Wedding Night Revenge (8 page)

Lord Devane might soon repair to his Irish estates. Save for odd, remote chance, she would never again set eyes on him. Suddenly it was imperative that before they parted, they talk properly. She wanted to conduct herself in a way that gained his full attention, if not his respect. So far she had acted like a silly, wistful girl: first wallowing in maudlin self-pity on the stairs, then making a clumsy attempt to act the coquette. She might have been a gauche miss, fresh from the schoolroom, instead of a woman in her twenty-sixth year, who had once...no, three times...been engaged to be married.

She glanced up, unwittingly catching Mrs Pemberton's beady eye.

Panic-stricken, she willed their hostess to remain where she was, just long enough for her to...quickly apologise. There was no easy way and no time to delay. It was so simple, so focused now. Their betrothal; his devotion, her destructiveness; the whole messy business of the jilting, needed to be resurrected simply to properly lay it to rest.

Pamela's shrill voice, just a yard away, launched her into hasty, quiet speech.

'You are quite correct, sir. I do have regrets; perhaps the greatest of which is that owning to it has taken so long. But first I must stress that your elevation to the peerage has not prompted what I am about to admit. I'm sorry for having behaved badly towards you. Not only six years ago, but more recently. I was rude to you when you helped me on the road the other day.

And there was no reason for it. I could claim mitigating circumstances, such as shock at the surprise encounter, but it really wouldn't do. There was no excuse. Accordingly, I understand why you said what you did in retaliation to my lack of manners, and what you meant by it. Indeed, I can only agree that you made a lucky escape six years ago, even if perhaps it didn't seem so to you at the time. We would not have suited...' She swallowed, polished her nails furiously with her thumb, aware that she indeed now had his unwavering attention despite the fact her eyes never relinquished her lap.

'So, thank you for preventing Ralph being hurt. He is far too old to be fighting with younger men. I rung him a peal about that when we arrived home. I was also glad you gave that beastly magistrate a set-down. He has no right to hold such a position, for he did exaggerate what occurred to the point of falsehood... Why, hello, Mrs Pemberton. Lord Devane and I were just saying how unconscionably hot and humid it has been this week. We believe a storm must be brewing.'

Rachel plucked from her reticule a dainty fan. It was snapped open with a wrist-flick and she proceeded to sway the lace before her flushed complexion.

She couldn't look at him although she desperately wanted to gauge his reaction to her concise, blurted apology. Was he amused by it? Disgusted that the part that greatly required her remorse had barely been touched upon?

Possibly he was now indifferent to any mention of it. It was so very long overdue, after all.

The most she could claim was that he'd been taken aback by her impromptu dialogue. Naturally, after six silent years, he'd not have deemed her estimable enough for repentance. It was too little too late and was scant consolation for the pain and humiliation he'd once had to endure. But it was better than nothing. And it was all he would get. She felt remarkably calm; release sighed through her, as though a burden she'd been unaware she was carrying had been lifted from her, leaving just the ghost of Isabel to haunt her memory...

Quietly, Rachel listened to Pamela Pemberton effusively welcoming her eligible male guest while in her mind she obliquely registered the other peers present and concluded that, yes, her former fiance was the most eminent; Pamela's oleaginous gushing was merited and to be expected.

She knew the woman's eyes constantly scoured her face, hoping for a noteworthy, stray reaction, so Rachel continued to neutrally admire her bright and brash surroundings from behind the gossamer tool cooling her complexion. Another few minutes and it would be appropriate to move on and join her parents. Just another few minutes and she would be free...

'Now, I must accuse you, my dear, of being a naughty little tease this evening. I think some other people hereabouts might describe you thus too...'

Shrewdly guessing at Rachel's thoughts of escape, Pamela had said something calculated to keep her fixed firmly in her seat.

With her ego still fragile and unable to believe the woman would so blatantly challenge her, Rachel's fan trembled to a halt and she stammered, T...I beg your pardon?'

