by Isobel Carr
Livy shook her head as her mount danced beneath her, eager to be off. Devere and his sister had invited her to join them on their ride before they turned in to sleep the morning away, and before Livy could decline, her father had accepted. And he’d accepted in such a way that it was clear that he’d met them here before. Livy had never paid much attention to her father’s coming and goings, but it was blindingly clear that something highly unusual—for him at least—was unfolding.
“I’m curious about this tradition of yours,” Livy said with perfect truthfulness. “Besides, Triton’s been eating his head off all week. If he doesn’t get some exercise, he’ll knock down the stall.”
Devere laughed, the sound warm and inviting. Livy slanted a glance at him through the fog. Only a few paces away, he was insubstantial around the edges. She could very well imagine him a djinn come to spirit her away. The idea of it was tantalizing in a way that had become impossible to ignore.
She wanted him. Her blood fired with every touch. If she’d been a widow with a house of her own, she might already have invited him to her bed. It was a mortifying realization and an impossible situation.
A steady pattern of iron-shod hooves on stone reminded her that her father and Devere’s sister were close at hand. Livy concentrated on the noise and the low hum of their conversation. She could catch only snatches. A word here, a phrase there, the comtesse’s throaty chuckle.
A sudden flash of jealousy coursed through her. Was Devere’s sister already her father’s lover? It didn’t seem fair that the comtesse had so much freedom while she herself had none. That so many women had such freedom, she corrected herself as Devere’s confession regarding Lady Mossiker flashed through her head.
Half the women of the ton seemed to have taken a lover at one point or another, and so long as they were careful and their husbands indulgently turned a blind eye, life went on as though they were as chaste as nuns. The unfairness of it all burnt in her chest like a live coal.
As they reached the entrance to Rotten Row, Livy glanced back over her shoulder. Her father and the comtesse were riding as close as a harnessed pair. Her father’s knee was lost in the folds of Madame de Corbeville’s habit. There was something intimate about it, something that spoke of an easy companionship that seemed more disturbing than the possibility of her father taking a lover like any other man.
The fog was lighter here in the park than between the buildings, but that could have been merely due to the ever-growing light as the sun struggled to come up. The sandy track was, unsurprisingly, deserted, with the exception of a fox that slunk out of sight as soon as it spotted them, nothing but a blur of fiery fur.
“Shall we risk a canter?” Devere said as his bay tossed its head and minced in place, ready to be off.
Livy responded by touching Triton’s shoulder with her crop and his side with her heel. The gelding sprang into motion, the sudden demonstration of what muscle and bone could do utterly thrilling. Speed and cold damp air chased away her blue devils.
Devere’s startled oath chased after her, and Livy grinned into the fog, imagining his face. She wasn’t the most graceful dancer, her needlework was barely passable, and she had no delusions about her skill on the pianoforte, but she could ride.
Fog whipped past her, water beading on her lashes. Olivia blinked it away. Devere and his big bay nearly caught her at the end of the track. She could hear Devere’s low whistle of appreciation and the soft thunder of his mount’s hooves on the dirt.
Livy slowed Triton to a canter, allowing Devere to catch up, and they reached the end of the track neck and neck. He looked at her appraisingly.
“Good seat.”
Livy bowed her head, accepting the compliment. She turned Triton about, her heart pounding. Devere and his bay circled, the bay’s bit jangling as he tossed his head, still eager to run.
“Again?” Devere said, his grin showing an expanse of straight, white teeth. His beard was growing in already, the dark shadow on his cheeks and chin lending him a disreputable glamour.
Livy smiled back at him, and he shot off down the Row, the bay’s long tail streaming out behind him. She set off in pursuit, letting Triton have his head. The bay was larger, but his rider was heavier, making the contest somewhat even.
Devere grinned back at her, inviting her to try and catch him. A sudden rush of attraction swamped her. Livy sat back in the saddle, and Triton slowed to a walk. She let her breath out in a huff, watching the thin trails mingle with the fog. The mist was burning off. Her father’s black gelding blended with the comtesse’s black habit and her own dark mount as the pair ambled slowly toward her.
