The night air was cool after the ferocious heat of the crowded ballroom, and Rosamond, her gloved hand resting on the arm of her escort, glanced at him in some amusement. There could be no doubt but that he was not only the most handsome gentleman at the ball, but the most handsome man she had ever seen. Tall and well-built, he carried himself with a lazy but prideful air. His voice was low and pleasingly well modulated, and that incredible face! The lofty, intelligent brow, the velvety black eyes with their long, curling lashes, the lean countenance, finely chiselled nose, high cheekbones and strong chin were so near perfection as to have captured the eyes of every lady present. Yet there was a manliness to his looks and he made no bow to affectation or excess. His dress was, if anything, rather austere for so young a man, for although his coat was a masterpiece of tailoring and fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, it was of black velvet relieved only by a swirl of silver embroidery on the pocket flaps and the cuffs of the great sleeves. The white satin waistcoat was embroidered here and there with black fleurs-de-lis, the knee-breeches were also white satin, and she could not but notice that the stockings revealed an extreme shapely leg. Only his mouth she found displeasing, for although the thin lips were well cut, they had a sardonic twist. Perhaps, looking for faults in a gentleman so well favoured was but natural, for one could not but mistrust perfection. Still, he had given her no cause to think him either vain or a rake, his manner towards her being teasingly flirtatious, but in no way offensive or ungentlemanlike.
“I think you must be a wizard, Mr. Roland Fairleigh,” she said. “And rather a naughty one.”
He chuckled, turning his head to look down at her face so enchantingly caressed by the moonlight. “I am bewitched certainly,” he admitted. “Besides, Jacques is your cousin, Miss Albritton, and has the good fortune to be able to see you whenever he so chooses. If I—er, tricked him a little—”
“You told him my Aunt Estelle was greatly upset and desired his immediate presence.”
“And so she did, I—er, wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
Her lips twitched. “Yet when I was anxious, you assured me ’twas nothing. It will not do, sir! I cannot help but deduce that you sent my poor cousin off on a fool’s errand, only so as to commandeer his dance.”
All shocked innocence, he halted, turning to face her and pointing out, “But I am not dancing with you, Miss Albritton, so how could Fontblanque accuse me of such infamous behaviour?”
He might not be dancing with her, but there was a dance of amusement in the dark eyes, and she could not restrain a smile as she said, “Only because I told you I would like to get a breath of air.”
“And what a fellow I should be to deny a lady so simple a request!” He led her closer to the fountain that splashed its liquid melody into a great marble bowl. Taking her fan and fluttering it deftly towards her face, he said, “Here is air, washed and purified, provided by me especially for your beautiful lungs. I try hard, ma’am. Own it.”
She took back her fan and said laughingly, “I own you a silver-tongued scamp, sir!”
His shoulders slumped. “Someone has been telling you about me. Name the villain, and I’ll put an end to him!”
“Aha! So I have found you out. You admit to being a scamp.”
He trod a pace closer. “I never contradict a lady.” But as she drew away, startled by a subtle difference in his tone, he at once stepped back. “Faith, but I think you do not hold a very good opinion of me, ma’am, when all I ask is to serve you, in any possible way.”
He sounded forlorn. Reassured, she reminded him that they had met for the first time this evening. “Are you always so generous upon making the acquaintance of a lady?”
“’Tis you who would be generous, dear ma’am, in granting me such a boon.”
“Fie upon you! What an evasion!”
“Not so, fairest of the fair. Do but name a task, and though it take me to the roof of the world, I shall accomplish it.”
“My thanks, kind sir, but I have no need for ice.” The word reminded her of Dr. Robert Victor, who had not reappeared after going off with the earl. How much more pleasant, she thought, was this humorous man who flattered with such a light and polished touch that he could not help but please.
Fairleigh sighed, then said in a less frivolous way, “No, I really am serious, ma’am. Is my understanding you and your aunt sail for England on Wednesday. I shall be returning myself, and I believe you have no courier. May I offer my services?”
