Will saw what he was looking at. “Brandy,” he said and clapped Jack’s shoulder. “I do believe you’re right. Let’s start there.”
They eased their way through the aisle to where the entrance to the dining room cut through the pens and punched through the side of the hall. Beyond was the soaring roof of yet another hall, although no hay dust floated in the air.
They stepped through into the far quieter, smaller hall and Will sighed and patted his coat, then readjusted the sit of his hat. “This is better.”
There were dozens of small tables, each with a white tablecloth, condiments and cutlery. As it was nearly noon, many of the tables had occupants. Waiters with white aprons scurried between the table, bringing trays of meals from the kitchen on the far side. There were few women in the hall. Most of them were vigorously waving their fans to disperse the rich aromas in the air.
There was also a bar on the other side. Jack slapped Will’s arm. “There he is.”
“As close to the brandy decanter as he can get,” Will confirmed.
They walked around the tables and up to the bar. Cian stood at the bar, his hat next to him, a nearly empty glass in front of him. He was the tallest man at the bar, although his height was not apparent because he had his head bent, reading.
Jack and Will walked right up to him before he noticed them. He looked up, his clear eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”
“And good morning to you, too,” Jack said.
Will cleared his throat. “We heard the news, Cian.”
Cian didn’t react.
“About the storm off the Dubh Artach reef in Scotland,” Jack added. Alarmed, he added, “You know about it, don’t you? It has been in the papers the last two days now…”
“Twenty-four ships lost at sea,” Cian said crisply. “Yes, I read about it.” He folded up the letter he was reading. Before the content was hidden, Jack saw the letterhead.
His alarm increased. “That’s a letter from Eleanore?” he asked.
“As it happens, yes.” Cian picked up the glass and swallowed the large mouthful that remained, then dumped the glass back on the bar with a loud knock. He shoved the letter into his inner pocket, crumpling it. “It was in this morning’s mail. All the way from Skye in only five days. The modern mail system is an absolute marvel, is it not?”
He picked up his hat and walked swiftly along the side of the hall, heading for the exit doors at the end.
Jack looked at Will. Will shook his head, frowning.
Both of them hurried after Cian, jogging to catch him.
“They’re reporting Gainsford as one of the passengers lost,” Jack said. “Was Eleanore on the Highland Queen with her father? Was she coming back to London for Christmas, too?”
“That is what her letter says,” Cian said, his tone crisp. He didn’t stop walking.
Will caught Jack’s eye again. Jack could see the worry in his glance.
Jack caught at Cian’s arm. “Wait, Cian. Stop, just for one moment, will you?”
“Can’t, sorry. Things to do.” He shrugged off Jack’s grip, not missing a step. He moved around a group of people standing right in the middle of the exit with a long side step. Jack and Will bobbed around the group, muttered apologies and hurried out into the crisp air, following him.
Cian was still walking, now heading for busy Upper Street, where the usual long line of private carriages stood waiting for their owners to return. Beyond the clogged thoroughfare was Islington Green, the grass a dull brown now the snow had melted.
Jack and Will caught up with him again.
“Cian,” Jack began once more. “Talk to us.”
Cian still did not stop.
Will swore and took a huge step around Cian, putting himself in the way so Cian could not progress without either moving around him or pushing him.
Cian tried to step around him. Jack put himself in the way and grabbed his arm. “No you don’t.”
“Talk, Cian. I want to know you are not…” Will began.
“Deranged?” Cian asked him, his voice flat. “Out of my mind with secret grief?”
Jack didn’t like the empty expression in Cian’s eyes. “You know she’s likely dead, Cian?”
Cian’s gaze swiveled to him. “Of course she is dead.”
Jack swayed back, shocked by his flat, certain tone.
“It’s not as sure a thing as that,” Will said. “They’re still fishing people out of the sea…” He trailed off, as uncomfortable with Cian’s lack of reaction as Jack.
“Oh, she is dead,” Cian told him. His high cheek bones seemed stark, his cheeks thin and drawn. The glassy look in his eyes matched the bleak expression. “It’s better this way.”
