The afternoon light was just beginning to fade as the carriage turned the corner out of Brook Street. Geoffrey glanced out and was just in time to see a face he knew riding past on a gleaming Arabian horse. Swiftly lowering the glass, he leaned out.
‘‘Laroche! I say, Laroche!’’
The carriage halted, and Laroche turned in the saddle, reining in as he recognized Geoffrey. He glanced back across Hanover Square, but then rode toward the carriage, followed by his greyhounds. ‘‘Good afternoon, Geoffrey.’’
‘‘About last night at the ball . . .’’
‘‘Ah, yes, and the fact that you lied to me about my wife.’’
Geoffrey gave him an apologetic grin. ‘‘It was all I could think of to get you away from Isabel.’’
‘‘And it worked handsomely.’’
‘‘Forgive me. I promise not to resort to such trickery again tonight.’’
‘‘Tonight?’’
‘‘The Holland House masquerade.’’
Laroche gave a slight smile. ‘‘Resort to whatever you wish tonight, dear boy, it’s immaterial to me.’’
‘‘Immaterial?’’
‘‘Because I will not be there. And now, if you have nothing further to say, I fear I have to be on my way. I’ve got a great deal to do before tonight.’’
‘‘Oh, very well, if that’s the way of it,’’ replied Geoffrey. ‘‘Perhaps I’d better take this opportunity to wish you a very happy Christmas.’’
Laroche laughed. ‘‘My dear Geoffrey, I intend this to be the happiest Christmas of my life. Goodbye.’’ Touching his top hat, he rode on into Brook Street, his greyhounds still padding at his horse’s heels.
Shrugging at the fellow’s somewhat odd manner, Geoffrey sat back again, and the carriage drove around Hanover Square, coming to a halt at the curb outside the Graham residence.
Geoffrey paused for a moment before alighting. Isabel must by now have received the fan and read the note, which meant that she’d have leapt to the conclusion that Richard was keeping Diana Beaumont as his secret mistress. What developments had there been? If it hadn’t been for his old biddy of a great-aunt he’d have been here much sooner than this, and would have been able to manipulate things with a few well-chosen words here and there, but as it was he knew nothing about what may or may not have been going on, and he’d have to play it by ear.
Taking a deep breath, he climbed down from the carriage, looking up at the house. As the shadows lengthened, so the lights were being lit inside, and already the houses in the gracious square were bright for Christmas Eve. A girl was selling little kissing bunches on the pavement nearby, and her sweet, clear voice rang out. Kissing bunches, kissing bunches for your sweetheart.
Geoffrey smiled to himself, for if things went as he’d planned, he and Isabel would have no need of a kissing bunch to encourage them this Christmas . . .
He rapped his cane on the gleaming door, and the butler opened it almost immediately. ‘‘Ah, your grace, I was about to send your . . .’’ The man’s face changed as he recognized Geoffrey. ‘‘Oh, forgive me, sir, I thought you were the Duke of Laroche returned for his riding crop.’’
Laroche had been here? Geoffrey was about to speak when Isabel herself appeared at the top of the grand staircase, looking delightful in a pink sprigged muslin gown that had a lavishly stiffened hem. A black-and-gold cashmere shawl trailed behind her as she hurried down the staircase, and there was a vivacious smile on her lips. She hesitated then, seeing Geoffrey.
‘‘Oh, it’s you,’’ she said, her smile becoming a little fixed.
‘‘Yes, it’s me.’’ He hardly noticed her lack of enthusiasm on seeing him, he was too surprised by her manner immediately prior to that. She’d looked positively blooming, and there was certainly no sign of the distress he’d expected. Had Duvall & Carrier failed to deliver the fan? It had to be something like that, for what else would explain her light-hearted manner? If she’d read his carefully worded note, she’d by now believe that Richard was Diana Beaumont’s protector, and the last thing she’d be was light-hearted!
Geoffrey’s mind raced in those few seconds, and he decided that there was nothing for it but to put the second part of his plan into action. He smiled at her. ‘‘I’ve come to take you to buy your Christmas gift.’’
‘‘Christmas gift?’’ She returned the smile. ‘‘Why, Geoffrey, how sweet of you. What are you going to buy me?’’
