by Jane Feather
“Yes, I was just rereading it. Sir Mark is making an unconscionable fuss about her visit,” Arabella said, somewhat distracted. She was in bed, propped up on pillows. “He seems to have scruples about accepting our hospitality.”
Jack perched on the edge of the bed. “Because it equates with charity?”
She sighed. “Perhaps that’s what it is. We have so much and he can send Meg with very little of her own.” She looked up. “He’s a very proud man, Jack.”
“And I respect him for it,” he replied matter-of-factly. “However, if he wants his daughter to find a husband, then he may have to swallow some of it.”
Arabella leaned back against the pillows. “Are you prepared to fund Meg’s second Season, Jack?” Her tone was quizzical.
He shook his head. “I rather thought you would, my sweet. Now that you’re such an accomplished gamester, I thought you could probably manage to ensure that your friend is not a drain on our household expenditure.”
She swung out of bed in a swirl of bedclothes, her legs moving fast as her foot caught him behind the knees and he toppled backwards onto the bed, sending a stream of ruby red port onto the coverlet. “No games,” she declared, falling on top of him, laughing and yet also serious. “If Meg comes to this house, she comes as my sister.”
“Did you have to waste a perfectly good glass of port to make that point?” Jack said. “We’ll have to sleep in my bed tonight.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She lay along his body, fitting herself to him, her thighs against his, the curve of her belly fitted into the concavity of his. She licked the port from his lips. “I need you to write to Sir Mark, Jack. He won’t accept my invitation.”
“And you really need your friend,” he said, half questioning.
“Yes,” she said definitely. “There’s no one here who can take her place.”
He ran a hand down her back, came to rest on her bottom under the thin lawn of her chemise. “No one?”
“You have your own place,” she said. “And Meg has hers.”
And you have Lilly, the thought lurked. I need Meg.
“I’ll write tomorrow,” Jack promised, wrestling with the folds of the chemise.
On a drizzly afternoon a week later Jack entered his house, shaking raindrops off his high-crowned beaver hat. He paused in the hall, listening with a frown to the excited babble of voices coming from the drawing room. Judging by the language issuing through the open doors, Arabella was holding one of her get-togethers for French émigrés. It hadn’t taken her long to choose her own spheres of influence, Jack reflected, his frown deepening. Her drawing room and dining table were the favored gathering place for the Whig elite, a natural enough accomplishment with a husband who was a leading member of that elite, but her wholehearted embrace of the émigré community had nothing to do with Jack.
And it troubled him. She raised funds, begged and cajoled across London for lodging, employment, medical assistance, and he was fairly certain she gave freely of her own money. It was as if this growing community of wretched refugees had taken the place of the country folk whose pastoral care had been her chief concern. It worried him that she ventured into the stews but he could understand her need to do so, what he could not understand was her equally enthusiastic involvement with the community of aristocratic refugees.
These people crowding his salon, grumbling about their lot, inveighing against the terrible conditions in their homeland, complaining about the inhospitable attitude of the English, who were apparently supposed to take them in and provide for them, filled him with a bitter disgust. They had escaped with their lives, while countless thousands of their peers had gone to the guillotine. They may have lost their privileged existences but they lived and breathed in a free land. And all they could do was complain.
Where he saw the blood-soaked slaughter in the courtyard of La Force, the loaded tumbrels, the bloody blade, they saw only their beautiful châteaus in the hands of the mob, their elegant Parisian hotels in ruins. They lamented the loss of their wealth, their land, their jewels, their massive privilege, and only rarely gave thought to those they had left to bleed.
In honesty, he knew that they were not all like that. Many had worked tirelessly to help their compatriots to safety; nevertheless, he was filled with a deep resentment that they lived and Charlotte did not.
He could barely tolerate being in the same room with them. He began to walk softly towards the staircase, hoping to make good his escape. Just as he set foot on the bottom step the dogs came flying from the drawing room, barking excitedly, leaping up to paw the skirts of his coat.
