“All right,” Nellie grumbled, but Alathea could see from her lethargic movements that she was seriously under the weather.
“I’ll tell Figgs to make you some of her broth.” Alathea watched Nellie open the door. “Oh—and don’t bother to send up the tweeny. I’ll ring for her when I’m ready.”
With barely a nod, Nellie shuffled out.
The instant the door closed, Alathea dropped back on her pillows, closed her eyes, and groaned. Feelingly.
Her thighs would never be the same again.
“Allie?”
Blinking, Alathea refocused. Concern in her eyes, Alice peered at her across the breakfast table.
“Are you coming out into the garden with us?” Mary, beside Alice, looked equally worried.
Alathea summoned a quick smile. “Just wool-gathering. I’ll get my hat—you go on ahead.”
She rose with them and parted from them in the hall to go up to her room to fetch her gardening hat. Nevertheless, it was half an hour later before she reached the garden.
Mary and Alice hadn’t waited for her but had started weeding the long border. Although they looked up when she neared and smiled welcomingly, it was plain they’d been exchanging confidences, whispered comments on their hopes, their dreams. Returning their smiles, Alathea surveyed their endeavors, then looked around. “I’ll start on the central bed.”
Leaving them to their dreams, she went off to contend with hers.
The central bed circled a small fountain, a water sprite caught in the act of springing free showering droplets back into a wide bowl. Spreading her raffia mat by the bed, presently filled with pansies, Alathea knelt, tugged on her cotton gloves, and set to.
About her, her family went happily about their morning routines. Jeremy and Charlie appeared from around the house, dragging dead limbs cut from overgrown bushes. In half an hour, Jeremy’s tutor would arrive, and Charlie would change into his town rig and go out to spend the day with his Eton chums. Miss Helm and Augusta, clutching the ever-present Rose, came out and sat on a wrought iron seat; from what Alathea could hear, they were engaged in a simple botany lesson. After an hour or so, she, Mary, and Alice would retire to wash, change, and prepare for their morning’s excursion—whatever Serena had organized. Inside, Serena would be sifting through the invitations, sending notes, plotting their best course through the shoals of the Season. Alathea was content to leave the strategies to her; it was bad enough that she had to weed.
The fiction they’d concocted to hide the fact that they could not afford a second gardener, one to take care of the beds and borders at the Park and the garden of the London house, was that Alathea enjoyed planting and weeding and Serena felt it right that her daughters, too, became knowledgeable in the art of creating a stunning border. And, of course, all gentlemen should have some understanding of landscaping. Luckily, landscaping, borders, and beds were all the rage, although ladies and gentlemen generally only oversaw such projects, a fine distinction the earl, Serena, and Alathea had omitted to mention.
As she reached for a blade of grass cheekily poking up between clumps of pansies, Alathea inwardly sighed. She would much rather never see a weed again, but . . . With a yank, she uprooted the interloper and dropped it on the grass beside her. Parting the pansy leaves, she searched for more.
Of course, as soon as her hands were mindlessly busy, her thoughts drifted . . .
She could never meet with him privately again. Not ever. The countess was going to have to retreat; she couldn’t yet disappear. Despite the fact she’d enjoyed last night hugely, she couldn’t possibly risk such a meeting again.
In a carriage. She still couldn’t quite believe it. If she hadn’t been there . . . Was there anywhere he couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . .
Minutes later, she shook her head. Struggling to hide a smile, she looked down.
Thankfully, no one knew. She’d gathered enough strength to instruct Jacobs to drive around Grosvenor Square while she’d scrambled into her chemise, stockings, shoes, and gown. Her hair she’d had to leave down. Goodness knows what Jacobs had made of the pins he would by now have discovered on the carriage floor. Concealed beneath her veil and cloak, she’d been safe from Crisp’s eyes. Other than Jacobs, who’d been busy with his team, only Crisp had been awake when she’d returned. She’d given strict instructions that not even Nellie was to wait up for her on pain of her considerable displeasure. She’d done the same the night she’d gone to the Burlington; she could only thank her stars she had.
So no one knew of her fall from grace. Her lips kicked upward. It had, to her, felt more like an elevation. A revelation certainly, an induction into a realm of earthly bliss. She was not of a mind to wallow in senseless regrets—she’d lived, all but died, and exulted last night, and for that she could only be glad.
Even now, she wasn’t free of the lingering spell. She hadn’t imagined that the activities theoretically restricted to the marriage bed could result in such an interaction—a voyage into another dimension of feeling where the world fell away and emotion reigned. She’d had her first inkling of that joyous state during their night at the Burlington. Last night, they’d journeyed much further, through landscapes of unutterable delight.
And it had been they, not just she. He’d been there, with her—had it been her inexperience, or had he been as stunned by the glory as she? Whatever, they’d shared it all—the journey, the discovery, the overwhelming satiation, followed by their plunge into that well of deep peace.
It had been the most glorious night of her life.
Her lips quirked. She had to wonder what he’d thought he’d been about, holding her naked on his knees. She assumed it had been part of some plan—he was always planning. She strongly suspected he’d intended her to feel in his power. She had to smile. He couldn’t know that she’d sat there, naked before him, and gloried in the power she’d wielded over him.