They began to walk back towards the house and he extended his arm once more. Resting her hand on it, she said, “How very kind in you. I expect you think it an odd circumstance that two ladies travel without a gentleman. Actually, my brother last month escorted us to my great-aunt’s home in Denmark, but he had to return to England at once. Luckily, my cousin Jacques is all that is obliging. He came to Copenhagen, took us on to Brussels, and then here, and will escort us home.” Fairleigh groaned and she went on with a twinkle, “Nonetheless, ’twas a gallant gesture and I do thank you, sir.”
“Alas, I am balked at every turn. I think I shall form a deep hatred for Jacques de Fontblanque!” He sighed, disconsolate. “I will leave this frustrating place and put a period to my dismal existence.”
Her silvery little laugh rang out. His hand closed over hers, so lightly resting on his sleeve. He said in a different voice, “How very beautiful you are, lady from Sussex.”
Her eyes widened. “Now how did you know that my home is in Sussex, Mr. Fairleigh?”
“Our martyred King Charles had twelve good rules, dear lady. One was—‘Reveal no secrets.’ I have found it a—” He broke off, halting, as a booming voice wafted from the open terrace doors. “I know of only one individual with such resonance,” he murmured. “Bowers-Malden is here?”
“Yes. You know him, sir?”
“A home question, Miss Albritton. Dare I answer, I wonder?”
She stared at him. “Why, I do not understand you.”
Several couples had come out onto the terrace and were chattering gaily. Mr. Fairleigh lowered his voice. “He is Catholic, ma’am. And there are those who believe his son, Glendenning…” He shrugged, spreading his hands in a faintly Gallic gesture. “Horatio is a fine fellow, but—it does not do to be acquainted with Jacobite sympathizers these days.”
Her back stiffened. “Tio Glendenning is a—Jacobite sympathizer?”
“Now curse me if I’ve spoke out of turn! You know him, I see.”
“No. But—” She bit back the words, ‘my brother does.’ It would be just like Charles to know that young Viscount Glendenning had Jacobite sympathies, but to keep his friendship. Charles was so forgiving and would never stop to consider that to associate with a known rebel sympathizer might be dangerous. “But I have heard of him,” she finished rather lamely.
She had been seen, and Mademoiselle Bournon, who was pretty but tended to gush, trilled her name and told her amid much giggling and coy flutterings of her fan that she was too naughty to have left them all for such a time, and that Madame her aunt was searching for her.
The earl’s majestic figure appeared, large and dark against the glow of the doorway. Over his shoulder, he called, “Mesdames et messieurs! We may now be à l’aise! The lost one is found! Here is Mademoiselle Albritton!”
Rosamond turned to her companion. “My apologies, but—”
Her apologies were not needed. Mr. Fairleigh had slipped away.
* * *
Estelle Porchester was a widow, still young enough to be hopeful of changing her marital status, and sufficiently comely—in a tall, rather large-boned way—to render that not unlikely. A slightly untidy lady, with the fair colouring of her house, a generally amiable disposition, and the best will in the world to be obliging, she was somewhat given to stubbornness and had a way of repeating her remarks that, together with one or two other little habits, never failed to irritate Colonel Albritton.
As children, she and her sister Irene had been insep
arable, and years later, when Irene, by then Mrs. Lennox Albritton, contracted pneumonia and died, Mrs. Porchester, lonely in her early widowhood, had acceded to the plea of her bereaved brother-in-law that she remove to Lennox Court and aid him in the upbringing of his three children. Much of that upbringing had devolved upon her shoulders, for the then Major Lennox had been often out of the country about his military duties. However, this responsibility did not overset her, for she was extremely fond of her niece and nephews, and well able to cope with them.
She had grieved when the eldest boy, William, had followed in his father’s footsteps and gone with his regiment to India, and was heartbroken when he succumbed a year later to the ravages of cholera.
