Prince of Ravenscar

by Catherine Coulter

  “If the stick showed any more feeling,” Roxanne said, “I should pick up my chair and hurl it at him.”

  Corinne said, “Listen to me, you philistines, you are all too ignorant and too young to appreciate him. He is a master, mayhap not as great as his father, but still . . .”

  No one wanted to disagree with the dowager duchess; well, everyone did, but none wanted to have her cannon aimed at him. Devlin gave Julian a lazy look. “Good evening, Uncle, Roxanne. You brought champagne, I see. So did I. With two bottles, we should be able to survive the remaining scenes without undue misery.”

  Corinne harrumphed.

  Julian merely smiled and handed her a glass filled to the brim with chilled champagne.

  “Hear, hear,” Sophie said. She toasted everyone indiscriminately and drank down the glass without pause.

  “I see what you mean,” Julian said. “A budding tippler. Let’s see how you behave.” Julian handed Roxanne a glass. He watched her tip back the glass, drink down half of it, lower the glass, hiccup into her palm, and smile widely. “Do you know, Sophie, I think you and I should take one of the bottles and join Mr. Kean onstage. I’ve a fancy to play Sir Edmund Mortimer myself.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Sophie again. “I believe my headache only a memory.” She beamed at them all.

  During the final act, Roxanne would swear Kean glared up at their box once when he was delivering his lines. Not one of them had thrown anything at him. What did he want?

  Devlin Monroe did not return to his box. He sat beside Sophie, refilling her glass until, alas, the champagne was gone.

  Roxanne happened to spot Richard Langworth seated in a box to her far left, between two ladies, a mother and daughter, she thought, both very comely. He was looking up at her, and he wasn’t smiling. He gave her a small salute. She snuck a peek at Julian, but as before, he was staring at the stage, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t seeing Kean, of that she was sure; he was seeing something entirely different. She fully intended to ask him about why Richard Langworth believed Julian had murdered his wife, Richard’s sister. Or perhaps he was concerned about his ship that still hadn’t arrived from Constantinople? He was that worried? She wondered what cargo the Blue Star carried.

  Julian’s carriage was promptly delivered because Julian told her he always paid the theater postboy a coin to make sure he had excellent placement. As the carriage rocked easily through the London streets back to Lemington Square, Roxanne said, “Richard Langworth was looking at our box. He was in the company of two ladies.”

  Sophie said in a lilting, happy voice, “He was probably staring at you, Roxanne. Goodness, all the gentlemen stare at you, you are so beautiful this evening. Your hair is glorious; it glows like a sunset in the candlelight. How I envy you. Don’t you agree, Julian?” She giggled. “Surely an uncle would appreciate an aunt’s beauty.”

  “Uncles are strange ducks,” he said.

  “This Richard Langworth,” Roxanne began.

  Julian merely shook his head at her.

  Corinne said, “Perhaps I should speak to Lord Arthur about him.”

  “Pray do not, Mama,” Julian said, but he couldn’t help a smile. He tried to imagine Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, receiving that request. Rather like praying to God to take away the pain of your stubbed toe. When they reached the Radcliffe town house, he said, “I will call on you ladies tomorrow, if that is convenient.”

  With Corinne’s spy Jory doubtless on his heels, Roxanne thought, and nodded. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. She wanted to know more about Richard Langworth, if he posed a threat to Sophie.

  Sophie was humming as Mint assisted both her and Roxanne out of their evening cloaks. She realized she was happy. She felt light, her feet gliding above the floor. She breathed in and laughed. If it had rained, she didn’t think she would have minded at all. She realized in that moment she hadn’t laughed much since her mother had died.

  She turned to speak to Roxanne, when Mint drew in a deep breath and blurted out, “Your sister is here, Miss Roxanne. Lady Merrick.”

  Oh, no, not Aunt Leah. Sophie’s feet hit the floor with a solid thunk. She sobered very quickly. She hadn’t seen her aunt Leah since her mother’s funeral, but she well remembered her endless criticisms of Roxanne, heard throughout her life, comments not meant for her ears. She saw Roxanne had stilled.

  The glorious days of champagne and laughter, she thought sadly, were over.

  15

  The next morning, Roxanne eyed her elder sister across the breakfast table. Sunlight flooded through the bow windows, haloing Leah’s head, and it made her look quite angelic, which, Roxanne thought, had to give one serious pause about angels.