“Get down, damn you,” he said, brushing them off him. “I fail to understand why you imagine that I’m as pleased to see you as you are to see me. I dislike you intensely.”
They grinned at him and waved feathery tails, their eyes shining with adoration.
“I thought it must be you,” Arabella said from the doorway. “There’s no one else they rush to meet.”
“They are laboring under the misapprehension that I like them,” Jack said, dusting his coat. “One would have thought they would have learned by now.”
She smiled quizzically at him, her head slightly to one side. “You don’t fool them for one minute. Will you not come and greet our visitors? The marquis de Frontenac was asking after you.”
He couldn’t refuse to greet visitors in his own house. “I had thought to change my coat,” he said, turning away from the stairs. “But I daresay it will do.” He followed her into the salon.
Arabella poured tea for a group of ladies in a corner of the salon, straining to hear her husband’s conversation with Frontenac. Jack’s presence made it impossible for her at the moment to continue her clandestine research on the comte and comtesse de Villefranche. So far she had discovered that the count had gone to the guillotine two years earlier, and his wife, Jack’s sister, had disappeared sometime after. No one seemed to know whether her name had appeared on one of the daily lists of the executed that were published by the revolutionary tribunals although that was not surprising in the murderous mayhem of the city. She could as easily have died in prison as on the guillotine.
But Arabella was convinced that someone besides Jack must know the truth of his sister’s fate. A truth that might give her the key to Jack’s secrets.
A flurry in the hall caused a momentary lull in the thronged salon. Tidmouth appeared in the doorway. “Their highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales,” he intoned, bowing to his knees.
Everyone rose, curtsied, bowed, murmured respectful greetings as the prince strolled in, his paunch leading the parade, his young bride ignored at his heels. Princess Caroline held her head high but two spots of color burned on her cheekbones and Arabella felt a wave of anger. George, Prince of Wales, was the boor she had first thought him. Oh, he could be witty and intelligent, but he was stubborn and arrogant, and had not the slightest ounce of self-knowledge. And he had no right to treat his wife with such lack of respect.
She stepped forward. “Welcome, sir. Welcome, madam.” She smiled at the princess. “Will you take tea?”
“Damnation, no, ma’am,” the prince declared. “Claret . . . Jack, m’dear fellow, a bottle of your best.”
“Of course, sir,” Jack responded in his imperturbable drawl. “Tidmouth, the ’83.”
Arabella kept her smile painted on her face as she repeated to the princess, “Will you take tea, ma’am?”
“Thank you, Lady Arabella.” Caroline’s responding smile managed to be both regal and grateful. She took the offered seat and the shallow cup. Her English was fluent, but her French a little halting; however, a conversation of sorts took place among the ladies, touching on the latest fashions, the opera, the birth of a son to the King of Prussia.
Arabella forced herself to sit and listen to a conversation that merely bored her. She poured tea, offered the occasional contribution, but mainly did all she could to put the princess at her ease. Caroline’
s gaze darted constantly to her husband, who stood laughing and drinking with the duke of St. Jules in a circle of politely attentive Frenchmen.
“Lady Jersey, your grace,” Tidmouth announced, and Arabella drew a quick breath. The princess had gone rather pale at the arrival of her husband’s mistress. The prince turned at once to the door, with a beaming smile.
“My dear Lady Jersey,” he said, advancing with both hands extended. “What a delightful coincidence.” He took her hands, drawing her up from her curtsy, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.
“Hardly a coincidence, sir,” she said with a little titter and a bat of her eyelashes. “I knew you would be visiting the duke this afternoon.”
“Minx,” he declared, lightly tapping her cheek. “Come in, come in. You’ll take a glass of Jack’s excellent claret.” He drew her over to the circle of men.
Arabella rose immediately and went over to join them. “Good afternoon, Lady Jersey. Would you join us by the fire?” She gestured to the group she had left.
