Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  “Then we will eat here, after all,” Galena decided. “Alexei, order the boy to bring everything.” But as she spoke, she waved toward the rented conveyance.

  As Alexei and Galena tried to gain their tiger’s attention, Kate hissed at Townsend, “You wretch—why did you say that?”

  “That you are a bluestocking?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had hopes of helping you with your Russian swain, my dear.”

  “They don’t even know what a bluestocking is. You make it sound as though I am a complete oddity. And he is not my swain,” she added crossly. “I hope you do not mean to eat with us, else I shall be put off my food.”

  “Not at all. We are promised elsewhere, my prickly radical.”

  “Bell Townsend, I am not your anything,” she retorted acidly. “And you had no right to make them think me odd.”

  But later, as she and Galena and Alexei Volsky sat down to eat, the count poured wine into glasses, then held his up to Kate’s. “To the lady with the blue stockings,” he murmured. His blue eyes betrayed a faint amusement. “However, I must beg of you not to discuss politics with Alexander.”

  “As if I should presume to speak to him.”

  “Ah, but you will, Ekaterina, I promise you. However, while he professes to admire the Whigs here, you must not forget he is the autocrat in Russia.”

  It had been an extraordinary day, one that Kate would never forget if she lived to be a hundred. She looked down at her hand, thinking her mama would never believe Alexander of Russia had touched it, or that she had taken tea with the grand duchess. Still, she was quite nervous, for despite his promise to her mother, Alexei Volsky was not returning her home until it was already quite dark.

  Leaving Galena in the vehicle, Alexei escorted Katherine to her door. The night sounds surrounded them, and above, the stars were brilliant in the clear sky. He stopped just short of the portico and turned her to face him. The moonlight seemed to reflect off his eyes.

  “I have seldom spent such an agreeable time, Ekaterina,” he told her, smiling. “You must enlighten me more on the morrow.” His hand brushed her cheek lightly. “Until then, Kate.”

  Not knowing if he were serious, or if she’d bored him with her assessment of the recent war and British policy differences between the Tories and the Whigs, she felt quite self-conscious. Apparently, he guessed her thoughts, for his next words were a relief.

  “It does not displease me that you have a mind. Beauty without intellect is tedious. As you surely must have noted, Galena wears the blue stockings also.”

  Embarrassed, she said quickly, “You are kind to say it, sir—Alexei, that is. And again I must thank you for the lovely flowers.”

  “It was nothing. Until tomorrow, then?” He stepped closer. “Any who thinks you plain is wrong,” he murmured. “It is the hat that is plain.”

  He bent his head to hers, and his breath caressed her cheek as his lips brushed it. Then he straightened.

  “Good night, Ekaterina,” he said softly.

  The door opened, and Dawes cleared his throat. “That you, miss? Her ladyship has been asking if you was at home.”

  Katherine jumped guiltily. “Good night, sir—er—good night, Alexei.” Grasping her hat and the wilting flowers before her like a shield, she went inside to face her mother.

  He returned to the carriage, where he sank back against the squabs. Looking across at his sister, he sighed.

  Galena reached for his hands, clasping them in hers. “Fychom dyela?”

  “Neechevo.”

  “Lexy, I swear I can see that you will not be disgusted with her.” When he did not answer, she massaged his fingers, saying earnestly, “You do this for us, Lexy—for us. It will be all right—you’ll see. Trust Lena,” she coaxed.

  Inside the house, Lady Winstead, instead of reading a peal over Katherine, was unusually pleasant. It was Claire who was mad as fire. Her color heightened, the younger girl met her in the hall.

  “Of all the scandalous behavior! You kissed him—I saw it! And it is now common gossip about Bell Townsend! I vow I have never been so shocked by anything!”

  Still shaken from her parting from Count Volsky, Kate answered dreamily, “You are mistaken, Claire—it was they who kissed me.”

  “Brazen hussy!”

  “Really, Claire, but it was no such thing. I—”

  “Clarissa!” Lady Winstead moved to intervene, saying firmly, “That is quite enough. I will not stand for a brangle.”

