by Jane Feather
“Come fer yer pa’s books, then?” An elderly man, so short his head barely topped the counter, blinked into the dimness. “Thought you wasn’t comin’ to pay yer installment this week. Due yesterday, ye were. Lucky I didn’t sell ’em on ye.”
“Oh, come on, Jebediah. Who around here would buy Plato’s Republic and two volumes of Tacitus?” Octavia said dismissively, reaching into her skirt for the pouch. She extracted several coins and dropped them onto the counter.
“And two shillin’ interest,” Jebediah said, scooping the coins off the counter. “Due yesterday.”
“There’s no interest if I redeem them,” Octavia declared. “So don’t try your sharp tricks on me.”
Jebediah gave her a toothless grin and stared over her shoulder at the tall, elegant figure of her companion. “I see ye’ve got yerself a gennelman friend, then. Quite the gent ’e looks.”
Octavia flushed angrily. “Fetch me the books, Jebediah.”
“All right, all right.” He shuffled off in his carpet slippers into the dark recesses of the noisome shop, returning after a minute with three leather-bound, gilt-edged volumes. “Doin’ ye a favor, I am, takin’ these fer good money,” he asserted. “Much good they’d do me if’n ye didn’t come fer ’em.”
“Exactly what I said,” Octavia agreed serenely, opening the volumes and clapping them together. A cloud of dust filled the dank air. “But don’t think I’m not grateful, you old rogue.” She dropped another shilling on the counter. “That’s just to show my appreciation.”
“Come into a fortune ’ave ye?” He picked up the coin and bit it to test the metal, his shrewd eyes returning to the silent figure of Lord Rupert. “A fortune, eh? Well, who can blame ye when yer face is all the fortune ye’ve got.”
Octavia swung on her heel and made for the door, clutching her father’s books. There was no hope of explaining the true situation to Jebediah, who saw what he saw. And what he saw was what everyone would see, she knew. Yet another reason for not wishing to be taken to her door by her present companion. Lord Nick would have been one thing, but Lord Rupert Warwick was quite another.
“How often do you have to go through that?” Lord Rupert inquired, handing her up into the phaeton. “He seemed a most encroaching gentleman.”
“Too often, and he is,” she responded, examining the books carefully. “He’s a rogue, and I’m always afraid he might decide he has a use for the pages and tear them out. Papa frets so whenever a book is missing from his library, I dread to think how he’d react if they came back damaged.”
“Does that rogue hold anything else of yours?” Rupert handed the urchin a sixpence before taking the reins again.
“Some jewelry … a few pieces that belonged to my mother,” Octavia said with a shrug. “So long as I pay the weekly installments, he’ll keep them. Although I can’t imagine when I might ever wear them again.”
It was said without self-pity, Rupert noticed, but he also heard the underlying bitterness. “One day you might get your revenge.”
Octavia laughed without humor. “And it snows in hell, I suppose.”
“One can dream,” he returned neutrally.
“One can dream,” she agreed. “Turn right at the end.”
They drew up at a narrow, crooked house in a narrow, crooked lane, the overhanging eaves on either side almost touching to form a roof across the street below. A grimy window on the ground floor exhibited the wares of the chandler. Above, a bow window jutted into the alley.
“My thanks for your escort,” Octavia said formally, jumping down before he could come to her assistance. “I trust you’ll be able to find your own way back.”
“Yesterday I said I felt obliged to restore you to the bosom of your family,” Rupert said with a bland smile, alighting beside her. “I haven’t changed my opinion. I look forward to meeting your father.”
“Your horses?” Octavia pointed out without much hope. Why on earth would he want to pursue this?
“I’m sure someone will be glad to walk them for me.” As he spoke, Mistress Forster’s eldest appeared in the doorway of the chandler’s, staring with wide-eyed astonishment at his mother’s lodger in such company.
“Walter, take his lordship’s horses,” Octavia directed with a resigned sigh. “Pray come within, sir.” She went ahead of him into the shop, wondering what frame of mind her father would be in. Sometimes he could be charming, at others so irascible, it was impossible to stay in the same room with him.
