Anne Herries

by Rosalynand the Scoundrel

  ‘You did not,’ she replied and smiled at him.

  ‘You are very gracious.’ His dark eyes met Rosalyn’s. ‘I was not expecting to see you here, Miss Eastleigh.’

  ‘We came up for a last fitting for Beatrice’s wedding gown and a little shopping. We have been here two days and return home at the end of the week.’

  ‘Ah…’ Damian nodded. ‘I myself expect to be here several more days. My business is taking longer than I had hoped.’

  ‘Then we shall be back in Cambridgeshire before you,’ Rosalyn said and glanced at the pretty silver watch pinned to the lapel of her gown. ‘I see it is past noon. I suppose we ought to be thinking of returning home. Beatrice and I have been out all morning. Besides, we have an important engagement this evening. Lord Renshaw’s ball…’

  ‘Renshaw’s ball?’ Damian nodded, his eyes intent on her face. ‘I believe it will be a sad crush.’

  ‘But that means it will be a success, you know,’ said Beatrice, laughing at him. ‘If there was actually room to move freely, it would be counted a failure.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you are right. It is years since I attended such a function,’ Damian admitted. ‘However, I do seem to recall something of the sort. I wish you both a pleasant evening.’

  Rosalyn sighed inwardly, as he tipped his hat once more and walked on. She had hoped Damian might have said he too would be attending the ball, but it had been a forlorn hope. It was to be a sparkling society affair, one of the most important balls of the new season. She could hardly expect Damian to be on the guest list. He had spoken of himself as a social outcast, though she imagined most people would have long forgotten the old scandal. Even so, it was unlikely he had been invited.

  It had not been possible to arrange another meeting with Beatrice there, but perhaps it was for the best. She would be returning to the country soon enough.

  Damian walked into the select gaming club. He had not bothered to put his name forward for membership, but was able to come and go at will as his uncle’s guest. It was just one of the several clubs he had visited in the hope of finding Bernard Harrington. So far, that particular gentleman was proving difficult to track down. It seemed he must have reformed his old habits, for Damian had been told he was definitely in town.

  He must seek him elsewhere. Perhaps Harrington’s degenerate ways had given him a taste for low dives and gaming hells. Since he had not visited any of the exclusive clubs he had been used to frequent, he must be gambling at less respectable haunts. Damian was about to leave in search of him when someone laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Good lord!’ a cheerful voice exclaimed as he turned to find himself staring at a man he had not met for years. ‘Is it really you, Damian? I had heard you were in the country—why didn’t you call on me?’

  A slow smile spread over Damian’s mouth, bringing genuine warmth to his dark eyes. His friend had put on weight over the years, but he was still the same honest, decent fellow he had always been—and there was real pleasure in his greeting.

  ‘Renshaw,’ he said and laughed as he found himself heartily embraced in a bear hug. ‘I meant to call, but you know how things stand…’ He shrugged expressively. ‘I wasn’t sure…’

  ‘You must have known you would be welcome?’ Lord Hugh Renshaw’s brows rose. ‘My house is always open to you. No matter what anyone else thinks, Damian! After what you did for Helen. You must know I would never turn my back on you.’ He frowned at the memory. ‘It should have been me. I should have been the one to call that devil out!’

  ‘With your reputation as the worst shot in England? You could never hit a barn door from ten paces,’ Damian replied, chuckling at his friend’s affronted look. Then his smile faded, his expression becoming serious. ‘Besides, we both loved her, Hugh. It only mattered that she should be avenged.’

  ‘You did that,’ Renshaw said grimly, and there was anger now in his gentle eyes. ‘But suffered for it. It was a terrible price you paid—exile from your home and everything you loved.’

  ‘If you think that, your wits must be addled,’ Damian replied with a wicked grin. ‘It was the best thing my father ever did for me, sending me to India.’

  ‘You ain’t a nabob?’ Renshaw’s eyes widened. ‘Made your fortune, did you?’ Damian nodded and he laughed, the old grief returned to its habitual place in a tiny corner of his heart. His friend slapped his thigh in high humour. ‘Well, if that ain’t the best thing I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. Have you come home to rub their noses in it? All those damned idiots who cast you out? Serve ’em right if you have!’

