“May I join you?” Sutcliffe’s gaze again sought Meg. “It is, after all, a public garden. And it is raining.” He smiled, as though that alone were enough to explain his intrusion.
“This is a private box,” her father said, even as Sutcliffe stepped closer. “We are a family party.”
Sutcliffe’s smile slipped into a sneer. He glanced at Candace d’ Avigne.
“Not all, I think,” he corrected sharply. “Bon soir mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?”
“Tres bien, merci, monsieur le comte,” she said respectfully, but she cast an uncertain look about her.
Sutcliffe’s gaze measured Cabot before settling again on Meg.
“Miss Lawrence, will you walk out with me? I shall find us an umbrella.”
“No, my lord. As you see, I am at home here.”
Sutcliffe threw a hand in Cabot’s direction.
“You just walked out with him. You waltzed with him. Yet who is he?” When she stayed silent he turned a contemptuous look on Cabot. “Vous etes malotru. Sans honneur.
As Candace d’Avigne gasped, Lucy, who was seated closest to Sutcliffe’s taunting face, jumped up to slap him.
Meg heard her heart beat. Sutcliffe touched his cheek as Lucy turned wildly to Cabot.
“I’m … sorry, Charles.” Her face was ashen. “I remember … what you said to me last week, but it was too … too much! I could not wait! I-”
“Lucy .. ” Sir Eustace cautioned as Mr. Wembly quickly drew Lucy back down to her seat. “Please!”
Meg’s focus did not leave Sutcliffe’s face as he dismissed quaking Lucy and fixed his venomous attention on Cabot’s still form.
“Yes, Charles,” he stressed. His tone froze. “For what does eager Miss Lucy wait?” He did not expect an answer. He did not receive one. With a last, long look at Meg, Sutcliffe turned into the damp and left them.
Hyde Park, blanketed by dawn-light fog, was curiously welcoming. After several days refining the plans for Abbey Clare, Chas appreciated being outdoors, the scent of the moist morning air, the sound of his horse’s breathing.
He reached down to pat Incendio’s neck. The huge black gelding was David’s. The horse had helped see his cousin through many years on the Peninsula. A sturdier, less temperamental blueblood was probably not to be found, certainly not among the men who had celebrated David’s return last night.
Chas had been spared a headache, but he knew so little sleep would take its toll later in the day. Last night’s revelry was not the sort of indulgence to which he should be yielding just now, not with the business with Sutcliffe brewing. But for the duration of the evening it had been a relief not to feel the strain, to laugh with Myles and David and a host of friends, to know that Sutcliffe and Mulmgren and their minions could not, would not, invade the tavern and the raucous masculine company.
A condemned man, Chas reflected grimly, was supposed to be granted just such as that-a pleasure in the nature of a last request.
As Incendio champed at the bit Chas let him out. The ground was soft but firm, perfect for a run. The gelding must have found the green English sod a surprisingly springy surface after Spain’s stony soil. They raced along higher ground above the lake before pulling up to the north of Kensington gardens.
He thought of Sir Eustace Lawrence, and of the tragedy for such a man never to ride again. Sir Eustace’s crippling had to have been the last thing Sutcliffe would have wanted, for with it, he had permanently earned Meg’s enmity. But the earl still bore the responsibility for that infamous evening’s most lasting reminder. And his acts since had been unforgivable.
Chas knew that he had been lucky at Vauxhall. He had planned to attend only as a courtesy to Vanessa and her charge, but once Sir Eustace had invited him to stop in, the temptation had been irresistible. Candace d’Avigne had been his excuse for venturing over to the Lawrences. And then, as usual, he had been lost. Had Sutcliffe challenged him there, as Chas knew he very nearly had, Chas would not have been ready. He needed a few more days-to set his affairs in order, to finish the plans for Clare-rough as they were-and to visit Wimbledon Common, the likeliest venue.
Lucy’s bravery, if that was what it had been, had almost forced him, where Sutcliffe had been unable to force him, to something he had been carefully avoiding. The contest would have to be with pistols. With pistols Chas suspected he had a chance. And Sutcliffe would only agree to pistols if Chas chose them.