For power there’d been—those dark, illicit moments had been charged with it—but for every tithe of power he’d held over her, she’d held the same measure over him.
She’d startled him with her statement that she wanted him. Other ladies would not have been so bold. But he hadn’t been at all reluctant—oh, no. If she hadn’t taken him, he’d have taken her.
Warm memories washed over her, through her—kneeling in the sunlight, she drifted away.
A conspiratorial giggle from Alice drew her back; she blinked—and saw the pansy plant she was holding, roots dangling, in one hand.
With a muttered curse, Alathea plunged it back into the hole from which she’d pulled it and quickly tamped it down. Then she checked her pile of “weeds.” Two more pansies were rapidly returned to the soil. She could only hope that if they died, they wouldn’t leave a hole in her border.
Inwardly sighing, she sat back on her heels, ignoring the twinges in her thighs. She had to stop thinking of last night. She had to determine how on earth she was going to proceed after last night. It seemed she would be safe only on a crowded street in broad daylight, and she’d have to wear a mask under her veil as well.
It would be easy for her to communicate with him by letter, but she couldn’t see any way he could reply. And she knew him too well to beard the tiger; if she cut off all contact entirely, he’d come after her. Not trying to discover her identity, but trying to discover her. He’d be very intent, very focused; in such a state, he’d be unstoppable.
And where would that leave her?
She didn’t like to think.
No. Folwell would keep her informed of Gabriel’s movements. She would send him notes if necessary until they discovered something more, then she’d meet him in Grosvenor Square.
That brought her to the question of what more she could do to further their investigations. A vague recollection of Lady Hester Stanhope’s diaries had her turning to scan the long border.
Rising, she dusted her gloves, then stripped them from her hands. Strolling to the long border, she made a show of evaluatin
g the progress made, then nodded. “We’ve done enough for today.” She met Mary’s and Alice’s bright eyes. “I want to visit Hookhams again. Would you like to come?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Now?”
Alathea turned to the house. “Just a quick visit—I’m sure your mama won’t mind.”
She found what she was after in the biography of an explorer—a bona fide map of Central East Africa showing more than the major towns. The map told her Fangak, Lodwar and Kingi—Kafia Kingi, to be precise—were indeed towns, albeit small ones.
Leaning back in the chair behind the desk in her office, Alathea pondered her discovery. Was it good? Or discouraging?
About her, the house was peaceful and still. The lamp on her desk shed light onto the open book. In the grate, embers gleamed, warming the night. She’d stolen every moment she could throughout the day to wade through the stack of biographies and diaries she’d borrowed from Hookhams. At last, she’d uncovered something—something real.
The information was good, she decided—at least it gave them something to check. Surely they’d be able to find someone other than the mysterious captain who knew the area, now she knew where the area was.
On the stairs, the long-case clock chimed the hour. Three o’clock, the beginning of a new day. Stifling a yawn, Alathea closed the book and rose. It was definitely time for bed.
The next day, she spent the afternoon within the hallowed halls of the Royal Society.
“Unfortunately,” the secretary informed her, peering at her through a thick pair of pince-nez, “there are no lectures presently scheduled on Central East Africa.”
“Oh. Can the society recommend any expert on the area with whom I could consult?”
The man pursed his lips, stared at her, then nodded. “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll check the records.”
Retreating to a wooden bench along the wall, Alathea waited for fifteen minutes, only to have the man return, shaking his head and looking rather peeved.
“We do not,” he informed her, “have any expert on East Africa listed. Three who could speak with authority on West Africa, but not the East.”
Alathea thanked him and left. Pausing on the steps, she considered, then headed for her carriage. “Where can we find the city’s map makers, Jacobs?”
Along the Strand, was the answer. She inquired at three separate establishments, and got the same answer at all three. For their maps on Central East Africa, they relied on explorers’ notes. Yes, their present maps of the area were extremely short on detail, but they were awaiting confirmation.
“It wouldn’t do, miss,” one rigidly correct gentleman lectured her, “for us to publish a map on which we showed towns we weren’t absolutely positive were there.”
“Yes, I see.” Alathea turned to leave, then turned back. “The explorers whose notes you’re waiting to confirm—are they in London?”
“Regretfully no, miss. They are all, at present, in Africa. Exploring.”
There was nothing to be done but smile, and leave. Defeated.
Alathea returned to Mount Street feeling unaccustomedly weary.
“Thank you, Crisp.” She handed the butler her bonnet. “I think I’ll just sit in the library for a while.”
“Indeed, miss. Do you wish for tea?”
“Please.”
The tea arrived but did little to alleviate the feeling of helplessness that dragged at her. Every time she thought she was on the brink of substantiating some solid fact, the proof evaporated. Her hopes would soar, only to be dashed. Meanwhile, the days were passing. The day Crowley would call in his promissory notes was inexorably approaching.
Doom leered at her through Crowley’s eyes.
Alathea sighed. Setting aside her empty cup, she flopped back in the armchair and closed her eyes. Perhaps, if she rested just for a few minutes . . .
“Are you asleep?”
