by Mary Brendan
Agitated, she pushed jerkily upright, causing the towel turbanning her newly washed hair to unwrap and flop into the tub. Tutting impatience, she wrung it out, then dropped it onto the mat while her loose topknot of damp platinum hair uncoiled. Her creamy, narrow back and firm rose-tipped breasts were soon screened by sleek pale tresses falling to float on soapy water.
A decade ago, during a summer that had seemed unremittingly hot and humid from the months of May to September, she, her beloved papa and her grandmother Rowe had moved to London. Her maternal grandmother and paternal grandmother detested each other in equal part, so Edwina Sampson had immediately removed herself from the City to avoid breathing the same air as the Dowager Marchioness, and spent the summer in Harrogate with her sister.
On her eighteenth birthday, in May of that year, Elizabeth was presented at court and thus began the most memorable, the most thrilling, the most devastating period of her young life. But in May, when all was heady excitement, and all she and her dear papa rued was that her mother hadn’t survived to see her looking so blissful and beautiful, it seemed that nothing could mar the utopia. She was blessed with everything any young lady could want: beauty, vivacity and an indulgent and doting parent.
A popular debutante, the daughter of a Marquess, a descendant of one of the noblest, if no longer the wealthiest dynasties in the land, gentlemen had vied for her favours, sighing that her silky silver hair and violet eyes were incomparable. She was that season’s rage. Constantly besieged by gay, modish acquaintances gathering at her father’s Mayfair townhouse, constantly plied with invitations to the most lavish balls, the smartest soirées, she had attracted the attention of many eligible partners: one duke, two earls and three baronets. In all, nine and a half offers of marriage were forthcoming in one month. The half, her sweet papa had gently joked, was from one blushing young admirer who, having stuttered and suffered through an earnest speech praising Elizabeth’s loveliness, had then stumbled away, too embarrassed to deliver his proposal.
With youthful vanity and an arrogance borne of her spoiled and privileged upbringing, Lady Elizabeth Rowe had flirted a little with each devoted beau, broken at least a half-dozen hearts and deemed it all so trivial and amusing, for secretly she had made her choice within a month of arriving in London. Despite the Dowager Marchioness’s eagle-eyed vigilance and chaperonage, Elizabeth had fallen madly in love. With all the naïve idealism of youth, she was adamant trusting to her heart must be the only right way.
The man she’d loved had not been a catch. He had impressed upon her that her relatives would tell her so, and that, ergo, they must proceed stealthily. Blinded by infatuation, buoyed by the self-assurance of her youth and inexperience, she’d entered into the spirit of the romantic adventure, oblivious to the havoc her behaviour might wreak. She chose badly, acted rashly, tasted a little of her own medicine. But what really hurt was that in the doing of it she’d shattered and shamed her papa, besmirched his illustrious name and broken his heart. That she had degraded herself beyond redemption, too, seemed of less consequence in the face of her beloved father’s despair.
She tossed her head aside, clamping shut her eyes, not wanting the sorrow to knife her insides. She forced her concentration to another man instead. A tall gentleman with hard, dark features who had never figured amongst her languishing suitors, but he did figure in her memories. They had never spoken but she had espied him during that sultry summer.
Roistering on the fringes of the ton were young rakehells: Corinthians who mostly shunned conventional socialising in favour of their own riotous assemblies. They rarely bothered entering Almack’s stately portals where a marriage mart took place under the guise of fusty regimented assemblies. Neither were they lured by lavish balls arranged by fond mamas with nubile daughters and an ulterior motive in mind. If they did deign to show at such insipid venues, within an hour or so of arriving, they were gone in search of more bacchanalian entertainment. Arrogant and affluent, their spendthrift ways were legendary. Gambling large amounts of money on a whim was rife. Bets of hundreds of pounds might be made on the most ridiculous eventualities: whether a drunk would fall before he reached the end of the street. If he did, whether he would topple forward or backward. Whether an acquaintance with pockets to let would pawn his silver ice pails, or sell on his Spanish mistress. Those were just a few of the outrageous wagers that she could recall.
