The Secret Pearl

by Mary Balogh

  Except that by doing so he would be accomplishing exactly what he had come home to prevent Sybil from doing, making of Willoughby a place of debauchery, making himself unworthy of the privilege of being the master of it all.

  He was still standing against the fence when Fleur came out of the stables, her arms empty. She glanced his way, turned her head sharply, and hurried off in the direction of the house.

  Well.

  What the devil had he been thinking of to send her here? It was true that at the time he had not been planning to follow so soon after, but even so, he had known that sooner or later he would be returning to Willoughby. He could never stay away for more than a very few months at a time.

  Why had he had her sent here? There were numerous other places he could have sent her. Or he could easily have found her a post with one of his acquaintances. In either case he need not have seen her ever again.

  Why had he had Houghton send her here?

  Of course, it was not too late, he supposed, to have her sent on somewhere else. Sybil would be delighted; Nanny would be triumphant; Pamela would not be heartbroken; Fleur herself would be relieved beyond measure.

  And he?

  He turned to walk away from the house toward a grove of trees and the artificial ruins of a tower, which his grandfather had been particularly pleased with. He would think about it some other time. He had been home for only three days. It was no time for hasty decisions.

  He rather thought that she would in time prove good for Pamela.

  Besides, she needed the pianoforte in the music room. He did not have an instrument to match it on any of his other properties.

  The thought consoled him.

  The gardeners would need to be reminded, he thought, that there was much deadwood to be cleared out from among these trees.

  APART FROM A STROLL IN THE PARK THE DAY after their arrival, the guests did not exert themselves a great deal. All was in preparation for the grand outdoor ball that evening. It seemed certain that the event would take place out-of-doors. The long spell of warm, dry weather continued through the day.

  Servants were frantically busy from early morning on, catering to the needs and wishes of sixteen newly arrived guests, preparing a grand banquet for them in the evening, decorating the area about the lake for the festivities, and preparing the refreshments for those who would attend the ball.

  Lady Pamela was bouncing with eagerness to watch the proceedings and was convinced that her mama would allow her to see all the ladies in their evening finery. Fleur was less convinced. The duchess did not come to see her daughter all day, and it seemed altogether likely that she would forget her entirely until the following day.

  She would do what she could to give the child some pleasure, she decided. After a morning of easy lessons, which did not require too much concentration on her pupil’s part, she took her outside, and they made their way to the spot from which they had been going to paint the pavilion a few days before.

  From there they could watch the preparations without getting in the way of busy workmen.

  “Oh, the lanterns!” Lady Pamela exclaimed in some awe, gazing at the hundreds of colored lanterns that were being strung in the trees surrounding the lake and on the island and main paths leading from the house. “They will look like magic tonight, Miss Hamilton.”

  The orchestra had arrived and were resting and refreshing themselves somewhere in the house. Their instruments were being taken across to the island by boat. On a flat lawn to the west of the lake, closest to the house, a large wooden floor was being laid for the dancing. Tables were being set with white cloths on the north side, directly below where Fleur stood with Lady Pamela.

  All the gentry from the neighborhood and the town of Wollaston would come for the ball, Mrs. Laycock had told Fleur. And all the servants would be allowed to attend, provided they were not on duty.

  There had been some hunt balls at Heron House. Fleur had always enjoyed them. There was something marvelously exciting about dressing up and seeing all one’s acquaintances dressed up too, and in seeing a ballroom decorated with flowers and candles and in hearing it filled with music. There was a wonderful exhilaration in dancing.

  But she was quite sure that those balls would be nothing to compare in splendor with the ball that was planned for that evening.

  She was, of course, only a servant. She had no grand ball gown or jewels to wear. And it was unlikely that anyone would ask her to dance. But of course! She had almost forgotten in the turmoil of the past few days, in her discovery of just who the Duke of Ridgeway was, in her fear that perhaps by some strange chance one of the guests would be someone who knew her—she had almost forgotten Mr. Chamberlain and his hope that she would dance with him.

  She hoped he had not forgotten. Oh, she hoped it with all her heart. She looked forward to seeing him again. And she looked forward to the evening just like a child being offered a rare treat.

  “Mama will let me come and see the ladies, won’t she?” Lady Pamela said wistfully at her side.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” Fleur said, squeezing the child’s hand and fearing that she did know very well. “Shall we go and see how Tiny is today? She must be feeling lonely. You have not played with her yet.”

  “Yes,” Lady Pamela said, turning reluctantly away from the view below. “I should have asked Papa when he came to sit in the schoolroom with us this morning. He would have said yes, perhaps.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Fleur said.

  The servants ate early that evening. Fleur was back upstairs before her charge’s bedtime and could see that there was still a light in the nursery. She knocked and went in.

  Lady Pamela’s eager expression faded. “Oh,” she said, “I thought it was Mama.”

  “Mama is busy, lovey,” Mrs. Clement said. “She will come and spend a long time with you tomorrow. You know Mama loves you.”

  “Perhaps,” Fleur said, glancing at the nurse, “if you put on a warm cloak you can come outside with me now to see the lanterns lit. All the ladies and gentlemen are at dinner still.”

