by Stella Riley
‘I daresay. But you’re not at school now. So --’
‘No.’ The grin faded abruptly. ‘And I’m not with Aunt Almeria in Lansdown Crescent either, more’s the pity.’
More’s the pity indeed, thought Cassie ruefully.
Being a sensible woman, Serena Delahaye did not believe in thrusting girls headlong into London society without a shred of previous experience. Consequently, at not quite eighteen years of age and just as Cassandra had done three years before, Olivia should currently have been attending small, sedate gatherings of young people under the aegis of Aunt Almeria in Bath. Sadly, before she had been there a week, Aunt’s youngest daughter had fallen victim to the measles, thus enforcing Olivia’s hasty return home – and an ensuing mood of black discontent.
Hoping to avoid listening to her sister’s complaints for what must surely be the hundredth time, Cassie busied herself setting her hat at exactly the right angle and murmured, ‘Never mind. Papa has written to Aunt Sophy so perhaps you’ll be able to spend a few weeks with her instead.’
‘In Tunbridge Wells?’ came the incredulous reply. ‘Are you quite mad?’
Not yet. But I’m getting there, thought Cassie, gritting her teeth. ‘Go away, Livy. Lord Pelham will be here at any minute.’
‘He’ll wait.’ Instead of quitting the room, Olivia launched herself off the bed and starting toying with a delicate ivory fan she found on her sister’s dressing table. ‘Is his lordship nice?’
‘He’s … pleasant.’
Olivia made a face.
‘That sounds boring. Does he want to marry you?’
His Mama certainly likes the idea.
‘The subject hasn’t arisen, so I refuse to speculate. Livy – will you please leave my things alone and go?’
‘Don’t be such a cross-patch.’ She exchanged the fan for a pair of ear-rings. ‘By now there must be at least one gentleman you like.’
Perhaps. But you are the very last person I’d confide in.
Guarding her expression and watching Olivia abandon the ear-rings in favour of advancing on her wardrobe, Cassie said flippantly, ‘Too many to count. Are you going?’
‘In a minute.’ Olivia eyed her sisters’ gowns enviously. ‘Can I try on your blue silk?’
‘No!’ snapped Cassie. ‘You know perfectly well it won’t fit you.’
Olivia flushed. The fact that her adolescent curves were reluctant to melt away was a sore point.
‘You didn’t have to say that,’ she accused. And finally flounced out.
* * *
The carriage ride with Lord Pelham was neither quite as hair-raising as Papa had predicted nor any more entertaining than Cassie had expected. His lordship tried, bless him. He was mild-mannered and well-meaning. But his conversational skills were not of the highest order at the best of times and often deserted him altogether.
Sadly, he was typical of the kind of gentlemen Cassie seemed to attract. So far, there had been three offers for her hand – one of which Papa had summarily dismissed on account of some aspect of the gentleman’s reputation he’d refused to explain. At the time, Cassie had rather regretted this because Lord Cheslyn had been handsome and charming and she’d been flattered by his interest. The two remaining suitors had been of the Lord Pelham variety … and she’d refused those herself.
Just at present, she rather suspected that another such offer was brewing – if not rapidly reaching boiling point. To the best of her ability and without actually being rude, she’d been avoiding Sir Alastair Vennor for the last week in the hope of preventing a declaration. It wasn’t that she disliked him. He was gentle, rather shy and by no means ill-looking. He was also, unfortunately, dull.
Mr Richard Penhaligon, on the other hand, was not dull. Twenty-six years old, charming and as darkly handsome as any storybook hero, he had danced with her three times and, on the last two occasions, lingered at her side for a full ten minutes afterwards.
Usually, the men she liked either didn’t meet her parents’ standards or treated her with affectionate brotherly teasing. But Mr Penhaligon’s smile wasn’t in the least fraternal; he didn’t stammer or struggle to make conversation; and Cassie couldn’t think of a single objection her parents could make to a gentleman whose older brother was the Earl of Keswick.