“Well, I never did. Just where’ve ye been, Miss Morgan? Out of my mind with worry, I’ve been.” A short, round lady bustled out from the back of the shop. “Your pa’s been creatin’ something chronic. He would ’ave it somethin’ ’ad ’appened to ye, although I told ’im ye’d taken shelter from the storm, like as not, and …” Her voice died as she took in Octavia’s companion. “Well, I never did.” She dropped an awkward curtsy. “Well, I never did.”
“This is Lord Rupert Warwick, Mistress Forster,” Octavia said hastily. “He’s come to visit Papa. This way, sir.” Without waiting for a further word from the astounded landlady, she swept up a narrow flight of stairs at the rear of the shop, his lordship on her heels.
Rupert inclined his head in a slight bow as he passed Mistress Forster. The woman seemed relatively well disposed toward her lodger, he thought, and the chandler’s shop, while hardly affluent, had a prosperous air at odds with the grimness of the surrounding streets.
It wasn’t the depths of poverty, but Octavia was as out of place as a diamond in a coal mine.
He followed her lithe figure up the creaking rickety wooden stairs, her hair glowing a burnished reddish brown in the light thrown by a candle in a wall sconce illuminating the tight spiral curve halfway up. At the head of the stairs she paused before a closed door, turning toward him as he came up to join her on the narrow landing. The golden eyes were lambent in the dimness, her full lips slightly parted as if she were about to say something. A warm pink tinged the high cheekbones, highlighting the creamy translucence of her complexion.
A veritable diamond—and if she would listen to him, then she would have a setting worthy of her.
Smiling, he cupped her chin in his gloved hand, but she pulled away sharply.
“You would ruin what reputation is left to me!” she hissed in whispered outrage. “It’s bad enough that I’ve been absent all night and then appear with you in this compromising fashion. The gossip will be all over the neighborhood, but there’s no need to spell it out for them.”
He drew back, offering an apologetic bow, although his tone was ironical rather than conciliatory. “Forgive me, Miss Morgan, I didn’t mean to presume. Now, may I pay my respects to your father?”
Octavia opened the door and stepped swiftly into the room. “Papa, I have brought you a visitor.”
Rupert came in and closed the door behind him. The room was small and ill furnished, lit with smelly tallow candles and an oil lamp, a small coal fire spluttering in the hearth. A narrow cot with a patchwork quilt stood against one wall. The bow window looked out on the street, and sitting at a desk set in the window was a thin man with a mane of white hair and the same tawny gold eyes as his daughter. He wore an old-fashioned, full-skirted coat of faded gray velvet, his shirt was collarless, and a coarse horse blanket was draped over his shoulders. His features were well-defined beneath a bony, prominent brow, but he bore an air of distraction as he turned toward the door, frowning at the new arrivals.
“Octavia, child, where have you been? I do believe you weren’t here all night.”
“No, Papa, I was caught in the storm,” Octavia said, hurrying across the room, bending to kiss him. “Lord Rupert Warwick was so kind as to bring me home.” She gestured to her escort, who stepped forward and bowed.
“An honor, sir.”
Oliver Morgan’s eyes suddenly and disconcertingly sharpened. “And what have you to do with my daughter, sir? I’ve no time for courtiers.”
“No, a trivial breed
, I agree,” Rupert said with a disarming smile. “Your daughter found herself in some difficulties in the storm, and I charged myself with the duty to return her to you. She has come to no hurt.” His eyes flickered toward Octavia, standing still and silent beside her father.
“Lord Rupert was all kindness, sir,” she said quietly. “And as you see, I am returned safe and sound. I’ve redeemed your Plato and Tacitus.” She placed the books on the table.
“Ah,” her father said, instantly distracted from whatever paternal anxieties had momentarily pierced his absorption. “I have been at my wit’s end without Tacitus. There’s a reference I’ve been trying to chase up for this article….”