  ‘Grandfather left everything to me. I had to come back, to sort out the mess. It seems there are quite a few debts. Jacob can do nothing without my help.’

  ‘Leave ’em to sink in it, I would,’ said his friend robustly. ‘Pack of rascals, the lot of them! Begging your pardon, Damian, but there ain’t one of your family worth the saving. Not one of them lifted a finger to set the record straight. It was my father who did that—and was glad to do it. Can’t thank you enough for keeping quiet all these years. No one outside our family has ever known that my sister was…’ He stopped, choked with emotion.

  Damian saw the pain, still so raw after all this time, and gripped his shoulder. ‘She was as dear to me as she was to you,’ he said gruffly. ‘The sister I never had.’

  ‘I always hoped she would be more to you one day,’ Hugh said and sighed as he remembered the lovely, innocent girl, hardly more than a child, who had died of shame.

  ‘I must tell you something,’ Damian said. ‘Something I discovered too late…’

  ‘Something to do with Helen?’

  ‘Yes.’ Damian looked grim. ‘It seems we have some unfinished business, Hugh—and perhaps you can help me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Whatever you need,’ Hugh assured him. ‘Come and lunch with me. Tell you what, Lady Renshaw is giving a small affair this evening—why don’t you join us?’

  ‘A small affair?’ Damian’s knowing eyes mocked him. ‘I have it on the highest authority that it is bound to be a sad crush and therefore a success.’

  ‘Lady Renshaw’s ball always is,’ murmured Hugh and sighed in a melancholy way that did not deceive his friend for a moment. Hugh was proud of his lovely wife, and her extravagance. ‘Between us, old fellow, I sometimes think Jane is set on beggaring me—but think of it like this, amongst so many, one more cannot make the slightest difference.’

  Damian chuckled and promised to consider his friend’s invitation. He was not particularly interested in attending a society ball—and yet Rosalyn would be there. Perhaps he might be able to snatch a few moments alone with her.

  Chapter Six

  ‘You look lovely,’ Rosalyn said and kissed the younger girl’s cheek. It was early evening; they were in Rosalyn’s bedchamber and Beatrice had come to show her her gown before they went downstairs. ‘That shade of blue particularly becomes you, dearest.’ She held up a choker of pearls to show the girl. ‘Could you please fasten these for me? The clasp is a little awkward at times.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rosalyn said, patting the necklace on her neck as Beatrice fastened the tiny diamond clasp. ‘Papa gave me these. I am very fond of them and do not wish to change the fastening, because I think it particularly pretty, though difficult to secure.’

  ‘It is pretty—and you are beautiful,’ responded Beatrice. ‘I could never wear such a rich shade of green. On you, it is magnificent.’

  ‘Thank you. Emerald has always been a favourite shade of mine, though I would not call myself beautiful.’ Rosalyn glanced at the small gilt-and-bronze clock on her dressing chest. ‘Perhaps we should go down? Unless you—’ She had been about to ask if Beatrice thought she ought to go to inquire if her aunt was ready, but turned her head as someone knocked at her bedroom door. ‘Yes, come in.’

  A maid entered, giving her a rather flustered curtsy. ‘Miss Eastleigh…Mrs Jenkins bade me tell you she is laid on her bed
and too sick to leave it this night.’

  ‘Aunt Patricia is ill?’ Beatrice cried, looking anxiously at Rosalyn. ‘Does that mean we may not go to the ball?’

  ‘Wait here,’ Rosalyn said, frowning. ‘I shall speak to her. I see no reason why we should not go—unless she is very ill, of course.’

  It was the second time Mrs Jenkins had cried off that day. Rosalyn hurried along the landing to her room, knocked and, being invited to enter, did so. Mrs Jenkins was lying against a pile of pillows and looking quite unwell, her complexion slightly yellow.

  ‘I am sorry you are feeling poorly,’ Rosalyn said. ‘Shall I send for a doctor?’

  ‘No, thank you. I am occasionally prone to these bouts of nausea. I shall be well enough soon. All I need is rest and quiet.’ Mrs Jenkins sighed and held a lavender scented kerchief to her nose.

