — I should call for tea. Do please excuse me, your grace, Papa."

Wentworth frowned, as if trying to impart a message through his eyes and not his lips. "Benson—"

Another step back. "No, no, I really must confer with Mrs. Benson for a moment." She finally looked up, straight into His Grace's eyes, and swallowed. "You don't mind?"

Well, someone needed to give the poor girl an out. "Of course not, Miss Beryl. The room will be darkened by your absence, but we'll shuffle along while you perform your duties."

Finally, the first easing of her facial muscles, a relaxing about her eyes and lips, even a slight curve upward into a smile. "Thank you, your grace. I will return soon."

And without another glance or word, she hastened from the sitting room.

As if…

His thoughts and attention trailed behind her (were those light footsteps whispering toward the back of the house? Yes, toward the housekeeper's domain). The sitting room faded about him. Compliments, light conversation, the Royal Navy's
débâcles
with its tiny American counterpart. Fitzwilliam staring determinedly out the rain-splashed window, as if memorizing the street below and unwilling to face the companionable horrors within. Neither the tea nor the housekeeper appeared.

Neither did Miss Beryl. Nor did the zephyr of footsteps again cross the echoing marble.

And then suddenly Wentworth fell silent, some comment — something about the Americans' seemingly unstoppable frigates — dying away uncompleted. His Grace's knowledge reflected in the worried father's eyes.

She'd never had any intention of returning. Not to the tangle of tension they'd formed between them, enclosing her beyond her patience to bear.

"Benson!" Wentworth called.

An undignified clatter, hurrying footsteps, muttered discussion and an oath, mercifully abbreviated. The butler hurried into the sitting room.

A lady's bamboo riding cane in his hands.

Wentworth heaved to his feet. "Where is she?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The butler's whipped-dog expression seemed aggrieved, as if he took his mistress's desertion personally. "She's gone riding."

Wentworth blinked; he'd not expected that. Fitzwilliam huffed and turned back to the dreary view.

But the butler's underlying meaning was plain as the rain on the window panes. His Grace rose, as well. "Alone? Where's her groom?"

"Your grace, she left before his horse was saddled." A pause. "He helped her mount, thinking she'd wait for him."

"Of course she didn't. She's upset and feels as if she's been unfairly trapped. We must find her." To Fitzwilliam, finally turned from the window and the rain, something finally snagging the train of his trampled thoughts: "Tell me you brought your hunter."

The young man retained enough grace to swallow. He shook his head, short, jerky movements lacking all his usual aplomb. "I left Rounder at home."

"Go get him." To the butler: "Send a boy ahead, and a guinea if the horse is ready when Mr. Fitzwilliam arrives. Another for the groom."

The butler ran, all decorum abandoned. The same could be said for Wentworth; his mouth opened and closed, rather like a gulping fish, but no words nor sense issued forth.

Poor aggrieved man, as overwhelmed and upset in his way as his daughter. His Grace gripped his shoulder and shook him slightly. "We'll bring her back unharmed." His sweeping glare took in Fitzwilliam, too. "With kindness."

Outside on the rain-drenched street, he whistled for the groom. For Sassenach.

Wednesday, March 17, 1813 continued

Tricksey's hooves clattered on the pavement, and only the most amazing luck kept her from sliding to her knees at Hyde Park corner when a coach and four swept past and splattered them both with mud and dirty water, sending the mare sideways into a bewildered shy. Luck, right, yes, that was precisely what she had: all the luck in the world.
No pressure, Beryl, just marry this year and make everyone but you happy. No pressure, Beryl, just stay friends with the argumentative man you love, and everything will go on as normal.
Even if it can
'
t.
The tension had tightened on her neck, trying to strangle her with her amber cross's simple gold chain, crowding her much as the leering coachman had done, and between Fitz's surliness and the fireside heat, the sitting room's air had thinned until she hadn't been able to breathe.

And only that wonderful duke had even seemed to notice. Not even Papa—

She turned down Rotten Row and tapped Tricksey with her heel. But the usually inviting track swam with the rain's leavings, and impulsively she reined Tricksey back around just as the mare bounded forward, guiding her onto Park Lane's broad elegant thoroughfare. The mare pirouetted and pranced, unhappy at the change and at riding alone — not something a lady's horse learned to do, that — and she'd dropped her cane in the mews in the mad scramble to leave, get away, escape.

Nothing for it; time to put her saddle's alteration to its first real test.

It had taken a good hour of wheedling before the master saddler had even consented to trying her experiment. Even then, she'd had to promise on her honor to bring the saddle back and allow him to "set it right" if she ever felt the least bit unsteady within its support, or if the mare showed the slightest symptom of a sore back. As if she'd ever hurt Tricksey deliberately.

But finally, with many shakes of his head and its thinning grey hair, he'd offset the two pommels that encircled and supported her right leg. Instead of sitting square atop the sidesaddle, they leaned and pointed to the left by several inches.