‘‘That I will not say, but suffice it that it is something from Cranford’s.’’
She clapped her hands in delight. ‘‘Oh, Geoffrey! You absolute darling! Are we going now?’’
‘‘I am at your disposal,’’ he replied, sketching her a bow.
‘‘I’ll put some outdoor clothes on,’’ she replied, gathering her skirts and hurrying back up the staircase, the shawl still dragging prettily behind her.
She returned a few minutes later wearing a gray three-quarter-length velvet pelisse over the pink muslin gown. A gray jockey bonnet rested on her shining dark curls, with a pink gauze scarf tied around the crown and hanging down to her hem at the back. Linking her little hand lightly through his proferred arm, she allowed him to lead her out into the increasingly dark late afternoon.
The streetseller’s sweet cries rang out again. Kissing bunches, kissing bunches for your sweetheart . . .
In nearby Pargeter Street, Diana’s hired chaise had just returned, and she and Mary had entered the drawing room. Diana teased off her gloves, and faced the maid.
‘‘It was as bad as I always feared. Oh, why was I foolish enough to let myself hope . . . ?’’
The butler came to the doors. ‘‘Begging your pardon, Mrs. Beaumont, but Sir Richard Curzon has called.’’
Without ceremony, Richard strode past him into the drawing room. ‘‘I wish to speak to you, madam,’’ he said, tossing his hat, gloves, and cane on to a table.
Diana nodded at Mary. ‘‘That will be all for the moment, Mary.’’
‘‘But, Miss Diana . . .’’
‘‘Please leave us.’’
Mary looked at her, and then gave Richard a cold glance, before going out. The butler closed the doors, and Diana was left alone with Richard. She turned away from him, for just being in the same room made her tremble. ‘‘We have nothing to say to each other, sir.’’
‘‘On the contrary, madam, we have much to say, especially apropos the fan you are under the impression I sent to you.’’
‘‘Under the impression? Sir, you did send it!’’ she cried, whirling to face him.
‘‘No, madam, I did not,’’ he replied shortly, but all the while he couldn’t help thinking how exquisitely lovely she was.
‘‘I recognized your writing, sir, and it may surprise you to know that I think you quite capable of malicious and spiteful acts.’’
‘‘Malicious and spiteful? Is that how you see me?’’
‘‘How else? I wrote to you five years ago explaining my marriage to Robert, but you declined to acknowledge it in any way. I think you very shabby, sir, especially now that you’ve stooped to that cruel trick with the fan.’’
‘‘I didn’t receive any letter, madam, because you didn’t send one. You tossed me aside because you found a better match, that’s the beginning and end of the story.’’ Bitterness rang in his voice, and shone in his clear blue eyes as he looked reproachfully at her.
Her green eyes were large and hurt. ‘‘You wrong me, sir,’’ she whispered, taking off her hat and placing it gently on the table. Her hair, too heavy for its pins, fell loose, tumbling down in a flame-colored cascade. The fragrance of lily-of-the-valley drifted sweetly over him, stirring the desire he’d struggled so long to subdue. He still wanted her. He still wanted her as much as ever . . .
She looked at him. ‘‘Please leave, Richard, for we only hurt each other more all the time.’’
He turned to go, but before he knew it he’d reached out to seize her, dragging her roughly into his arms and kis
sing her on the lips. His fingers curled in her hair, and he crushed her slender body against his. Her perfume was all around him, alluring, beguiling, heartbreakingly poignant . . . He bruised her lips with the force of his passion, but nothing mattered except the sheer ecstasy of holding her again. She was the only woman he’d ever wanted like this, the only woman who’d ever pierced his heart and made him vulnerable. His feelings for Isabel were as nothing compared to the towering emotion Diana Beaumont could arouse in him with just a glance.
She was struggling to escape, trying to beat her fists against him, but he was too strong. Then sanity began to return. He was wrong to do this, wrong to compel her by force . . . Abruptly he released her, and she dealt him a stinging blow, leaving red marks on his cheek. Her eyes were bright and full of unspoken emotions. She didn’t say anything, but shook visibly as she again turned away from him.
For a moment he could only stare at her, drinking in the way her hair fell in such heavy, curling tresses, and the way her figure was outlined by the cut of her clothes. But he didn’t say anything either. Instead he snatched up his hat, gloves, and cane, and left the house.