“What in hell, Cian?” Jack ejected, stunned.
Cian shrugged. “It’s better she is dead and completely out of my reach, than married and dangling there were I can see her every day.”
Jack gasped, sick pain spearing him, as a memory of Jenny’s pale face under her wedding veil came to him.
Will gripped Jack’s arm. “He doesn’t mean it that way, Jack. He doesn’t know what he’s saying right now,” he said softly and urgently.
Jack let out another shuddering breath. “Let him go drown his sorrows by himself. He doesn’t need us. I shouldn’t have bothered rushing down from Lincolnshire. Let him go.”
Cian looked at Will’s hand, still holding his sleeve. “You heard the man. Do you mind?”
Will let his sleeve go and stepped back. “Jack’s right. You’re a cold, heartless bastard.”
“Thank you.” Cian moved through the two of them, shouldering Jack aside. He walked on and Jack turned to watch him leave, unable to believe the callousness Cian had just shown.
The new cabriolet Cian had purchased to travel about the city was standing by the curb. Cian strode toward it, digging in his coat. He withdrew the letter he had been reading at the bar and unfolded it as he walked.
Only, he didn’t stop at the cab. He moved around it, his head down, reading the letter. Then he walked between his cab and the nose of the horse behind it, still reading. A yard beyond the cab, the heavy traffic of Upper Street clattered.
“God in his heaven…” Will breathed.
Jack ran, an all-out sprint that was better than any time he’d ever made at Cambridge. Will, who was usually faster, could only keep pace.
Cian walked out onto Upper Street, as if he was strolling Rotten Row.
The driver of a carriage yelled and hauled on his reins, making the horse neigh and his hooves skid on the cobbles.
Cian didn’t react. Instead, he took another few steps and came to a halt, head down, still reading. He stood in the far lane of traffic. Coming from the south was a charabanc and pair. The driver yelled and stood on the brake, as the passengers screamed.
Jack didn’t know how he made it. He remembered nothing of his sprint and lunge across the street. He could only see Cian, standing in the middle of the street. He dove, his arm out, and took Cian right off his feet.
They rolled three or four times and came to a stop on cobbles. They were still on the street. Jack cringed.
Will gripped the shoulder of his coat and hauled. Cian slid along with him. Will was dragging both of them. Jack could hear him grunting with the effort.
The gutter was filthy. Jack didn’t care. He rolled over it, onto the footpath beyond, breathing hard, then lifted himself up to examine Cian.
Cian lay on the pavement, staring up at the sky. It was as if nothing had happened. His face was placid. His lips moved as if he was speaking.
Jack shook him. “Cian!”
Will bent over the two of them, breathing hard. “Bloody hell!” he muttered.
People were gathering around them, exclaiming and jabbering.
Jack bent close to listen to Cian’s whispers.
“She was never mine. Now, she will never be anyone’s…”
Jack sighed. He looked up at Will. “You may have to miss your app
ointment.”
Will nodded, his eyes grave.
* * * * *
The carriage was roomy enough for six people. Dane paid the driver a large tip to nudge as close to the cathedral as possible. It would give them the best view of the entrance, where attendees to the coronation were gathering. After Dane and Annalies had exited the carriage and joined the mass of attendees moving into the cathedral, there were five of them left to huddle beneath the lap robes and watch the procession.
Sharla, who was wearing a new day dress, had been disappointed to learn she must remain in the carriage.
“Invitations to a coronation are about title and rank,” Elisa told her. “Even Dane will have to stand at the far back of the cathedral. He may see nothing of the coronation itself. To fail to attend, though, would be an insult the royal family would remember.”
“The ball tonight is a different matter,” Natasha added, sipping her mulled wine. Steam rose from the cup. “Dane and Annalies were both invited. The invitation includes ‘friends’. That means all of us may attend.”
Ben put his arm around Sharla and pulled her against him and rubbed her arms to warm her. “You’ll get to show me and Dane your pretty ball gown, yet,” he told her.
