Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Details of the affairs did not become known because it was also in Sir Edward’s interest to suppress them. Even so, the baronet’s name had acquired an unfortunate aura of scandal and it had become well nigh impossible for him to get near an heiress.

  On principle, the baronet would be charming to any young girl who was expensively dressed and inadequately chaperoned, then investigate to see if she were worth pursuing. A democrat in his way, Sir Edward was willing to extort money impartially from both aristocrats and those commoners who indulged in trade. Annabelle Kingsley had passed his tests easily: she was from an extremely wealthy family, she seemed impressionable, she would soon be twenty-one and free to marry whom she chose, and her guardian was an older brother who had been out of the country for years and would not be up to snuff socially.

  The situation was ripe for Sir Edward’s exploitation, and it was regrettable that the girl had left town in June. Even more regrettably, he became badly dipped over the summer and was in dire need of new money. Annabelle was his only prospect at the moment, and he daren’t let her slip between his fingers. Wrinkling his brow artistically, he said with a touch of vibrato in his smooth voice, “Oh, the unfairness of it!”

  “What is unfair?” Annabelle said uncertainly as she seated herself and gestured for her visitor to do the same.

  “That your mind should have been poisoned against me.” Sir Edward carefully picked a chair that showed his noble profile to best advantage.

  “My brother didn’t poison my mind, he just said not to see you.” From the tartness of the reply, Sir Edward deduced that the girl didn’t like the implied criticism of her brother, and he adjusted his strategy accordingly.

  “Oh, it is not his fault. He has been out of the country for so long. No doubt he made inquiries about me and was told that old tale. Can a man never live down the mistakes of his youth?”

  It didn’t occur to Annabelle to wonder at his knowledge of her brother. Intrigued, she asked, “What old tale is that?”

  Sir Edward thought rapidly. “It was a duel.” He sighed mournfully, then continued, “A man claimed I had dishonored his wife. It was a foul lie, of course. The lady had merely been in need of friendship because of her husband’s unkindness. But I could not see her name dragged in the mud.”

  Her eyes like saucers, Annabelle asked, “What happened?”

  Sir Edward shrugged deprecatingly. “The inevitable. The brute was no proof against my swordsmanship. I should have killed him. He rewarded my mercy by spreading slander about me. Lies that I am paying for even now, ten years later.”

  “Surely if you called on Alex and explained the situation, he would change his mind.”

  Sir Edward gave an inward smile of satisfaction. She had taken the bait; really a most gullible chit, perfect for his purposes. Standing, he shook his head sorrowfully. “No. Why should he bother to listen to the explanation of one disgraced man when so many others must be begging for permission to pay their addresses? Lord Kingsley will want only the best for you.” He stopped and gazed into her blue eyes. “What man would not?”

  Annabelle looked back unhappily. It was unfair that a man of such noble character be so maligned! And now he was going to walk out of her life forever. It did not occur to her to discuss the matter directly with Alex; she had never openly questioned an order in her life. But years with her mother had schooled Annabelle in indirection. She stood, her mind rapidly considering the possibilities.

  Sir Edward regarded her face with satisfaction, then moved in for the coup de grâce. “Just this once, may I kiss your hand?” he said, his voice soft and thrilling. He chose the piece of anatomy carefully; an innocent miss might not enjoy a first kiss on the lips, and it was important that she be affected.

  Without waiting for her reply, he reached out and took her hand. Holding it, Sir Edward murmured, “So graceful, like a bird.”

  Originality in metaphor was not the baronet’s forte. But he knew how to get the most out of kissing a hand, starting with the back, then turning it over to press his lips into the palm. He could feel Annabelle’s hand trembling in response. Most satisfactory; it was probably the first time a man had ever touched her with carnal intent. After brushing her fingertips with his tongue, Sir Edward pressed her hand to his cheek, whispering brokenly, “Oh, Annabelle, that I should find you, only to lose you so soon!”