Pamela triumphantly eyed the scarlet staining Rachel's ivory cheeks. If the little madam thought she could get away with embarrassing her in front of her beloved boy and the baroness, she had a lesson for her. She wasn't a woman to be trifled with in her own home!

So much for her smug bravado at having once jilted this eligible gentleman!

It seemed she had nevertheless taken pains to worm her way again to his side. Perhaps the fact that he now had an earldom and a larger fortune had some bearing on her sly change of heart!

Pamela thought she didn't deserve another chance at him, and neither should she get it. The Winthrops' niece, Barbara, was keen on getting him to pay his addresses, and he had seemed quite taken with her at her parents' card evening. But then he did dispense that Irish charm quite liberally and impartially... Obviously he had forgot just how much of a fool this young woman had once made him appear. It wasn't so very long ago she'd left him the laughing stock of the
haut ton.
Now, with such impeccable credentials, no one dared smile in his direction, unless he smiled their way first.

Impressing upon him his welcome seemed vital; so' did discrediting this artful baggage. 'Handsome bachelors are so very well received at any gathering,' Pamela simpered. 'So I'm trusting you to give the lie, my lord, to Miss Meredith's earlier declaration. If true, it will break so many ladies'

hearts.' She fluttered a look at him from beneath her sparse lashes, then inclined towards him conspiratorially, her veined hand hovering on one of his immaculate dark sleeves. 'Miss Meredith tells us that you are already spoken for!
Unavailable, and well catered for in the romance stakes,
I believe she said.' She paused for effect, slyly relishing Rachel's increasing consternation.

Contained fury at having her mischief misinterpreted and publicised, especially to this man, had turned Rachel's complexion brick-red.

'Is this young lady privy to your secrets? Is there a lady so fortunate? Or must we simply scold Miss Meredith for being such a constant tease...?'

Connor laughed: a choke of sound that combined disapproval with genuine humour. For a moment he stared off into space as though he was marshalling his wits for a response. Then, ignoring his hostess, he gave Rachel's hot confusion a long cool look. Her fan whizzed furiously in front of her face and her attention seemed to be attached to a plaster cornucopia embellishing the wall above her head.

'I'm flattered by your compliments, Mrs Pemberton, and the strength of your interest in my personal affairs. What can I say, other than perhaps your congratulations are called for? Convey them to Miss Meredith...' He paused until Rachel slid a startled sideways look at him. Mrs Pemberton's drop-jawed dismay went unnoticed by him. 'It seems she has been ludicrously successful in teasing you over...nothing at all.' With a glint firing his eyes that made Rachel's stomach squirm, he executed a curt bow, took a step back, and turned to go.

Pamela, having been scorned twice in an hour by gentlemen with whom she'd striven to ingratiate herself, became desperate not to let him go on such an inharmonious note. 'So you think a storm is brewing then, my lord?' she squeaked, on a wide-eyed grin that quite obviously forgave him his snub.

'I don't see how it can be avoided,' he returned with smooth emphasis.

Fleetingly his sardonic eyes skimmed Rachel before he was gone.

'I had a nice chat with your mother...'

Rachel stabbed a look at the woman with eyes like ice shards. How dare she address her so convivially! The bitch was actually trying to be amiable and brush aside the fact she'd been so spiteful only moments ago. She'd attempted to insult her; shame her and make her out to be angling for the Earl's attention. Not only that; she'd hinted to the man himself that she'd been boasting of hooking him! It was outrageous! Not once had she tried to deliberately put herself in his way! Quite the reverse! A sudden, awful thought struck her. Did
he
believe she was fishing for his attention? That she'd schemed at loitering forlornly on the stairs tonight simply to lure him into approaching her? Was that why he'd said she might harbour regrets now he'd risen in the ranks? Did that final look he gave her sum up his contempt for her belated apology because he thought it had been prompted by her mercenary golddigging? The mortification made her choke furiously, 'A

nice chat!
With
my mother?'
She twisted a bitter smile. 'I'm amazed! That's far more than you deserve from any of . the Merediths this evening. It's certainly far more than you shall get from
me!
If you'll excuse me...'