Devere swung around them and trotted back toward her. Lady Duncannon’s magnificent echoed in Livy’s head, and her breath caught in her chest. This was how women got themselves into trouble. How young matrons seduced themselves into liaisons they would otherwise have never even have contemplated.
He was hers for the asking. That simple truth seemed fantastical. The urge to discover if Devere deserved the reputation her friends so clearly intimated itched beneath her skin.
Devere plucked her out of the saddle, his hands wrapped about her waist, squeezing in. Livy’s pulse sped, and her head swam. He didn’t merely assist as she slid down as most gentlemen did. He lifted her and set her on her feet. And he did it without the slightest sign of effort. His hands didn’t slip. His arms didn’t shake.
Livy nodded as she got her feet under her, and Devere stepped back, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, fingertips whispering over her ribs before releasing her. Her father’s groom harrumphed like an offended dowager as he led her horse away. Devere smiled conspiratorially, inviting her to share his amusement at the man’s disapproval.
Livy shut her eyes, shut him out, and shook her head. She couldn’t afford to indulge him at this exact moment. She was too close to forgetting that it was all a ruse. Too close to wanting it not to be, or making the irreversible choice to allow it to become something more.
Devere’s sister was still mounted. Livy’s father stood beside her, running one hand absently over her mount’s neck as they spoke.
Livy covered her mouth with her hand as she yawned. “Do you really always end your nights this way?”
“Always would be stretching the truth,” Devere said. “But yes, it’s something of a tradition when we’re in town. In the country, we always rose early for a morning ride, but with the late hours we all keep here in London, that becomes impractical, if not impossible. This is our compromise.”
“You’ll have to come to Holinshed when Parliament takes its next break,” Livy’s father said, his invitation clearly including both Devere siblings. “I’m sure Livy would love to show it to you both. I’ll send round an invitation to your father later today.”
Livy glanced at her father with horror. The last thing she wanted was Devere at Holinshed. It was hard enough to manage him here. In the country, she’d be at her wit’s end trying to keep him in line and trying to keep herself from being swept up, swept away.
Devere bent over her hand with a flourish and then swung up into the saddle with a quick motion that clearly indicated he wasn’t anywhere near as exhausted as Livy. After the theatre, a series of balls and routs, and their dawn ride, she felt as if her flesh was about to melt from her bones. He looked ready to start his day, not end it.
The earl slapped the comtesse’s mount on the haunch and walked back to wrap an arm around Livy as the siblings rode out of the mews. As they reached the passageway from the mews to the street, both of them looked back, smiling. Dark hair, dark eyes, and the similarity of features made them look almost like twins, though Livy knew Devere’s sister was several years older than he was. The comtesse gave a jaunty little wave and then settled her hat more firmly on her head before trotting out of view.
Roland wandered into The Red Lion in the late afternoon and claimed a place at the table where Thane and Vaughn were sprawled. They both looked flush with
health and well rested, and at the moment, Roland cordially loathed them. He captured the pot of coffee that sat waiting on the table and emptied it into a cup whose owner had apparently already been and gone. He inhaled the decadent scent of it as he waited for it to cool enough to drink.
He’d taken Margo home, but he’d been unable to sleep. He’d crawled into bed expecting to pass into the arms of Morpheus instantaneously, only to be kept awake by the rumble of wheels, the distant clatter from the kitchen, and the sound of the neighbor’s maid singing as she scrubbed the front steps. After several restless hours, he’d given up and rung for a bath. A hot soak wasn’t exactly a replacement for sleep, but it served to make him feel marginally alive again.
“Well, well,” Vaughn said with a chuckle as he looked up from the house of cards he was constructing on the table. “Chasing Lady Olivia till dawn, were we?”
Roland blew on his coffee and took an exploratory sip. Sweeping Lord Leonidas’s precarious creation onto the floor would be a petty response, but he was still sorely tempted.
