by Thea Devine
Nor could she evade Southam's black virulent eye, especially when he caught the lustrous wind of satin around her wrists.
She needed to do nothing. Everyone did it for her, asking her questions and answering them immediately, and greeting her as though she were some old friend, gently teasing her for joining them so late . . .
The scene was inevitably correct: the undercurrents threatened to swamp them all.
But she got caught up in it. She said pretty words of gratitude to Lady Ottershaw, and unexceptional words of conversation with Charles Griswold and Mr. Tavender. Here and there she replied to a rhetorical question addressed to her by Lady Waynflete as a means of including her in the conversation, and all throughout, she disdainfully avoided meeting Southam's eyes.
That was easy enough, but the heat she felt emanating from him almost fried her resolve. He was impossible, imperative, and utterly unending, and she couldn't conceive for a moment what he
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could possibly want with Lady Waynflete this hour of the morning on a social call, especially since it had been borne upon her that he never aroused himself to do anything he didn't wish to do.
Yet there he sat, languid and smoldering, with perfect reserved manners, polite and attentive, speaking now and again with either Jeremy, Tavender, Griswold, Lady Jane or Lady Ottershaw, avoiding her, and aware with every fiber of his being every time she made one minute little movement.
It was a theatrical performance, a set piece where everyone knew his lines, scripted by years of precedence. There was not a false note anywhere, and yet the whole thing was a perfect illusion.
Her part was very small. A piece where she presented herself, said hello, and sat in the shadows until spoken to.
Perhaps it was best this way. Perhaps she needed to keep reminding herself that she was there solely on Lady Waynflete's sufferance and by the grace of her affection for Southam. It was a wonder she had not questioned his motives for asking her to do this great favor for him. Or perhaps that was the very thing which had brought him to the house this morning.
She felt a frisson of foreboding. What if. . . what if this morning's visit were the thing on which her future in London hinged? What if they had decided between them that —that what? She couldn't begin to think of a scenario that made sense. She only felt an imminent sense of danger and the presentiment that Jeremy had finally prevailed, and that Lady Waynflete would be perfectly happy to show her the door and not ask questions why.
Lady Ottershaw leaned forward toward her. "My dear, I must tell you —you must know everyone . . . even after you had gone—they wanted —well, they asked —and really, I couldn't tell—so of course I had to . . . well, that's one of the reasons why I'm —Lucretia knows . . . everyone was consumed with . . . well, Jeremy told them ... so don't be surprised."
"As opposed to a dozen or two matchmaking mammas who will find their hallstands curiously empty of calling cards," Nicholas put in drily. "You made quite an impression, Miss Bowman."
Now he looked at her directly, and she had the grace to look away.
"So I was told by Lady Waynflete," she said. She couldn't resist
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the irony, and she was more than gratified by the dark warning look that passed over Nicholas' face.
"Oh, but who can blame them?" Lady Jane asked comfortably, even cozily, leaning forward to pat Jainee's hand. "You are so beautiful, my dear. Of course the men will fall all over you. But you have Lady Waynflete to show you the way of things, and I am sure that behind that wondrous countenance you have ample common sense and you will not let your head be turned by all the here and thereians who pressure you to make your acquaintance."
This wonderfully nurturing speech had the immediate effect of making Lady Waynflete feel a great deal better about Jainee. It was important to her that there be no misstep whatsoever concerning her sponsorship of Jainee and that no one feel that Jainee was trying to usurp that which rightfully was the purview of the families who habituated town every year during the season.
Even if it were true that Jane Griswold always tried to see the best in everyone and everything, it was also the case that she would be the first to censure any social solecism.
So it was even more gratifying that she had witnessed the events of the evening before and did not hold it against her protegιe that the eligible bucks had chosen to chase after her rather than mind their manners.
And so she said, "You have put your finger on the very point of it, my dear Jane. Miss Bowman is the most level-headed girl I ever met, and I believe I can say she is the most plain-spoken. She knows exactly when to be candid and when to retire in grace, and I may say I am proud of how she conducted herself last night, despite all provocations."
Lady Jane and Lady Ottershaw nodded assent, and Lady Ottershaw said, "Oh, very prettily behaved . . . most impressed — all the men — how could you help?— never rude, very kind . . .no offense at all."
Thus sealing her approbation of Jainee's behavior by wholeheartedly agreeing with Jane Griswold, and in the presence of no fewer than four eligible gentlemen (including her beloved Jeremy) who would spread the word of how kindly her two friends had spoken of her protegιe.
Lady Waynflete almost clapped her hands together in glee; per-
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haps the thing wasn't as bad as she thought, and perhaps she might get a bit of enjoyment out of it as she had envisioned in Brighton, when Nicholas had first proposed her undertaking the salvation of Miss Bowman.
And perhaps it all might fall apart in her hands, but this morning at least, surrounded as she was by friends and family, she felt secure in her decision, and even a moment's fleeting pride that she was chaperoning the beauty of the season.
