‘‘I know you wouldn’t, Geoffrey, for you’re the most of an angel I ever knew.’’
‘‘You should have chosen me.’’
‘‘I know.’’ She sighed, her lips pouting a little again. ‘‘Richard’s been so very hurtful of late, he’s even declined to buy me the little Christmas gift I crave more than anything else in the world.’’
‘‘Little Christmas gift?’’
‘‘It’s only a little brooch, a golden sunburst that would look the very thing on the tartan sash I intend to wear with my new white silk gown, and he knows how much I want it, but this morning it was still in Cranford’s window.’’
‘‘Oh, my poor darling,’’ murmured Geoffrey, drawing her just a little closer. His mind was racing, for he’d just thought of a way of adding to his plan in order to make it even more assured of success.
As dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, and Lady Finch’s guests departed, Geoffrey’s carriage drove slowly down Bond Street, drawing up outside the premises of Messrs Cranford, the fashionable jewelers. Stepping down, he looked in at the exquisite items shining in the light of a street lamp. The sunburst brooch reposed in a little red leather box, and, as Isabel had said, it would indeed look perfect with her tartan sash. Tartan accessories were all the rage now because of Sir Walter Scott’s popular novels, and no one wore them to better advantage than Isabel.
Returning to the carriage, he instructed the coachman to drive to Piccadilly, and the premises of Messrs Duvall & Carrier, fanmakers and glovers to royalty. A few minutes later he alighted again, this time to study a window display of dainty gloves and fans of every description.
It wasn’t long before his glance fell upon a fan that fitted his requirements in every way, for not only was it made of Isabel’s adored white plumes, but it was also trimmed with little tartan bows. Next to it there was a small folding fan with gold-embroidered gray satin fixed upon sticks of gilded, carved ivory. He didn’t know Mrs. Diana Beaumont, but intuition told him that she’d find such a fan very much to her liking.
He returned to the carriage again, and it drove away along the virtually deserted street toward his Mayfair residence in North Street. It would be several hours yet before the shops opened for the hectic business of Christmas Eve, and in the meantime he had much to do. It would be a long time before he could get some sleep, but somehow he didn’t feel even remotely tired. He had far too much on his mind for that.
As his carriage drove slowly along Park Lane, past Richard’s imposing town house, the church bells of London began to strike seven.
The sound of the bells died away, but everything was quiet in the sumptuous green-and-gold drawing room where Richard had fallen asleep in a fireside chair, an almost empty cognac glass resting precariously in his hand.
The only light came from the fire, and shadows moved softly over the hand-painted Chinese silk on the walls, and over the rich green velvet curtains drawn across the tall windows overlooking Park Lane and Hyde Park. The whole room was in the Chinese style, with life-size porcelain figures, pieces of jade, dragon- and chrysanthemum-embroidered chairs and sofas, and lotus-blossom carved on every wooden surface.
Richard didn’t hear the church bells, for the windows were shuttered. His evening coat had been idly discarded on a nearby sofa, and his lace-edged shirt and white satin waistcoat had been partially unbuttoned. His crumpled neckcloth hung loose, and the diamond pin had been left on the marble mantelpiece amid the sprays of seasonal holly, mistletoe, ivy, and myrtle arranged with such care by the maids.
He was dreaming about Diana, and the Christmas five years before when he’d last held her in his arms. She’d been wearing a lilac gown, with a low neckline and long diaphanous sleeves gathered in rich frills at her slender wrists. Her cloud of chestnut hair had been brushed loose, tumbling down about her shoulders in that wanton way he loved so much. They’d slipped away from her family to the seclusion of the minstrels’ gallery above the great hall of her parents’ Cheshire manor house, and masked mummers from the nearby village had been playing in the hall below. He and Diana had been engrossed only in themselves as they stood in each other’s arms in the holly-garlanded shadows. Her lips had tasted so sweet as her supple body yielded against his, and she’d felt so warm and alive through the soft stuff of her gown. His love had never been stronger or more sure than it had been in those magical minutes, and yet within a day or so he was to learn of her marriage to Robert Beaumont, a man of whose existence he knew nothing.
