‘Perhaps you are right.’ Damian relaxed and smiled wryly. ‘I’m a stiff-necked fool at times. Too much pride, I dare say.’
‘Miss Eastleigh looks warm,’ his friend said. ‘She looks as if she needs a breath of air. If you do not offer her the chance to escape, someone else certainly will.’
Damian laughed. ‘You are too persuasive, Hugh. However, I shall take your advice.’
He returned to the crowded ballroom. Rosalyn had ceased to dance and was clearly headed towards the balcony. He waited, following discreetly.
Her back was towards him and she did not immediately notice he had come after her. She had moved away to the shadows and was fanning herself, staring out into the gardens. He watched her for a moment, thinking she looked sad. He had sensed it before, understood that she too had known loneliness—that her life was not all it might have been. It was this that had first made him think she might be willing to step out of her world into a very different one.
‘Rosalyn…’
She spun round at once, her lovely face suddenly alight with pleasure. ‘Damian! I thought you were leaving?’
‘I was—but Hugh stopped me.’ He moved towards her, his eyes dwelling on her face so intently that her heart caught with fear. ‘It might have been better if I had left. Better for your sake.’
‘Why? Why do you say that? You know I love you…want you.’ She spoke from the heart, bravely, with such a devastating honesty that he felt humbled, unworthy of so fine a woman. ‘I have loved you almost from the first moment you came into my life. You challenged me, Damian, brought me to life—made me want to feel again.’
‘Did I, my love? I am not sure it was well done of me. In the country I thought perhaps we had a chance of finding happiness…but tonight I have seen you as you ought to be. You shine like one of those stars above us, too bright to have your light dimmed by such as me.’ He stepped closer, reaching out to touch her shoulder, his fingers straying up to caress her neck; his touch sent little shivers winging their way down her spine. ‘You deserve so much more, my darling—so much that I can never give you.’
‘This?’ Rosalyn glanced back towards the ballroom, a look of dismissal on her face. ‘Do you think I care for such things? You misjudge me, sir. Had I wished for a life spent in Society, I might have married a duke when I was eighteen. I have remained a spinster from choice, not necessity.’ She raised her head, her face proud, angry. ‘I may be seven and twenty—but I am not at my last prayers!’
‘Indeed you are not.’ Damian laughed. ‘Tonight you are magnificent. I dare swear there are at least a dozen gentlemen in there willing to offer their hearts and fortunes to win you. And I did not mean to insult you. I just wanted you to be quite sure—to understand what you would be giving up if you came to me.’
‘Foolish, foolish man! As if I was not already aware of what I shall lose—and what I may gain.’ Her eyes glittered with the sheen of tears she would never let fall. ‘Do you think me a vain, silly creature—that my head would be turned by a few compliments?’
He saw that she was not quite won over by his apology. Smothering his conscience, he reached out to draw her into his arms. For a moment he gazed down at her, letting her nearness and the musk of her perfume seep into his senses, filling him with sweet desire; then he lowered his head, his mouth taking hers in such a gentle, tender kiss that she swayed into his body, surrendering herself in a way that almost made him lose control.
‘Do you not know how much I want you—need you?’ he breathed huskily. ‘The thought of you torments my dreams. I have struggled against this feeling for your sake, Rosalyn—but I cannot fight you. You are too strong for me, my love.’
‘I have given my promise,’ she said, a hint of reproach in her eyes. ‘I shall come away with you after my brother’s wedding—if you still want me.’
‘I shall never cease wanting you,’ he murmured against her throat. ‘I adore you, Rosalyn. I shall try to deserve your trust. Believe me, my love, I shall never hurt you…though I know I am not fit to worship at your feet.’
There was such an odd look in his eyes then that she wondered at it. Just what mystery lay in this man’s past? Why did he look so bleak at times? What inner torment drove him?
‘Oh, Damian—’
Rosalyn broke off as she saw her brother come out on to the balcony. She moved away from Damian, into the light.
