At her side, Richard rode a large black Hanoverian that few others would have cared to take on, for it could be a savage beast at times, given to snapping its bared teeth at other nearby mounts. He had it under a tight rein, for he wished to concentrate upon sweetening Isabel, not upon the caprices of a disagreeable horse. He tipped his top hat back on his blonde hair, and took a deep breath of the icy morning air. He wore a pine-green coat and tight pale-gray breeches, and the shine on his top boots bore witness to his valet’s devotion to duty. He was beginning to feel he’d smoothed the troubled waters of his dealings with Isabel, and no one could have been further from his thoughts than Diana, who was at that very moment riding through the crowds toward him.
Isabel was talking about the masquerade that night. ‘‘What shall you wear, Richard? I think you would make a splendid cavalier.’’
‘‘I think I’ll just content myself with my ordinary evening wear and a mask,’’ he replied, for if there was one thing he loathed it was dressing up. The invitation from Holland House hadn’t stipulated fancy dress, and that was sufficient excuse for him. He smiled at her. ‘‘What do you intend to wear?’’
‘‘Oh, I haven’t decided yet,’’ she replied vaguely.
He was more than a little surprised. ‘‘You haven’t decided? But I thought such matters were considered long before the actual day!’’
‘‘Well, I haven’t made up my mind, and that’s the end of it,’’ she replied rather shortly.
He fell silent. It was strange that someone as particular as Isabel had yet to make up her mind about something she would normally have regarded as vitally important. Matters of clothing usually preoccupied her to the exclusion of all else.
It was Isabel who first became aware of the slight stir among the riders in front of them. The ladies looked far from pleased about something, and the gentlemen were equally far from being displeased. Then she saw the cause of it, a dainty red-haired figure in cherry, mounted on a spirited chestnut. Isabel’s lips became set in a sour line, for the last thing she wanted was a rival in the beauty stakes, and this stranger was definitely as head-turning as she.
Diana rode toward them without realizing, but then something made her look directly at Richard, and with a gasp, she reined in. Her face became suddenly pale as she gazed at him. Her gloved hands tightened on the reins, and for a moment it seemed she would speak to him, but then her glance flickered toward Isabel, whose cold gaze was very pronounced. Diana kicked her heel, and urged her mount on past them, swiftly vanishing among the riders behind.
Isabel had reined in as well, and turned in the saddle to gaze after her. Then she looked sharply at Richard, whose discomfort was only too plain. ‘‘Who was she?’’ she demanded.
‘‘Er, I believe her name is Beaumont, Mrs. Beaumont,’’ he said lamely.
‘‘I’ve never seen her before, and I don’t believe I know the name. Do you know her well?’’
‘‘Hardly at all.’’
‘‘Then don’t you think her reaction to you was somewhat strange?’’ Suspicion burgeoned in Isabel’s heart, for his responses were hardly reassuring. She wondered again about his remarkable attentiveness this morning. Was there something going on?
‘‘I really have no idea why she behaved as she did,’’ he said, meeting her eyes. ‘‘As I said, the woman is hardly known to me.’’
‘‘I thought her rather vulgar, didn’t you? So much red is hardly tasteful.’’
He didn’t reply, for in truth he’d thought Diana looked magnificent, so magnificent that she’d stopped his breath with admiration. Oh, damn Diana, how he wished she’d stayed out of his life!
His silence displeased Isabel still more, and she too fell into a heavy silence as they rode on. A moment later they were joined by the familiar figure of Laroche, who presented a dashing sight on his highly bred bay Arabian horse, his greyhounds padding faithfully at the horse’s heels. He wore a corbeau-colored riding coat and beige breeches, and he gave them both a lazily good-natured grin.
‘‘Eh, bien, mes enfants, did you see the fair incognita on the chestnut? I vow several gentlemen turned their heads so sharply they almost severed them on their stocks!’’