The fire shifted in the hearth, and the flames began to crackle loudly around a half-burned log. Richard awoke with a start, and the glass fell from his fingers, shattering on the polished fender. For a moment he was confused, the tentacles of the dream still coiling around him, but then it faded away, and he remembered.
He leaned his head back wearily. Why had Diana come back to torment him again? Why couldn’t she have stayed in Jamaica? He wished he’d been able to put her firmly in the past, but now that he’d seen her again, he knew that he’d never be able to turn his back finally upon his first great love.
Getting up, he crossed to one of the windows, drawing the curtains back and then folding the shutters aside to look out at snowy Park Lane and Hyde Park. A few tradesmen’s carts were making their way along the street toward the fashionable shops of Oxford Street and Piccadilly, where soon the most profitable day of the year would be in full swing.
His gaze moved across to the park with its ghostly white trees. Would Isabel still be prepared to ride with him later on, or had he offended her too much? He wished now that he hadn’t given in to his strange mood, but had remained at the ball, for then he’d have been spared the encounter with Diana. Damn her for coming back, and damn her even more for still being able to stop his heart with a glance.
In Pargeter Street, Diana was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. Her flame-colored hair spilled over her pillow like molten copper, and there were no dreams to disturb her slumber. She had no idea of the stir her return was about to cause due to the underhanded intentions of one Geoffrey Hawksworth, who, the moment he’d entered his residence in North Street, had sat down at the great writing desk in his library with pen, ink, and many sheets of quality vellum upon which to perfect a more than passing resemblance to Sir Richard Curzon’s rather distinctive writing. Letters had been exchanged during the days of the two men’s friendship, and so Geoffrey did not lack examples from which to copy. It was painstaking work, but in the end he was satisfied that the only person who would be able to tell his work from the real thing would be Richard himself.
While this clandestine activity was taking place, Diana slept on, not waking until the ormulu clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, and Mary came in with a dish of morning tea, which she placed on the elegant marquetry table beside the four poster bed before going to draw back the curtains and fold the shutters aside.
It was a sunny morning, made brighter by all the snow, and the fresh light flooded into the bedroom, lying in sunbeamed shafts across the aquamarine-canopied bed, the brocade curtains of which were tied back with golden ropes. There was gray-and-white-striped silk on the walls, and a dressing table that was lavishly draped with frilled white muslin. A dressing room lined with wardrobes led off to one side, and a lacquered Chinese screen shielded the alcove where the washstand stood. There were two comfortable chairs by the fireplace, and above the mantelpiece was a mirror so large that Diana could see herself in the bed as she sat up.
Mary came to the foot of the bed. ‘‘Good morning, Miss Diana.’’
‘‘Good morning, Mary,’’ replied Diana, picking up the dish of tea and sipping it.
Mary went through into the dressing room, and emerged in a moment with a very odd assortment of clothes, an apricot velvet spencer, and a lightweight cherry wool riding habit.
Diana stared at the garments. ‘‘Mary, what are you thinking of . . . ?’’
‘‘It’s not as foolish a choice as you may think, Miss Diana, for I’ve
learned that there is an excellent riding school in the mews behind here, where fine horses can be hired for riding in Hyde Park. I know how much you like riding, and I also know that such exercise would do you good, so I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a saddle horse for you.’’
Diana stared at her in dismay. ‘‘Oh, Mary, the last thing I want to do is be seen somewhere as public and undoubtedly crowded as Rotten Row!’’
‘‘No one here knows you, except for Sir Richard Curzon, and it’s doubtful if he would acknowledge you anyway.’’ Mary draped the clothes over the back of one of the fireside chairs. ‘‘It’s much colder here than in Jamaica, which is why I thought this spencer would go neatly under the coat of your riding habit. No one will know it’s there, but it will keep you warm while you’re out.’’
‘‘Mary . . .’’ began Diana again, but the maid fixed her with a stern look.
‘‘A ride will do you good, Miss Diana, you need a little diversion to take your mind off the appointment with the lawyer this afternoon.’’
For a moment Diana considered arguing, but she recognized that look, and knew it signified that Mary Keating would keep on until she gave in. ‘‘Oh, very well,’’ she said with a sigh, ‘‘I’ll go riding if you insist.’’