Sharla wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps I didn’t buy a new gown.”
Ben laughed. “You’ll still be the most beautiful woman there, even in an old gown.” He kissed her cheek.
“The coronation is about ceremony,” Natasha said, as Elisa smiled at the pair. Natasha’s gaze met Bronwen’s. “The ball is about politics. That’s why the invitations are loosely phrased. Everyone is interested in currying favor with the new king.”
“And because the balance of power in Europe has shifted around the new King, everyone else will shore allegiances and form new ones,” Bronwen finished.
Natasha said, with a small smile, “People expect upsets at times like this.”
Bronwen peered through the window at the thinning crowd around the steps of the cathedral. Footmen were trying to guide them up the steps. “It will start soon,” she said.
“Tall, blond, clean shaven…is that him there, Bronwen?” Elisa asked, tapping the window. “Over by the far doors. He’s by himself.”
Bronwen shifted her gaze, looking for a lone man.
Tor was climbing the steps, his gaze ahead. She studied him hungrily. Was it her imagination, or had he lost weight? His hair was the same thick thatch, only trimmed and brushed into order now, instead of whipped about by the wind and hanging over his forehead and shadowing his blue eyes.
He was wearing a formal military uniform, one that Bronwen had never before seen. The great coat was light blue, with red braid curling and swirling up the sleeve and across the chest. The tunic beneath was also blue, with a red, high collar and gold buttons.
Then someone moved ahead and she saw him from head to toe. His uniform trousers were blue, too, with red stripes up the side. He held a gold helmet beneath his arm. Feathers waved from the top of it.
As the Archeduke of Silkeborg, Tor was by birthright one of the most senior generals of the Danish kingdom’s army. Bronwen had read about the Danish monarchy, more than once. Now it was a solid reality, with personal meaning.
He was once more the man she didn’t know. “He looks so different,” she whispered.
“When he kisses you, he won’t be,” Sharla whispered.
Bronwen looked over her shoulder at Sharla. “If he kisses me.”
“Oh, he’ll kiss you,” Ben said, his tone warm.
Sharla slapped his arm.
Ben pulled her back against him. “If the man has an ounce of warm blood in him, he’ll take one glance at Bronwen in her new finery and he won’t be able to help himself.”
“That’s even worse, Ben!” Sharla told him.
“If I were you, I would stop speaking at once,” Natasha told him.
“No, let him hang himself properly,” Sharla muttered, her eyes narrowed.
Bronwen brushed the bodice of her golden brown velvet walking suit self-consciously, watching Tor as he disappeared through the big cathedral doors.
“I only mean,” Ben continued, “that other men might feel that way. I, however, look at Bronwen and all I see is her doing cartwheels on the croquet court, her skirt over her ears and her bare feet and muddy ankles waving.”
Bronwen saw a familiar figure on the far side of the cathedral, standing next to a rented carriage of the same size as theirs. Baumgärtner, Tor’s secretary. The old man watched the last of the dignitaries move inside the cathedral, then stepped up into the carriage. Through the carriage’s window, Bronwen could see the blonde woman sitting, staring at the cathedral as Bronwen had just been doing. She wore a fur hat and jewels at her ears. Her dress was also trimmed with pale fur.
She was every inch a lady.
Bronwen sighed. “What if Tor is like Ben?” she asked everyone in the carriage. “What if he looks at me and all he sees is the woman he met in Yorkshire?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Now turn slowly, so I can see every inch,” Sharla instructed.
Bronwen drew in a shaking breath and turned, as Sharla, Natasha, Elisa and her mother critiqued her dress and appointments with a critical eye.
“This reminds me of your coming out, Sharla,” Elisa said with a soft smile.
“Yes, I was just thinking the same thing,” Sharla admitted. “Stop, Bronwen! There is a loop of Illusion hanging where it should not. Do you see that, Aunt Natasha?”
“Yes, I do.” Natasha came forward, a needle and thread in her hands and bent to tuck the offending netting back into place and stitch it.