“Your plan is never going to work, you know,” Thane said, settling back in his chair until the wood squealed in protest. “The lady in question is, well, a lady.”
Roland eyed his friends over the brim of his cup and continued to blow on it. They could think what they liked. He could sense Olivia weakening, could almost feel her curiosity building like a static charge before a storm.
Roland swallowed a mouthful of coffee, the bitter liquid reviving him as it spread its heat to his toes and fingers and sparked his brain into a simulation of life.
“And you’re implying what?” Roland said with a growl. “That my sister, or any number of your own paramours I could name, isn’t?”
Vaughn gave a choked-off laugh and his house of cards collapsed, sending cards cascading across the worn table top and onto the floor. Thane harrumphed and added another lump of sugar to his own steaming cup. Before Roland could insist Thane answer the question, Malcolm Reeves dropped into the seat beside Vaughn and tossed a letter onto the table. The folded sheet of paper with its broken wax seal revolved in a full circle before coming to a somewhat ominous stop.
“Blakely wants us to check up on Miss Bence-Jones,” Reeves said, a hard, bitter note coloring his voice. “Says something’s amiss, but he’s not sure what.”
“Is her brother throwing up yet more obstacles to their marriage?” Thane said, reaching for the letter.
“Not that Blakely knows of.” Reeves swept up the cards nearest him and shuffled them absently. “At least not specifically. He says he hasn’t received a letter from her in several months, which is unusual. Though her mother and brother forced them to put off the marriage while they were in mourning for Sir Thomas, they’d been allowed to correspond, so long as Lady Bence-Jones read their letters. Blakely just wants to make sure she’s all right.”
“The newly minted Sir Christopher does seem the kind not to bother telling his sister’s betrothed if something happened to her, doesn’t he?” Vaughn said, and Roland found himself nodding in agreement. He’d known Christopher Bence-Jones since they were at Harrow. The man had always been an untrustworthy scoundrel. The kind of boy who broke something and then ran to point the finger at someone smaller, poorer, or even less popular than himself.
Thane’s expression darkened as he read the letter. He might have a wicked sense of humor when it came to his friends, but he was also loyal as a hound, and the circle of people he felt to be under his protection extended to his friends’ dependents as well to themselves. Roland had always surmised it was down to his size. When you were as large as Thane, people naturally looked to you for assistance.
Thane finished the letter and carefully refolded it, his fingers crimping every fold as though it were somehow important to preserve the letter in perfect form. “Has anyone seen Miss Bence-Jones since the Season started?”
“Saw her in the park a few weeks back,” Vaughn said. “Still decked out in black and white from head to toe.”
“Well, if the Bence-Joneses are in town, someone can pay a call and see if Blakely has any real reason for concern,” Reeves said, his brow relaxing. “I was dreading coming up with a reason for going all the way to Wales to check up on her. Blakely’s a friend—”
“But it’s Wales,” Roland cut in with a derisive snort.
“Exactly,” Reeves replied with feeling. “Nothing but rain, hills, and a series of unpronounceable places. Got lost once and crossed over accidently on my way to a house party near Three Ashes. When I found the first road sign, I thought perhaps I’d gone mad and lost the ability to read.”
CHAPTER 10
The door to the shop opened and an elegant, turbaned matron with a trio of girls rushed in. They were followed by a gust of wind that smelled strongly of rain. The door came to a stop half open, fighting the wind, and Livy’s footman kicked it shut behind them.
Livy glanced away from the gloves she was considering to study the gray sky outside. It had been clouding up when she’d set out on this expedition, but clearly rain was now imminent.
Her father had warned her to take an umbrella, but if it began to rain in earnest, she’d still be soaked by the time she reached Arlington House. A spatter of drops hit the window, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw her footman wince. “Peter, run and fetch a hackney now, before it gets any worse,” Livy said, knowing he was already mentally calculating where the closest stand was.