Jack saw with a slight sinking feeling that his wife’s tawny eyes had those little gold flickers in their depths that always denoted trouble.
Lady Jersey raised her quizzing glass and looked across to the group of women. She let the glass drop and said, “No, I don’t think I care to, Lady Arabella. I find the company here most congenial.”
“Indeed,” Arabella said with a frozen smile. “My husband was about to suggest a game of piquet with his highness. Perhaps you would care to observe their game.” She turned a knowing smile on the prince. He would hate such a suggestion. “I’m sure Lady Jersey will bring you luck, sir.”
The prince looked immediately put out. The suggestion that he might need luck in a game of skill piqued his pride, particularly with an opponent like the duke, whose skill was generally considered to be unparalleled. Much as he relished his mistress’s company away from the card table, he didn’t want her observing his play. As Arabella had known, it didn’t occur to him to refuse the rarely offered prospect of a game with St. Jules.
“Luck, ma’am? Why, piquet is a game of skill. I need no luck.” He gave a blustering laugh and linked his arm through Jack’s. “Come, Duke, I accept the challenge.” He offered his mistress a bow of farewell. “Forgive me, dear ma’am. The cards call.”
Lady Jersey watched him barrel out of the salon, her eyes cold and hard, a thin smile fixed to her lips. She was left for an awkward moment the only woman among a group of puzzled Frenchmen. She turned towards Arabella, who had returned to the fireside beside the princess. Caroline was sipping tea, chattering and laughing, for once very much at her ease.
Her smile faltered, however, when Lady Jersey approached the fire. But the princess was not on this occasion Lady Jersey’s quarry.
She gave Arabella a smile of pure malice as she said, “I must take my leave, ma’am. I am engaged to join Lady Worth at a card party this evening.” She snapped open her fan. “It is to be hoped she doesn’t lose too heavily yet again. I understand she relies substantially on her . . .”
Painted eyebrows lifted in a mocking question mark. “Her friends . . . her most particular friends . . . to help her with her difficulties. Worth, I believe, is less accommodating than . . .” She waved her fan vaguely in the direction of the door. “Perhaps he has less reason to be so. Good afternoon, your highness.” She dipped a curtsy to the princess, offered a nod to the remainder of the group, and sailed from the room.
Arabella showed none of her chagrin. She poured more tea and asked the princess whether she would like to see her orchids.
With expeditious proficiency Jack lost a rubber of piquet to the Prince of Wales, while plying his opponent with ample glasses of fine claret. He threw his last discards on the table, paid his debts, and bade his prince, now the picture of bonhomie, a pleasant good evening. Then he went upstairs to his wife.
Arabella was dressing for the evening, Becky putting the final touches to her hair, delicately inserting a pearl fillet. Jack waited for the operation to be completed before he said, “Whom are you going to dazzle this evening, my dear?”
Arabella was on edge, Lady Jersey’s insinuations playing over and over in her head. It was hard enough accepting the fact of Jack’s mistress with apparent equanimity, without enduring insults from the queen of mistresses. “I thought we were dining at home and then going to the play,” she said sharply. “Of course, if you have something better to do, I’m sure George or Fox will escort me.”
“I’m sure they would,” he agreed affably enough, lounging, arms folded, against the door frame. “What play?”
“The School for Scandal.” She turned on the dresser stool, heedless of Becky’s little squeak of protest as a furled curl sprang free of its papers. “I understand it’s a satire of the Devonshire House set. The duchess of Devonshire is supposed to be the model for Lady Teazle. I didn’t see it during my first Season.” She turned back to the mirror, adding aridly, “I doubt I was considered sophisticated enough.”
“The satirical characterizations are probably less obvious now,” Jack observed, still watching her with narrowed eyes. “The play’s almost twenty years old, after all.”