Apart from the customary sporting activities of fencing and boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s, more hazardous pursuits drew them: racing high-flyer phaetons had resulted in the death or maiming of more than a few daring young bucks. Duelling over the favours of immoral women—whom genteel young debutantes such as she would never have acknowledged existed—had taken several others…either to the grave or to a sojourn abroad until the scandal died away.
An especial amusement of younger sons with no stately pile or peerage to polish was the sorrowful sight of impecunious heirs found planted amongst the pillars in Almack’s, loitering to barter a title for a fortune and perhaps buy back freedom and licentiousness with a dowered bride. Elizabeth recalled thinking that marriage to such a selfish debauchée must be hell. And when her thoughts ran that way, the enigmatic man with a rugged, gypsy visage and long chestnut hair had dominated her mind. Languour hooded his hazel eyes, yet his muscular physique was testament to a regime of regular, punishing exercise.
Indolent amusement had hovered on his hard, handsome features when he glanced at her and her friends. But then he did so rarely, for he was in demand elsewhere. On the few occasions fate had manoeuvred them close, he had seemed insolently unmoved by her blonde beauty and petite sensual figure hemmed by a throng of fawning admirers.
Once or twice as she’d sneaked a fascinated peek through seething humanity at that group of distinguished men and their exuberant female companions, her amethyst eyes had tangled with his. Captured, held fast, she recalled how his golden-glinting mockery had burned. Flustered, she would eventually drag her eyes away, feverishly indignant that he dared laugh at her. Yet, piqued, too, that he didn’t notice her more often.
Since she had turned fifteen and her chubby body began dipping and curving in exactly the right places, she had come to realise that men liked to look at her. In her naïeveté, she had revelled in the power her femininity bestowed. At eighteen, her face shed its youthful plumpness, and wide-honed cheekbones sculpted her countenance to a symmetrical, classical loveliness. Her blue eyes deepened to violet, her lashes and eyebrows darkened, while her hair retained its light pearly sheen. It was as though time and nature had conspired to perfect her looks in readiness for her first outing in society.
Even strangers told her she was beautiful. She already knew it…and used it. She’d enjoyed knowing that male eyes followed her when she left a room, then observed her return. She’d been amused by the compliments, by the gifts, by the constant attention, and had fostered it. But it wasn’t until it was too late that she had understood that male interest could be dangerous as well as gratifying, and her gentle birth and innocence was no guarantee of kindness or respect. Now when men sidled looks at her, her chin might tilt, but it was in undefeated pride, not vanity. Once she might coquettishly have sought eye contact with an admirer—now she studiously avoided it. What had unsettled her so this evening was the momentary glint of interest that had whipped Ross Trelawney’s eyes back to hers as their carriages passed. Yet, if truthful, she couldn’t deny she’d hoped to catch his eye…
Elizabeth sank lower in her bath, drank in the soothing scent of the lavender-scented water as she dwelt on the memory of a less-menacing man: Guy Markham had kept company with that wild set. His father, Sir Clive, had been her papa’s friend. The baronet would often grumble to the Marquess that he feared his heir would turn out bad because of the company he kept. She wondered what Guy Markham might be doing now. She had quite liked him. On the few occasions she had met him through their fathers’ friendship, he had seemed civil and amiable. Now that she was out of cir
culation she had no idea, nor did she care, what occurred in the beau monde. She imagined Guy to be much as he ever was, for she knew from her grandmother’s casual chatter as to what went on that Sir Clive was still enjoying robust health and seemed unlikely to relinquish his baronetcy yet awhile.
Her thoughts veered, unbidden, back to Viscount Stratton. Never once had she made the association between him and the scandalous rogue, Ross Trelawney, whom the gossiping matrons used to whisper about. Perhaps if her come-out had not been curtailed, fate might eventually have remedied that…
‘You should allow me to do that for you, my lord.’
Ross half-smiled. ‘If there’s one person I would allow to hold a blade to my throat, it would be you, Henderson,’ he told his valet as, slowly, he drew a razor carefully up the column of tanned neck to his square, shady jaw. He dipped the soap-edged steel into warm water, then angled his head and proceeded to shave the other side, his eyes on the mirror. At a gruff laugh, Ross’s eyes strayed to another man’s reflection.