His voice faded to a murmur as he began to leaf through the volume. “I believe it’s in the sixth book…. Ah, yes, here we are…. Forgive me, sir … but this is most pressing. My publishers await this article most urgently. Octavia will dispense the hospitality of our poor quarters.” He gestured vaguely with a thin but elegant hand before picking up his quill from the inkstand.
Rupert accepted this dismissal and stepped back. He looked around the room again. The smell of boiling pudding wafted from below, and he saw the cracks in the wainscot, the broken leg of one of the two straight-backed chairs at the square table in the center of the room, the cushionless settle beside the fireplace, the cracked and grimy window-panes. And he realized that the warmth of the fire was superficial, doing little to combat the bone-deep chill in the cheerless room.
Octavia had no illusions about her present lodging and met his returning gaze with a challenging defiance. He’d insisted on coming up, but she’d tolerate no pity from him.
Rupert made no comment, however, and walked to the door. “I’ll bid you farewell, Miss Morgan. I have an engagement at noon.”
So simple, so casual, so final. But what else had she expected? What else had she wanted?
“I’ll accompany you to your carriage,” Octavia said formally.
“No, please, there’s no need,” he returned. “I can find my own way out.”
“I’m sure you can, sir. Nevertheless, I am not inclined to be deficient in the obligations of a hostess despite the meanness of my lodging.”
Rupert made no answer to this challenging statement, merely walked ahead of her down the narrow staircase, through the shop and out into the street.
“Farewell, sir.” Octavia curtsied and gave him her hand. “I should thank you, I imagine, but I’m at a loss to know what for, since you would have had no need to escort me home if you hadn’t carried me off to Putney in the first place.”
“I ask no thanks,” he said solemnly, raising her hand to his lips as he bowed. “On the contrary, I extend my own.” A raised eyebrow and a half smile left her in no doubt as to his meaning, but she wouldn’t respond in kind, merely stepping back out of the road, waiting like a patient and polite hostess for him to depart.
The phaeton bowled away down the narrow lane, and Octavia turned to go back indoors. Life had been dreary before; now its bleakness made her want to weep. For a few glorious hours she’d participated in a shared dream, but it was over now. She had the memories, but in her present misery she knew they would torment rather than soothe.
Chapter 5
The Earl of Wyndham advanced through the crowded antechamber at St. James’s Palace, pausing to greet acquaintances, bowing low to the influential, a word of greeting and compliment always ready to his lips as he drew closer to the salon where the king was holding his levee.
He approached the circle of intimates gathered around the king. The Prince of Wales was standing to one side, glowering and tapping one foot in obvious boredom. He loathed the court ceremonies that his father conducted with rigorous and punctilious order, and his expression brightened when he saw the earl.
“Ah, Philip, come to pay your respects, eh?” He offered his snuffbox. “Damnable waste of a morning this, don’t ye think?”
Philip Wyndham accepted a pinch from the royal snuffbox. “Thank you, sir.” He smiled at the corpulent young man whose face shone red beneath his elaborately powdered coiffure. “When Your Highness attains your majority, you will no doubt have your own establishment,” he said in soothing accents.
“Yes, and you may be damned sure that’ll see the end of my attendance at these damnable levees,” the prince declared morosely, raising his quizzing glass to examine the assembled company.
Accepting this withdrawal of attention as dismissal, the Earl of Wyndham bowed low, took his leave of the prince, and approached the circle around the king, hoping to catch His Majesty’s eye.
George was listening to the Duke of Gosford. The king’s head was courteously inclined to one side to catch the elderly duke’s wheezing tones. “Quite so, my dear sir,” the king murmured every now and again. “Quite so, Gosford.”
Philip drew closer until he was standing just behind his father-in-law. When the king raised his head, he would be bound to see him.
The duke’s discourse died in a fit of coughing. He buried his face in a handkerchief, and the king considerately looked away and caught the slate-gray eyes of the duke’s son-in-law. “Wyndham, beautiful morning, what … what?”
“Indeed, sir.” Philip bowed low. “We must be grateful yesterday’s blizzard was no worse.”