‘So there you are,’ Freddie said. ‘Beatrice thought… Oh, Wrexham! Didn’t realise you were here.’ He looked awkward, embarrassed. ‘Should it be Marlowe? I heard you’d inherited your grandfather’s title…’
‘Wrexham will do,’ said Damian. ‘I’ve no use for titles or any of that nonsense.’
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t have after…’ Freddie cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about the other evening. Bit difficult…hands tied, if you see what I mean?’
‘It was unfortunate for everyone,’ Damian said. ‘I am sorry, but you will excuse me, I have an appointment I must keep.’ He glanced at Rosalyn. ‘Forgive me. I really must go.’
‘Damian…when?’
‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘Soon now, my love. Eastleigh, I must bid you goodnight.’
There was a strained silence after he had left. Freddie looked at his sister, eyes narrowed, searching.
‘So you are determined to have him, then?’
‘You need not worry that we shall make things uncomfortable for you, Freddie. Nothing will happen until after your wedding.’
‘Bea tells me she doesn’t care about her aunt’s money.’ Freddie sounded ashamed. ‘Once we’re married—I don’t give a damn. At least, you know what I mean. Best to keep things discreet—but if it’s Wrexham you want, you will have my blessing.’
‘Thank you, dearest.’ Rosalyn smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘We shall be living abroad. You won’t be forced to acknowledge us.’
‘Ros…’ Freddie protested, cheeks burning. ‘I ain’t such a damned snob. Wrexham might have…well, you know the story better than I, no doubt. But his family…at least, his grandfather was a decent sort. Earl Marlowe. Wrexham inherited the lot, you know: title, crumbling mansion somewhere near Hastings, I believe—and a load of debts. If you should need money…’
‘I’m sure we shan’t,’ Rosalyn said. ‘I have my own trust and I dare say Damian has what he needs. Money has never meant that much to me. I can be happy anywhere with the right person.’
‘Yes, I know.’ He smiled at her with affection. ‘I haven’t been much of a brother to you, Ros—but I do care about you. I would stand by you…if things didn’t work out. You could always come home. Bea loves you—and that aunt of hers can…well, you know!’
The look of disgust on his face made her laugh. ‘Freddie, dearest!’ she admonished. She had been angry with him but was no longer. He had been afraid of losing Beatrice, and she could understand that. ‘Please, there is no need to worry about me. I know exactly what I want and I am not frightened of the consequences.’
‘No. You never were,’ Freddie said, offering her his arm as they returned to the ballroom together. ‘You should have been a man, Ros. You were always braver than me.’
Mrs Jenkins had recovered from her sickness by the next morning, but said it had been caused by too much racketing about town and declared her intention of returning to the country at once. At first she was determined to spend a few days at her home in Huntingdon before bringing Beatrice back to Cambridgeshire for the pre-wedding dance.
She was persuaded to relent after some tears from Beatrice, and a promise from Freddie that she could invite her brother to stay with them.
‘Bernard wrote to me,’ she told him in confidence when they were alone. ‘He has some small difficulty with his financial affairs. I must discuss the problem with him in private.’
‘I understood Mr Harrington was in town?’ Freddie was surprised. ‘Would it not be easier to ask him to call here, ma’am?’
‘No, it would not. He can come down to the country i
f he wishes for my help!’ she snapped, causing Freddie to bite his tongue and count to twenty lest he reply in like manner.
What Mrs Jenkins did not reveal was that her brother was a committed gamester, incapable of staying away from the tables for long. In the past, he had often won huge fortunes, but somehow they had slipped through his fingers. Of late, his talents, or luck, had seemed to desert him—perhaps because he had taken to drinking too much. She suspected that he frequented the kind of places she would think disgraceful, and was determined to drag him away from town if she could.
‘Your brother is welcome to stay with us, ma’am. Pray write to him immediately.’
Freddie gave his promise easily, entirely unaware that his beloved Beatrice detested her aunt’s brother—or that he was stirring up a hornets’ nest.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Maria said, coming to kiss Rosalyn as she entered the house. ‘Goodness! How bright you look, dearest. Have you had your hair trimmed at the front? It suits you very well.’