  ‘Then I shall leave you in peace,’ Rosalyn replied. ‘If you need anything, you have only to ring and someone will come.’

  ‘You mean to attend Renshaw’s ball, then?’

  ‘You would hardly wish Beatrice to miss such a prestigious affair?’

  ‘No—no, I suppose not,’ Mrs Jenkins said, reaching for her little silver vinaigrette, which was rather pretty and engraved with leaves and vines. ‘I dare say she will be safe with Sir Frederick—and you.’

  Rosalyn allowed herself a smile. ‘Yes. I am convinced she will always be safe in my brother’s care. Do not hesitate to ring if you need anything, ma’am. Forgive me if I leave you now: Beatrice is waiting.’

  Mrs Jenkins waved her away. Rosalyn scolded herself for feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders as she returned to Beatrice. It was very unkind in her, but she could not help thinking the evening would be so much more enjoyable without Beatrice’s disagreeable aunt watching every move she made!

  Beatrice’s prediction was proved correct the moment they entered Lord Renshaw’s large and impressive house in Mayfair. The very handsome rooms were overflowing with richly dressed ladies and gentlemen, their jewels flashing beneath the light of brilliant crystal chandeliers. Despite the size of the rooms and the high ceilings, it was extremely hot and the ballroom windows had been opened to let in some air.

  Rosalyn accepted a glass of cold champagne and made her way unhurriedly towards the windows. She was in some part Beatrice’s chaperon that evening and imagined she would not dance very much, if at all—though she had already noticed several gentlemen she knew: friends of Freddie and some older men who had occasionally called on her father before his illness.

  She stood watching for a few moments, her foot tapping in time to the music, absorbing the atmosphere. It was a long time since she had attended such an affair and she found she was enjoying the experience.

  ‘Are you not dancing this evening, Miss Eastleigh?’

  Rosalyn’s heart jerked as she heard the familiar voice behind her. She turned, her expressive face reflecting her great surprise and pleasure at seeing him.

  ‘Damian!’ she cried. ‘I hoped—but you said nothing earlier and I supposed you would not be here.’

  ‘Renshaw insisted on it,’ Damian replied, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. ‘I am not quite without friends—even though I do not choose to impose myself on them.’

  ‘You cannot imagine a true friend would consider it an imposition to have you as a guest? If it were not for Freddie’s situation, I should have requested Mrs Jenkins to leave the other evening.’

  ‘Would you, my dearest Miss Eastleigh? How very brave you are.’

  Rosalyn flushed. ‘Do not mock me. I have no intention of allowing Mrs Jenkins to dictate to me once the wedding is over.’

  ‘A veritable Amazon,’ Damian murmured wickedly. How lovely she looked tonight! Especially with that faint flush of pride in her cheeks. ‘Brave enough to dance with me? I wonder.’

  ‘Yes, though I must confess Mrs Jenkins is not here to censure me.’ Rosalyn caught his mood. Her eyes sparkled with a naughty sense of humour. ‘No, no, you must not look so! It is unkind of you. She suffered a most unfortunate bilious attack and was unable to accompany us. However, in the circumstances, I see no reason why we should not dance, sir.’

  ‘Then I am rewarded for having allowed Hugh to persuade me into coming this evening.’ He bowed to her. ‘Shall we see if I can remember how to dance, Miss Eastleigh?’

  She laughed, taking his hand as the musicians struck up a popular melody and groups began to form on the dance floor. It was a country dance, which meant that Rosalyn passed from her own partner to others, returning after certain moves had been executed. She clasped his hand, smiling up at him for a moment before being claimed by the next gentleman.

  ‘It is nice to see you in town, Miss Eastleigh,’ the young man said. ‘I do not suppose you remember me?’

  ‘Of course I do, Mr Carlton. Freddie brought you down to stay with us two years ago. I remember very well.’

  ‘Grown up a bit since,’ he said. ‘I was still a bit wet behind the ears then. Dare say you thought me an idiot? Must have done—Freddie and me both, larking about when you were wishing to be quiet.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied and smiled at him. ‘You gave me a copy of Lord Byron’s poems. I often read something from it before I retire. It is quite a favourite with me.’