Guy Markham was standing by the window of the dressing room, shaking his head in amused disbelief as he observed an entertaining spectacle in the street below. Moments ago a pickpocket had caused havoc by fleeing straight across the path of an elderly gentleman. Having overset that man, who in turn accidentally brought a matron to her knees, the lad, now sure he was free and clear, had turned and was making an exceedingly lewd and triumphant gesture. Having given chase for two yards and decided the sport too arduous, the fallen woman’s companion instead began shaking his cane at the taunting, dirty-faced urchin. The gentleman on the floor was rolling about clutching a leg, the tumbled matron was trying to preserve her modesty by rearranging her skirts, and the lady who had been robbed of her reticule, but managed to keep to her feet, was prancing on the spot and squealing, red-faced, for assistance from any who would listen. And it did seem that the majority of Grosvenor Square’s residents were a captive audience: people were either craning from windows or emerging onto elegant front steps to investigate the hullabaloo.
Ross glanced at his friend’s profile as Guy’s head tipped back and he guffawed at the ceiling. ‘Did he get clean away?’
Guy grimaced disappointment through his smile. ‘I’m afraid so…’
Ross continued shaving with one hand, his other extended meaningfully.
Guy stepped away from the window and, having foraged in a pocket, dropped a note into his comrade’s damp palm.
The bank note was deposited on the dressing table and Ross’s attention returned to his toilet. ‘I think I’ll take a place in Cheapside,’ he mentioned drily, swirling the razor in water again. ‘I’ve paid a premium for a salubrious address and genteel neighbours and what do I get? Daylight robbery. Dockside manners.’
Guy returned to the window to watch the injured parties hobbling away, no doubt in search of a Bow Street runner. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge of daylight robbery and dockside manners, Stratton,’ Guy chuckled.
Henderson was still hovering behind his master, dipping this way and that in time with the blade’s movement as he judged Ross’s dexterity with the razor.
‘A close shave is much appreciated by the fair sex,’ Guy informed the limber valet with a suggestive wink and a nod at his friend. Henderson responded to this piece of information with a sniff and an extremely old-fashioned look. He straightened his back and shoulders, stalked to the four-poster bed and busied himself with extricating discarded shirts and breeches from amongst the blankets.
Guy took out his pocket watch. ‘Well, it’s after noon. Speaking of the fair sex: I imagine the delectable Miss Booth might be even now loitering outside. You’ve been out of her clutches some twelve hours,’ he warned Ross of his young mistress’s increasingly determined pursuit.
Ross examined his lean features in the mirror. His angular, clefted chin rested in the fork of a hand as long fingers and a stroking thumb tested the smoothness of his skin. He raised his eyes to his friend’s laughing expression. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered, as he pushed himself to his feet and dried his face with a towel. ‘Maybe it’s time I gave you an equally close shave. It might help you do better than last night’s lanky strumpet.’
Guy put out two defensive hands. ‘No, thanks; I’ll stick with last night’s strumpet, and stubble.’ A hand wiped across his bristly jaw as he moaned, ‘God, I’m ravenous. My belly’s complaining my throat’s been cut and I’ve been nowhere near a razor.’
‘Toast…crumpets…tea?’ Henderson offered over a starchy black shoulder.
‘Yes, thank you, Henderson,’ Guy Markham enthused, rubbing his hands together and smiling as his stomach loudly endorsed its ability to do justice to the breakfast selection.
With his long, dark fingers busy at his neck folding a sepia silk cravat, Ross strolled to the window and looked out over Grosvenor Square’s resumed gentility. Smart vehicles thronged the street, people strolled and a few liveried servants could be seen weaving busily between the gentry. To a newcomer, the fracas a moment ago would seem unimaginable.
Ross inwardly sorted through his business affairs. There were several matters to finalise before he journeyed later to Kent; several messages to relay: Luke and Rebecca were bringing his mother to London to visit and wanted confirmation from him that it was convenient to arrive this week. A few good friends were also soon due in London, keen to personally congratulate him on his elevation to the peerage. It was incumbent on him to throw some sort of celebratory party for them all, he supposed. His younger sister Katherine had written to say she wouldn’t be travelling to London because she was still confined after the birth of her son. But he was to be godfather. Yet possibly what occupied him most was that a fortnight had passed and no repayment had been forthcoming from Edwina Sampson.
