by Liz Carlyle
Fleetingly, Delacourt feared she might be crying, and froze. He’d seen her on the verge of tears once before, and the long-ago memory tormented him still. What in God’s name was she doing here, anyway, in this place of bleak desolation? The very thought of it made him bitterly angry.
Reality was not supposed to be inflicted upon gently bred women. Who the devil was responsible for her? That witless Harry? Her pompous stepson, Giles? Why, a woman like Cecilia should be safely tucked away in some comfortable country house, playing with her children by the fire, sheltered from the world’s iniquity by a devoted husband.
But that was none of his business, was it?
He shook off the bitterness and wrestled his anger into submission. “Cecilia?” he called softly, one foot on the landing, his hand resting lightly on the newel post.
She looked up at him, blinking uncertainly, as if she did not recognize him.
Delacourt climbed the last five stairs, and paced anxiously toward her chair. “Cecilia, I’m so sorry about Miss O’Gavin. Is the doctor still with her?”
Mutely, Cecilia nodded as she raked a tangle of hair off her forehead with a heavy hand. She looked so wretchedly weary—and damnably alone—in the cold, murky light of the unlit corridor. Abruptly, he let go his pride and knelt by her chair.
“And what of you?” Gently, he took her small, bloodless hand and lightly chafed it between his own. “Are you all right?”
Cecilia never answered his question. Instead, she leaned back in the chair, making no effort to withdraw her hand from his. “Kitty is going to lose her baby, David,” she said very quietly. “And she will lose it because she’s a fifteen-year-old child who’s been too cold and too malnourished, and left alone in a bad world for too bloody long.” Deeply, she sighed, her chest shuddering with the intensity of it.
Just then, the door opened, swinging outward on hinges which squalled in protest. A tall, middle-aged man with a leather medical bag ducked under the low lintel and stepped into the hall. He was followed by Mrs. Quince, who gingerly carried a basin of pink-stained water which she put down on a small hall table. Delacourt winced at the reality of it.
“Sir James, how is she?” Cecilia rose slowly from her chair. “And the babe? Will it live?”
Grimly, the doctor shook his head. “She’s weak, Lady Walrafen,” he admitted. “Very weak. I hold little hope for the child.”
Cecilia made a strange, choking sound and stepped back a pace. Gently, the matron leaned forward to pat her on the shoulder. “Now, now, my lady! Don’t take on so! We’ve been through this before. Sir James has done what he can. The babe’s in God’s hands.”
“Well, God certainly seems to call a prodigious number of them home.” Cecilia’s voice was tormented and bitter. “And I, for one, have grown weary of it. These girls want their children just as much as any woman.”
For a moment, Mrs. Quince looked as though she might argue, but apparently, she had not the heart. “There, there, Lady Walrafen! I know how you take on when a wee one is lost.”
Delacourt could bear Cecilia’s pain no longer. “Just what would it take?” he interjected, blundering in without an introduction. “I mean, what would Miss O’Gavin require in order to be well again?”
Apparently, no introduction was needed, for the doctor looked at him in mild disdain. “What does she need, my lord?” he echoed incredulously. “Why, she needs good food, clean water, and air free of soot and smoke. She needs a decent job—one which does not require her to walk the streets whilst selling her soul—and a sane, safe world in which to bear and raise her child. Can we simply stitch those up out of whole cloth, do you think?”
Anger spiked in Delacourt’s chest. What had he done to earn this doctor’s contempt? Who the hell did he think he was? In blazing arrogance, Delacourt’s gaze swept over the doctor, but he saw only a tired, middle-aged man with a drained expression, loosened shirt hems, and bloodstains splashed across what had once been perfectly starched cuffs.
And then comprehension struck like a flash of lightning. On his next breath, Delacourt wished to the devil he’d never had to see the inside of this wretched place. But he had. And now, no matter how he tried to cling to it, his shield of righteous indignation was dissolving, and uncomfortable reality was seeping in, chilling his soul.
Perhaps like so many of his class, Delacourt wanted to think that the world’s social ills could be easily righted—indeed, if one must think of them at all. Such an attitude was no doubt an insult, a cold slap in the face of those who daily swam against a tide of poverty and misery.