Bronwen pressed her hand against her belly, feeling the nervous flutter there as she had all afternoon while Sharla, her mother, Aunt Natasha and Aunt Elisa prepared her for the ball, while debating how best to present her.
Their own toilets had been swift and minimal. They were practiced at the art of beauty, while Bronwen was still stumbling through the simplest ways to move her hoops through narrow doorways and not reveal her ankles. Consequently, the four women were dressed in their elegant ballgowns long before they had finished with Bronwen’s.
The gown was a House of Worth creation, as was Sharla’s mauve and blue silk. Sharla had directed the choosing of Bronwen’s gown. It had been Sharla who had spotted the dull brown dress among the purples and greens and vibrant blues and rainbow hues clustered in the viewing lounge.
“It’s brown,” Bronwen said. “I thought I was supposed to stop wearing mud.”
“It’s gold,” Sharla corrected her. “Also, it is silk. In here, with this poor light, it doesn’t show well. In a ballroom, with the lights and against your skin and hair, it will be the perfect compliment.”
Natasha spread the skirt of the dress out for inspection. It was very full. “Perhaps Sharla is right.”
“At least try it on,” Elisa urged. “A dress never looks like much until the undergarments are supporting it.”
“It seems plain,” Bronwen said.
“On our way back to the hotel, we will buy fifteen yards of Illusion,” Sharla told her. “You won’t walk into the ballroom, Bronwen. You will float.”
The dress had been fitted for her, although there had been little adjustment necessary. The Illusion had been purchased and Sharla had spent two hours arranging the fine netting and draping it about the dress, a fine pucker on her brow as she concentrated.
Now the four of them were standing around her as Bronwen turned, examining every inch.
“When can I look in a mirror?” Bronwen asked one more time.
“Soon,” Sharla said absently. “That eighteen-inch waist of yours is divine, Bronwen. If walking is the cause, I will start walking for miles every day, immediately.”
“The corset is rather tight,” Bronwen said apologetically.
“It is comfortably tight,” Elisa said. “Any tighter and you could not dance. I brought it in just enough to fit the dress and that is all. When
you are not expecting to dance, you might be able to bring it in another inch or two.”
“While I seem to have to let mine out every week,” Sharla muttered.
Elisa gasped and spun to face her. “You do?”
Natasha lifted her chin with a shocked expression.
Annalies just smiled, holding her gloved hands together against her chin in delight.
Elisa skirted around Bronwen’s dress and confronted Sharla, who looked confused and a little frightened. “Shh…” Elisa said, patting her cheek. “Don’t you know? You didn’t suspect?”
“Suspect?” Sharla breathed.
“Your doctor will confirm for you, although a woman’s corset is a more reliable marker,” Natasha said.
“I am almost completely certain you are with child, my dear,” Elisa told Sharla.
Sharla drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes glittered. She fumbled for her top hoop. “I must…I must speak to Ben and Dane…” She hurried away.
Natasha stood up, her stitching finished. She tucked the needle back in the box, then slid on her own long gloves. “You may look in the mirror now,” she told Bronwen.
Annalies and Elisa stepped back out of the way and Bronwen moved over to where the big, three-paned mirror stood in the corner. She held her breath and stepped to where she could see herself.
Sharla had been right to insist upon this dress. It wasn’t an exact match with her hair, but a lighter shade of the same hue. The silk glowed in the candlelight in the dressing room, making it resemble old gold, glinting softly.
She had never worn hoops this wide. She had never seen hoops this big. From her waist, which seemed to be smaller than ever, the gold skirt spread about her, making it impossible to let her hands hang by her sides. Behind her, the hem of the skirt extended into a short train. The edge of the skirt was finished with tiny box pleats, each sewn with golden beads.
From midway down the skirt to the floor, hung garlands of Illusion, each caught up and knotted to resemble a rose. The dress revealed her shoulders and more Illusion draped from the bodice.
Mask of Nobility (Scandalous Scions Book 4) Page 14