  Leah was here, actually here, and what was one to do? She hadn’t said last night why she’d come, merely kissed her sister’s cheek, nodded briefly to Sophie, and taken herself off to bed. Elvira, her maid of ten years, plump and merry, followed behind her, looking exhausted, Leah’s jewelry casket hugged close.

  Leah had married two weeks before her twentieth birthday to a naval man who’d had the misfortune to drown five years later when the ship he captained ran aground during a violent storm off the northern coast of Portugal. The first mate had perished as well. No one was able to explain why Captain Merrick hadn’t been piloting the ship during a storm or why he’d fallen overboard, much less why his sailors hadn’t saved him. Like most sailors, he couldn’t swim, and that surely made no sense at all.

  Leah Cosgrove, Lady Merrick, had worn black gloves for twelve months, and not a day longer. She was now twenty-nine, two years Roxanne’s senior, quite lovely with her nearly white blond hair, fair complexion, and a reputation as the most graceful of the three Radcliffe sisters, a vision to behold when she waltzed. And the meanest, Roxanne thought, staring at her sister calmly sipping her tea, her eyes locked on Sophie, who was picking at her eggs, keeping quiet, smart girl.

  Leah said finally, her voice so sweet, it nearly dripped, “Father was worried about you, Roxanne.”

  What was this about? “He was? I received a letter from him yesterday. He said nothing about worry. Indeed, he hoped Sophie and I were enjoying ourselves.”

  “He would not want you to think he felt you were incompetent, and so he asked me privately to come to assist you with our niece.”

  Sophie looked ready to leap at Leah.

  No, don’t move, Sophie, keep quiet.

  Roxanne smiled. “I don’t think Sophie needs assistance from anyone. She is smart, bright, and not a fool.” Excellent words, but still, she sounded defensive, Roxanne thought, a weakness her sister would exploit. She eyed Leah, wondered how she could get rid of her, decided it would take a dozen strong men to haul her away, and unfortunately she knew only two such men who might be willing—Devlin and Julian. Life, she thought, wasn’t fair. Why hadn’t her father warned her? Ah, he would have warned her, and that meant he hadn’t known Leah was coming.

  Leah said, “Well, then, I shan’t have to be bothered with Sophie, since she is so smart and bright. I can shop to my heart’s content, and see—never mind that.”

  See what?

  Sophie said, “I haven’t seen you since my mama’s funeral, Aunt Leah. What have you been doing?”

  “Doing? I have servants to do things, Sophie.”

  “Forgive me, such a stupid thing to say. How have you been amusing yourself?”

  “It is difficult being a widow; one is never quite a part of things.” But she was smiling, and why was that?

  Roxanne said, “Farleigh’s mother lives in Battlesdean, only ten miles distant from York, does she not? Do you not visit her occasionally?”

  “She’s old and boring, and all she can talk about is how it is the Navy’s fault her poor Farleigh drowned.”

  “How is the Navy to blame?” Sophie asked blankly.

  Leah shrugged as she picked up a slice of toast, smeared it with butter and elderberry jam, and bit in. “She claims the first mate was d
runk, and a spy.”

  “A spy for whom?” Roxanne asked.

  “Who cares? Then she accuses me of having forgotten him much too soon.”

  Roxanne said, “Why would she say that? You wore black gloves for a year.”

  “I believe she would have preferred that I wear black until I was lying in my coffin. But even that is not enough—she tells me I avoided the marriage bed so now she does not have a grandchild to remind her of her perfect son.”

  Sophie said, “Since your husband was at sea so much of the time, it certainly did not require much avoidance on your part, did it?”

  Leah shrugged, and Roxanne realized in that instant that none of this was to the point. She also knew the reason now for the smile. She said, “You have met someone, haven’t you? That’s the ‘never mind.’”

  Leah smiled widely at both of them. “Why, yes, I have, and he is here in London for the Season.”

  “Does he know you are here, Leah?”

  “Of course. Well, perhaps not specifically, as I had not yet made up my mind to come, since Father hadn’t spoken to me about his concerns. I shall send him a note. He is a fine gentleman.” She added in a very deliberate voice, “You will not flirt with him, Roxanne. He is too high-minded for such nonsense.”

  “Flirt with him? I don’t even know him, Leah.”