Charles, the younger son, rather baffled her. Colonel Albritton, who had sold out after William’s death, was impatient with the soft voice and gentle manner of his new heir, and threw up his hands in despair when Charles—a brilliant student—declared a wish to enter the clergy rather than the Guards, or at least the Diplomatic Service. “He has,” the colonel had snarled to his sister-in-law, “no more backbone than a newt, and about as much manliness. Did ever you see him bear up in a discussion as a gentleman should? Did ever you see him best me in any argument? He is a weakling, madam!” Weakling or not, despite his father’s stentorian objections, Charles had followed his chosen path and eventually had been ordained. This determination had surprised some, but not Mrs. Porchester. There were times when came a resolute set to the Reverend Albritton’s mouth, a tilt to his chin and a gleam to his blue eyes that spoke of more spirit than he was given credit for. She noticed, and held her tongue, but Charles worried her, and she had, especially of late, spent a few sleepless nights over the boy.
Rosamond was a different matter. A happier-natured, more agreeable girl it would have been hard to find, which was remarkable in view of her beauty. When Harold Singleton had fallen at the Battle of Culloden, the entire family had grieved, for the fine young fellow had been beloved by all. As he was Rosamond’s chosen husband, however, hers must have been the deepest sorrow. She had borne her loss bravely—far more bravely than even her brother, who knew her better than anyone, would have expected. Afterwards, however, she was changed. The colonel did not see it, and Charles, shuttled about from one parish to another as a sort of standby vicar, had not had much opportunity to remark it. But Mrs. Porchester saw. There was a look of loathing in Rosamond’s eyes when Jacobites were mentioned; a mercilessness in her attitude towards the fugitives that was foreign to her customarily gentle nature. Mrs. Porchester could not find it in her heart to blame her. She thought of Rosamond as the dear daughter she had never had, and could see no fault in her, but even so, she was a little disturbed.
She was more than a little disturbed when Rosamond entered the private parlour on the second floor of the great mansion. On an elegant little brocade sofa, huddled amid the billows of her dark green satin ballgown, the Comtesse de Fontblanque wept miserably. Her son Jacques, exquisite in purple and lavender, stood beside his mama, looking more agitated than Rosamond had ever seen him, his large brown eyes filled with dismay, his sophisticatedly bored smile vanished.
“Good gracious,” exclaimed Rosamond, alarmed. “It must be very bad! Not—not dear Papa … or Charles?”
Estelle Porchester, who had been standing by the hearth systematically shredding a handkerchief, spun about. “Thank heaven you are come! Now do not dissemble, child. Do not dissemble. If anyone knows where she was—you do!”
With an uneasy sense of impending disaster, Rosamond stammered, “Where—where who was, dear aunt? Surely you cannot mean—my cousin Deborah?”
“She left Sussex in June,” said Mrs. Porchester tremblingly. “In June!”
“Yes, ma’am. With her abigail, and the escort of Zachary Troy, who brought her to you safely, Tante Maria, I—”
“They did not arrive here until—August,” wailed Mrs. Porchester.
“What?” shrieked Rosamond.
“Is not my fault,” sobbed the comtesse.
“We’d a letter explaining she would not at once come—” put in the comte nervously. “We believed it to have been sent by your papa, Cousin.”
“Albritton never writ such a letter,” moaned Estelle Porchester. “Why would he have done so? He thought Deb was here! He thought she was here, Maria!”
The unhappy comtesse retreated behind a new flood of tears.
“But—but she must have c-come!” faltered Rosamond. “Mr. Troy is—is a man of honour. Besides, he is so excessively shy that I was amazed he would have consented to escort Debbie here, save for the fact that he thinks of her only as a friend of Charles’s, and I honestly believe he is not in the least interested in her—romantically interested, I mean. And Debbie is deep in love with my brother, you know she is, Aunt Estelle!”
“I had thought she was,” said Mrs. Porchester gloomily.
“No, how can you doubt, when they are so obviously devoted? Oh, there must be some—some perfectly respectable explanation!”
Mrs. Porchester moaned and wrung her hands. “Well, I pray we may find it before I’ve to explain her long absence to your dear papa, for if we do not, he is like to call out Zachary Troy!”
“Good heavens!” gasped Rosamond, sinking weakly into the nearest chair.
“I thought everything was—was proper,” gulped the comtesse. “Oh—the scandal!”
Rosamond murmured incredulously, “Wherever was she? How could she have vanished for—for two months, almost…? She is in deep mourning for her brother. She would never—”
“There is a man b-behind it all,” said Mrs. Porchester, dabbing at her reddened eyes. “Mark my words! A MAN!”