  ‘Really?’ Philip Carlton went pink with pleasure. ‘Perhaps you would stand up with me later?’ he asked as they were obliged to part company.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled again and passed on.

  ‘One of your admirers?’ Damian asked, mouth quirking at the corners as she took his hand once more. ‘Tell me—do I have a rival for your affections?’

  ‘Foolish man,’ chided Rosalyn. ‘He cannot be older than Freddie.’

  ‘A case of calf love, then,’ Damian murmured. ‘Do you know how lovely you look this evening? I should like to kiss you.’

  Rosalyn gave him a speaking look. He was wicked to tease her. Surely he knew how much she longed to be in his arms?

  ‘We should spoil the formation if we left now,’ she said softly. ‘But I declare it is so hot in here I can scarcely breathe.’

  They parted again, but his eyes relayed a message of understanding. She knew that sooner or later he would find a way of being alone with her.

  It was not to be immediately, however. Rosalyn thanked him when their dance was over; she turned, intending to go out on to the balcony for some air, but was not allowed to leave the dance floor.

  Her willingness to dance had been noted and she was besieged by gentlemen wishing to enter their names on her card, which she was obliged to allow or be thought churlish.

  Rosalyn was a little surprised at her own popularity. She had not taken particularly well in her come-out season, and, not being in the least inclined to vanity, could not be aware that she had come later to her full potential. As a girl, her height had made her awkward and tongue-tied; but now her beauty shone out like a beacon, drawing old and young alike to her side, her ready wit finding her many admirers.

  Damian watched with a wry smile on his lips. It was not to be expected that others would not see what had struck him so forcibly at their first meeting. Rosalyn exuded sensuality and charm. She outshone all the pretty young ladies at the ball, promising so much that any red-bloodied male would wish for in a woman. Such promise was not often met with amongst the young ladies on the marriage mart; it was more usually found in a mistress—a lady who had been married for some years to a man she did not love.

  Rosalyn’s life had been odd for a woman of her class. She had poise, beauty, intelligence—and a high degree of independence. This evening the various ingredients had blended into an irresistible whole, making her a target for every unattached male in the room.

  Damian frowned as he recognised some of the men being drawn into her net. The young fools he dismissed as irrelevant, but there were others…at least three with old titles and spotless (comparatively speaking) reputations.

  He reviewed them in
his mind. Davenport had been a bit of a rake in his time, but was nearly forty and looking to settle. Marksby had recently become the Earl of Salter and was reputedly on the catch for a second wife, his first having died without giving him an heir—and Sir Edward Forster was quite simply a decent man, though slightly pompous in his manner. Any one of them could offer Rosalyn a secure future and an enviable position in Society. Far more than Damian could offer!

  He was suddenly assailed with doubts. What was he doing here? Why on earth had he imagined he had the right to claim such a woman for his own? He was a fool and should have remembered he had other business to settle. He turned away. It was time he was leaving—time he followed the various leads Renshaw had given him earlier and sought out his quarry.

  ‘Not going already?’ Renshaw stopped him at the ballroom door. ‘I quite thought you were enjoying yourself with Miss Eastleigh. She’s a beauty, ain’t she? Can’t think where she has been hiding herself all these years. If I wasn’t madly in love with Lady Renshaw, I’d have joined the hunt myself.’

  ‘She is certainly very lovely,’ Damian said, cursing himself for a fool as the pain tore at his insides. ‘Any one of them would be better for her than me, Hugh. What right have I to drag her down to my level?’

  ‘Rise to hers,’ advised his friend with a lift of his thick brows. ‘If you are thinking of this other business…it was a long time ago, Damian. You cannot bring Helen back. Forget your plans for revenge and marry the lovely Amazon.’

  ‘Take my rightful place in Society, you mean?’ Damian laughed harshly. ‘Yours is the only invitation I’ve received since I’ve been in town, Hugh. What kind of a life would that be for a woman like her? Look at her—she deserves her chance to shine. She deserves someone like Forster or Davenport.’

  ‘You would condemn her to choose between a rake and a bore?’ Hugh scowled at him. ‘Shame on you, sir! You are a better catch than either of them. At least allow her to make her own choice. I am sure she is perfectly capable of doing so.’