by M C Beaton
She was a dark-haired woman with a rather severe face and a high-bridged nose. She was accounted a great beauty because she was very rich and dressed in the latest fashions.
She approached Lady Trompington, and said, “I insist you introduce me to that Greek god who is dancing with that pretty woman in the French gown.”
“I doubt if it is French,” said Lady Trompington. “She is a Mrs. Carruthers, and the Carrutherses do not have a feather to fly with.”
“You fascinate me. I will have an introduction to her first and find out where she got that gown. There is another exquisite gown here being worn by the vicar’s daughter of all people. In any case, who is that divine young man?”
“He is the grocer’s boy, so naturally you will no longer be interested in meeting him,” said Lady Trompington.
“Oh, but I am,” said Lady Clairmont with a brittle laugh. “Beauty is classless, and it is only very common people who despise others for their low birth or lack of money. Ah, here is Darkwood. I crave an introduction to that handsome couple, Mrs. Carruthers and her country swain.”
“And you shall have it,” said the earl. “Beautiful, are they not?”
Lady Trompington turned and walked away. To her relief, she was approached by Mr. Temple, who treated her to all the courtesy and deference she considered due to her.
“I have been hoping that you have a dance to spare me,” said Mr. Temple.
Not for worlds would Lady Trompington admit her brother had forbidden her to dance. She would need to explain the reason why and the countess’s remarks still rankled.
“I am afraid I have the headache,” she said. The quadrille had finished and a waltz was being announced. Her brother was introducing Mrs. Carruthers and Jem Hunt to Lady Clairmont. Then Jem was leading Lady Clairmont to the floor and the earl was partnering Mrs. Carruthers.
“Where is Mr. Carruthers?” asked Mr. Temple.
“In the card room, I believe,” said Lady Trompington.
“He cannot do much damage to what is left of the Carrutherses’ money by playing ladies’ games,” commented Mr. Temple.
“The stakes may be high, alas,” said Lady Trompington. “My brother has invited some old army friends, and I know that three of them at least are hardened gamblers.”
Mr. Temple’s small mouth curved in a smile. A hungry Guy Carruthers would be a Guy Carruthers ready to serve the French cause. “Do you know Carruthers?” he became aware Lady Trompington was asking him.
“Slightly,” he said. “Only slightly.” He had already noticed with amusement that Lady Trompington was jealous of the stylish and attractive Mrs. Carruthers. “Mrs. Carruthers and Darkwood make a splendid couple,” he went on with a tinge of malice in his voice.
Lady Trompington raised her quizzing glass. The earl and Annabelle were circling gracefully to the strains of the waltz. In the gallery’s many mirrors, their multiple reflections seemed to taunt her. He was smiling down at Annabelle Carruthers in a way that no gentleman should smile when partnering a married woman. There was a certain fleeting tenderness in his eyes that alarmed his sister.
As the waltz came to an end and the couples bowed and curtsied, Lady Trompington, with a feeling of relief, saw Lady Clairmont’s daughter, Rosamund, entering the room on the arm of her father, Sir Edward. The earl had never met Rosamund before, and his sister was sure that to see Rosamund was to love her and that the threat of Annabelle Carruthers would fade away like the mist on the ornamental lake at Delaney in bright sunlight. She was not worried that her brother would start an affair with Mrs. Carruthers, but only that the Carrutherses might become on visiting terms with the earl.
Rosamund Clairmont was beautiful. She had glossy black hair with a natural curl, pure white skin, and very red lips. Her figure was exquisite and shown to advantage in a gown of near-transparent muslin worn over a diaphanous pink underdress. Her eyes were her most arresting feature. They were of a brilliant blue, almond-shaped, giving all the innocence of eighteen years the allure of a temptress. She knew how to use them to advantage, too, her glance sliding and teasing. Lady Clairmont welcomed her daughter and husband and introduced them to the earl and Annabelle.