  Unused to the censure in her mother’s voice, Claire’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. “But Mama—she—she stole him from me!” With that, she fled up the stairs. Her door banged loudly as she slammed it.

  “A fit of vapors—nothing more,” Lady Winstead said mildly before turning her attention again to Katherine. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I have ordered ratafia for us, my love. Shall we repair to the saloon for a comfortable coze ere you ready yourself for Lady Hargrove’s musicale?”

  “Uh—I don’t feel like going, Mama,” Kate protested. “I am rather tired.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother declared briskly. “It will be all over town that Count Volsky has singled you out.”

  “Mama, you have gossiped all day, and it is no such thing!” Kate swallowed as Lady Winstead’s smile flattened. “That is, he will be leaving shortly, so I should not refine too much on a basket nuncheon in the park,” she managed in a more reasonable tone. “But,” she added to mollify her mother, “the Volskys did take me to the Pulteney, where I spoke the merest commonplace with the czar and his sister.”

  That stopped her mother for a moment. “He actually did take you to meet them? Kate, it is a signal honor!”

  “The grand duchess poured tea,” Katherine remembered. “And Czar Alexander said he much admired the English people.”

  “No! Oh, wait until—” Lady Winstead caught herself, and returned to her earlier intent. “I have heard that the Volskys are unbelievably rich, Katherine,” her mother went on. “And there is no saying but what their tastes are a trifle different from ours. And if you were presented to the czar—”

  “Mama, you must not refine too much on a courtesy!” Kate insisted, alarmed. “Besides, they are leaving!”

  “Lady Sefton told Mrs. Barclay that he means to go to Vienna for the peace conference, my love.”

  “You discussed him with everyone, didn’t you? Mama, if you have spread the gossip that he has any particularity for me, I daresay he will cut me when he hears of it. And I do not want any ratafia.”

  Lady Winstead glanced at Dawes, who continued to linger in the foyer, listening. “You are merely overset, for you are unused to such attention, Katherine,” she said smoothly. “And one small glass of ratafia will do you good.” Standing back, she waited for Kate to pass her into the saloon. Then she followed, carefully shutting the door.

  “Servants gossip, I’m afraid.”

  “No more than ladies, apparently,” Katherine muttered under her breath as she sat down.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Mama.”

  “Do not mistake me, my dear Kate—I have not the least hope that Volsky himself will come up to scratch. That would certainly be too much to ask,” she conceded. “But it does not mean we cannot use his attention to show you to advantage, after all. We should be fools to ignore the opportunity.”

  Kate sat very still. Her mother’s manner meant that rather than going back to Monk’s End, she would be forced to try harder to catch a husband. And she knew she could not do it. She didn’t want any of the rakes and dandies—and certainly none of the aging widowers likely to favor her.

  “Kate, you are woolgathering!”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “We shall go to the Hargrove affair while people are still speaking of the Russian’s singular attention, my love.” Lady Winstead surveyed Kate critically for a moment and winced. Recovering, she added, “When you are dressed, I shall send Marsh
up to do something with your hair. And you may wear my diamond pendant.”

  “Mama, I cannot be out half the night.”

  “Why not?”

  Sucking in her breath and letting it out slowly, Kate announced simply, “Because Count Volsky and Madame Malenkov have invited me to ride in Hyde Park with them in the morning.” As soon as she said it, she wished the words back. At Lady Hargrove’s, her mother would be certain to spread that about also.

  “Really?” Lady Winstead peered into Kate’s face again. “Well, the Russians are a different people,” she decided, “so perhaps they do not note that you are a trifle dark. And after seeing Count Platov for myself, I am inclined to think that beauty does not matter to them.” Recalling a bit of gossip she had gleaned in her calls, she added, “And I am told he means to dance for us after the Italian woman sings. Count Platov, I mean.”

  “That should be diverting,” Kate murmured without enthusiasm.

  “Yes—well, do run up and ready yourself. I shan’t mind being fashionably late, but I should dislike missing the Cossack dance.”