* * *
By the following evening at Moreton House, it swiftly became clear that speculation concerning the return of Sebastian Audley was already rife.
This was most obvious among the youngest debutantes as they alternately flitted about the ballroom or huddled together, giggling. Within half an hour of her arrival, Cassie had been beset by no less than five excitable, fan-fluttering girls, all of whom were convinced (thanks to Olivia’s rash claims of kinship) that Mistress Delahaye must know when Mr Audley was likely to arrive in Town.
Sighing, Cassie said she had no idea and then dampened their hopes still further by pointing out that if Mr Audley was indeed returning to England to attend his father’s death-bed, then the chances of his appearing in London any time soon would appear to be virtually non-existent.
Gradually, it became apparent that interest in Sebastian Audley was not confined to giddy eighteen-year-olds. Certain married ladies smiled knowingly behind their fans while their husbands scowled. Older gentlemen shook disapproving heads, while younger ones laughed and exchanged low-voiced anecdotes. Everyone, it seemed, had either an opinion or an expectation of wicked Mr Audley.
Cassie tried to ignore both the gossip and her carefully veiled disappointment that Mr Penhaligon was nowhere to be seen. It was a relief, therefore, when the Cavershams arrived. And as soon as she was sitting with Lady Elinor in a quiet corner, she said darkly, ‘I could murder Olivia.’
Nell laughed. ‘This ‘my Cousin Sebastian’ nonsense?’
‘That’s part of it. She’s never laid eyes on him, of course. He’s a fourth cousin, umpteen times removed – but for no better reason than that it raised her status at school, Livy has given the impression that he’s in constant communication with us.’ Uncharacteristically, Cassie scowled. ‘I wish she still was at school – or with Aunt Almeria in Bath. Or anywhere at all except in the room next to mine in Conduit Street.’
‘Why? What else has she been doing?’
‘She borrows my things without asking and forgets to return them. She squeezed herself into my pearl watered-taffeta and split one of the seams – oh, and last week she was fiddling with my perfumes and upset a bottle of patchouli all over the carpet. My room still reeks of it. And that,’ finished Cassie a shade bitterly, ‘isn’t all. She’d prefer I was married before she makes her own come-out next Season – though what difference that makes I can’t imagine. However, when she isn’t making free with my belongings or obsessing about Wicked Cousin Sebastian, as she persists in calling him, she’s harping on and on about my failure to find a husband. And it’s driving me demented.’
‘It must be the nature of sisters to be annoying. Goodness knows, Lucilla is like toothache.’ And when Cassie laughed, Nell said, ‘That’s better. Now; humour me, please! I know you find the furore surrounding Mr Audley tedious – but I don’t. He sounds intriguing and - and as if he might be fun.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ muttered Cassie. ‘If you ask me, all those duels and love-affairs and ridiculous wagers make him sound like an idiot. What does Harry say?’
‘He’s never met him – though he thinks Nicholas may have done. Of course, the person we really need is Rock. He always knows everything about everybody. But he’s still at the Priors with Adeline, so that’s no help. We’ll just have to interrogate Nick – if he ever deigns to put in an appearance.’
It was half an hour to midnight before Lord Nicholas Wynstanton finally sauntered in and ploughed an erratic course to Mistress Delahaye’s side.
She shook her head at him and said, ‘You really are hopeless, Nicholas. You never arrive at a respectable time and you never dance. I’m surprised you’re still invited to balls
at all.’
‘No you’re not,’ he grinned. ‘Although I don’t prance about the floor with the ladies, I can be relied upon to fetch their refreshments and entertain them with witty repartee. Then again, my brother is Rockliffe. And who’s going to risk offending him?’
‘No one.’
‘Exactly.’ He subjected the room to a lazily amused glance. ‘I’d lay money that everybody here is talking about the same thing.’
‘And you’d win. The sole topic is the rumoured return of Mr Audley.’
He grinned.
‘Well, London’s been dashed dull recently. And Sebastian’s just the sort of fellow to liven things up.’
‘So I’ve gathered.’