It was a decision that was to play right into Geoffrey Hawksworth’s hands.
As Diana dressed for riding after breakfast, Geoffrey set off in his carriage, first of all for Messrs Duvall & Carrier in Piccadilly, and after that for Cranford’s in Bond Street. The carriage blinds were lowered, for he didn’t wish to be seen, and he wasn’t alone in the vehicle, his reluctant valet was with him.
The carriage drew up at the curb in Piccadilly on the first part of the stratagem, and Geoffrey took a letter of authority, two sealed notes, and a fat purse from his pocket. He pushed them all into the valet’s hands.
‘‘I trust that by now you know exactly what you are to do. You are to tell the assistant that you are Sir Richard Curzon’s man, and you are to hand over the letter of authority. It describes exactly the two fans in question, and it gives clear instructions as to the names and addresses of the two ladies to which they are to be sent. It also says that the fans are to be despatched without delay. You must be sure to give them the purse and see that they put the correct sealed note with the correct fan.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
The man’s response was half-hearted, and Geoffrey gave him a testy look. ‘‘Is there something wrong?’’
The valet swallowed, taking his courage in both hands in order to stand up to his master just a little. ‘‘Is it not just a little dishonest for me to pretend to be Sir Richard’s man?’’
Geoffrey’s gaze was frozen. ‘‘If you wish to remain in my employ, I suggest you forget your conscience and just do as you’re told.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Then get on with it!’’ snapped Geoffrey, leaning across to fling open the carriage door.
The noise of the busy street leapt in at them, a mixture of voices, footsteps, hooves, and wheels. A fiddler and a blind penny-whistler were playing Good King Wenceslas, a pieman was ringing his handbell and shouting the virtues of his hot pies, and a stagecoach was just leaving the nearby Gloucester Coffee House, its horn ringing out sharply. The valet climbed out, pausing on the pavement for a moment before turning to carefully close the carriage door again and then go into the shop.
Geoffrey held the blind slightly aside so that he could see what was happening. He could just make out the silhouette of the valet, and that of the young man behind the counter. The assistant was nodding, and then came to the window, opening the glass case and removing the two fans Geoffrey had selected at dawn.
A satisfied smile played on Geoffrey’s full lips. It was going without a hitch. But then the smile was abruptly cancelled, for a formidable female face looked in through the carriage window barely inches away from him. He gave a start, drawing back and releasing the blind so that it fell back in place, but almost immediately the carriage door was opened, and the same fearsome face appeared again. It belonged to his great-aunt, his father’s aunt, and a personage who was undoubtedly the scourge of the Hawksworth family, for she always demanded, and got, her own way. Small, rosy-faced and possessed of a curiously sweet smile, she was nevertheless a harpy of the highest order, and she seemed to take particular delight in imposing upon him whenever the mood took her. The mood had evidently taken her now.
‘‘Ah, so it is you skulking in here like a felon, Geoffrey! What on earth are you up to?’’
‘‘Er, nothing in particular, Great-Aunt.’’
‘‘No? Excellent, for that means that you can be of singular assistance to me.’’
‘‘It does?’’ His heart sank. What did the old harridan want him to do? Whatever it was, he’d have to bow to her wishes, for she had considerable influence with his father, and therefore with the family purse strings. Geoffrey had no intention of risking a reduction in his allowance simply because this medusa had been mildly offended.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said, opening the door fully and holding out her hand to him for assistance. ‘‘Well, help me in, sir, or would you see me struggle?’’
Reluctantly he took the hand, and in a rustle of piped damson silk, she climbed in and took the seat opposite him. Her pelisse and matching gown were tightly fitted at the throat and cuffs, and her hands were plunged into a fur-lined muff of the same piped damson silk. She wore a plain black hat with a small black net veil through which her button-bright eyes were clearly seen. Her hair was tugged back in a knot at the back of her head, and she wore no jewelry at all.
As she made herself comfortable, Geoffrey was dismayed still further to see that she wasn’t alone, but was accompanied by two maids carrying bundles of Christmas purchases. They proceeded to enter the carriage as well, taking up the two remaining seats. Now there wasn’t any room left for his valet.