Sir Edward was a tall, handsome man with the same arresting eyes as the daughter on his arm on whom he obviously doted. Lady Trompington hurried up to join them after throwing Mr. Temple a brief smile of farewell over one bony shoulder. She ignored Annabelle completely and focused her whole attention on Rosamund. “Darling girl,” she cooed. “You look more beautiful than ever. Do you not think so, brother?”
“Miss Clairmont is charming,” said the earl, “but I have no previous occasion with which to compare her beauty, this being the first time I have met her. But I sincerely hope, not the last.” He raised Rosamund’s hand to his lips. Annabelle stood a little to one side, feeling rejected, forgotten.
Rosamund smiled up at the earl with a teasing, mocking expression in her eyes. “I hope this will prove to be the first of many meetings, my lord,” she said, “so that you may soon be able to have comparisons and tell me I have sadly gone off in looks.”
The earl laughed, and Annabelle thought crossly, Why does he laugh? She did not say anything funny.
“And such an exquisite gown!” exclaimed Lady Trompington. “You must have had it made in London.”
“Yes,” said Rosamund. “Mama had it fashioned for me when we were last in town. I felt quite soigné until I met Mrs. Carruthers.”
Lady Trompington gave a shrill laugh, her eyes encouraging Lady Clairmont to share the joke, but Lady Clairmont had already noticed an acquaintance on the other side of the gallery and she merely bowed and moved away on the arm of her husband. “My dearest child,” said Lady Trompington, “you are too kind, but how can you compare the work of a village dressmaker with that of a London couturiere?”
Annabelle stiffened angrily, and Rosamund, seeing the quick flash of irritation in the earl’s eyes, said with a rippling laugh, that laugh young girls were trained to make by their music masters, starting on a high note and running down the scale, “Come now, Lady Trompington, such exquisite and graceful work is too masterly to have been fashioned in the country. Pray tell us the name of your dressmaker, Mrs. Carruthers.”
“I designed and made it myself,” said Annabelle.
“La! What a paragon! Come, promenade with me for a little, Mrs. Carruthers, and I shall try to divine the secrets of your art.” She smiled up into the earl’s eyes before linking her arm in Annabelle’s and leading her away.
But Rosamund did not want to talk about gowns. She had seen the earl with Mrs. Carruthers and how he had looked at her. She wanted to find out whether Annabelle was married or not, whether the earl’s attentions were seriously engaged elsewhere, and whether he had a mistress tucked away somewhere.
They walked together along the gallery, their reflections walking with them along the long row of mirrors. There was a break in the dancing and people were sitting in red velvet-covered benches along the wall or standing in little groups, conversing.
“You must tell me all you know about Darkwood,” said Rosamund, her grip on Annabelle’s arm surprisingly strong.
“I do not know him at all, really,” said Annabelle. “In fact, I have not spoken to him before this evening.”
She blushed and Rosamund studied her curiously. Annabelle was blushing because she was remembering the intensity of her physical emotions when she had danced with the earl, of how she had meant to reproach him over the matter of the silks and the mercer’s bill, but his sheer proximity had all but taken her breath away.
“He is very handsome, is he not?” pursued Rosamund. She was wearing a very heavy perfume and that, combined with the heat from all the candles burning brightly in candelabra in the gallery, was making Annabelle feel quite ill. They walked out of the gallery and stood together on a wide circular landing. The card room was opposite and the door stood open. Guy was playing cards, his face flushed and his eyes glittering. As Annab
elle watched, Mr. Temple approached and said something to Guy and laid a hand on his arm, but Guy merely scowled and brushed him off.
“I said, he is very handsome,” repeated Rosamund.
“Darkwood? Oh, yes, very,” said Annabelle.
“Is your husband here?”
“Yes, he is in the card room.”
Rosamund gave a pleased smile. So pretty Mrs. Carruthers was not a widow. One obstacle out of the way.
“Is Darkwood engaged or otherwise spoken for?”
“I do not believe so, but then, Miss Clairmont, as I have already said, I know little about him. Your mother would be better informed than I.”