He had been shooting now every day for weeks. He had been shooting at Clare’s. He had no fear for his accuracy, only for the circumstances. There was so very little he could plan. He thought he might survive the confrontation, but Meg would never approve the method. She was like to think him a murderer, given his dedication. Still, the line would be crossed only when Sutcliffe challenged him.
He and Incendio trotted along under the plane trees. The waltz was in his head again, not as he had danced to it at Almack’s but as he had heard it that brief moment at her aunt’s-in simple, haunting reminder, played by Meg at the piano, with her lustrous hair streaming over her shoulders and down her back.
He noticed Lawrence’s horse first, the gray with a crooked blaze and a tendency to drop his head. Then he distinguished Bertie himself and the neighbor, Mr. Wembly. Meg was behind them, accompanied by an unknown Wembly-but clearly a Wembly.
Chas abruptly halted his horse.
“Cabot!” Bertram called as the group neared him. “Well met!”
“Good morning, Mr. Cabot,” Mr. Wembly said. “Who’ve you got there?”
Chas patted Incendio’s neck as he turned the horse about to join their party.
“This is a Spanish boy, Mr. Wembly. Incendio. He’s been with my cousin, Lor-that is, Major Trent, on the Peninsula the past few years. Now, I fear, he finds the park tame.”
“Oh, no doubt!” Mr. Wembly agreed. “Where is your cousin?”
“He just returned yesterday. He is … recovering.”
“Not injured, I hope?”
“Thankfully, not at all. Though we have had”-he glanced at Meg-“a celebration.”
Bertie laughed.
“I can imagine!” He turned to the stranger. “Walter, this is Charles Cabot. Cabot, Walter Wembly-Harry’s brother.”
The two of them nodded to one another. Walter was older than Harry, broader and sterner, but just as darkly handsome-curse him.
“Walter’s just become a Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians,” Malcolm Wembly said proudly. Chas thought Meg’s sister, Louisa, had attracted a particular kind of ambitious gentleman. And it struck him as sufficient that the Wemblys should now have the inside running with Lucy. They did not need any more rein.
He neatly drew Incendio behind and to Meg’s side.
“Did you take the colors yourself, Mr. Cabot?” Walter Wembly asked across her. Chas was distractingly aware of Meg’s tidy blue velvet riding habit.
“No, Dr. Wembly. Though as a boy it was my dearest wish. I believed myself destined to be a master of artillery. But I was precluded.”
“Precluded?” Meg asked, her gaze meeting his for the first time. He was so struck by the perfection of her face, framed by the feather in her pert little black hat, that he could not at first respond.
“I promised two elderly ladies that I would not do so while they lived, Miss Lawrence. They have demonstrated extraordinary longevity. Unfortunately,” and he frowned as he again patted Incendio’s neck, “so did General Bonaparte”
“Have you horses of your own, Mr. Cabot?”
This time Chas decided Walter Wembly’s question had not been entirely friendly.
“I do, Doctor. But not here in town. They are out at Brookslea.”
“Brookslea? In Hampshire?” his father asked. “Braughton’s Brookslea?”
“‘Tis Cabot’s Brookslea now, Uncle Malcolm,” Bertie supplied.
Chas did not much care for the friendly term `uncle’.
“Is it, b’gad!” Mr. Wembly enthused. “‘Tis a superior prope
rty.”
Chas could imagine Hayden’s drawling remark on the gentry’s preoccupation with realty. But with Meg Lawrence’s gaze reading his own he was very much aware that he had just played the game himself. He could not now make a show of flaunting conventions.
“I thank you,” he said politely, and glanced at Meg again. “How is Miss Lucy?” he asked. “After the other night..
“I believe she was in shock, Cabot,” Bertie volunteered. “But after you left with Miss d’Avigne, we hurried her home to Aunt Pru, who has been most solicitous with her `little lamb’.” Bertie snorted. “‘Little lamb’ ! Perhaps we should have let Lucy fly at Bonaparte!”
Chas smiled.
“Lucy thanks you for the chocolates,” Meg told him. “They were consumed with much enthusiasm.”