Surprisingly, it was Cecilia who leapt to his defense. “I’m sure Delacourt does not mean to trivialize the matter, Sir James,” she softly insisted. “It’s just that he does not yet understand all our obstacles.”
The doctor’s visage softened very little, but his next words were more conciliatory. “Yes, yes, to be sure,” he muttered. “It has been a difficult afternoon for us all.”
Cecilia spoke again. “Sir James, what more can we do for Kitty?”
After rummaging in his leather satchel, the doctor withdrew a stout, brown vial and pressed it into Mrs. Quince’s hand. “She’s to have this every four hours,” he answered. “And other than that, there’s little one can do. Keep her warm, feed her well—beef tea, custards, any sort of stewed meat—if she will eat, which I question. In addition to being with child, Miss O’Gavin has suffered tremendous grief and emotional strain. Her sister’s death has affected her deeply, and she seems disturbed in a way which I am at a loss to understand.”
Mrs. Quince nodded vigorously. “Aye, there’s something weighing heavy on that child’s mind, but she’ll not say a word. Hard and forbearing, the Irish.”
Abruptly, Delacourt spoke again. “Can she be moved, Doctor? If there were, perhaps, a healthier place for her to stay?”
“Moved?” Sir James looked taken aback. “Perhaps, if the bleeding and nausea subside, and she begins to take a little nourishment. But wherever would the poor child go?”
The doctor did not wait for the answer which he clearly believed was not forthcoming. Instead, he shut his leather valise with a businesslike snap, buckled it, and headed for the stairs. “I shall be in the surgery at Saint Thomas’s until five,” he said over his shoulder. “Send for me if she worsens.”
At once, Mrs. Quince picked up her basin of water and followed Sir James down, leaving Delacourt alone with Cecilia in the corridor. Cecilia sank back into her chair.
With an odd twinge of sadness, Delacourt realized that for the first time in the whole of their strange relationship, he and Cecilia had passed more than five minutes together without quarreling. What a pity it had taken a tragedy to achieve it.
Lightly, almost instinctively, he reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Cecilia, my dear, I have something to say to you, but I think that it must wait. Will you permit me to call your carriage and send you home?”
Vaguely, she shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You can do no more here today. Your dress has been ruined, and you need to rest.”
Cecilia stared past him, into the depths of the passageway. “Perhaps you are right,” she answered quietly.
“I’m sure of it.”
She stood, and his hand slipped from her shoulder. “Then I shall gather my things,” she said, moving toward the stairs with a slow, sad grace. Suddenly, she looked back over her shoulder at him, her expression soft but otherwise inscrutable. “Shall I see you tonight, my lord?”
“Tonight?” he echoed, a foolish sort of hope coursing through him.
“The board meeting,” she answered hollowly. “It is my turn to host it.”
“Oh, the board meeting,” he quietly echoed. Then hope surged again. “I’m to call at your house?”
“Number Three, Park Crescent,” she answered. “We meet the third Wednesday of each month. Of course, if you’ve other plans...”
For one infinitesimal moment, Delacourt remem
bered the voluptuous auburn-haired actress he’d espied at the Theatre Royal last month. Tonight her play was closing, and he had previously thought to offer her a new, more stimulating role by way of consolation. But he stepped a little nearer to Cecilia, and the thought was gone, vanishing on a whiff of her sweet, simple scent.
“No, I’ve no plans,” he insisted a little roughly. “Other than to fulfill my agreement with Amherst.”
———
Much later, in the falling February dusk, Henrietta Healy pulled her thick wool cloak a little closer and stared across the grass of Regent’s Park as a slender canal boat slipped quietly past. Devoid of cargo, it skimmed high in the water, floating back down to Limehouse for reloading. On the narrow deck, a boatman stood, legs spread wide, coiling a rope about his arm. Lazily, he turned, winking over his shoulder at Etta.
The wind shifted then, teasing at the scarf about her throat, and sending a visible shiver down her spine. “Etta, you are cold,” said Cecilia fretfully as they strolled, their cloak hems catching on the stiff winter grass. “How thoughtless I am. Should we go in? I daresay you’ll want to be off to your aunt’s soon.”
“Brr!” said Etta. “It is near darkmans, mum. Don’t the cold never get ter you?”