“A different time,” she said, leaning into the mirror to examine her face. “Should I wear rouge, do you think?” Lady Worth’s delicately painted complexion filled her vision.
“Not if pleasing your husband figures anywhere in your list of imperatives,” he said.
“Mmm.” Arabella considered this. “But I look rather pale. I’ve noticed how others with the slightest touch of rouge can give the impression of a glow to the skin. Lady Jersey, for instance. She was quite radiant this afternoon. . . . That will do, Becky. Thank you. Go to your supper now, and there’s no need to wait up for me tonight.”
Becky, who had maintained a steadfast and well-learned silence throughout this exchange between her employers, set down curlers and brushes, curtsied, and left the bedchamber.
Jack frowned. “Tell me, wife of mine, what has made you so angry?”
“Angry? Why would you think that?” She touched a hare’s foot to her cheeks.
“The glitter in your eye.” He lifted the lid of the jewel casket and let his fingers trawl through it.
The glitter was suspiciously akin to tears, Arabella knew. She tried a light laugh and plied the hare’s foot again. “Oh, just something Lady Jersey said.”
“What was that?” He selected a pearl pendant and held it up to the light.
“Just women’s talk,” she said, twisting an errant curl back into place.
He reached over her shoulders with the pendant. One hand brushed across the swell of her breast. “Don’t let her trouble you, Arabella. She has a vicious tongue.”
“I am aware,” Arabella said curtly, bending her head as he fastened the gold chain. “Shall we go down to dinner?”
Chapter 17
Jack entered the small pavilion at Ranelagh Gardens, his sharp gaze roaming the crowd gathered around the card tables. It was a soft spring night and the sounds of a string quartet wafted on the breeze from the concert pavilion. People strolled the garden paths, lit with sconced torches, and occasionally a shriek of laughter would rise from behind strategically planted shrubbery. The gardens were notorious playgrounds for the indiscreet.
Jack saw his quarry playing quinze at a table at the far side of the pavilion and made his way without apparent purpose towards her. Lady Worth looked up from her cards with a bright smile.
“Jack, I wondered if you would be here tonight.”
“You need wonder no more, my dear,” he said carelessly, flipping open his snuffbox. “I received your summons and hastened to obey.” A smile flickered on his mouth but it was curiously absent from his steady gaze. He took a pinch of snuff.
“Is your charming wife here this evening?” Lilly inquired, laying down a card with a little moue of dismay as she lost her wager.
“I believe so,” he said. “She came with her own party.”
He made no objection and they walked out into the gardens. Lilly fanned herself gently as they strolled towards the concert pavilion. Jack said nothing. Lilly would come to the point in her own good time. And in a very few minutes she did.
“You never come to see me anymore, Jack.”
“My dear, I called upon you just the day before yesterday.”
“Yes, but you know that’s not what I meant,” she responded with a sad smile. “I do not wish to see you only in company. Why can things not be as they were?”
“My dear, I have explained the situation,” he said, his voice low, his tone gentle. “In friendship and in remembrance of what we’ve shared, I will help you in whatever way you need, but we can no longer be lovers.” Even as he spoke his eyes swept the area around them, looking for Arabella.
“Why such scruples?” she demanded on an angry little laugh. “Marriage has turned you into a uxorious husband. It’s most unfashionable, I should warn you.” She stopped on the path, forcing him to stop with her. She turned sideways. Her head barely reached his shoulder, so she had to look up at him, her beautiful eyes reflecting the starlight.
He shrugged. “Maybe so, but I’ve never much cared for the whims of fashion, as you should know, Lilly.” He began to walk again. “Let us not quarrel. How much do you need tonight?”
“Oh, you’re being horrid,” she said. “You make it sound as if I only seek out your company when I need a little assistance with my debts.”
He glanced at her as he continued to walk, the look in his eyes unreadable.
She let the subject die. She did indeed need money from him tonight and nothing would be gained by antagonizing him. “I wonder what your wife is doing?” she mused.