Peter nodded with obvious relief, set down the packages he’d been minding, and dashed out into the oncoming storm. Livy turned back to the gloves. She laid the swatch of fabric for her new gown across them and studied them intently. The pink was a very close match for the flowers, but all things considered, she preferred the blue, to match the penciling. The blue would likely wear better, too. The pink was so pale it was sure to show every mark, and there was also the white pair with floral bracelets printed on them to consider.
Livy plucked all three pairs off the counter and handed them to the shopkeeper. “I can’t decide, so I’ll be extravagant and take all three.”
The woman smiled and began to carefully wrap them up. The younger shopkeeper helping the trio of ladies at the other counter was also busy wrapping up a great quantity of gloves and handkerchiefs and shoe rosettes. The weather clearly wasn’t going to ruin the shop’s day. Livy’s day, however, was looking bleaker by the second.
A flash of lightning illuminated the growing gloom and a distant rumble of thunder came tumbling after it. The youngest of the girls let out a squeal, her eyes huge and round. “Beth,” the woman in the turban said without taking her eyes off the pair of chicken skin gloves she was examining. “You will be pleased not to react to a little thunder as though you were the heroine of a gothic romance or you will stay in the nursery with your brother the next time we venture out.”
“Yes, Mamma,” the girl responded, her attention riveted on the rain now lashing against the shop windows.
Another round of thunder and the audible increase in the strength of the rain caused Beth’s mother to look outside with a grimace. “I told your father we should have taken the carriage,” she said, her voice frosty with annoyance.
Peter’s liveried form appeared through the rain. He cracked open the door, but didn’t step inside. “I got one, my lady. Had to fight off Lord Colchester’s footman,” he said with a self-satisfied grin, “but I got it.”
Livy smiled her thanks, but found herself glancing back uncertainly at the shivering and clearly frightened girl. In this downpour, they’d never find a hackney of their own, especially as they didn’t appear to have any kind of servant in tow to send in search of one. Beth looked as though she were one more clap of thunder away from dissolving into tears.
It wasn’t a reaction Livy understood, but she’d certainly encountered it before. There was a maid at Holinshed who came positively undone at the first clap of thunder. The housekeeper had actually had to slap her once to stop her having hysterics
.
Beth sucked in a shuddering breath, and Livy began to consider just how wet she’d get walking back to Arlington House. She brushed her hands over her skirts. Silk really had been a poor choice for such a day.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Livy said, her decision made. “Perhaps you and your girls stand in more dire need of a hackney than I? I brought my umbrella, and it’s only a few streets to my house.” Poor Peter was already soaked through; it wouldn’t make a spot of difference to him if they walked.
“Thank you,” the woman said a bit uncertainly. “That’s very kind. But we couldn’t.”
“Peter,” Livy said, “could you help the ladies into the hackney?”
Her footman managed to keep the look of surprise from his face as he held Livy’s umbrella and carefully escorted first the mother and then each of the girls to the waiting hackney.
“Can I leave all this here until I can send someone to fetch it?” Livy waved one hand at the pile of packages and bandboxes she’d collected as she and Peter roamed Pall Mall.
The proprietress nodded, the lacy frills on her cap flapping about her face. “No need to send anyone, my lady. I’ll have them delivered as soon as my grandson returns from his last errand.”
Peter retuned, wet and bedraggled, and held out her umbrella. “Coming down cats and dogs, my lady,” he said, his expression clearly telling her he thought her mad to have given the hackney to what appeared to be the family of some Old Bailey solicitor.
Livy let her breath out in a long huff as she braced herself. She’d never much liked this gown anyway. Jonquil was not her best color.
She stepped out onto the walk, and the wind pushed her down the street, whipping her skirts about her legs until she nearly stumbled and fell. Livy gave a nervous titter of laughter and clutched at her umbrella. It felt as though it might lift her off the walk at any moment.
By the time she reached the corner, Livy was beginning to regret her largesse with the hackney. “I deserve to be sainted,” she mumbled under her breath as she waited for a coach to pass before she braved the street. The coachman hunched on the box like a gargoyle, his hat pulled down and the collar of his greatcoat flipped up.