Cecilia laughed, but it was a sound devoid of humor. “I’ve a bit more flesh on my bones than you, Etta,” she answered, pausing abruptly on the tow-path. “I wish I could give you two stone of mine.”
Etta’s laugh was rich and knowing. “Oh, no, mum! Got a proper figure, you have. Round and full and in all the right places. That’s just the thing to turn a man’s eye.”
Cecilia cast an appraising eye down Etta’s lanky figure. “I doubt that, Etta. But to be sure, you are too thin...”
Suddenly, a vision of Kitty caught in her mind, a frail, bloodless girl, trembling with nausea on her cot. For a moment, the image was so strong, Cecilia found herself unable to speak. How could Kitty have failed to comprehend the significance of carrying a child? Perhaps in her world, it was not something to be treasured but, rather, just another problem in a life filled with hardship. Still, had the mission known, Kitty could have been given extra food, more meat and milk. But would it have made any difference if the girl wouldn’t eat?
Etta looked at her strangely. “Aye, you’d be thinking of poor old Kitty again,” she said knowingly. “But like me Aunt Mercy says, you can’t fix all the world’s ills, mum. No, not by a long shot.”
Slowly, Cecilia resumed walking, turning away from the towpath to cross the wide expanse of grass which lay between the canal and her front door. “Tell me, Etta, how in God’s name does it happen?”
Equivocally, Etta shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Wrong time o’ the month, and the poor goose forgot her sponges, most likely.”
Cecilia looked at her strangely. “Her what?”
Across the grass, two dapper young gentlemen were approaching, their tall beaver hats nearly touching as they bent low in conversation. Ignoring them, Cecilia turned to Etta. She was stunned to see the maid blushing. “Lor, mum!” Etta finally answered. “You bein’ a widow an’ all, wouldn’t you know?”
“Know what?” asked Cecilia.
Etta sighed impatiently. “If a fellow won’t use a skin, then you just soak a little bit of sponge in vinegar—or brandy, if you got it—and then you... well, you put it in. Don’t they teach proper ladies that?”
“No. No, they don’t,” answered Cecilia, mystified. “What do you put them in?”
The approaching men were much closer now, but in her discomfiture, Etta apparently did not see them. “Gawd, m’lady!” she squawked. “Sponges! To keep from ‘aving a child!”
On the path ahead, one of the young men burst into a giggle, but struggled valiantly to conceal it behind an elegant kidskin glove. It was Cecilia’s turn to blush. “Good heavens, Etta!” she hissed. “I didn’t mean how did Kitty get with child! My question was rather more abstract than that!”
“Abst-what?”
“Oh, never mind,” insisted Cecilia. At least Etta could be relied upon to jolt one out of the doldrums. She watched as, one by one, the windows began to light up in the elegant sweep of terraces which edged the park. And suddenly, she wanted to go home; to shut herself inside her ivory walls and shut out all the world’s iniquity.
She quickened her pace, and they strolled homeward in silence until curiosity bested Cecilia. “Just what did you mean, Etta, about the time of the month?”
This time, Etta looked around before speaking. “You count orf the days, mum, to yer mid-cycle. That’s when a gal’s most apt to conceive. And that’s when you got to use them sponges,” she whispered insistently. “Didn’t yer ma tell you anything?”
“Mama died when I was born,” said Cecilia quietly. “I didn’t have a sister, just an aunt who lived far away. I suppose I must seem very stupid.”
“Well,” said Etta in a warning tone. “You might best be learnin’ a thing or two, mum, what w’ that company you been keepin.’ No insult, mind.”
“You mean to tease me about Lord Delacourt, I see,” said Cecilia. “But even I am not that stupid. Besides, he isn’t really interested in me, he just wishes to torment me.”
“Oh, a man like that ‘un will torment you, mum, and no mistake,” said Etta softly. “But I’m thinking you don’t fully appreciate how. Now, step lively, cause I got to get that mess o’ hair put up afore I pike off to me Aunt Mercy’s for the night.”
Obediently, Cecilia picked up her pace, thinking as she did so that Etta could not be more wrong. Cecilia understood exactly how a man like Delacourt could torment a woman. Indeed, she had to admit that he’d been tormenting her in just that way for years, and he had been doing it quite effortlessly. The memory of his very first kiss haunted her still. She had desired him then as she desired him now.
