by Regina Scott
“Indeed,” Jareth murmured. The fact ought to annoy him, but he found himself intrigued. He was the one who had been forced from the hayloft in disgrace. Supposedly, no one knew of the lady’s digression. They had never promised each other undying devotion. What grudge did she bear him?
“Who is that with her?” he asked Eleanor.
She peered across the room. “The young woman beside her is Lady Hastings. Her given name is Cleopatra, if memory serves. The handsome fellow with the jet black hair is her husband, the Marquis of Hastings. They eloped to Gretna Green last Season.”
Still the impetuous one it seemed. “And the boy in brown?”
“Lord Peter Nathaniel,” she supplied.
“And he is hardly a boy,” Justinian added. “He inherited the title and estates from his father several years ago.”
“By the look of things,” Eleanor continued, “he has serious intentions toward Miss Watkin.”
Which made Lord Nathaniel even more of an upstart than Jareth had originally thought. He could not see Eloise with a fellow whose hands trembled. He could not imagine the man having the courage to make love to her. On the other hand, he could imagine himself doing so all too easily.
Before he could comment further, someone bumped him from behind. Turning, he found a slender girl with red-blond hair righting herself with a rueful smile. “Pardon me, please,” she said, giving him a glimpse of front teeth with an endearing gap between them.
He swept her a bow. “My mistake entirely, I assure you.”
Her smile deepened, and he caught a decided twinkle in her quicksilver eyes. “Nonsense, sir. I distinctly remember bumping into you.”
He could feel Eleanor and Justinian watching him. Further, over the girl’s shoulder, he could see a tall major in dress regimentals glowering at him. It seemed the better part of valor to send her on her way.
He bowed reflexively. As she hurried away, he sighed. Another time he might have been willing to investigate the delightful young lady’s charms, but his hands were tied until he had dealt with Eloise. It would be impossible to convince her he had changed if he was known to be pursuing an assignation.
“That was boldly done,” Eleanor commented as he turned toward them once again. “Have you been introduced to Miss Sinclair?”
“No,” he replied. “Shocking what they teach young ladies these days.”
Justinian chuckled, but Eleanor shook her head. All of them returned their gazes to the unwilling Miss Watkin. Eloise sat on the sofa for a short while, then left on the arm of Lady Hastings. They did not return to the hall.
Deprived of his reason to visit Almack’s, Jareth took his leave of Eleanor and Justinian, as well as Lady Jersey, and collected his cane and cloak. Then he descended the stairs for the street to hail a hack and repair to the civilized confines of White’s.
He had favored Watier’s in his earlier days, for that gentleman’s club was known for its heavy play and high stakes. Very likely, the more conservative White’s would never have allowed him membership but for his brother’s intervention. As it was, he was welcomed by the doorman, offered a drink, and motioned to a comfortable chair. He did not realize that he had been followed until he wandered into the card room. Before he could decide whether to attempt Faro with only credit, he was accosted.
“Darby, I demand a word with you.”
He turned to find Eloise’s escort beside him. Lord Nathaniel appeared to have run all the way from Almack’s, as his curly brown hair was wild and his cravat in shambles. Jareth merely eyed him coolly.
“I am not in the habit of giving my time to fellows who refuse introductions,” he said, purposely turning away from the young lord. The gentlemen playing nearby raised brows or exchanged glances. One went so far as to chuckle. The rudesby at his elbow stalked around to face him again.
Jareth gave him no time for speech. He turned away once more and strolled to settle himself in a chair near the bow window. Unfortunately, he had no sooner eyed the gas light beyond the window when Lord Nathaniel appeared in front of him and considerably redder.
“You will not evade me so easily,” he declared. “What I have to say requires no introductions. You, sir, are no gentleman, and I take offense that you expect to be treated like one.”
“You can take as much offense as you like,” Jareth told him, crossing one leg over the other, “so long as you take yourself off.”