The aria suited her pure, golden voice very well, Rachel thought. The soprano knew her forte. Not a murmur could be heard from the rows of occupied chairs arranged in a semi-circle about the base of the stage. This final piece was clearly demonstrating the fine range of her voice as it built towards a high sweet crescendo.

The fact that the Earl of Devane didn't appear to be amongst the adoring admirers present in the foremost row of chairs facing the dais had not seemed to affect the diva's performance. Her tortured expressions, her theatrical mannerisms were quite naturally perfect. Rachel had to admit, the lady
was
very .talented.

Sam Smith stood on the pavement and looked up at the brightly lit first-floor casements. Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen were drifting in and out of view, providing a fascinating glimpse of untold luxury as they nibbled at fancies or sipped from crystal or china. All the men looked rich and important; all the ladies looked glittery and beautiful. Then he saw her, the most beautiful one of all, wafting into view, laughing and relaxed with that woman she'd been with last time he saw her. She raised a glass to her lips and fire sparked off its rim. Her golden curls and pearl-pale complexion were indeed a sight for sore eyes, he thought, as a hand went to his bruised face. He winced as it touched his distended eye-socket and came away blood-stained.

The lady
was
present; with luck, the gentleman would be too. He'd seen the way Lord Devane looked at her and guessed the man might be where she was.

He'd been on his way past, with his sister, in search of lodgings for the night, when he'd noticed that elderly cove who'd wanted to fight him earlier in the week from his vantage point, in the bushes, Sam slid him a crafty look from his good eye. There he was, sitting snooty atop a different fine rig, keeping his distance from the other coach drivers who, bored with the wait, were passing time by playing dice on the cobbles. It didn't take a lot of brains to work out that the throng of coaches lining the street, the idle servants, and the blazing windows in one big house meant that Quality was having a ball.

On a crazy whim he'd decided to stop; for he had nothing left to lose, and his little sister, Annie, had so very much to lose if he didn't look after her. So now he was waiting, for how long he knew not. It seemed as though he'd already skulked in the shadows for an hour or more. But he was prepared to wait; till dawn if need be. He must keep his nerve and speak to the man.

What could Lord Devane say? Only 'no'...

Jason Davenport glanced up from his cards and his eyes glittered contempt at the foppish newcomers.

'Come...sit down, Harley,' Connor drawled amiably.

Benjamin Harley sauntered closer to the baize- topped table, mean eyes narrowed, fleshy lips curled sullenly. He flipped open a bejewelled snuff box, nipped himself a snort, then after a cough and a cosy with his chums sniggered, 'You surely don't think I'd indulge in a hand with
you,
do you?

Last I heard, you'd thrashed the whole regiment at faro.'

Connor casually shuffled the cards in his hands. 'And that worries you does it? That I'll win?'

'No. It worries me that you'll make sure I lose...'

The ensuing silence seemed interminable. There were several gentlemen loitering in the room, close to the wide, open doors that led onto the terrace, indulging in a little discreet smoking, or tippling out of sight of their wives'

critical vigilance.

'Are you saying that I cheat?'

'It's hard to credit you never lose...'

'Be more specific...' Connor insisted in his silky Irish way.

'What is this talk of cheating?' a woman's accented voice purred into the tense atmosphere. Maria Laviola swished forward like a fresh breeze in her wintry white gown with berry-red adornment. A languid hand sheathed in a scarlet glove flopped onto Connor's broad shoulder.

'You sang like an angel, my dear,' Harley enthused on cue, keen to distract interest from his resentful outburst.

The compliment was immediately added to by other men in the room, eager to jolly the atmosphere and also show the soprano their appreciation.

'Are you to perform again this evening?' Harley demanded.

'Not here... perhaps else where... later...' A sultry glance slid Connor's way and he reacted with a privately amused smile.