Geoffrey began to protest. ‘‘I say, Great-Aunt . . .’’
‘‘You said you weren’t doing anything in particular, Geoffrey, and so I expect you to convey me home to Hampstead. My fool of a coachman has managed to break the wheel of my barouche on a corner curbstone, and I require transport. I saw your carriage waiting here, and knew that you’d been heaven sent to assist me in my predicament.’’
Geoffrey stared at her, too appalled to speak. Hampstead was over four miles away, and uphill through snow all the way! He still had Cranford’s to visit, but could hardly do that with the old biddy watching his every move. Plague take her, for she was interfering with his plans! For a moment he considered getting out and leaving her the use of his carriage, but almost immediately he discounted such a course of action, for she’d regard it as a slight, and his father would be regaled with the tale of his son’s disappointing manners.
The old lady’s eyes were upon him. ‘‘Well, Geoffrey? Are we to remain here all day? Instruct the coachman to take us to Hampstead.’’
There was nothing for it but to do as she ordered. With ill grace, Geoffrey leaned out of the door to tell the coachman what he was to do, and the carriage pulled away just as the valet emerged from the shop, his errand completed. He stood on the curb, staring after the carriage as it vanished amid the crush of Piccadilly.
With a sigh, the valet turned to make his way back to his master’s residence in North Street. He’d done all he’d been instructed to do, and soon the two fans would be on their way. He didn’t know what his master was up to, but he did know that it wasn’t to any good.
While Geoffrey unwillingly commenced the short but arduous journey to the heights of Hampstead, Diana had set out on her ride in Hyde Park.
In spite of the snow, Rotten Row was a throng of fashionable riders, both ladies and gentlemen. Gleaming horses were handled with excellence, and there was a display of high fashion that was second to none as the beau monde rode to and fro along the famous way where it was only the reigning monarch’s prerogative to drive in a carriage.
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There was skating on the frozen Serpentine, and nearby there was a great deal of interest in an American horsedrawn sleigh driven with consummate skill by a gentleman from Washington. A party of mounted Bow Street Runners was making its way west toward Kensington Palace, and numerous people were simply taking in the air as they strolled in the snow. Diana had at last gained the measure of the bright chestnut horse provided by the riding school. It had proved a surprisingly mettlesome mount, tossing its head and capering as if it would seize the very first opportunity to get the better of her, but as she rode into Rotten Row, she had it firmly under control.
She attracted many admiring glances from the gentlemen, for she was very eye-catching in her cherry wool riding habit, her flame-colored hair almost matching the sheen on her mount’s chestnut coat. There was a jaunty black beaver hat on her head, black gloves on her hands, and she carried a riding crop that she had no need to resort to. She appeared to great advantage, and she knew it, and under other circumstances she would have reveled in all the admiration, but today her real wish was to blend into the background, which was something she’d failed abysmally to achieve.
There was a second lady who looked particularly delightful in Rotten Row that morning, for she was beautifully turned out in a ruffed lime-green velvet riding habit trimmed with black military frogging. She rode a pretty strawberry roan mare, and her lovely dark-eyed face was sweetly framed by the lime-green gauze scarf encircling her little wide-brimmed black hat. Miss Isabel Hamilton was used to being the center of attention in the park, and she was vain enough to deliberately incite her easygoing mount to dance around a little, in order to show off her riding skills.
She rode with Richard, with whom she’d at first been sulky and difficult when he’d called upon her at the Hanover Square house of the wealthy relatives with whom she lived, she most definitely being from the poor branch of the family. She’d been offhand and awkward whatever Richard had said, but it was virtually impossible to remain in a sulk with him when he was disposed to exert his immense charm. If he’d been in a strange mood at the ball, he was certainly endeavoring to make up for it now, for no gentleman could have been more gallant and attentive than he. If she hadn’t known him better, she’d have concluded rather uncharitably and suspiciously that he had a guilty conscience, and not concerning his manners at the ball! But Richard wasn’t the sort of man to play her false with another, and so she could only believe that the transformation this morning was due entirely to his acceptance that he’d behaved badly the night before.
Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716) Page 16