The sour note was so unlike her that Nicholas blinked and said, ‘I’m not quite sure how he could have … but has he done something to upset you?’
‘Aside from being a distant relative – no.’
‘Well, you can’t hold that against him. You know how small the polite world is and the Audleys are an old family, so they’re probably related to just about everybody in some degree or other – including me, for all I know.’
‘Oh – I suppose so.’ Cassie drew a long breath and loosed it. ‘But half the girls here are obsessed with him – yet it stands to reason that he can’t possibly have done all the things Livy credits him with.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘Since you don’t know what Livy has been saying,’ began Cassie. And then stopped. ‘Oh. You wouldn’t need to, would you? You know him.’
‘I do. Not particularly well – but well enough to guess that whatever Olivia knows won’t be the half – since most of it isn’t fit for female ears.’
‘So he’s as wicked as Livy thinks he is?’
Nicholas gave a crack of laughter.
‘More wild than wicked, I’d say – though there’s not much he ever drew the line at. But I never heard that he deliberately set out to hurt anyone – not even in a duel.’ Nicholas thought for a moment. ‘He was just … exuberant. The instant he came down from university, he started setting the town by its ears and when he’d made London too hot to hold him, he moved on to Paris and, after that, Venice – which was where I last saw him.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Three years … maybe four. I’d met up with Dev – Lord Sarre, that is. I really must stop calling him Dev. It confuses everybody. But going back to Venice … he and Sebastian were fairly well-acquainted. So if anyone knows what Audley’s been up to these last few years, it will be Sarre.’ Nicholas paused, tilting his head and said, ‘Speaking of which … have you heard from Caroline?’
‘A short letter a few days ago. The Dowager Countess has finally removed to the Dower House, leaving Caroline and his lordship free to settle into Sarre Park. They’d been hoping to visit Caroline’s grandfather in Halifax but snow on the Great North Road means that will have to wait until the weather improves. And meanwhile Lord Sarre is busy conducting repairs on the estate.’ Cassie’s brow creased a little. ‘According to Caroline, he’s toiling alongside his workmen – which is something I find difficult to imagine.’
‘You wouldn’t if you knew him better.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means,’ responded Nicholas cheerfully, ‘that, in Sarre’s case, looks are deceiving. And if you don’t believe me, ask Caroline.’
‘I probably will,’ replied Cassie. And then, glancing across the room, ‘Oh.’
His lordship turned his head in the direction of her gaze and then, looking quizzically back at her, said softly, ‘Oh indeed. Poser Penhaligon, Cassie? Really?’
She shot him a brief, quelling glance and smiled up at a dark-haired gentleman bowing in front of her. ‘You are very late, sir. I had not thought to see you this evening.’
‘I was beginning to despair of getting here myself,’ he returned ruefully. And to Nicholas, ‘Keswick summoned me to make up the numbers at his supper party. Always such a pleasure being invited just to fill an empty seat. However … since everyone knows your lordship never dances, I’ve no compunction in stealing your fair companion. If,’ he finished, holding out his hand, ‘Mistress Delahaye will overlook my tardiness and honour me?’
Cassie stood up and felt her colour rise a little. She very carefully did not look at Nicholas.
‘Thank you, Mr Penhaligon. I would be delighted. And Lord Nicholas will be equally happy, since I’m sure he has been positively itching to join his friends in the card-room.’
* * *
Having paid court to three of the ladies he was currently singling out, Richard Penhaligon left Moreton House after little more than an hour. As he sauntered round to the home of the widow he hoped might be persuaded to become his mistress, he considered the merits of the trio he’d left behind. Anna Whitcombe, very well dowered and the Season’s reigning beauty; Lady Phoebe Lennox, less well-dowered but the daughter of a marquis; and Cassandra Delahaye … distinguished only by being less tedious than the other two. However, none of this mattered in the least. What did matter was that he was giving the impression of a gentleman on the verge of settling down.
Once ensconced at the fireside with a glass of brandy, he contemplated the exquisite woman on the other side of the hearth and said, ‘You could do much worse than me, you know.’