2
The music box was of a fine mahogany, the lid inlaid with rosewood scrolls and having in the centre an exquisitely enamelled miniature of a mermaid sleeping in a shell. It was an old box and of great value and should, Rosamond told her aunt, have been left safely packed away, instead of being set out on the chest in their cabin.
Mrs. Porchester dealt with this remark succinctly. “Pish,” she said.
Straightening from the portmanteau, a dainty almost-completed night-dress in one hand and her small sewing basket in the other, Rosamond glanced out of the porthole. The packet was clear of the harbour now and heading into the open sea. She murmured uneasily, “Cousin Jacques thought the weather might turn, because his back was aching. The wind does seem to be coming up.”
Mrs. Porchester settled herself a little more comfortably in the berth and regarded her favourite niece without delight. “I place my reliance upon our captain. Upon our captain, who certainly would not have set sail did he think it unsafe. Your cousin Jacques may fancy that old wound a barometer, but to my mind he knows more of silks and laces than of the vagaries of wind and water.”
“Well, I hope you are right.” Rosamond was obliged to cling to the wash-stand as the cabin gave a lurch. “Perhaps ’tis just that we are farther from land now and encountering higher seas. I hope Jacques has arranged that our tea be served in here. It would be much easier, with Trifle to be considered.”
Mrs. Estelle pursed up her lips. “I do not at all rely upon Jacques,” she declared. “I do not at all rely upon him! He is excellent at waving a handkerchief—provided it is well edged with lace—or making a leg. For neither of which skills do we stand in pressing need.”
Rosamond laughed, but she was fond of her French cousin and argued, “Now, dearest, you know you do not really mean that. Jacques is a dear, and he did fight in the Low Countries. I sometimes think he is not so silly as he seems.”
“He is very silly. And so is your Tante Maria. Maria, indeed! She was plain Mary Albritton before she met that handsome Frenchman, and so I know, because we played with our dolls together. With our dolls! Which is neither here nor there. Now, this business with Debbie—”
Rosamond, who had begun to sew a tiny blue satin bow on her new night-dress, interrupted hurriedly, “Was Oncle Louis very hand
some, ma’am?”
Mrs. Estelle’s brown eyes softened. “Ah, but he was,” she said with a faint sigh. “But not of a firm nature. Not like your papa. Which is why he chose Mary, of course, for she was ever soft and clinging! Just the sort of feather-head to bring out the protective instincts in a gentleman. And I’ll allow she looked like an angel from heaven the day they were wed … so very pretty. Who ever,” she went on, suddenly militant, “would have dreamt such a darling girl could grow into such a serpent? No, do not argue with me, Rosamond! Serpent I said, and serpent I meant! To steal your abigail out from under our noses, when she knew perfectly well—perfectly well that my silly baggage would not come because she is—whoops!” She made a wild grab for the side of the berth as she almost was precipitated to the floor. “My gel,” she went on, righting herself, “refused to leave Dover because she fears the sea. Fears the sea, indeed! Since when have Britons feared the sea, may I ask? What would we have done had Sir Francis Drake feared the sea? Suppose he had refused to leave his bowls when the Armada came jiggery-pokering across the Channel? You and I might well be Spanish ladies, instead of English, and then what would we do? What would we do?”
“Marry Spanish gentlemen, likely,” said Rosamond, her eyes twinkling as she set aside her work and crossed to take her aunt’s slippers from the portmanteau.
“You may smile,” said Mrs. Estelle, “but I for one would find that very uncomfortable, being an English widow.”
“Now, Aunt, we cannot blame Tante Maria because her first footman fell in love with my maid and she decided to stay and marry him. Besides, Jessie was so very sleepy always that I cannot say I shall greatly miss her. Tante offered to let us borrow her little Fifi and you would not hear of it, so—”
“I most certainly would not! A hussy, if ever I saw one! If ever I saw one! Just the type to be fluttering her lashes and thrusting her bosom at the footmen and wiggling her—er, other charms at Charles and—”
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