“Not until you hear me out. You are unwelcome, sir. Your reputation precedes you. I demand that you refrain from tainting others with it.”
Jareth deliberately sipped his drink before answering. “If you dislike being tainted, why accost me in public?”
Nathaniel drew himself up. “My reputation is unassailable, sir. My concern is for a certain young lady.”
“Then I take it her reputation is less than savory.”
He wondered whether a fellow that young could die from apoplexy. His face certainly was a shade of red seldom found on a human being.
“Not at all,” he sputtered. “And I intend to see that it stays that way. I do not know what you said to Miss Watkin at Almack’s, but she is so overset that Lady Hastings had to take her home immediately. Tongues will wag, sir.”
“Yours certainly is,” Jareth replied. “Since when is it appropriate to mention a lady’s name in this place? I should call you out for your impertinence, sir.”
It amazed him to see how quickly the crimson fled, leaving Nathaniel’s round face pale as blanc mange. But to do the fellow justice, he stood his ground. “I should be happy to have my seconds call on yours, sir.”
Jareth waved his free hand. “I have no interest in adding to my reputation with your sorry death. Allow me to assure you that you need not concern yourself. It is clear to me that I have offended the lady. I will not approach her again in public until she has forgiven me.”
His opponent had the audacity to smile, and a rather nasty grin it was on one so otherwise boyish. “Then my quest is accomplished. You will never approach her, Darby, for she will never forgive you.”
Jareth returned the smile with one of his own, and, he thought, not much more pleasant. “Oh, but she will, my dear sir, if I have to spend every moment of my existence assuring her that I am utterly devoted.”
Chapter Four
“I am doomed,” Eloise told Cleo as they rode home in the Hastings’ coach.
“Surely it isn’t that bad,” Cleo replied, but even in the dim light of the coach interior, Eloise saw her husband’s hand grip hers. More realistic than his wife, and more experienced, Leslie had to know what Eloise was facing. Indeed, his dark thoughts were evidenced by the tight lines of his handsome face.
“Explain things to her, my lord,” Eloise said.
She saw him squeeze Cleo’s hand. “Sorry to burst your bubble of optimism, love, but Miss Watkin is correct. I doubt she shall have many offers if the truth becomes known.”
Even though she knew the gravity of the situation in her heart, hearing him say it sent a chill through her. She’d had five years to think about what she’d do if she met Jareth Darby again, five years to calculate to the last frown the amount of damage her liaison with him could do her. Even her friendship with the Marquis and Marchioness of Hastings could not save her.
“What truth?” Cleo demanded, clearly unwilling to be swayed. “The fact that she was nearly a child when he took advantage of her? The fact that she has led an otherwise exemplary life?”
Eloise grimaced. “Hardly exemplary. Indeed, if you had not taken me to task last year for my behavior toward others, I could very well have alienated all of London.”
“But you didn’t,” Cleo protested. “And no matter what happens, your friends will stand by you.”
“And who are my friends besides you and Leslie? I began driving others away long before I met Mr. Darby. You are a dear for forgiving me the times I doubted you. I have not been so fortunate elsewhere.”
“Well, you cannot blame the other girls for
shying away from you when we were at school. Few people deal well with perfection.”
Eloise sighed. “You must believe me, Cleo, it was never my intent to snub anyone. It was your honesty that helped me see how I was not acting like the woman I wished to be.”
“However, Cleo is right,” Leslie put in. “Your behavior of late has been remarked upon, and kindly.”
“She is much changed,” Cleo added with evident pride. “Even Lord Owens confided that he had misjudged you, and I know you remember how he ceased his suit of you last year. He knows you are a different person now.”
Eloise could see Leslie smiling as he gave his wife’s hand another squeeze. “I would argue that Eloise isn’t so much changed, my dear, as she has finally decided to hoist her true colors.” He nodded to Eloise. “And I sincerely hope that you do not let Jareth Darby force you to fly a false flag again. You have too much to offer.”