And yet, Cecilia had resisted him, because that sort of man was easily resisted. One had only to remember the difference between right and wrong. Morality and immorality. But the man she’d seen at the mission this afternoon—oh, that was another thing altogether! Resisting a man with anguish in his voice and tenderness in his touch was far more complicated. Resisting a man who gave a damn about those around him was nearly impossible. And while Delacourt might be a scoundrel, it was becoming apparent that he did, surprisingly, give a damn.
Chapter Seven
The Midnight Guest
Lord Delacourt was somewhat delayed in his journey to Park Crescent that night, for despite Kemble’s best efforts, the viscount had again been plagued by a less than perfect neck cloth. In frustration, he’d finally given up and left wearing an ordinary en cascade which, only a fortnight prior, would have been wholly unacceptable.
Tonight it mattered very little. Indeed, a great many of his priorities seemed to have shifted, and in ways he could scarce understand.
As his coachman made his way through the traffic rolling up Regent Street, Delacourt rummaged in his pocket for the letter which a messenger had delivered at dusk. Chief Inspector de Rohan had been both succinct and prompt in his response. But the writing was too small and too precise to be reread by the faint light of his carriage lamp. No matter. He knew what it said.
He looked up to stare through the window at the passing carts and carriages which rumbled over the cobbles and through the busy night. The evening was bitterly cold, the darkness heavy with the promise of rain.
In the pools of streetlight beyond his window glass, Delacourt watched the passersby dart from their storefronts and hasten from coffee houses, and he could not but wonder if they had a mission in life. Where did they go with such smart steps and such a strong sense of purpose? And had he ever gone anywhere at all? Or was he forever Delacourt—sophisticated, languorous, and so very nearly useless?
Finally, the coach rocked to a halt, and he bounded up the steps to find Cecilia’s small drawing room already crowded. Cecilia’s butler, a tall, pale fellow with a rasping throat and watery eyes, escorted him in, and at on
ce, Delacourt’s gaze caught upon Lady Kirton, the quiet widow who, like Cecilia, served as patroness to the mission.
Delacourt had met her the previous day, and to his surprise, he had liked her very much, and so he moved in that direction, nodding to the other board members as he went. Surprisingly, he knew them all, though none well. And they were not, he inwardly admitted, the silly social butterflies he’d once thought them. Instead, all were active in either politics, reform, or social welfare, and none was considered the highest of haute ton.
Giles was there, of course, his welcome cool at best. Quickly, Lady Kirton introduced her friend Colonel Lauderwood, whom he vaguely knew, but almost at once they were called in to dinner. Delacourt found himself seated between Giles and Lord Ridge, where he was meant to act as a buffer, no doubt. Prior to old Walrafen’s death, Giles had sat in the Commons, his leanings notoriously pro-reform, whereas Ridge was an inveterate Tory. Delacourt was mildly surprised to see that Sir James Seese, the physician from the mission, completed the board.
As to Delacourt’s reception, he was greeted with everything from overt suspicion on the part of Colonel Lauderwood to a hearty back-pounding from Lord Ridge. Nonetheless, he obliged himself to be cordial to everyone, an easy task when he set his mind to it. And then, he urged himself not to gape at Cecilia, a mission of monumental proportions.
Her smile almost unnaturally brilliant, Cecilia sat at the head of the table, turning from one person to another, her dangling diamond earrings winking in the candlelight. Though she usually dressed with unerring conservatism, tonight she wore a daring dress of dark green crepe over ivory satin, the very same he’d seen at Ogden’s house party. The gown had since been altered and was now less formal. But he would have known it anywhere, for its plunging décolletage had left him speechless and feeling absurdly angry. Just as it did now.
Surely she realized how blatantly it exposed the high ivory swell of her breasts? So why the devil had she chosen such a thing for tonight’s dinner? Admittedly, it was elegant in its simplicity. And there was no denying Cecilia’s ample cleavage was worthy of display. And yes, green was the perfect foil for her pile of rich red-gold hair. But had she meant the dress to impress someone? And if so, whom?