“Oh, the princesses are quite delighted with the snow,” the king said genially. “They’re all for skating on the lake … plaguing their mother for permission.” A fond parent, he chuckled indulgently. “And how’s Lady Wyndham, recovered I trust from her lying-in, what … what?”
“She’s waiting on the queen this morning, I believe, sir.” Philip bowed low again.
“And the child … thriving, I trust?”
“Yes, sir. You are too kind.”
The king smiled a dismissal and the earl stepped backward. He offered his father-in-law a brief bow and a curt good morning. The man warranted no further attention. He was an old dodderer and had served his purpose. Once the marriage with Gosford’s daughter was celebrated, the Earl of Wyndham was assured of a place in inner court circles and had no further use for the duke’s connections.
He melted into the throng, aware of the eyes, some speculative, some envious, that had watched his audience with the king, gauging its length and intimacy. It had been a very personal conversation, one that marked the Earl of Wyndham as one of the king’s favored courtiers.
Philip moved into a window embrasure and discreetly dabbed his forehead. It was hot in the room and his scalp itched beneath his wig. He adjusted the frills of his lace cravat and regarded the Prince of Wales still holding his place across the room. It was no secret that the prince caused his parents endless heartache with his intransigence and debauchery, but at least the king had a male heir. Unsatisfactory in his character, perhaps, but a strong male heir nevertheless. An unsatisfactory male heir was better than some mewling female brat.
An unconscious frown drew his thin eyebrows together, and one hand moved involuntarily to the small pocket in his waistcoat. His fingers brushed the silk pouch, feeling the shape of the tiny ring it contained. One of the three Wyndham rings. It had been slipped on his finger at birth—his to keep in trust for his own son.
Letitia would have to do better next time … if he could bring himself to cover her pallid, doughy body again. The woman revolted him. And even more so since the birth. She whimpered and sniveled whenever he came near her. He knew from the doctors that she hadn’t healed properly from the birth and was plagued with intermittent bleeding, but of course she was far too nice in her sensibilities to mention such a thing to her husband, who was presumably expected to divine from the air whether she was in a fit state to receive his advances.
He took snuff and debated whom he should approach next. The Duke of Merriweather would probably warrant cultivation. He had the king’s ear when it came to patronage.
As he moved away from the window, his eye caught that of a tall, elegant man in a turquoise velvet suit, standing in the doorway
to the salon.
There was something about the man that raised Philip’s hackles. Something about the way he stood so negligently surveying the room as if no one in it could have the power to engage his interest. Philip had seen Lord Rupert Warwick around in the last few months, an ever-present face but one who strangely never attempted to attract the attention of the king. He had his own friends among the most reckless and extravagant sets and was known to drink deep and play high at the gambling tables and to have an eye for the ladies that was generally reciprocated. But he was something of an enigma. It was generally held that he’d lived on the Continent until his arrival in London some months ago, but no one seemed to know much else about him. But he was personable, well-bred, and apparently wealthy enough to live as high as he pleased, and that was all that counted.
Lord Rupert continued to hold his eye, and Philip inclined his head in a small bow of acknowledgment that was immediately returned with a flickering smile. Philip turned away, frowning. There was a quality to that smile that disturbed him. It had a complicity to it, as if the man held some secret that he believed Philip shared. Which was patently absurd, since, apart from a brief introduction, he didn’t know the man from Adam.
Suddenly wearied of his attendance in the hot salon, the Earl of Wyndham made his way to the double doors leading into the antechamber. To his annoyance he found Lord Rupert Warwick ahead of him, standing in the doorway almost barring his exit.
“I give you good day, Lord Wyndham.”
“And I you, Warwick.” Impatiently, Philip moved to step around his accoster, but somehow Lord Rupert seemed still to be in his way.
“I trust Lady Wyndham is in good health,” Lord Rupert inquired, taking a delicate pinch of snuff. “And your daughter, of course.”
That smile flickered again over the well-shaped mouth, but the slate-gray eyes remained impassive, resting on the earl’s countenance. “Even daughters ensure the continuation of one’s line … and it’s to be assumed that where daughters lead, sons will follow.”