‘No, I haven’t had it cut,’ Rosalyn replied, feeling amused by her cousin’s expression. She knew that she was looking very much more the thing now that she had bought herself some fashionable clothes. ‘It’s just the way the wind has blown it. We had the carriage window down for miles. Mrs Jenkins was feeling unwell.’
‘What a shame,’ Maria said. ‘Is that why she went straight to her room? Never mind, we can have a comfortable coze together. Just like old times.’ She tucked her arm through Rosalyn’s as they went into the parlour. ‘It is so nice to have you home again.’
‘You seem very cheerful,’ Rosalyn said. She had taken off her pelisse and bonnet in the hall and, as Maria released her arm, glanced into an ornate wall mirror to tidy her hair. ‘How is Sarah Jane? Where is she, by the way?’
‘Oh, out with that dog, I expect.’ Maria seemed uninterested. ‘She has taken quite a liking to the wretched thing. She says it needs lots of exercise—and I must admit she is a different girl these days. Always helpful and polite. Her grandmother will hardly know her when she arrives next week.’
‘Is Aunt Susan coming to fetch her?’
‘Her letter said she would be staying for the dance but not the wedding. Unless Celia and her husband decide to come—in which case they will all be here for two weeks.’
‘Goodness me,’ Rosalyn said. ‘I am not sure how we shall squeeze everyone in. Mrs Jenkins has invited her brother too.’
‘I can always stay with a friend,’ Maria offered and blushed. She hesitated a moment before making her confession, ‘You will be amazed, Rosalyn. I was myself—but dear Mr Waller has…’ Her colour deepened even further. ‘He has asked me to be his wife and I have said I will…providing it does not upset you too much.’
‘Upset me? Maria, you goose! I am delighted. I had thought you might quite like him. It is the very thing for you, and I do wish you happy, my very dear cousin.’
‘Well, I think I shall be,’ Maria said looking extremely pleased with things. ‘But there is not the least hurry. I shall not leave you in the lurch. When you are settled I shall think of myself, but not before.’
‘You need not worry about me.’ Rosalyn laughed. ‘No, I may not tell you just yet, but my own plans are almost set.’
They were prevented from talking further as first Beatrice and then Sarah Jane arrived. Gifts were exchanged, tea poured and everyone settled down to enjoy themselves.
‘Where is Sheba?’ asked Rosalyn when she had a moment to talk alone with Sarah Jane. ‘Maria tells me you have been looking after her for me. That was very kind of you.’
‘Oh…it was just taking her for walks and things,’ Sarah replied, avoiding her eyes. ‘Thank you for the riding habit. I’ve been out on one of the horses several times this past week, but now I shall be able to dress properly.’
‘Your grandmother will be surprised when she comes to visit next week.’
‘Yes, I expect so,’ Sarah said. ‘We can stay for the wedding, can’t we? Beatrice has brought me such a lovely dress. She says I can be one of her bridesmaids if I like.’
‘In that case you will have to stay,’ Rosalyn said. ‘I had better write and urge your whole family to come, though they had thought they would not wish to travel so far.’
She was thoughtful as she went away to write her letters. Everything was working out quite well. Maria was to be married, and Sarah Jane’s family would take her home after the wedding.
And then, at last, Rosalyn would be free. She smiled as she remembered her last meeting with Damian, the way he had kissed her and told her he loved her.
Where was he now? Had he completed his business at last? How soon would he be returning to the country—and would she find a way of seeing him when he did?
Chapter Seven
Damian entered the gaming hall, glancing about him with distaste. It was the kind of place that attracted the worst types: hardened gamesters, ruthless sharps out to fleece any young idiot willing to be parted from his fortune—and worse. There was a sprinkling of respectable men, men with old titles whose dull, comfortable lives had driven them to find new experiences to enliven their routines. These were the men that might also be found at the Hellfire Club, another place of dubious reputation and frequented by the wilder elements of Society, but here there were also other men—men with desperation in their hearts who were close to destruction.
Had Bernard Harrington sunk to their level? Hugh Renshaw had spoken of debts and wild drinking bouts that had led to Harrington being excluded from the more select clubs where he had once been a member.