  Claire had been sullenly silent all the way, and her mood had not lightened until they were set down at the Hargrove mansion, a stately brick Georgian home in Piccadilly. Being late, they were spared the receiving line, but Lord Hargrove was waiting for Claire. He was a solidly built young man, handsome in a ponderous way. Every time Kate saw him, she thought he looked as German as old King George. He held out his hands to her sister.

  “My dear Miss Winstead, you have never looked lovelier,” he declared. Then, “You are wearing the flowers I sent you.”

  Claire smiled and manipulated her fan. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “An Incomparable,” he assured her, kissing her fingers. Looking to her mother, he asked, “Do you not agree, Lady Winstead?”

  “We are all quite proud of her.” Quickly pinching Kate’s arm, she pushed her forward. “I have hopes of both my daughters now, my lord. “Only fancy, Kate has been to the Pulteney to meet the czar—Count Volsky and his sister took her there.”

  “Mama-”

  Hargrove glanced at Katherine, then appeared to dismiss her. “I am told the Russians will be leaving within the fortnight—and a very good thing, too, I might add.”

  “Yes, a very good thing,” Claire agreed readily.

  “A dark, strange people,” he said, ignoring the fact that Czar Alexander was fairer than half the Englishmen. There was no mistaking whom he disparaged. “So very uncivilized.”

  “Madame Malenkov says the count speaks five languages,” Kate said, feeling it incumbent to defend the Russian.

  “I did not mean his scholarship, Miss Winstead,” he responded coldly. “I was rather referring to his temper.”

  “Indeed, he appears the gentleman to me,” she insisted loyally.

  Clearly, Hargrove did not like to have his views disputed. “I am not at all sure the French would agree with you, Miss Winstead,” he replied stiffly. “I understand he fought a duel there over his sister.”

  Fearing that Kate would set his back up further, Claire intervened hastily. Forcing a brittle laugh, she tapped his sleeve with her fan. “My sister has hopes of him, I’m afraid, so you must not refine too much on her opinion. Come,” she wheedled, smiling up at him, “you must procure some punch for me else I shall die of thirst.”

  Kate’s cheeks were hot. Humiliated, she whispered to her mother, “I knew it—I should have stayed at home.”

  “Do not be a fool!” Lady Winstead snapped. “The right gossip often does what appearances cannot, Katherine.”

  “Mama, if he hears what you have done, Volsky will give me the cut direct!”

  “Nonsense. If he is a gentleman, he will know you had nothing to do with it. Leave the matter to me, my dear.”

  “Mama!”

  “Hush.” Smiling, Lady Winstead waved at Lady Jersey.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kate caught sight of Bellamy Townsend returning from the punch table, and for a rare moment, he was alone. In the ordinary way of things, she might have crossed the room to avoid him, but this was different. Slipping past her mother, she intercepted him.

  “Is Volsky here?” she demanded.

  One blond eyebrow shot up. “My dear Miss Winstead, were I a vain man, I should be wounded,” he murmured. “You might have greeted me first. In fact, I am wounded.”

  “Your pardon.” She dared to meet his gray eyes. “Please—if he is, I must find him.”

  He relented. “You are saved, Miss Winstead. Alexei has gone to White’s.”

  Aware that he must have heard the gossip also, she looked away. She ought to be relieved that Count Volsky was not in attendance, but instead she was disappointed. “Oh,” she managed, forming the word silently. “Yes, of course. I expect he is tired of parties.”

  “No doubt.”

  Her face was like a mirror, and once again Bell felt sorry for the plain girl before him. “Buck up, Kate—what do you care if a handful of biddies talk? Within the week, they’ll be diverted to something else.”

  “I daresay you are used to gossip, my lord, but I am not. I just wish that Harry were here.”

  “Alas, but he has gone to White’s also.”

  “I would that Mama had not done it,” she said miserably, “for I know not how I shall hold my head up when he hears I have set my cap for him.”

  “Have you?”

  “No, of course not! I am not a complete fool.”

  “Ah, Lord Townsend—how fortunate,” a woman murmured with an heavy accent.