In the drawing room, Diana hid her face in her hands, her lips still tingling from his kiss. Tears stung her eyes. ‘‘Oh, Richard,’’ she whispered, ‘‘Richard, I still love you so very much . . .’’
Mary came in and found her. ‘‘Oh, Miss Diana . . .’’
‘‘I want to leave London as quickly as possible, Mary. Have the butler send out to see if a chaise can be hired.’’
‘‘But it’s Christmas Eve, Miss Diana, there won’t be a chaise to be had anywhere. And with tomorrow being Christmas Day . . .’’
‘‘Just do it, Mary.’’
‘‘Very well, Miss Diana.’’ As Mary left the drawing room again, her thoughts of Sir Richard Curzon were very dark indeed. He had a great deal to answer for, a great deal.
The bell at Cranford’s rang out prettily as Geoffrey ushered Isabel inside, and the proprietor himself came to assist them.
‘‘May I be of service, sir, madam?’’ he inquired. He was a plump man with a balding head, and was much given to wearing bright blue clothes. Today he had on a sky-blue coat and matching cravat, with a frilled white shirt and indigo brocade waistcoat. He thought himself very much the thing, which indeed he was, being Mayfair’s most exclusive and sought after jeweler.
Geoffrey leaned an elbow on the shining counter. ‘‘You have a brooch in the window, a sunburst made entirely of gold.’’
‘‘Ah, you mean the one in the red leather box, sir?’’
‘‘Yes, that’s the one.’’
‘‘I fear it’s already sold, sir. Sir Richard Curzon purchased it a short while ago, and it is just about to be delivered.’’
‘‘Who to?’’ asked Isabel suddenly.
‘‘Madam, I hardly think that that is information I am at liberty to divulge.’’
She glanced around, and her glance fell upon a silver-gilt bowl containing a bouquet of Christmas greenery, holly, mistletoe, ivy, and Christmas roses. Picking it up, she held it aloft, as if about to dash it to the stone-tiled floor. ‘‘Tell me, Mr. Cranford, or it will be the worst for your lovely bowl, which I’m sure will be greatly damaged if it accidentally falls.’’
The jeweler gaped at her, and then nodded quickly. ‘‘Very well, madam, I’ll tell you. The brooch is to be delivered to Mrs. Beaumont at 44 Pargeter Street.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ she replied, putting the bowl carefully back on the counter.
Geoffrey waited for the outburst of speechless fury, but it didn’t come. Instead Isabel was smiling at him. ‘‘What a shame about the brooch, Geoffrey, but I’m sure Mr. Cranford has more from which I can choose. Don’t you, Mr. Cranford?’’
‘‘Oh, indeed so, madam,’’ that gentleman replied with alacrity, producing a selection which he displayed swiftly before her.
Now it was Geoffrey who was speechless. She’d just learned that Richard had purchased for another woman the brooch she wanted, and yet she was dismissing it as being of no consequence! What was going on? It was inconceivable that Isabel should respond in such a fashion, and yet that was precisely what had happened.
A few minutes later they emerged from the shop, and Geoffrey’s purse was measurably lighter as a consequence of purchasing a delightful little trinket studded with rubies. Isabel hadn’t mentioned Richard again, indeed it was as if he’d ceased to matter in any way. This impression was made more noticeable than ever when she smiled again on settling back in the carriage.
‘‘Oh, Geoffrey, you’re such a darling for giving me this little present. I must think of some way of rewarding you. I know, you shall escort me to the masquerade tonight!’’
‘‘Escort you to the masquerade? But what of Curzon?’’ He was utterly bewildered.
‘‘Richard? Oh, I really have no idea.’’ She pouted. ‘‘Don’t you want to take me to Holland House tonight?’’
‘‘Yes, of course, it’s just that . . .’’
‘‘Then it’s settled, you will take me there. Come to the house at eight, yes, eight should about do it.’’ She smiled again, fixing the brooch on to her pelisse.
Still utterly bewildered, Geoffrey said nothing more. He was completely at a loss to understand her, and totally at a loss for words.