His words and Cleo’s support eased her heart, yet she could not seem to stop the churning of her mind. The last year of her life had been the best since she was a child, largely because of her friendship with the Hastings. Just tonight she had been sure she had achieved her goal of being a woman worthy of acceptance, appreciation, approval. Why now did Jareth Darby have to reappear in her life!
By the time they reached her father’s town house on Curzon Street, she had regained some of her composure. She suffered the butler to solemnly remove her cloak.
“His lordship is awaiting you in the garden withdrawing room, Miss Watkin,” he intoned.
“Thank you, Bryerton,” she replied. Although she’d lived in the house with her father since graduating from the Barnsley School three years ago and knew the various rooms well, she let the butler lead her. His step was slow and stately, as if he ushered her to her coronation rather than a late night conversation with her father. Such was Bryerton’s way.
He had been the family butler for as long as she could remember, but, by his own choice, he had never become the faithful old retainer so many families boasted. One had only to look at Bryerton’s regal bearing, the powdered wig he still affected, and the impeccably tailored black velvet coat he wore to know that he took his position as head of the household staff seriously. If his demeanor were not enough, the spotless glow of the stately rooms with their corniced ceilings, pastel-colored walls, and buffed wood floors would have told her that the household staff marched to strict orders and considered polish next to godliness.
At times, she wished for a less formal existence, but her father seemed to relish the grandeur. Now he responded with a curt answer to the butler’s rap at the door to the second-floor withdrawing room that overlooked their small garden.
As Eloise entered on Bryerton’s heels, she saw that her father was sitting in a scroll-backed chair near the wood-wrapped fireplace, freshly ironed evening paper in front of him. His spare form was clothed in his usual brown suit and tan-striped waistcoat. Like Bryerton, he held to an immutable order of things, which seemed to include never allowing his daughter to see him in less than a formal setting. Tonight she would much rather have curled up beside him on the sofa, but she knew better than to suggest such a thing.
“Miss Watkin to see you, my lord,” the butler announced as if she’d been away years instead of a few hours.
Her father put down the paper. A smile lit his thin, pale face. “Ah, Eloise. Come in. Tell me about Almack’s.”
Eloise hesitated only a moment before going to stand before him. A part of her would have liked nothing better than to throw herself into the seat beside him and tell him exactly what had happened and how much it concerned her. Before retiring from the diplomatic corps, her father had traveled throughout Europe. She’d heard that he’d seen any number of volatile affairs and found ways to smooth them. Surely he’d know how to handle Jareth Darby.
The only problem was, he had no idea what Jareth meant to her.
Besides, Bryerton was stationed beside the door, and she didn’t want to speak of sensitive subjects in his hearing. So she remained standing and returned her father’s smile. “Almack’s was a bit tiring tonight. But I did dance with Lord Nathaniel. He requested to call later in the week.”
Her father’s pale blue eyes were thoughtful. “Does this please you?”
Even before Jareth had appeared she hadn’t been certain of the answer to that question. Now that he threatened her future, she was even less sure. “He’s a good man,” she said defensively. “Stable. Courtly. He honors me with his interest.”
“He should be the one to feel honored,” her father told her. “But I look forward to meeting this paragon. Now perhaps you should retire. You look fatigued.”
“A bit,” she allowed. She dropped a respectful curtsey. “Good night, Father.”
Her father inclined his head, and Bryerton stepped away from the wall to lead her to her bedchamber.
Normally, the pale blues of the bed hangings and draperies in her room were calming and peaceful, but tonight they did not comfort her. Neither did her maid, Martha. The older woman had a round face that was surprisingly stern and narrow-spaced eyes. Her movements were quick and sure. Eloise was never tempted to linger over brushing out her hair at night or bathing in the morning. Everything ran on schedule with Martha.