It wasn’t a remark calculated to please Isabel, who gave him a stormy look. ‘‘Are you referring to the loud creature in scarlet? Richard knows her, he says her name is Mrs. Beaumont. Perhaps he also knows if she is indeed as brash as she looks. Is she, Richard?’’ There was a challenging note in her voice, and her dark eyes were accusing.
Richard’s lips pressed angrily together for a moment. ‘‘Isabel, I told you, I hardly know her. As to her character, I promise you that it is of no interest to me.’’
Isabel searched his face, and evidently found something there she did not trust. ‘‘You’re a liar, Richard Curzon!’’ she declared suddenly, in a tone loud enough to carry to several riders nearby. ‘‘That odious creature is known to you far more than you’re saying!’’ Kicking her heels, she urged her startled mount away from them.
Richard made no move to follow her, and Laroche looked at him in surprise. ‘‘Hadn’t you better make your peace with her, dear boy?’’
‘‘I don’t think that at this precise moment she’s open to reason, do you?’’
Laroche pursed his lips, and then shrugged. ‘‘Richard, she’s the loveliest woman in London, and you’ve snapped her up. You can’t afford to rest on your laurels, not when the monde’s wolves are always prowling about.’’
‘‘Isabel can be very unreasonable.’’
‘‘But, in this particular instance, I wonder if her suspicions aren’t just a little justified?’’ Laroche gave him a sly look. ‘‘How well do you know that proud Titania, eh?’’
‘‘There’s nothing between Mrs. Beaumont and me, Laroche, and I’d thank you not to hint to the contrary!’’ replied Richard sharply.
‘‘Alright, alright, don’t bite my head off, I believe you!’’ protested Laroche, pretending to put up his hands in self-defense. ‘‘But if you love Isabel and wish to keep her, then I suggest you pay more attention to her wishes.’’
‘‘Her wishes?’’
‘‘In matters such as that brooch she covets.’’
‘‘So she’s told you about that, has she?’’
‘‘She confides a great deal in me.’’
‘‘Then let me explain that the brooch in Cranford’s doesn’t stand up to a close inspection, indeed it is somewhat inferior, which is why it still reposes in their window, and why I’ve taken the step of ordering an alternative which I intend to take delivery of this afternoon. I’ll give it to her at the masquerade tonight, and when she sees it, I rather think she’ll forget about the tawdry bauble she’s convinced herself is essential to her happiness. I’m not an uncaring monster, Laroche, indeed I’m far from it.’’
Laroche looked at him for a long moment. ‘‘Do you love her, Richard?’’ he asked quietly.
Richard hesitated, and then lowered his eyes, for when he tried to picture Isabel’s face, all he saw was Diana.
The silence was eloquent, and Laroche shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘‘I, er, think I’d better be toddling along,’’ he said, gathering his reins.
‘‘No doubt I’ll see you tonight at the masquerade.’’
‘‘Er, no, I fear not. I have other plans.’’
Richard looked at him in surprise. ‘‘But I thought your wife was looking forward to it.’’
‘‘She is, and as far as I’m concerned she can go, but I have something else to attend to.’’ Laroche touched his top hat, and then urged his Arabian horse away. Followed by his greyhounds, he disappeared in the crush of riders.
Richard remained where he was, the only motionless figure in a moving sea of equestrians. Faced with the direct question about whether or not he loved Isabel, he hadn’t been able to answer. This morning he’d striven to placate her, but the moment Diana appeared . . . His thoughts trailed away in confusion. What in God�
�s name did he feel?
Isabel rode furiously back to Hanover Square, thrusting the reins of her sweating horse into the hands of the groom who waited in front of the house, and then hurrying into the rather austere white marble entrance hall, where tall Doric columns rose toward a lofty ceiling. Following Lady Finch’s lead, Isabel’s aunt, Mrs. Graham, had had German fir trees placed on either side of the fireplace, their tiers of colored wax candles shining softly in the gloomy light cast down from the window above the main doorway. The Doric columns were festooned with seasonal branches, and an enormous bunch of mistletoe was suspended low from the ceiling, turning slowly in the draft caused by her entry.