  Annabelle was helpless in the face of his adroit manipulation. Unable to distinguish between the first stirrings of sexuality and Sir Edward as an individual, she saw him as the personification of romantic love. Surely it would be thwarting her destiny to let him leave her …

  With a catch in her voice, Annabelle said feebly, “Sir Edward, you mustn’t …” Her hand was still pressed against his cheek, the prickly masculinity of subliminal whiskers so different from feminine skin.

  The baronet looked at her with dark haunted eyes. “You are right, my angel. No shadow of scandal must ever dim the luster of your name. So now I will say farewell, forever.”

  “No!” As Annabelle looked at him, the solution occurred to her. “I cannot disobey my brother and let you call. But if we should happen to meet in the park? I often walk there with my maid. Early in the afternoon, before the fashionable hour.”

  “My angel, you are a woman in ten thousand! In a million!”

  The happiness that suffused his face dimmed any stirrings of guilt. If this man was Annabelle’s destiny, surely when the time was right Alex would give his blessing.

  Alex was finding an unexpected satisfaction at his work in the Admiralty. Over the years he had had his share of contact with that august body, from dealing with the tyrannical porters to anxious intervals in the infamous waiting room, where even admirals came to petition for appointments and commands. The ten years of peace between 1783 and 1793 had put many Navy officers on the shore at half-pay, and Alex counted himself lucky to have been continuously employed through that period. The Kingsleys had money and influence, but so did many other officers.

  The resumption of hostilities with France two years earlier had led to a massive expansion of the Navy, with hundreds of officers being returned to active duty. Sometimes he thought that if the French hadn’t existed, it would have been necessary to invent them—otherwise England would not have an opponent worthy of her mettle. It was ironic that the French and Spanish built better ships, while the British were undeniably superior seamen. Alex had no doubt that once again his country’s naval supremacy would enable her to defeat her cross-Channel enemy.

  Thoughts of the French inevitably led him to Christa. Alex had rigorously avoided seeing her, even at the cost of reducing his intimacy with his sister. The French girl was bewitchingly attractive and the feel of her soft body haunted him. She responded so sweetly, without apology or missishness …

  Alex gazed absently out the window of the small office he had been given. It was late September, and below, Whitehall was thronged with carriages, drays, and peddlers. At the moment, a detachment of soldiers was marching past toward the Horse Guards just up the street. He found himself rubbing at the chronic stab of pain in his left side and smiled without humor—like death and taxes, the pain was always with him, and he wished the devilish shell fragment would decide just where it wanted to go.

  With a sigh Alex returned to his desk. It wasn’t just Christa’s body; he had never enjoyed another woman’s company as much, nor felt as relaxed in her presence. The fact that he found a servant so appealing proved his father’s complaint that Alex had inadequate respect for what was due his name.

  To counteract Christa’s insidious influence, Alex had decided it was time to meet eligible females of his own station. There was no shortage of potential mates at the numerous entertainments he and Annabelle attended—with male naiveté, it didn’t occur to him that some of those invitations to his sister were inspired by the knowledge that he would be her escort. A handsome, wealthy viscount in need of a wife was a prize indeed.

  In the meantime, Alex was
writing about tactics at Admiral Hutchinson’s request. He and the bluff old sea dog had become good friends. Hutchinson was the third professional sea lord, and his duties involved the placement of commission and warrant officers; he often conferred with Alex about potential appointments. For all the role of influence and money, the Admiralty took its duties seriously and it was rare for an incompetent to receive a command.

  Alex was pleased at how his work on tactics was progressing; he knew more than he had realized, and had developed some strong opinions. He also knew that the clerks who made fair copies from his drafts thought his spelling was a joke, but senior officers who read the work in progress were pleased at the results. And writing kept him from thinking about Christa. At least, very often.

  In a lavish town house on Curzon Street, Sybil Debenham gazed at her reflection with profound satisfaction. Tonight was the Wincastles’ ball and she intended to make her move on Lord Kingsley. She had worked carefully toward this moment, surveying the eligible males, then evaluating them as to quality of title, wealth, and personal characteristics. Of the three, title was by far the most important; Sybil had quite an adequate share of the world’s goods herself, inherited from her vulgar mill-owner grandfather.