  “You flirted outrageously with Farleigh, made him vastly uncomfortable; he told me so.”

  Roxanne could only stare at her sister. This was a new criticism. Roxanne couldn’t imagine flirting with Farleigh Cosgrove, Lord Merrick, whose face was covered with black whiskers to protect him from the biting winds at sea. She supposed he married Leah to produce a child, which hadn’t happened. Sophie was right, he’d scarcely ever seen his wife to get the job done. But this—“Why are you saying such a thing, Leah? I never flirted with your husband. If you would know the truth, I didn’t even like him very much; he was very aloof, mayhap even grim, and his fingers were stained yellow from all that tobacco he smoked. Besides, as Sophie said, he was never home.”

  “You say that now, now that he’s dead. I believe you wanted him, but he chose me.”

  “But I was only seventeen when you met and married him, Leah.”

  Leah shrugged. “You were a very mature seventeen, nearly eighteen. Even his mother remarked I was not blessed in my sister, and I was forced to defend you even though I knew it was true.”

  Roxanne would swear she smelled fire and brimstone in the morning room. She thought of the precious few lovely days she and Sophie had spent here in London. At home, she rarely saw Leah, who, nonetheless, lived only five miles from Allegra Hall. It will be all right. Time will pass. Besides, what can she really do? “How long are you planning to visit us, Leah?”

  “What is this? You do not wish to have me visit you?”

  No, I don’t.

  “As I told you, Father was concerned, and he believed I would be a good influence.”

  Father would choke on his soup before he’d say that.

  “Am I not welcome in my own house?”

  No, you are not welcome. There was no hope for it. Roxanne said, “I hope you will enjoy yourself here, Leah.”

  “If you have the proper invitations from the right sort of people, then naturally I shall. I will accompany both you and Sophie. Is there a ball tonight, perhaps?”

  Sophie said, “There is the Caulcott musicale. I’m told there are two tenors from Milan, twin brothers, who are excellent.”

  “Then I shall attend with you.”

  Sophie said, “But you do not have an invitation, Leah.”

  Leah simply raised a brow and stared her down. “If your consequence isn’t enough to make me accepted, then I fear I shall have to find my own friends.”

  That would be good, Roxanne thought, but kept her mouth shut. Keep quiet, Sophie, keep quiet. She’d hoped when Leah had married Farleigh she’d change, that she’d stop despising her own family, primarily her sisters, primarily her youngest sister, namely, herself, but it hadn’t happened. Now, it appeared she was in love again. Mayhap this time she’d met a gentleman who would stay put once she married him, mayhap a gentleman who would make her see her sister wasn’t out to sink her, mayhap a gentleman who would render her pleasant, give her a dozen children. But so far it didn’t appear he’d made any headway.

  She said, “I did not flirt with your husband, Leah. I will not flirt with your new beau, either. What is his name?”

  Leah chewed another bite of toast slowly, thoughtfully. “I do not believe I will tell you yet. He mentioned to me that he likes keeping me to himself.” Her voice was coy, like a young girl’s. Goodness, what was going on here? Surely this man wasn’t ashamed to be associated with a Radcliffe?

  Sophie gave her a sunny smile. “It really isn’t important, is it? Welcome to London, Leah. I’m sure we’ll have a marvelous time.”

  Leah looked at the vibrant young girl at her right elbow, Bethanne’s daughter—a full nine years her junior, fresh, lovely, an innocent, her smile like Bethanne’s, beguiling, sweet. She said, “Bethanne wasn’t as tall as you are.”

  “No, she wasn’t, and I’ll tell you, once I reached my full height, Mama didn’t like it at all.”

  “Well, no, how could she like it? She would see it as a mistake, giving birth to a maypole.”

  “No, you misunderstand. She said she quite envied me my glorious height. However, you’re quite right. My father didn’t admire my height at all. Whenever he called me a maypole, my mother said that was true, but I was the prettiest maypole in Willet-on-Glee.” Sophie smiled at Leah, and spooned down a bite of Mrs. Eldridge’s delicious porridge.

  Roxanne marveled. It was well done of Sophie to turn around Leah’s criticism with seeming agreement. It quite left Leah without a word to say. Perhaps she could learn to do that as well.