Darkness had fallen, and the beau monde was preparing for the masquerade at Holland House. Fancy dress purchased specially for the Christmas Eve occasion was put out in readiness, and at Holland House itself Gunter’s were attending to last minute details of the veritable banquet that was to be served to the hundreds of guests. The orchestra was tuning up, and the house was brilliantly illuminated, every single window boasting festive candles and festoons of yuletide leaves.
At 44 Pargeter Street, everything was quiet. Diana was in the drawing room endeavoring to read one of Sir Walter Scott’s popular novels, and the only sound was the gentle fluttering of the fire in the hearth. She wore a dark green velvet gown, and gazed at the page without really seeing it, for all she could think about was Richard.
She heard someone knock at the front door, and then voices in the entrance hall. A moment later the butler brought her a small packet.
‘‘This has just been delivered, madam,’’ he said, giving it to her.
Her heart sank as she closed the book, for the arrival of this packet bore a marked similarity to the arrival of the fan a little earlier in the day. Reluctantly she opened the packet, and found the little red leather box inside. As she opened the box, she found herself gazing at a pretty sunburst brooch. There was, as she fully expected, another note in Richard’s handwriting.
You’re mine, my darling Diana, just as you always were and always will be. The future could be ours.
Richard.
Fresh tears stung her eyes, but she willed them back. She nodded at the butler. ‘‘Thank you, that will be all.’’
‘‘Madam.’’ He bowed and withdrew.
Diana put the brooch and its packing on the table next to her chair, and reopened the book. She wouldn’t succumb to her tears again, she wouldn’t! But the tears were stronger than she, welling hotly from her eyes and down her cheeks. She felt so unutterably wretched that she wished she were dead. She curled up in the chair, burying her face in the rich upholstery.
Mary came in shortly afterward, having learned of the brooch’s delivery from the butler. Uneasy on her mistress’s account, she’d hastened immediately to the drawing room, where her worst fears were realized as she found Diana weeping so heart-brokenly in the chair.
Diana was too distressed to even know the maid was there, and she knew nothing as Mary picked up the note that had come with the brooch, read it, and then replaced it. The maid’s eyes were stormy as she withdrew from the room again. It was time that Sir Richard Curzon was set right on certain important points, and she, Mary Keating, was just the one to do it!
Five minutes later, clad in her plain but serviceable cloak, Ma
ry left the house, stepping out into snowy darkness and making for Park Lane.
As Mary’s angry, determined steps took her toward Richard’s residence, Isabel was fully occupied in her apartment at the house in Hanover Square. The line of wardrobes in her dressing room were all open, and, together with her long-suffering maid, Isabel was surveying the array of garments inside.
‘‘I’ll take the salmon brocade, the white satin, and the plowman’s gauze. No, not the plowman’s gauze, I’m a little tired of it. I’ll take the green organdy muslin instead.’’
‘‘But, madam . . .’’
‘‘That takes care of the gowns,’’ interrupted Isabel, not listening. ‘‘Now we come to the outer garments. I shall wear the black fur-lined cloak over my vermilion wool, but I shall also need the mantle, the pelisse, and probably the buttercup dimity paletot as well.’’
The maid was appalled. ‘‘But, madam, it’s only a very small valise!’’
‘‘Not that small. Is it?’’ Isabel looked sharply at her. ‘‘Well? Is it that small?’’
‘‘Yes, madam, it is.’’
‘‘Then we’ll take a larger one.’’
The maid sighed inwardly. ‘‘Yes, madam.’’
‘‘And of one thing we must be absolutely certain: we must not forget a single item of my jewelry.’’
‘‘No, madam.’’
Isabel went through into her bedroom, and flung herself on her white silk bed, gazing up at the exquisitely draped canopy. Oh, what a cat was about to be set among the pigeons of Mayfair! And how very foolish Richard was going to look. It served him right, for having the audacity to keep that Beaumont demirep!
Mary was conducted to the conservatory, where Richard received her. He was standing by the white wrought iron table, and had been about to pour himself another glass of cognac when his butler had informed him that Mrs. Beaumont’s maid was insisting upon seeing him. One of the last people on earth he wished to see was Mary Keating, who’d have nothing pleasant to say to him, but he knew he behaved more than badly when he’d called at Pargeter Street earlier, and if Mary had come to berate him, then it was no more than he warranted.
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