‘He’s had a run of terrible luck,’ Hugh had confided when they spoke of Damian’s quest to find the man. ‘I’ve heard it said he’s close to ruin. Davenport holds several of his notes, I believe. Not many will accept them now, so he has been forced to play elsewhere. His estate is mortgaged to the hilt—there can’t be much left.’
The notes Davenport held were now with a firm of lawyers. Damian had purchased them for the sum of ten thousand pounds.
‘Why do you want them?’ Davenport had asked with careless interest, when requested to sell the notes at a private interview. ‘I doubt Harrington can cover a half of that sum.’
‘It is a personal matter,’ Damian replied. ‘One that should have been settled long ago.’
‘Killed the wrong man, did you?’ Charles Davenport arched his brows. ‘I ain’t a slowtop, Wrexham. You kept your mouth shut and that was damned decent of you, especially when you consider the way your father behaved towards you—but anyone with a grain of sense understood why you called Roderick Harrington out. We all knew you were like a brother to Renshaw—and, though they hushed it up, his sister’s death was obviously a suicide. Add two and two and the reason for that duel becomes obvious.’
‘Roderick and his brother were both involved, as it happens, but at the time…she named only one.’ Damian frowned. ‘I trust you will not speak of this to anyone? Ever?’
‘You need not ask. I ain’t one to gossip where a lady is concerned, but I have always felt you did the rest of us a service by ridding the world of that filth.’ Charles Davenport smiled. ‘Yes, I will sell you the notes. My fervent wish is that Harrington will oblige us all by doing the decent thing and blowing his brains out—but I must tell you I doubt it.’
‘Then perhaps I shall do it for him.’
‘Planning on spending the rest of your life in India? He’s hardly worth the sacrifice.’ Davenport toyed with the intricate gold watch fob attached to his waistcoat. ‘If you ever decide to assume your title and place in Society, I believe you would find yourself more welcome than you might think.’
Their conversation had taken place earlier that day; now it was evening. The gaming tables were full of hard-eyed, ruthless men, the air thick with the stench of sweat, stale smoke and spilt wine.
What an awful place! Damian was about to turn away when he heard the rumpus begin at the far end of the room. It was apparent almost immediately what had happ
ened. Someone had been accused of cheating! The cardinal sin, even amongst these men. There was a lot of shouting and one of the tables was overturned.
‘Damn you!’ A man was on his feet. From his manner it was clear he had drunk too much wine. ‘Call me a cheat, would you? You’re the cheat, sir! No one has such luck as to win every hand.’
‘By God! I’ll have your apology for that or you will meet me for it. Name your seconds, Harrington.’
Damian’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man swaying unsteadily on his feet. Was that Bernard Harrington? He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. No more than ten years Damian’s senior, the man looked old, fat, his face puffy from too much drinking, late nights—and perhaps worse.
The room had gone silent, tense, as everyone waited to see what Harrington would do. He seemed to hesitate, blinked and shook his head as if suddenly realising what was going on, then he turned and stumbled away, knocking into tables and a waiter. The waiter’s tray was sent flying, spilling its load of glasses on to the floor with an almighty crash.
‘Damned fool,’ muttered the man who had challenged Harrington. ‘Won’t come up to scratch. He’s a coward and always has been.’
‘I agree with you there,’ Damian said. He had approached as the overset table was being righted. ‘May I have a word with you, sir?’
The man stared at him for several seconds, then nodded. ‘You’re Marlowe’s heir, ain’t you? Someone pointed you out at Renshaw’s affair the other evening. Sit down, sir.’
‘Thank you. I don’t believe I’ve the pleasure of having met you before?’
‘No, we ain’t met.’ He offered his hand. ‘Tamworth’s the name. So, what can I do for you, sir?’
‘I believe you may have something I want,’ Damian said. ‘Would you perhaps have taken Harrington’s notes in lieu of coin?’
‘Too damned many of them,’ Tamworth said, a note of indignation in his voice. ‘Tried to fob me off with another this evening. I already hold five thousand pounds—more than his entire estate is worth, I dare say.’
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