Chas nodded and kept the smile, though he was not at ease. He thought Meg Lawrence’s gaze concerned; she may simply have noticed that he looked peaked-that his smile was forced. But he did not want pity from her, not when Walter Wembly was looking so very smug. It amazed Chas that he could manage to deal rationally and purposefully with a danger like Sutcliffe, but find the inestimable Dr. Wembly insufferable.
“Where will you set up your practice, Doctor?” he asked. “Here in town?”
“I believe I will return soon to Berkshire, Mr. Cabot. The consulting physician in Burley is close to retirement. It is an opportunity.” He glanced at Meg, in a manner that indicated his consideration of other opportunities as well.
“Mr. Cabot has expressed an interest in further work in the county himself,” Meg said sweetly. “He was much taken with the prospect of Havingsham Hall from that high point above our lake-you will remember, Walter.”
Walter. The interloper was looking at her too fondly.
“Perhaps Mr. Cabot, you would consider giving us your opinion of Havingsham Hall,” Mr. Wembly proposed. “After all, if Walter settles ‘twould be a good time to make some improvements.”
“I didn’t know you were ready to settle, Walter,” Bertie said.
“Well, I..”-Walter glanced at Meg-“just recently thought the notion was not to be dismissed.”
Did he, by God! Chas’ irritation conveyed itself to Incendio, who started to prance. Chas felt the first of the sun’s rays upon his face and coat as though he were touched by fire. He had no intention of sacrificing what he might for the Walter Wemblys of the world.
His gaze sought Meg’s face, luminous in the fresh light. She was teasing him about Havingsham Hall. The hint of a smile drew his attention to her lips. He realized he had let Sutcliffe’s claims influence him-that he had begun to think of her as inviolable, untouched and untouchable. And at once he knew he must kiss those teasing lips, before he departed the earth.
“Your mare looks tired this morning,” he suggested smoothly, his gaze hooded.
“Paloma?” she scoffed. “Paloma is never tired!”
Chas tilted his chin briefly toward the high ground off the path, around the other side of the lake. He raised one eyebrow in silent challenge. She understood him immediately. It was her weakness, a dare she could not resist. Had Chas lived as confined a life he would have been equally susceptible. On her Paloma Meg believed herself invincible.
Chas drew Incendio into an eager, expectant circle, then kneed him into a run. The mare’s hooves pounded right behind them. Chas was gambling-that the center of the park would still be empty, or that he would find a suitable spot that was. He, and not Paloma, would determine the finish line.
Over the rise from the Wemblys and up and down another, between two giant chestnuts and shy of the lake’s far end, Chas slowed and pulled up, just as Meg’s mare started to pass them. The girl was indeed lightning in the saddle.
He called halt. As both horses blew steam and tossed their heads, Chas brought Incendio to her offside.
“Miss Margaret Lawrence,” he charged. “You need not peddle my services to the Wemblys.”
“Shouldn’t you like Havingsham Hall?” She smiled as she patted Paloma’s neck; it delighted Chas to see her smile. But he was resolved.
“‘Twould depend on what you forfeited for such an honor.”
“Oh-if I were to attach Walter, as you proposed, you might devise a park for Havingsham. On a triangular plan, perhaps. That of an isosceles triangle? In time, Cabot’s geometry might cover the countryside . . ” She was so taken with her own cleverness she did not notice when he moved Incendio closer behind her. In one deft movement he relieved her of her reins, then plucked her bodily from the saddle and pulled her with an iron arm across in front of him. Her lips parted in a startled “0” before he swiftly claimed them.
That she should yield to him with equal swiftness surprised him. Her mouth was so lushly welcoming that he did not break the kiss as he’d intended, instead releasing both horses to pull her up close in his arms, clear of the pommel. Incendio, who had been used to much, stayed blessedly still. But as the kiss deepened, as Chas was tempted to more, as Meg’s hands inched up his chest, Chas knew he had to stop.
He drew back, looking into the dazed dark depths of her eyes, then reluctantly lowered her to the ground. Incendio had not moved. One of Meg’s hands rested against the gelding’s black shoulder, as though for support.
“So much for your sauce,” Chas breathed. He wanted to haul her right up to him again.
“You have … practiced that,” she said faintly.