  She was ravishing, prettier than Galena Malenkova even, and the spangled gown she wore made Kate want to escape. It clung to her body, revealing every curve, leaving little to the imagination. It was obvious that she did not wear a petticoat beneath.

  Bell turned around, caught her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “Ah, the charming Sofia.” Releasing her fingers, he turned back to Kate. “Miss Winstead, have you met Madame Sherkov?”

  The Russian woman’s gaze swept over her, then dismissed her as unimportant. “We are not acquainted, I am sure.” She slipped her arm through his possessively and looked up at him with eyes bluer than Alexei’s. “I have need of you, mon cher ami, for I have no escort. Poor Gregori is abed with a complaint and did not come,” she added, pouting seductively. “Such a shame, do you not think?”

  “A shame,” he agreed readily. To Kate, he said, “I would not worry, my dear.”

  As they moved away, his words were no comfort at all. The Russian woman’s throaty laughter floated back. “So that is Lexy’s English conquest. How clever Galena is.”

  Kate could not hear the viscount’s murmured reply. At her elbow, her mother demanded, “What was that about, missy? Volsky is one thing—Bellamy Townsend quite another. And after last night—well, need I say more?”

  “It was nothing, Mama. I merely asked him if he had seen Harry.”

  “Though he was used to visit us in his youth, I cannot entirely forget the unsavory Longford affair,” Lady Winstead went on. “Indeed, it surprises me he is received.”

  “Men are usually forgiven anything,” Kate reminded her, “and I am about as likely as Count Platov to raise his interest.”

  Somehow, she managed to pass the evening, mostly by trading inanities with the Misses Rockwell, two equally unpromising females, one of whom had the misfortune to be utterly freckled, the other merely tall and thin. Finally, as everyone watched Count Platov and his two bodyguards whirl about the floor, their loose coats flying, Bell Townsend sat beside her.

  “You have nothing to worry over, Kate—everyone who has heard the tale dismisses it,” he whispered. “And I have set it about that the friendship is between you and Madame Malenkov.”

  “Thank you,” she answered low.

  “It was the least I could do for Harry.” Rising abruptly, he bowed. “Good night, Kate.”

  “Miss Winstead, that was Townsend!” the elder Rockwell girl squeaked. “He spoke to you.�
��

  “He is a friend of my brother’s,” Kate replied listlessly.

  “Then Mama was right! She said it was all a hum—that last night was an aberration,” the younger one confided. “Oh—I daresay I should not have said that, Miss Winstead. I pray you will forgive me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  But as she said the words, Kate felt rather dispirited. She almost wished she’d led them to believe Bell Townsend was flirting with her. Just once, she wished somebody could think someone other than Mr. Thurgood could develop a tendre for her.

  In his carriage, Bellamy Townsend considered stopping by one of his clubs for a game or two. But he really didn’t know what he wanted to do with the rest of the night. Reaching beneath his seat, he drew out his silver flask and opened it. He look a long satisfying pull, savoring the taste of France’s best. The yellow balls of gaslight glowed, illuminating St. James Street. He could see the bow window of White’s, and for a moment, he hesitated. Harry Winstead would be there, but lately Harry’s luck made him dashed near unbeatable. No, he didn’t want to play at White’s.

  He leaned back, passing the establishment. For a moment, his driver slowed the carriage to a snail’s pace, then lacking the signal to stop, the fellow flicked the reins and urged the horses on. Taking another deep swig, Bell pondered whether to go to Brooks’s—or whether to call it a night and take himself off to bed. But it was deuced early for that.

  The trouble was, he reflected ruefully, that he was bored with nearly everything. He had been ever since Elinor Kingsley had refused him. Momentarily, she came to mind, her copper hair and eyes drawing him once more. She was the epitome of a man’s dreams, the only woman he’d ever offered his name. And she wanted Longford.

  Longford. He supposed there must be some sort of justice, but he could not appreciate it, whatever it was. They’d been friends then, before Diana, and were now, after her. But not without scandal and near ruin for all of them. He still didn’t know why he’d done it—drink perhaps—but she had seduced him with disastrous consequences. Longford had not proven a complacent husband, and he’d divorced Diana for it, naming Bell.