There was a beautiful inlaid table standing in the center of the red-and-cream-tiled floor, and on it there was a large bowl of red-berried holly, and a silver dish for visiting cards. There was also a brown paper package, and Isabel was drawn to it like a pin to a magnet.
Putting her gloves on the table, she picked up the parcel, swiftly opening it as she saw that it was addressed to her. Oh, how she loved opening packages! Her breath caught with delight as she saw the fan inside, and she ran her fingertips over the soft white plumage and dainty tartan bows. It was the most perfect thing imaginable! Her glance fell on the sealed note that had fallen out on to the table, and her eyes softened a little as she recognized Richard’s writing. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities after all . . .
Breaking the seal, she began to read the message inside. My darling Diana, Words cannot say how overjoyed I am that you are part of my life again, nor can they convey the yearning I feel for the moment I’ve set you up in a house where I may visit you whenever I wish. My marriage will make no difference to my love for you. You are my heart, my mistress, and my life, and if you were free I’d make you mine forever. I adore thee. Richard.
Thunderstruck, Isabel stared at the note. His darling Diana? A house? His mistress? The note dropped to the table and she clutched the exquisite fan to her breast, trying to gather her scattered composure. So he was up to something behind her back! Oh, the monster! He had a mistress and had been found out because he’d made the foolish mistake of sending the wrong note to Hanover Square!
Fury seized her, and she flung the fan across the floor where it came to rest at the foot of one of the German fir trees. Her eyes flashed and her lips were a thin line of rage. How dared he! How dared he!
Unbidden, a vision of the creature in the cherry wool riding habit entered her head. Was that brazen Mrs. Beaumont his precious inamorata? If she was it would certainly explain the odd way both she and Richard had reacted on seeing each other. Isabel hurried to retrieve the fan, examining the handle as she searched for the maker’s mark. She soon found the name of Messrs Duvall & Carrier. If she guessed correctly, then there had been a second fan, one intended for the unknown Diana, only it contained the message intended for Hanover Square! A visit to Piccadilly was most definitely necessary in order to establish all the facts, before Sir Richard Curzon could be faced with his vile infidelity and deceit!
She called for a footman, and one emerged hastily from the shadows, quailing a little at the blazing fury in her eyes. ‘‘Yes, Miss Hamilton?’’
‘‘Have another horse saddled for me without delay!’’
‘‘Yes, Miss Hamilton.’’ Turning, he almost ran from her presence.
She pulled on her gloves, flexing her fingers like the claws of a cat. So, Richard was making a fool of her, was he? He was keeping a mistress and paying court to the belle of London society! Well, he was about to find out that Miss Isabel Hamilton couldn’t be treated like that. If anyone was going to be made a fool of, it was Richard himself!
With sudden decision she hurried through into the library, where she sat at the writing desk and dipped a quill in the ink. She wrote a very hasty note, and immediately sanded and sealed it, then she wrote a gentleman’s name on it. She’d been hesitating about taking such a shocking course as the one she now intended, but Richard’s duplicity had made her mind up for her. London was about to be scandalized, and Sir Richard Curzon would be left looking very foolish.
Reentering the hall, she found the footman waiting. ‘‘Have this delivered immediately,’’ she said, giving him the note.
‘‘Very well, Miss Hamilton. Your horse has been brought around to the front.’’
She nodded, but hesitated before going out. ‘‘See that the note is given to the gentleman himself, for it’s important that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.’’
‘‘Very well, Miss Hamilton.’’ The footman was the soul of discretion, giving no hint at all of his intense curiosity as to why she should be sending messages to such a gentleman.
A moment later she left the house again to ride to Piccadilly, and the premises of Messrs Duvall & Carrier.