“Never,” he assured her softly, the word unsteady. “‘Twas entirely impulse. An impulse … I might hope to repeat?” The entreaty in his own voice confounded him.
“You hope in vain, sir.” She attempted to order her hair. He willed her to leave it be, the image of its dark length down her back recurring in his mind.
“I thought so. Then I cannot regret my impulse, Miss Lawrence. ‘Twill have to serve”
She searched his face for a second, as though to understand his resignation. Then her trembling fingers straightened her hat and habit. She was shaken by this. She was charming.
He loved her.
Noting the others’ approach he brought Incendio closer, to shield her.
“Her hoof,” he suggested quickly, “a stone .. ” And Meg knelt to take up Paloma’s right front hoof.
“What has happened?” Bertie called, coming up, with the Wemblys close behind.
“Miss Lawrence won the race, but her Paloma may have drawn a stone.” Chas looked down at Meg. “I hope it is nothing serious, Miss Lawrence?”
Her glance up at him was accusing and something elsewounded.
“Not serious at all,” she said, managing to wound him in turn. To mask his confusion, he wheeled Incendio, and started away.
“I must be off. Until later, Lawrence. Mr. Wembly.” He nodded to Walter. The good doctor would claim Meg only over his dead body. And with that ironic thought he at last felt his headache begin.
“Louisa-may I speak with you?”
Her sister looked up from her own dining table, which was serving-only for that afternoon-as a repository of every conceivable favor, prize, and decoration. Lucy’s ball, just two days away, now consumed the Ferrell’s home as well as Lady Billings’s, and seemed to require ballooning space and undivided attention from every member of the family. Meg had just left the company of Lucy and Aunt Pru in the Ferrells’ drawing room, where they reviewed some three hundred acceptances in anticipation of the need for great quantities of soup.
As she closed the dining room door, Meg could still hear Lucy’s excited voice upstairs. The resulting silence was a relief.
Louisa pulled a chair out beside her.
“Come,” she said. “Help me decide between the blue ribbons and the green.” She tapped two seemingly identical strips of fabric.
“Lucy will prefer the blue,” Meg said wearily, glancing only briefly at the samples. She paced to the window instead of taking the proffered chair. “Blue for anything”
“I knew you would decide,” Louisa said, putting the ribbons aside
, “and so you have just saved us half an hour’s debate.”
Meg’s fingers caressed the edge of one of the drapes at the front windows.
“Aunt Pru’s house has been scoured so thoroughly, and everything so ordered and readied, it scarcely seems liv able.” Meg spoke to the window. “‘Tis like trying to reside in a museum.”
Louisa laughed.
“Do not despair, Meg. All this will be over some time in the wee hours of Friday morning-and then we may relax and think freely again. Until Lucy’s wedding!”
Meg looked toward her.
“I am glad you can believe so, Louisa, given how much you now have for which to prepare”
Louisa smiled slyly.
“I have promised Ferrell not to turn his library into a nursery until August at the earliest. By then he hopes to have been invited up north shooting”
Meg shook her head.
“He is as excited as you are. He will not desert you.”
“We shall see. I expect that he may occasionally seek relief by joining all of you at Selbourne this summer.”
Meg turned again to the window. She planned to tell her father she wished to return to Selbourne as soon as possible with Bertie-even as early as next week. The remainder of the season held no further charms for her.
As her gaze focused on a man lounging against a lamppost on the street opposite, Meg abandoned the window. She now assumed every stranger owed allegiance to Lord Sutcliffe. She could not even think in privacy.
She turned to examine, on the dining room wall, a drawing she had rendered the year before, for Louisa’s wedding. It showed a view of Selbourne from Cabot’s knoll.
“You shall have to make another for us, Meg. Now that Mr. Cabot has rearranged things.”
Rearranged things! Indeed he had. Meg glanced to Louisa, who was observing her patiently, and wondered if her astute sister had purposely introduced Cabot’s name.
“Louisa, how did you know-how did you know it was to be Ferrell and not Walter Wembly?”
Louisa raised her eyebrows, as though the outcome of that decision still vexed her.
“Because Ferrell told me so!”
Quiet Meg Page 11