Enough so that she could slide her right thigh from their support, wrap it about the upper pommel on the outside, and grip both pommels between her thighs, giving her a death-grip on the saddle, so that Tricksey's worst couldn't shake her off.

It had felt odd, the first times she'd tried it, and Paul had exclaimed, worrying she'd fall. But she'd proven she could stay on with that grip, even when jumping Tricksey over heights they'd never tried before — even over the paddock's high gate, when riding in the country — and she'd gradually shortened her stirrup until the sensation of two bent knees felt as natural as the more accustomed seat for riding aside.

Beryl gripped the sidesaddle's cantle, slid her right thigh above and outside the upper pommel, kicked her left foot from the slipper stirrup, and locked her thighs into position.

"Now go, Tricksey."

They clattered down Park Lane, splashing through puddles. Past the empty windows and back of Seamore Place, where Fitz's old college crowd lived; not that she was looking for reminders of him, of course. No one else was about. Fog had drifted into the city, cutting her off from pursuit or further affront, and it receded ahead of her and the mare even as it closed in behind, as if a soft little enclosure moved along the roadway with them. Only far distant, beyond that damp grey wall and dulled by it, was there an echo of other hoofbeats. But loud ones; a heavy horse. A large draught horse.

Or a massive dark stallion. Chasing her.

Funny, but the idea of His Grace on her trail didn't cause her neck to tighten nor her heart to pound. He'd proven his awareness of her distress, his good manners tempered with kindness, and surely he'd prove just as aware of her—

—her—

—yes. Her desires.

It was her life. Time to arrange things to suit herself.

Without Fitz. Without that grim scowl, darkening her heart even as she'd choked on her own breath.

And if Fitz didn't like her choice, she'd remove all other options. He'd learn to live with it. Yes, Papa too.

At the intersection with Oxford Road, where it became the turnpike, Beryl reined Tricksey about and held her hands still against the impatient prancing. Yes, there, just emerging from the wall of fog, not far north of Hyde Park corner: a massive horse with a dark-clad rider, intense, wild, elemental. Threatening, if it had been anyone else. In the poor visibility, his figure formed little more than a blur and it was impossible to tell if he looked her way, but somehow, she had no doubts.

Yes. The wrong man. But the right one, just the same.

She shook the reins and Tricksey trotted on, her ears twisting back, flipping forward, twisting back again. No need for
her
to look; he'd follow. Wherever she led, the big dark horse would trail behind. Because they weren't drawing any nearer, and of course the stallion could overtake her little mare without effort. If he'd wanted merely to catch her, he'd have done so.

Would he know what she wanted from him? Or would she have to ask, with words or with gestures? She'd no way of knowing. In the romantic novels, if the heroine was silly enough to be caught alive with a rake, she never knew how to protect herself.

Nor how to court the ruin that hovered a delicious heartbeat away.

And her body rippled at the thought.

She turned Tricksey in to Hyde Park, slowed her before entering the trees, and again looked back. The big dark horse still followed, long reaching strides eating and finally narrowing the ground between them. Closer now; the rider's eyes fixed on her, a physical touch through the fog and her clothing, a stroke on her bare skin. She shivered, intrigued and yes, dismayed and vaguely afraid. No time to reconsider. Beryl turned Tricksey into the trees' cover, shook both thighs free, and slid down the mare's shoulder into the sodden turf.

Soon everyone in town would know she'd been compromised behind the shrubbery in Hyde Park.

She'd be ruined.

And that was good.

Because then the rest of the world, with all their demands and expectations and miseries, could just go hang. Once all that was put at bay, she could arrange her life to suit herself.

Without Fitz. Even without Papa, if necessary.

Somber thudding hoofbeats, distantly approaching and then suddenly loud, heavy and shiveringly foreboding. The dark stallion and his black-coated rider waded through the underbrush, not even slowing their purposeful pace as branches tried to ensnare them. And it was as if a force of nature, something dark and powerful and exotic, entered the little glade with her. Even without the sunlight to cast them, the shadows of the horse and rider's masculinity stretched beneath the trees, encircled her, and the fear she'd tried to ignore rippled up her spine. A cold awareness tightened within her. What she was doing wasn't right. Even though it was.

Sassenach stopped beside Tricksey, nuzzling her neck and blowing into her mane like an inquisitive lover. His Grace dismounted, more handsome than ever. Somewhere he had lost or left his hat, and his black curls glistened with the drizzle. No condemnation showed in his expression — she'd not expected any — but no longer could she honestly describe his pale eyes as kind. Nor gentle; he knew what she wanted, surely wanted it as much as she.

Even if this wasn't precisely what she wanted. Whatever that meant for him. Or her.

One thing she did know, to the squirming core of her being. Forgetting Fitz would never be easier than with the help of this charming rake. Right, or otherwise.