No sooner had the sound of Isabel’s horse died away in Hanover Square, than Diana returned to the riding stables in the mews behind Pargeter Street. She walked back to the house through the garden at the rear, where a stone nymph stood in frozen nakedness in the center of an ice-covered pool. The trees were heavily laden with snow, and a robin redbreast sang his heart out from the wall, his bright eyes watching her as she made her way toward the house.
She was still thinking about the encounter in the park. The lady in lime-green must be the Miss Hamilton Richard was to marry. She was very beautiful indeed, and unnecessarily jealous and suspicious, for Richard hadn’t been even remotely warm toward his former love, in fact he’d looked right through her. Diana sighed, recalling the chill in his gaze. If it hadn’t been for that invisible barrier he’d placed so firmly between them, she’d have spoken to him, for what point was there in prolonging the bitterness of the past? But he’d given her no encouragement at all, and so she’d ridden on. But, oh, how she wished it could be different.
Entering the house, she found Mary waiting for her in the drawing room. ‘‘What is it, Mary?’’ she asked quickly, sensing that something had happened.
Mary went to a table and picked up a small brown paper package. ‘‘This was delivered a short while ago. It’s addressed to you.’’
‘‘To me?’’ Diana put her riding crop down, and began to tease off her gloves. ‘‘But who would send anything to me?’’
‘‘I don’t know, Miss Diana,’’ replied Mary unhappily, for every instinct told her that the package meant trouble.
Diana took the package and opened it, pausing in astonishment as she saw the exquisite gray silk fan inside. ‘‘Why, it’s beautiful,’’ she breathed, then she glanced down to the floor as the sealed note fell. Her face became still as she recognized Richard’s writing.
Mary recognized the writing as well, for in the past she’d seen many letters written to her mistress by Sir Richard Curzon. Bending, she retrieved it. ‘‘It’s from . . .’’
‘‘I know who it’s from, Mary,’’ replied Diana quietly, putting the fan and the brown paper wrapping on the table.
‘‘But . . .’’
‘‘Mary, I’ve just encountered him in the park, and he looked through me so coldly that I could have turned to ice. Whatever this fan is, it isn’t sent kindly, of that I can be sure.’’
‘‘Perhaps you’re wrong. Shouldn’t you at least read the note?’’
‘‘I’m not wrong, but I’ll read it,’’ replied Diana, taking the note and breaking the seal. She read it aloud.
My beloved,
Let this Christmas be the signal for a new future together. Let us forget the misunderstandings of the past and accept our undying love for each other. I will adore you throughout eternity. Richard.
She dropped the note on to the fan, and began to wrap the package up again. ‘‘That Richard Curzon was resentful I’ve always known, but I didn’t think he was also unspeakably petty and spiteful.’’
‘‘Oh, Miss Diana . . .’’
‘‘I want this sent back to him at his Park Lane residence, with the message that I wish him to refrain from communicating with me again.�
��’
‘‘Yes, Miss Diana.’’
Turning, Diana left the room, but as she hurried up the grand staircase there were tears in her eyes.
The church bells were sounding midday as Isabel reined her horse in by the doors of Messrs Duvall & Carrier. Giving the reins and a coin to a man selling mistletoe, she entered the dark confines of the exclusive establishment, and a superior young man came to assist her. He was dressed in a charcoal coat and starched blue-and-white-spotted silk neckcloth, and he placed his fingertips very precisely on the dark oak counter. He stood directly beneath a very pretty Christmas kissing bunch, and was so filled with a sense of his own importance that he made Isabel more furious than ever.
‘‘May I be of assistance, madam?’’ he inquired.
‘‘Possibly,’’ she replied icily. ‘‘I have been sent a fan that was purchased at this establishment, but I believe there must have been a mistake made with the order, and that I’ve been sent the wrong fan.’’
‘‘Mistake, madam?’’ He evinced amazement that anyone could believe such hallowed premises capable of perpetrating an error of any kind.
‘‘Yes, sir, a mistake, sir,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘The fan was purchased by Sir Richard Curzon.’’
Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716) Page 17