The beauty, meanwhile, sat quietly beside her, hardly able to credit the deceitful rodomontade swirling around her. The play again, only the play, and the appearance to the audience—that was all that had any importance whatsoever, she thought acidly. It meant that Southam would not betray her, and neither would Lady Waynflete, so long as the rules and outward amenities were observed.
But she should have known that, she thought, and she should not have let Lady Waynflete's irritation daunt her.
Her part as Lady Waynflete's protegιe was now part of the play and her circle had closed around her and they would not back down.
She was one of them now, and she felt a palpable sense of relief.
"Do not feel too secure in their sanction," Nicholas said suddenly, appearing by her side. "They will kill you as soon as embrace you."
"As opposed to those who would embrace me and stab me from behind at the same time? I prefer my betrayal in two stages, thank you, and I promise you I will never turn my back."
"You are too beautiful," Nicholas said, ignoring that, "and you will either be cut dead or lauded to the skies. There is no middle ground with this society, as you must surely have concluded by now. But I think it will be the worst for you because all the men will be on your side."
"Thank you, my lord," she said acidly. "I feel sure I can look forward to the rest of the season with that comforting reassurance."
"There is nothing comfortable about you, Diana. And no one will be comfortable around you except the legions of men who will follow you wherever you go. Take it as both a prophecy and a warn-
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ing. And now I must mind my manners and give over my place to Tavender here, who is just salivating to speak with you."
She hated him, she really hated him and his steely barbs and his simmering black eyes that positively seared her with their malice. She hated him. Her hands clenched into fists as she smiled up at lavender and he eagerly took Southam's place beside her.
She hated him, and she would punish him severely for his malevolent insinuations.
It really was quite easy, because he was watching her at that very moment with a proprietary eye, just daring her to make one misstep with the poor guileless lavender.
In a w
ay, it was too bad; she really had to mind her manners this morning because it was not only Southam's jaundiced gaze that was covertly watching her. Everyone in the room was observing her manners and her morals this day, and she could do nothing that would even remotely give rise to any gossip.
"Mr. Tavender," she said brightly, holding out her hand to him. "How very nice to see you."
It wasn't; it was excruciating sitting through a conversation with him and his well-meant, earnest compliments. But still, Lady Waynflete watched her with an eagle eye as Blexter brought in various tidbits for them to eat and pots of coffee and chocolate. Morning wore into early afternoon and everyone seemed loath to be the first to leave.
"Oh look," Lady Waynflete cried joyously, "we have more company," as Blexter handed her a card. "It's Dunstan. Dunstan has come."
A moment later, he appeared at the door, tall and elegant, bright-eyed and fit, his whole attention hewing to Lady Waynflete and no one else.
"Of course I've come," he said with a hint of snappishness which was either real or playful; no one could tell for sure. "I'm probably the only man in town who has not met your Beauty and I mean to remedy that this instant."
"Of course," Lady Waynflete said happily. "But you were nowhere around last evening, so of course you never met her."
She turned to Jainee, who was frozen in place.
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"My dear, Nicholas' uncle, Dunstan Carradine. Dunstan, my protegee, Jainee Bowman."
She held out her hand; she wondered that she wasn't trembling from head to foot as Dunstan took it and held it in his own, tightly, warningly, and said, without batting an eye, "So charmed my dear. Lucretia, she is a raving beauty; all the reports were no exaggeration."
He turned back to Jainee. "You have taken town by storm, and the season has yet to begin. I owe you an apology for waiting so long to call."
She drew in a soul-steadying breath; she could not believe him, so aloof and collected he was, as if he were not as shaken as she. You owe me nothing, she thought viciously, as she smiled coolly up at him, hiding behind her gambler's face, the one that allowed her to stare into his with the same unemotional equanimity.
"Apology accepted," she said lightly, dismissively, as she tried vainly to reclaim her hand from the prison of his. No, apology denied. The apology comes years too late—Father.
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Chapter Fourteen
It was inconceivable to her that no one in that room noticed the cataclysmic connection between them.
But then, why should they have? There was nothing about him that remotely resembled her: even his eyes, which she remembered as a deep sapphire blue much closer to her own, were nothing like her memory. They seemed faded, just as he appeared faded in the indeterminate way of someone grown older, different, far away.
His eyes were sharp, guarded, warning her, and the pressure on her hands was intense. She felt frozen in time again, she felt fourteen and she could, in her mind's memory, superimpose over this degenerated face the one that haunted her young girl's dreams.
She could hear his voice: A moment, Jainee, a mere moment to take my son and be alone with him. Let me have my moment, child, because it may be forever before I see him again . . .
A moment, she thought, her heart seized with rage as he held her immovable and some glittering conversation went on around her that she did not hear, a moment and then eternity; he had walked away with the boy and out of her life, and he had walked back into it just as cavalierly and expected her to breathe not a word.
He sensed her thinking: she could feel it, and she knew he could not read it in her eyes or the expression on her face. It was something in the tension of her body and the peculiar feeling of release once she had made the decision not to make the devastating announcement here.
Or not to make it, ever.