‘I could also do much better,’ replied her ladyship, twining one silver-fair ringlet about her finger. ‘You can’t afford me, Richard. Also, I am looking for something more … permanent.’
‘Marriage, you mean?’
‘Ideally, yes. And that’s not something you’re willing to offer.’
‘It’s not a case of willingness. I --’
‘Of course it is. You’re waiting to see if your nephew dies before you do anything irrevocable.’
His jaw tightened. ‘That’s a particularly brutal way of putting it.’
‘What’s the point of dressing it up? Oh I’m not saying you’re ill-wishing the boy. But the physicians say he won’t see out the year and if they’re right, you’ll be your brother’s heir – which will improve your options. And while you wait, you toy with this girl or that, taking care that none of them are ever quite sure how serious you are.’ She reclined in her chair, regarding him with malicious approval. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘To a degree – though I don’t believe I’m as cold-blooded as you make me sound.’
‘You think it’s a criticism? It isn’t. However, you can’t offer me what I want, so I won’t commit to you and risk missing something better. Now … let us end this conversation. Instead, you can tell me the latest gossip.’
Mr Penhaligon scowled into his glass, took a hefty swallow and said, ‘There’s only one thing anyone’s talking about these days. Sebastian bloody Audley.’ Before silky lashes veiled the sapphire eyes, he caught a sudden gleam of interest in them and added irritably, ‘Oh God. Not you, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As far as I can tell, no one’s clapped eyes on the fellow for years – yet everybody’s anticipating his return as if it was the Second Coming.’
‘And is he returning?’
‘So they say.’ He looked across at her, his expression suspicious. ‘Why should you care? I doubt he’ll give you what you want either. In fact, I’m surprised you’ve ever heard of him.’
‘Scandal sheets, my sweet. Surely you know I’m addicted to them?’
‘You and every other female in London, it would appear.’
Indolently stretching out her foot to admire one shapely ankle, she said, ‘What’s the matter, Richard? Is Mr Audley putting your nose out of joint before he’s even appeared?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
She laughed. ‘You think I don’t know how you like being the centre of attention? But I won’t tease. Indeed … to atone for my earlier unkindness, I’m half inclined to let you stay tonight.’
This sent a thud of surprised anticipation through
his body but he said cautiously, ‘Only half inclined?’
‘That depends on you.’ She relapsed into silence for a long moment before saying slowly, ‘I think we might make a bargain which gives both of us something we want.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It’s becoming increasingly plain that a foreign title means little or nothing here in London, so I will never enter polite society without the right entrée. You could help with that. And in return, although there will be no permanent arrangement between us, you would not find me … ungenerous.’
Mr Penhaligon’s eyes travelled over every splendidly enticing curve and returned to her face. He did not, as he might have done had his brain not been clouded by the prospect of having her naked in bed, wonder why she was only now making a suggestion she might have made weeks ago. Instead, he said, ‘In plain terms, I scratch your back and you’ll scratch mine?’
‘Exactly.’ Her laugh, this time, was pure invitation. ‘And in the latter case – quite literally.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
CHAPTER TWO
Having travelled via Frankfurt, Zurich and Trieste, the letter summoning Sebastian Audley home finally caught up with him in the heights of Buda.
He normally tossed such missives into a drawer, often unread … but not this one. For years, they had arrived by the handful; a packet of five, one from each of his sisters, all collected and forwarded by the eldest of them. This, by contrast, had arrived crumpled, dirty and ominously alone.
Yet still Sebastian left it unopened on the hall table, from where it radiated silent accusation.
It was from Blanche, of course – the eldest of his sisters and the only one to remain unwed. Blanche … with her pompous tendency to sermonise and her unwavering and very blatant dislike of him.
He felt oddly ambivalent. He didn’t want to read the letter but knew that he’d have to; knew with bone-deep certainty that it contained something much worse than Blanche’s usual rantings … something that was going to call him back. And if he was honest with himself, he knew it was time.