Still, she thought as she slipped beneath covers that Martha had efficiently warmed with a heating pan, at least Martha was better than the chaperone she had had the last two years. Miss Tidwell had had endless advice, but Eloise had soon found that the woman had little interest in acting on that advice. Instead, she used any excuse to leave Eloise to her own devices. When Eloise had had a near-scandalous run in with Leslie, before he had married Cleo, Lord Watkin had been convinced to discharge the chaperone and hire a maid instead.
Eloise had hoped that Martha would be someone in whom she could confide, but just as Miss Tidwell had been all talk, Martha was all action. And her actions were as strict as the whale-bone corset into which her considerable bulk was constrained. She did her work with a prim, “Yes, Miss,” “No, Miss,” and disappeared into the nether regions of the house. Once in a rare while, Eloise actually won a smile from her, but it quickly vanished. Like Bryerton, Martha seemed to feel that it was singularly inappropriate to mix with the master and his family.
Eloise sighed. It would be all too easy to cry. But she’d shed more tears than she liked over Jareth in the past, and a few tears weren’t going to change her life today. Better to focus her attentions on how she might achieve her goal of living happily ever after now that Jareth had reappeared.
She knew she would not feel comfortable entering marriage without explaining her past to her prospective husband. However, she certainly didn’t want Jareth to be the one to make the explanations. Of course, he might say nothing, but she couldn’t take that chance, not when Lord Nathaniel was so close to proposing. Yet how could she ensure Jareth’s silence?
He had no conscience, or he would never have abandoned her. His family was wealthy, so he hardly needed money. She could offer him neither position nor connections that could not be bettered by a simple conversation with his brother. The only thing left to bargain with was her virtue, and she refused to give him a chance at that a second time.
The one factor in her favor was that the story of their passion reflected no better on him than it did on her. He’d been the youngest son of a wealthy earl, and terribly cozened. Back then, few were foolhardy enough to censure him.
She’d been the only child of a couple much in love and just as prone to be spoiled by their attentions. But when her mother had died, her father had withdrawn. More and more his work took him away, and she was left in the care of others—nannies, governesses, chaperones. Still, she tried to please, always eager for praise. She knew the reports to her father glowed with her accomplishments. She could sit her horse by eight. She had mastered the piano at nine. She spoke fluent French and Italian by eleven. Her father should have been delighted, but as she never received more than an occa
sional letter, she could never be certain.
At fifteen, she had been enrolled at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies. While the teachers were more exacting than her tutors, again she excelled. Within a few months, it was common for the staff to refer to her as the example.
“Stand taller, Miss Pennybaker. See how Miss Watkin glides across the floor.”
“More blue in that water color, Miss Courdebas. Notice the fluidity of Miss Watkin’s waterfall.”
“Relax in the saddle, Miss Rutherford. Look at how Miss Watkin becomes one with her mount.”
As Cleo had reminded her that night, her fellow students had either worshipped her or been jealous enough to hate her. Either way, what she did was mimicked, what she said repeated. She was queen of her world and confident in her ability to rule.
So was their headmistress, Miss Martingale. The imposing woman was so pleased with Eloise’s performance that Miss Martingale insisted she be allowed to accompany the teachers to their annual tea at the Darby estate. Most of the school staff had been too awed to do more than stammer answers to the questions asked by Helena Darby, then the Countess of Wenworth. Eloise, however, had had no trouble being charmingly polite to the elegant young countess. Lady Wenworth had been immediately won over.
She remembered how content she’d felt as she followed the teachers on a tour of the palatial country house. As they ventured on, she had stood alone for a moment in the Darby family chapel, gazing up at the golden cross, and thinking she could get no closer to heaven than she had today.
She had gotten closer and been knocked nigh unto hell because of it.
Even now, she could hear him as she had that first time. “Bright angel, have you fallen that I a lowly mortal should find you here?”
The voice, rich and warm, had fit so well with her mood and thoughts that she had only smiled. Turning, she’d been amazed to find that she had not conjured the sound. A man had appeared as if from her desires.