  16

  The dowager Duchess of Brabante arrived at Lemington Square an hour later, to be greeted with another Radcliffe offspring. She’d heard about this one often enough from Bethanne, always in gentle measured tones, but she’d known Bethanne had considered Leah an ill-tempered fishwife. Leah, the middle sister, while very pretty, sported the beginnings of a pinched mouth. Whatever did she have to be unhappy about? She had a glorious head of hair, she was a widow, she wasn’t starving in a ditch, she wasn’t so old her teeth were loosening, and she didn’t have to obey anyone at all. Surely that was close to heaven—she should know, since she’d been a widow since the age of twenty, Sophie’s age, she thought, and wasn’t that amazing? How had she felt when she’d wedded the Duke of Brabante at the age of eighteen? Had she been hopeful? She couldn’t recall, but she did remember she wasn’t averse to marrying him. She’d never learned what the duke had paid her father for her hand.

  She was fully prepared to be pleasant to Lady Merrick, since she was Sophie’s aunt and Roxanne’s sister. “Come,” she said, after eating three of Mrs. Eldridge’s apricot tarts, “tell us the name of this paragon you will see in London.”

  “Very well, your grace. His name is Richard Langworth. He is Baron Purley’s eldest son. I believe he has one sister. Her name is Victoria, and she is about Sophie’s age. There was another sister who died. Richard told me he had no need to rent a house here in London, since his family decided to remain in Cornwall, so he has rooms on Jermyn Street.”

  Leah did not notice Corinne drop her fourth apricot tart on the carpet, but Roxanne and Sophie did.

  “He is very handsome, his address is charming, and he sought me out at the assembly rooms on Mount Street. He told me he’d wanted to meet me because he had heard of the Radcliffe sisters of York.” She modestly lowered her eyes to her soft pearl-gray morning slippers. “He told me I was reputed to be the most beautiful of the three sisters.”

  Sophie said, not an ounce of guile in her voice, “It was my mama who began that, you know, the Radcliffe sisters of York—everyone worshipped my mother, and then of course you and Roxanne grew up, both of you every bi
t as beautiful as my mama and so fun-loving, and then everyone worshipped both of you as well.”

  Yet again, Leah was left without a word to say.

  Watch and learn. Roxanne said, “I am pleased Mr. Langworth believes you the most beautiful of the three of us, Leah, since you wish his regard,” Roxanne said, and smiled, and she thought, Why had Richard Langworth really sought her out?

  Corinne shot a look at Roxanne and said, “But this man, this Richard Langworth, surely you don’t know all that much about him, my dear.”

  Leah said, “Yes, indeed I do, your grace. He is a man of adventure and action, a man to admire, a man who has traveled the world, seen and done so much. He is very smart, you know. He confided to me that I was his star, leading him to York. He never mentioned Roxanne’s name—no wonder, since she is on the shelf now and can no longer be counted. Being a widow, however, is very different.”

  Taking a page from Sophie’s book, Roxanne said, “You’re quite right. I’m so high on the shelf, I pray I will not totter off it. Then where would I be?”

  “On the floor,” Leah said.

  Corinne said, “But you are not that antiquated, Roxanne; you are merely well into your adulthood.”

  Roxanne nearly spurted out some tea. “As is your son, ma’am?”

  “Julian is a man,” Corinne said matter-of-factly. “As a man, he will never be considered to be too far along in anything. Growing into adulthood conjures up images of maturity and common sense, and I daresay few men ever manage to achieve that.

  “As it is, my Julian is only thirty-two, a prime age for a man. He is experienced, he is a treat to the eyes, and he is not an idiot. In short, he is quite the perfect age for a gentleman. Ah, I was so very young when he was born, barely more than a girl, and widowed so soon thereafter. However, being a widow has many advantages, as I’m sure Lady Merrick realizes. One is completely free to do exactly as one wishes.”

  Free to do exactly what you wanted. That would indeed be nice, Roxanne thought. But it wouldn’t be enough for her. No, she wanted a home of her own, she wanted to love and be loved, and she wanted to share laughter with this unknown gentleman who would be there only for her. She could imagine no greater gift out of life than that. But she was twenty-seven years old. Such a gentleman had never swum into her waters, well, one had, but her father had told her he only wanted her money, and although she would have thrown herself in his arms, uncaring of his motives, the years of trusting her father implicitly had won out. In odd moments, Roxanne wondered what had happened to John Singleton. She hoped he’d found a pleasant heiress and was now the fond papa of a hopeful family.