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No, no —she had not thought that far ahead, but it was almost as if he had insinuated the idea into her mind all the while she had kept her eyes steadily on his face.
He was reading her eyes and she was reading his.
You would be wise to keep your counsel, daughter.
I have not decided quite how to handle it, but the story will be told.
I trust not. I hope you understand my warning.
But I have nothing to lose, father.
I will denounce you every bit as forcefully as you condemn me. Which of us do you think will be believed, tell me?
Still, when I fall, dear father, I will not fall so far as you.
When you fall, daughter, you may be dead . . .
She saw it —she didn't imagine it, the flash of pure murderous hate was there, gone in a blink, followed by the pacifying look of alternative reasoning: you have no reason to tell—ever.
And it was true, it was true: no reason except that it was a condition of her bargain with Dunstan's nephew; no reason at all beyond that, and her corroded need to confront him which had exploded in a way she had never dreamed all those years after he had abandoned them.
No reason ever if she wanted to stay alive.
"Dunstan, dear, you have monopolized poor Jainee unpardonably for this last half hour," Lady Waynflete interposed gaily without even a hint of subtlety. "The poor girl looks worn to a frazzle; I hope you did not bore her with talk of politics. No one is interested in politics this time of year."
Dunstan smiled ruefully. "Oh, I think not, Lucretia, but it is hard to remember every time I look at her face exactly what we have been talking about, is that not so, Miss Bowman?"
"I cannot see my face, so I am hard put to comment, sir," Jainee said testily, and she was startled when everyone laughed.
Lady Waynflete did not smile. "Well, I am never one to break up a delightful party, but it seems to me we are well into the afternoon and Jeremy and bis friends will forego their plans for the day unless they depart now."
It was a signal, perhaps not so gracious as she might have been, but as she expected, Jeremy, lavender and Charles Griswold imme-
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diately began making their excuses and taking their departure.
And as soon as they had gone, Jainee, in what Lady Waynflete thought was an unprecedented gesture of good manners, made her excuses as well.
What she didn't like and couldn't take was Dunstan, gazing deep into her protegιe's eyes and murmuring, "We will see each other again, and soon."
She hated that. For one fulminating moment, she hated Jainee and she stood still as a statue as Jainee made her exit through the parlor doors.
Only then did Dunstan come to her and take her hands and suggest that they sit down together with Jane and Arabella and catch up on what had been happening.
And of course there was Nicholas, standing in a corner and glowering at his uncle, at Jainee, at Jeremy and his friends, to what purpose Lady Waynflete couldn't begin to understand.
The moment Dunstan made himself comfortable beside her was the moment Nicholas chose to take his leave.
Nicholas was not happy and she could not for the life of her figure out why when the truth was, she was unhappy and he should have sensed it, especially knowing how she felt about his uncle Dunstan.
But nothing mattered now Dunstan was sitting beside her and all cozy by the fire with Jane and Arabella; she never even noticed when Nicholas left.
And she quelled the jealous jolt of her heart when Dunstan put his hand over hers and began, "Lucretia, the girl is quite stunning. Wherever did you find her? You must tell me the whole story— every last little thing . . ."
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She felt as if she had been struck by a bolt of lightning; for the first time in her life she could not conceive of what action to take. All she wanted to do was crawl into her bed, away from everyone, so that she could feel safe and warm.
There was no running, no hiding from the elemental truth of the matter: Southam's uncle was her father. The ramifications were appalling. It meant they were cousins; it meant they were blood. But
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it did not negate all that had happened between them; the conjunction of their bloodline seemed so distant that it couldn't possibly be relevant. The worst part was, she could never tell him. And that was coupled with the heartstopping realization that her search was almost over, her promise to Therese fulfilled.
Her head whirled with the complications. Her practical self told her incisively, run. What sense did it make to remain in a place where there was such palpable danger? Why should she care about the boy? The boy was the boy; in all likelihood her father had never revealed his lineage —why would he have? It would only have linked him to the past he did not wish to acknowledge, and perhaps to something that would endanger his life.
How naive had she been not to assume that he would have planned for every contingency. A devious one, her mother had said, an aristocrat, a diplomat—and still she had not put the clues together to conclude she would be seeking a formidable opponent who would bring to bear every means at his disposal to rake over his past and cover every story.
Everything but one thing: the unexpected appearance of a daughter he never thought to see again.
What did a man do then, who had built a life for himself far beyond that one which he had chosen to share with the woman he had married?
She knew what such a man did: he dared her to wreck the edifice of lies he had built. He challenged her to try, and he threatened her life if she so much as attempted it.
And who was stronger? Who had every resource at his command to crush her and wipe her away as if she had never existed?
And who had not a particle of paternal feeling for a daughter he had not chosen to see in ten years?
She had no choices. She didn't know what she had except her obligation to Southam and the unexpected end of the line in her search for her father.
And the one was not compatible with the other.
For the first time since she had begun this adventure, she felt frightened, and she could not think of one solitary thing she might do to regain her momentum.