Rosamund pouted, a mocking pout. “But how can I ask Mama indiscreet questions? The reason I am asking you, Mrs. Carruthers, is because you are so mundane and so much younger than Mama. I am persuaded you cannot be stuffy.”
Despite her desire to get away from Rosamund’s rather cloying personality, Annabelle laughed. “Oh, I can be surprisingly stuffy, even if I do make my own gowns.”
Rosamund tapped her playfully on the arm with her fan. “Stoopid! Tell me, have you heard the whispers that the earl has a mistress?”
“I do not hear whispers about anything, Miss Clairmont. This occasion is unusual. I do not go about in society.”
Rosamund looked restlessly about, seeming to have lost interest in Annabelle. “Well,” she said languidly, “I overheard some London ladies saying he had an opera dancer in town.”
Annabelle felt suddenly depressed. While she had been dancing with the earl, she had imagined herself carefree and young. For some reason, Rosamund’s remark brought her down to earth with a bump. She had felt for a little while that the earl held her in special regard, and that had done wonders for her spirits. But he was merely an accomplished flirt and she was the impoverished Mrs. Carruthers, married to a drunk and a wastrel, and had spent a precious part of the evening allowing herself to be questioned about the amors of a rake by a silly girl. All at once she longed for Matilda, Duchess of Hadshire, with her forthright, bracing manner.
“If you want to know more about the earl,” she said, “then you must ask someone else. Oh, here is Miss Knight.” With relief, Annabelle watched Cressida approaching them and privately thought that the vicar’s daughter had never looked better. A little rouge gave her normally pale face some much needed color, and the gown flattered her figure.
“I am in alt,” sighed Cressida, after the introductions were made. “So many compliments on my gown. The dancing is about to commence again.”
Rosamund gave a stifled little exclamation. If the earl were ever to have a chance to ask her to dance, then she must be in the ballroom, ready and waiting. But she was too late. The earl was already leading some “dowdy village female”—as Rosamund damned her—onto the floor. She saw one of the village boys approaching her and treated him to a look of frozen hauteur so that he veered away from her with his eyes averted as if he had been meaning to ask someone else.
Mr. Temple was becoming increasingly worried. Guy was admittedly playing deep, but he was winning steadily. He wondered whether he should try to find some way to put a stop to the gambling. On the other hand, surely it was better to let Guy play on than risk his leaving the table with money. His luck could surely not last much longer. He saw Lady Trompington smiling at him and made his way quickly to her side. He considered her worth cultivating. She might be able to pick up some military gossip for him if he handled her deftly enough. He made his way quickly to her side and begged to be allowed to escort her to the supper room. Lady Trompington, who had been about to go into supper with her husband, promptly agreed. Lord Trompington looked after his departing wife in a startled way before going off to find another partner.
The earl was approaching Annabelle when he saw her being claimed by her husband and so offered his arm to Rosamund instead. He thought her a pretty little thing with engaging ways.
Annabelle was delighted to discover that Guy was sober. Not only that, but he whispered to her that he had just won over one thousand pounds.
“Why do you not give it to me for safekeeping,” urged Annabelle, “and play no more this evening.”
But Guy looked at her mulishly and said he had only just begun to make their fortune. “I saw two magpies in the woods this afternoon,” he said. “A sure sign my luck has turned.”
“Then keep a clear head,” begged Annabelle. “How did you come by the money to gamble for such high stakes?”
The sober Guy felt a sharp pang of guilt and was all at once determined to drown it. He held out his glass to a footman for wine. He drained it in one gulp and held up his glass for more and growled, “Mind your own business.”
Annabelle thought dismally that it would have been better had she held her tongue. Guy now seemed determined to celebrate his winnings. She looked across the room to where the earl sat with Rosamund. His jet black hair gleamed like a blackbird’s wing in the candlelight, and his hooded eyes shone green like emeralds. The face was strong and sensual, and yet the mouth was thin and hard. What would it be like to be kissed by that mouth? The earl seemed to be highly entertained by whatever Rosamund was saying but then, as if conscious of Annabelle’s gaze, he looked across directly at her, his green eyes glinting, and she quickly looked away.