  “Ooh. May I? May I, Nanny?” Lady Pamela turned pleading eyes on her nurse.

  “I will keep her out of the way of the guests,” Fleur said.

  “She will probably catch cold,” Mrs. Clement said. “And her grace will doubtless be angry if she sees her daughter out of the nursery after dinner, Miss Hamilton. But I am reminded that his grace has said that you are in charge here. Do as you wish.”

  The nurse’s tone was hostile, but Fleur smiled at her and at Lady Pamela, who had rushed for her cloak.

  She did not really need the cloak, Fleur thought as they stepped outside five minutes later. The air was still warm. And unfortunately it was only early dusk, so the lamps would not look at their best even if they were already lit. But she would do the best she could.

  They stayed out longer than she had intended so that Lady Pamela did eventually see the lake and its surroundings in all the magic of the darkness and lantern light. And the orchestra were tuning their instruments inside the pavilion, with its doors thrown open so that the music wafted over the water.

  Several of the guests who had not been invited to the banquet began to arrive, and the child’s eyes grew round at the splendor of the ladies’ gowns and the gentlemen’s evening coats, and at the jewels that glittered in the many colors of the lanterns.

  And finally, when they were already on their way back to the house, the banquet guests were coming along the terrace all together in a group. Fleur drew Lady Pamela into the shade of a tree.

  “We will look, sweetheart,” she said. “Don’t say anything. Perhaps Mama will be upset to see you outside in the dark.”

  But she need not have worried. The child seemed quite content to be a silent spectator. She watched in wonder as her mother passed on the arm of a gentleman, laughing and sparkling up at him. The duke was farther back in the group, a lady on his arm.

  “Ooh,” the child sa
id. “Mama is the prettiest lady. Isn’t she, Miss Hamilton? She is the prettiest lady of all.”

  “Yes, she is, indeed,” Fleur said. And she felt that she did not lie.

  The child was noticeably tired by the time they arrived back at the nursery and was quite content to give herself over to her nurse’s fussing.

  Fleur hurried to her room to change into her best dress—a plain blue muslin, which she had thought something of an extravagance when spending the money Mr. Houghton had given her in London. Now it seemed very ordinary indeed in comparison with the gowns she had seen outside.

  But it did not matter. She was, after all, only a servant. And nothing could quite quench her excitement this evening. She dressed her hair carefully, the knot at the back of her head a little looser than usual, a few strands of hair allowed to fall over her ears and along her neck.

  She felt as nervous as a girl must feel at her come-out ball, she was convinced as she hurried down the stairs and across the hall and outdoors. There were light and music and laughter coming from the direction of the lake. Of course, she had never had a come-out ball.

  IF THEY COULD HAVE PLANNED the weather as meticulously as all the other details of the evening had been planned, the Duke of Ridgeway thought, they could hardly have done better. Even as the night wore on, there was still a suggestion of warmth in the air, though the basic coolness was, of course, perfect for those who danced every set. And the breeze was only enough to sway the lanterns in the trees and flutter silks attractively and cool heated cheeks without in any way endangering the elaborate coiffures of the ladies.

  He had always enjoyed the more elaborate of the entertainments that Willoughby was famous for. And this was no exception. It was true that he had found the conversation of his guests through much of the day somewhat insipid, but then, tonight all his neighbors were present too. And he had always made a point of being friendly with his neighbors.

  He danced the opening set with his wife, who was easily the most lovely of all the ladies present, he thought entirely without bias. She had realized, of course, that a gown of sheer white silk and lace would pick up the colors of the lanterns and would sparkle in the breeze. Sybil always dressed for maximum effect.

  He danced with some of his guests and some of his neighbors, and talked with several of the men. He allowed Lady Underwood to persuade him, when he had asked her to dance, to row her across to the island instead and stroll past the pavilion and among the trees, as some of the other guests were doing. He resisted her very open hints that he kiss her among the trees.

  And he watched his servants dance and help themselves to refreshments and generally enjoy themselves. He made a point of speaking to as many of them as possible.

  He stayed away from Fleur Hamilton. She was looking extremely lovely, the simplicity of her dress and hair succeeding only in making all the other ladies look overdressed. Her hair glowed golden in the light of the lanterns.

  And if his wife sparkled, then Fleur glowed as she danced with Houghton, with the vicar, with Ned Driscoll, with Chesterton, with Shaw, and with Chamberlain—twice.

  He would stay away from her, the duke decided, for if he had learned one thing about her since his return to Willoughby, it was that she feared him and was repulsed by him. And her feelings were understandable. Only he could expose her for what she had been on one brief occasion. And her memories of that occasion and of the part he had played in it must be less than pleasant for her, to say the least.

  He strolled to the tables to talk with Duncan Chamberlain during one break in the dancing. They had never been close friends as boys, as Chamberlain was almost ten years his senior. But they had become friends in later years, particularly since his own return from Belgium.

  “We all feared that you would not return in time for the festivities,” his neighbor said, extending his right hand. “It would not have been the same without you here, Adam.”