  She turned her head slightly to one side, admiring the perfect line of profile that ran from brow to décolletage. Her brow puckered in a small frown. “Merrier, one of the back curls is askew. Fix it.”

  “But Mademoiselle requested that I pin it that way, for a more frolicsome look.” The French maid’s voice was carefully neutral.

  Her mistress’s exquisite Cupid’s-bow mouth thinned. “I’m not interested in your excuses. Fix it!” While the maid’s deft hands repinned the coiffure, Sybil returned to rapt contemplation of her image. It was universally acknowledged that she was a diamond of the first water, with a perfect heart-shaped face, guinea-gold curls, and exquisitely sculptured features. Critics might say that her aquamarine eyes were too small and close together for total beauty, but she dismissed such carping as sheer spite. Besides, that fool of a maid was very good with cosmetics, and was able to transform the merely beautiful into the sublime. Sybil lowered her lashes, admiring how the shimmer of gold dust on her eyelids matched her gilded fingernails. This time she could not possibly fail.

  The satisfied self-examination faltered a bit. For some reason Sybil had never fathomed, she always excited feverish admiration but had never received the superior offer she so clearly deserved. Her fortune was excellent, her beauty without peer, so she could only conclude it was her breeding that stood between her and the heights of the beau monde. That dratted mill-owner grandfather. Of course, the Gunning sisters’ birth had been inferior to hers, and they had been fabulously successful in the Marriage Mart … She suppressed the thought quickly.

  The fact that Sybil was twenty-two and in her fourth Season had caused her to lower her sights; if she didn’t accept an offer soon, she was in danger of becoming a laughingstock. Her first Season she had intended to accept only a duke, but was reluctantly forced to admit that there were too few eligible dukes to choose from; two of the Royal Dukes had made propositions, but of the wrong kind.

  The second year Miss Debenham had added marquesses to the list of availables, in the spring of 1794 she had expanded to earls. If only the Earl of Radcliffe had not gotten himself killed just before that Season began … Lord Radcliffe’s attentions had been most flattering the previous two Seasons. Why, if she had encouraged him in her second Season, Sybil might be a widowed countess now, with the wealth and title, and no nasty physical duties required.

  The present Earl of Radcliffe was also single, and stricken enough in years that he might not paw too much, but the dratted man was scarcely ever in society. Really most unfair that Sybil had not been given an adequate chance to show him what he was missing out there in the country.

  She stood and lifted her arms so Merrier could remove the silk wrapper that protected Sybil’s gown during makeup and hairdressing. She slid one hand lovingly down the gold lace overdress. The Parisian style-setters might be advocating simplicity, but men still appreciated grandeur. Kingsley didn’t have a chance.

  This past spring Miss Debenham had reluctantly decided that she might have to accept a viscount, though she still would not stoop to a baron. She had been running out of possibles when Kingsley had appeared on the scene. One saw him everywhere this autumn, and while Sybil knew that some other girls had set their caps for him, there wasn’t one that could compete with her. She had taken her time studying him, cultivating his dim little sister Annabelle, observing how he interacted with people.

  Kingsley was annoyingly informal, with no proper sense of his own dignity, but that was a minor failing. He was attractive enough to be a credit to her, and surprisingly, he seemed rather shy around women. It must come from spending so much time with a bunch of seagoing ruffians. Well, perhaps the viscount would return to sea after they were married. Then he wouldn’t be in her way, and he looked to be the heroic sort, which would increase her own consequence. If he did well enough, Kingsley might even be elevated to earl. That would be a good reward for her condescension in accepting a viscount.

  Her maid fastened the diamond necklace about her neck and Sybil nodded with satisfaction. It was the perfect touch. Tonight she would bring herself to Kingsley’s attention. Shy as he was, the viscount would be awed by her beauty and dazzled by her favor. By the end of the month he would make her an offer—there was no doubt of it.