Her heart was pounding. There had been something disturbingly predatory and almost possessive about the earl’s gaze. She glanced back at him under her lashes. He was smiling down at Rosamund.
Annabelle felt very low and flat, all her enjoyment of the ball, which had briefly come back, melting away, leaving her on a desolate shore full of jagged rocks marked debt and loneliness. It was strange to be a married lady and yet feel so alone. All she wanted to do was to go home and get into bed and hide under the bedclothes. Rosamund, for example, had all the world at her pretty feet. She was young and beautiful and rich. She would not have to rise early on the morrow to help the maids clean a drafty and decaying house and wonder if the butcher would possibly allow any more credit. One thousand pounds! If only Guy would give her a little of that money. Plucking up her courage, she turned to her husband.
“Guy,” she whispered, “we have so many outstanding bills in the village that only a fraction of your winnings would settle. Please let me have just a little… in case you lose it all.”
He glared at her for a moment, and then his face softened. She was looking so elegant and so pretty. Demme. There wasn’t a female in the room to touch her. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a handful of notes.
“There you are, puss,” he said indulgently. “Pay your tradesmen.”
“Thank you,” whispered Annabelle, stuffing the notes in her reticule. Now if only by some miracle the card playing could be canceled for the rest of the evening.
Mr. Temple was thinking pretty much the same thing. If Guy continued to win… Of course, he was drinking heavily.
He looked across the room. Guy Carruthers was drinking deep. His face was flushed, and there was a slackness about his mouth. So Mr. Temple, who had been about to persuade Lady Trompington to close the card room, decided to remain silent. He did not know that apart from being able to invite a few guests of her own to the ball, Lady Trompington had little control over anything in her brother’s house.
Supper was at last over and most of the guests went back to the ballroom while Guy and his gambling companions returned to the tables. The earl knew the stakes were high but in an age when men lost as much as twenty-five thousand pounds in a night at one of the clubs in St. James’s, he barely thought about the amount of money that was changing hands at his ball.
Annabelle began to worry more and more. She was now convinced that Guy would lose the money, and then he would come in search of her and take away the money he had given her. All the tradesmen they owed money to were at the ball, for it was a typical country ball, although Lady Trompington might sneer and say it was as bad as the servants’ Christmas dance. But she could hardly go around p
aying them off in front of everyone.
Jem Hunt, the grocer’s boy, approached her and begged another dance. Annabelle thought quickly. She drew him aside.
“Jem, you know how things stand with us,” she said urgently. “We owe most of the tradesmen in the village money. I wish to pay them off now, but I do not know how to do it. My husband gave me some money, and if I do not pay the bills, I fear I shall lose it before the evening is out.”
Jem looked at her sympathetically. Guy Carruthers’s gambling was well-known in the village. He knew the beautiful Mrs. Carruthers meant that if she did not get rid of the money quickly, then her husband would emerge from the card room and take it from her.
“If you will trust me with it, ma’am,” he said eagerly, “I could pay them off discreetly and return the rest of the money to you.”
“Oh, would you, Jem? Step outside to the landing with me, and I will give you what I have in my reticule.”
The earl watched them go, wondering what was happening. He strolled over to the doorway of the long gallery and looked out. Mrs. Carruthers was giving the local Adonis a sheaf of notes.
He leaned against the wall and watched. He saw Annabelle return, an expression of relief on her face. The vicar’s daughter came up to her and both walked off together. Then Jem entered the room looking self-conscious and important. The earl raised his quizzing glass. He saw Jem approach his master, the grocer, and whisper in his ear. Notes changed hands. Then he went on to the butcher and the same thing happened, and then the mercer.
So Mrs. Carruthers is paying her tradesmens’ bills, thought the earl. She does not have much faith in her husband’s luck this evening.