Before he left for Stratton Hall it would be prudent to pay her a visit and remind her of her contractual obligations regarding his loan. Not that he wanted to harrass her; but commencing restoration of his very own stately pile was a pressing concern. Besides, he smiled inwardly, he was still intrigued to know the identity of the blonde who had been peeking at him as she passed in that rickety gig. He’d caught a brief glimpse of the man beside her: he’d looked like clergy. It would be his luck to lust after a vicar’s wife…or daughter. He hadn’t seen enough of the man to guess his age. Perhaps they were neighbours of Edwina’s. It might be interesting finding out, especially as something in her shy stare had seemed to stir memories…
‘White’s or Watier’s?’ he asked Guy while shrugging into the tan tailcoat his valet had laid out. He was adjusting spotless cambric cuffs just as Henderson reappeared with a silver salver rather than the breakfast tray he had been expecting.
‘Watier’s…the food’s better,’ Guy decided, having given the matter a moment’s thought.
‘Are you attending Maria’s rout later? She’s promised the comely Clarke sisters are to be there. I imagine the King’s favourite contraband-catcher might do rather well with one or t’other…or both. If you can escape Cecily’s eagle eye, you’re guaranteed a pleasurable evening. You could travel to Kent in the morning.’
Ross shook his head. ‘No, I want to reach Stratton Hall this afternoon. There’s an architect I’ve to see…’ he muttered in explanation, taking the letter Henderson was proffering on the salver.
Guy frowned at him. ‘You’re becoming a building bore, Ross. You sound like my father. Renovate this wing…pave that terrace…sweep those chimneys… You’ll be holding forth on cooking ranges or roof pitches next.’
‘Well, when it’s all yours, you’ll know why,’ Ross said with a grin.
As Ross turned his attention to the missive and broke the seal, his valet cocked his head as though he would read it too. Green-flecked hazel eyes levelled at the servant. ‘Thank you, Henderson,’ Ross said, mildly amused at the man’s inquisitiveness. ‘You may organise breakfast. A pot of coffee, too, if you please.’
Henderson pulled a supercilious long face on turning for th
e door.
Guy settled himself before the dressing mirror and, unwinding his canary-yellow cravat, picked up the razor.
Ross strolled back to the window to read his letter. Seeing the elegantly scripted address at the top of the parchment, he smiled. Trust Edwina to come good before he needed to chivvy her about the loan. She’d been a good friend and a good business partner on occasion. He had owed the old harridan a favour or two and had felt obliged to help her out. But he knew she could be trusted…
It was some moments later that the silence made Guy stop shaving and look curiously at his friend. Ross was staring at the letter, his face an inscrutable, granite mask. Slowly, he crushed the paper in a powerful hand. His lips strained back against his teeth, then formed an inaudible blasphemy.
‘Bad news?’ Guy asked quietly, the razor poised over lathered skin.
‘Bad move…’ Ross said softly with a smile that chilled his friend. ‘Very bad move, Edwina,’ Ross expanded on a humourless laugh and, leaving Guy staring after him, quit the room.
Chapter Four
‘Calm yourself, Mrs Sampson…there is no need for panic.’
‘Calm myself! No need for panic!’ Edwina parroted in a hiss. ‘M’granddaughter shouted at me not two hours since that she never again wants to see me…doesn’t give a fig if I end in the Fleet catching rats for m’dinner! Loathed by m’own flesh and blood and after I’ve taken her in and boarded her these past few years when that sour-faced bitch turned her out. And now Trelawney is come and you say he has a face like thunder! It is all gone awry! How can I be calm?’
‘You must expect Lady Elizabeth to be overset at first, she is…independent…strong-willed. Such news would naturally come as a shock. And I described the Viscount as thunderous, not thunder-faced; there is a subtle difference. Outwardly he appears unperturbed, but inwardly…ah…inwardly he is turbulent,’ Harry opined with a nod, his customary reserve lost to admiration. ‘I must say he conceals his anger exceedingly well. There was some coolness in his request to know how I do today.’