  Claudia Debenham nodded approvingly as her daughter came down the stairs, one hand gracefully trailing along the curving banister. It was always good to practice artful gestures; one never knew who might be watching.

  “Very good, my dear. That dress suits you very well. Kingsley will be quite smitten.” The two women were co-conspirators in pursuit of the elusive title; in fact, the daughter’s obsession stemmed from the mother’s failure to achieve the social heights she had desired for herself. Claudia had been a well-looking girl, but was nothing like the dazzler her daughter was. The older woman had counted herself lucky to catch the second son of a baron. Of course, her husband Leo’s elder brother had been sickly, and she had had hopes that Leo would inherit the title. Instead, the sickly brother was flourishing, with four healthy sons, while Leo had declined into an early grave. It never occurred to Claudia to wonder if she herself had contributed to his premature demise.

  “Now, tell me again what you will do,” Claudia commanded.

  Sybil rolled her eyes in irritation. “You know, Mother,” she said petulantly. “When Kingsley enters with his sister, I wait a few minutes while they get settled, then come over and tell her I have found an outstanding milliner, and ask her to go with me tomorrow. Annabelle will have to introduce me to her brother. Then when her court is rushing up to claim dances with her, I put him at his ease. Lord Kingsley will certainly ask me to dance. I will tell him how I adore his insipid little sister, which will please him. And I’ll ask him about his adventures in the Navy. Men love talking about such things. It should go perfectly smoothly; he had shown no preference for any other girl.”

  “None of them can outshine you, my dear,” her mother said complacently. “Shall we be on our way?”

  “Lord Kingsley and Miss Kingsley,” the footman intoned.

  Annabelle looked around the Wincastles’ ballroom in happy anticipation. It was one of the grandest of the autumn’s entertainments, and she had been looking forward to it. Parties were quite enjoyable now that she was dressed well and more confident.

  “Enjoy your moment of peace, Belle,” her brother said with a grin. “I see one or two of your admirers looking in this direction, and they will be elbowing me out of the way soon.”

  “Oh, Alex, you exaggerate,” Annabelle said with a laugh. “They are always most respectful to you. After all, you are my guardian, and they want to turn you up sweet.”

  “Where do you pick up such language, Belle?” Alex said as he led them toward a row of c
hairs on the opposite side of the ballroom.

  “Where else but in the bosom of my family, O brother mine,” Annabelle said demurely.

  “If you don’t show some respect for your elders, I’ll start larding my speech with Navy terms. If you use them, you’ll be like the sailor’s parrot—unfit for mixed company.”

  Annabelle laughed as she settled into a chair, then suppressed a sigh when she saw that Sybil Debenham was bearing down on them. Miss Debenham had been most kind in her attentions, but Belle had trouble warming to her—Sybil’s conversation was paralyzingly empty, and her relentlessly fashionable style made the younger girl feel too tall, too gawky, and hopelessly countrified. Still, it was not in Annabelle to refuse proffered friendship, so she looked up with a smile and said, “Good evening, Miss Debenham. You are in particularly good looks this evening.”

  “Please, my dear, do call me Sybil. I’ve asked you a thousand times!” Miss Debenham fluttered her fan, artlessly overlooking Lord Kingsley’s substantial presence. “I want to tell you about this superb milliner I’ve discovered. An absolute marvel! Do say you will come with me to see her tomorrow.” Her gracious invitation managed to convey that Annabelle was in dire need of the ministrations of any and all purveyors of fashion.

  Alex was watching the new arrival with fascination; really, she was the most highly finished piece of nature he had ever seen! Every curl was perfectly placed, every gesture a study in graceful composition. He was wondering if she practiced her movements in front of a mirror, when Annabelle made the introduction. “Alex, this is Miss Sybil Debenham. Miss Debenham, my brother, Lord Kingsley.”

  Alex blinked under the force of the aquamarine eyes turned in his direction. Making a bow, he murmured his pleasure at the honor done him. Miss Debenham giggled. “Oh, the honor is mine, my lord. I have been longing this age to meet the hero.”