  “Have I ever missed one of my own balls?” the duke asked. “How are you, Duncan? Is Miss Chamberlain here? I have not seen her.”

  “Oh, yes,” the other said. “And has danced every set.”

  “I thought perhaps you had left her at home with your children,” the duke said. “Are they all well?”

  “If tearing a nursery to ribbons and wearing a poor nurse to a shadow and murdering our ears every living moment of the day with whoops and shrieks is a sign that they are well,” Mr. Chamberlain said, “then I would have to say they are in the best of health, Adam.”

  The duke grinned. “I remember last year,” he said, “that when your other sister took them for a month, you were like the proverbial fish out of water.”

  His neighbor smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well,” he said, “I suppose our ancestors rather missed the Vikings, too, when their raids finally ceased. Where did you find your governess?”

  The duke had a flashing image of Fleur standing quietly in the shadows outside the Drury Lane Theater.

  “In London,” he said. “Houghton hired her. He is worth his weight in gold. I am pleased with her. I think she is good for Pamela.”

  “I know it,” Mr. Chamberlain said. “She brought your daughter visiting when her grace was indisposed, and did not even blanch when I told her the dogs were probably jumping all over the children. Of course, at that moment she had not yet seen the dogs to know that they resemble young horses more than they do their peers.”

  “She took Pamela?” the duke said. “I am glad.”

  “And so am I.” Mr. Chamberlain grinned. “You can send her anytime, Adam. You don’t even have to send Lady Pamela along to chaperone unless you insist.”

  “Ah,” the duke said. “It is like that, is it?”

  “Emily says I need a new wife,” his neighbor said. “I am not at all sure she is right, and I am certainly not sure I could find any woman saintly enough or insane enough to take on my trio and me into the bargain. But I am considering the idea. It is an interesting one.”

  “I would not take kindly to losing a good governess,” his grace said.

  “Ah, but for friendship’s sake you would make the sacrifice,” his friend said. “Excuse me. The orchestra sounds as if it means business, and I have asked her to dance again.”

  “For the third time, Duncan?” The duke raised his eyebrows.

  “Counting, are you?” his neighbor asked. “This is no London ball, Adam. I think Miss Hamilton’s reputation will survive three dances with one partner. And this is to be a waltz.”

  The duke stayed where he was and helped himself to some food. No lady was noticeably without a partner. He would take a rest.

  Fleur Hamilton and Duncan Chamberlain. Duncan was handsome enough—slim still, his dark hair graying only at the temples. They made a good-looking pair. He wondered how she felt about her partner. But she had accepted a third dance with him. And she was smiling up at him with that sparkle that looked so much more genuine than Sybil’s.

  How would she receive a marriage proposal from Duncan? he wondered. Would she tell him the whole truth? Or find some other way to explain her loss of virginity?

  The duke turned away. He regretted more than he could say the fact that he had not questioned her on that night before doing business with her. He should have realized from her appearance and from the quiet way she had solicited—or not solicited—a customer that she was no experienced whore. He certainly should have guessed the truth from the way she had stood in that room, not moving until he had told her what to do, and then removing her clothes quietly and neatly with no attempt to make his temperature rise as she did so.

  He might have saved her before her character and future were in shreds.

  But he did not stay turned away. He found himself watching them as they danced—no, watching her—and marveling that she could possibly be the same woman as the thin, lusterless whore whose services he had solicited and used only a little more than a month before.

  God, he thought. If only he had realized. If only he had not bee
n so thick-skulled. It was no wonder that she shrank from the mere sight of him and shuddered uncontrollably at his touch.

  God! He turned away again, in search of a drink.

  FLEUR WAS ENJOYING HERSELF IMMENSELY. There was something unutterably romantic about the outdoors at night, colored lanterns swaying in the trees and reflecting off dark water, beautifully dressed people talking and laughing gaily, music setting toes to tapping and hips to swaying.

  She had decided earlier that she was going to enjoy the ball, and she was doing so. Life had been such a nightmare for six weeks, and still and for always the threat would hang over her head that it could be so again, and even worse. But for now she had been given this precious gift of peace—perhaps not forever, perhaps for only a week or a day. But she would not think of forever. She would think only of this night.

  She had hoped to dance—Mr. Chamberlain had, after all, more or less asked her in advance. But she had not expected to dance every set of the evening, and with a variety of partners. Even some of the visiting guests danced with her and learned that she was the governess of the house.

  Mr. Chamberlain danced with her four times in all, and he talked to her whenever the figures of the dance did not separate them. His conversation was light, amusing, as befitted the occasion. He raised her hand to his lips after the fourth time, told her with a smile that he must restrain himself from dancing with her again and depriving all the other gentlemen of the loveliest lady of all—words spoken with a wink—and led her a little away from the dancing area to where the Duke of Ridgeway was standing and talking with an older lady.

  Fleur wished he had taken her anywhere else. The one blight on the evening, the one detail that had threatened all night to ruin her joy, was the constant presence of his grace. She had not once looked at him, and yet she had found that at every moment she knew where he was and with whom he danced or talked.