Realizing she had been, Alathea blinked her eyes wide, then smiled—a spontaneous smile of real joy—at Augusta’s little face. “Hello, sweetling. Where have you been today?”
Taking the question for the invitation it was, Augusta climbed into Alathea’s lap and settled herself so she could see Alathea’s face. Wedging Rose between them, she proceeded to distract Alathea with a detailed account of her day. Alathea listened, putting a question here and there, making understanding or sympathetic comments as required.
“So, you see,” Augusta concluded, hugging Rose to her chest and snuggling closer, pressing her head to Alathea’s breast, “it’s been a frightfully busy day.”
Alathea chuckled; raising a hand, she smoothed Augusta’s hair. Small arms, small body tucked close to her side, she felt a warm, emotional tug; Augusta was the daughter she wished she could have had. She banished the thought immediately; she was obviously overtired. Too much investigating.
Too many meetings.
Then Augusta wriggled and sat up. “Hmm-mmm.” She sniffed at Alathea’s throat. “You smell extra nice today.”
Alathea’s answering smile froze on her face as she realized the significance of Augusta’s remark.
She was wearing the countess’s scent.
Good God! She closed her eyes. What would have happened if she’d run into Gabriel? She’d been in the city and, earlier, not far from St. James, his habitual haunts.
Drawing in a breath, she opened her eyes. “Come along, poppet. I need to go upstairs and wash before dinner.” Before anyone else noticed she was not quite the same woman she had been.
* * *
Two evenings later, Alathea was sitting with Jeremy in the schoolroom, Augusta in her lap, a detailed atlas from Hook-hams open on the table, when the little tweeny appeared, breathless, at the door.
“If you please, Lady Alathea,” she piped, “but it’s time for you to get dressed, m’lady.”
Noting the way the little maid was wringing her hands and at a loss to account for it, Alathea looked at the mantel clock.
Then she understood the agitation.
“Indeed.” Lifting Augusta and settling her on the seat with a fond kiss, Alathea met Jeremy’s eyes. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”
Only too glad to escape the shackles of African geography, Jeremy grinned and turned to Augusta. “Come on, Gussie. We can play catch before dinner.”
“I’m not Gussie.” The tone of Augusta’s objection boded ill for the peace of the evening.
“Jeremy . . .” From the door, Alathea fixed him with a matriarchal eye.
“Oh, very well. Augusta then. Anyway, do you want to play or not?”
Leaving them in reasonable harmony, Alathea hurried to her room. By the time she reached it, she was even more agitated than the tweeny. They were to dine with the Arbuthnots, then attend the ball their old friends were giving to formally introduce their granddaughter to the ton. It was a major function; all the senior hostesses would be there. Being late for such a dinner without some cataclysmic excuse would sink one beyond reproach.
But the tweeny, who had thus far only helped her get ready for balls without dinners preceeding them, had not realized the earlier hour involved. Not until she’d noticed Serena, Mary, and Alice were all busy dressing.
Oh, God! Alathea stilled the panic that gripped her as her gaze swept her room and found no evidence of any chemise or stockings, let alone her gown, gloves, reticule . . . Nellie always had everything ready, but with the tweeny she had to specify every item.
For one instant, Alathea considered developing a horrendous headache, but that would leave old Lady Arbuthnot with an odd number about her table. Stifling a sigh, she waved the maid forward. “Quickly. Help me with these laces.” At least her hot water was ready and waiting.
As she stripped off her gown and quickly washed, she issued a steady stream of orders for all the items she required to appear presentable. From the corner of her eye, she kept watch on the little maid, making sure each item was correct before asking for the next.
Getting dressed in a
scramble was one of her worst nightmares—she hated being rushed, especially for such a major event where she could count on her appearance being scrutinzed by the sharpest eyes in the ton.
Blotting her face with the towel, Alathea shook her head. “No—not those. My dance slippers. The ones with no heel.”
Hurrying to the bed, she stripped off her linen chemise, then slipped into the welcoming coolness of silk. At least with the present fashions, she didn’t have to bother with petticoats. Throwing her gown of amber silk crepe over her head, she tugged it down, settled it, then whirled and let the tweeny tie the laces. The instant the last was secured, she rushed to her dressing table, plunked herself on the stool, and plunged her hands into her hair.
Pins flew. “Quickly—we’ll have to braid it.” There was no time for a more sophisticated style.
It was only as the maid reached the end of the long braid that Alathea realized she needed two plaits to make a coronet. “Oh.” For one moment, she simply stared, then she waved the tweeny aside and grabbed the braid. “Here—if we do it like this, it should pass muster.”
Under-rolling half the thick braid, she bunched it at her nape, then used the long end to circle and bind it. Pushing pins in right and left, up and down, she frantically secured what would pass for a braided chignon.
“There!” Moving her head, she confirmed the mass was anchored, then quickly eased the strands pulled back from her face so they formed a softer frame. One more quick check, then she nodded. “Now . . .”
Opening a drawer in the table, she rummaged through her caps. Freeing a fine net heavily encrusted with gold beads, she grimaced. “This will have to do.” Setting it over her hair so the lower edge curved about the braided bun, she pinned it in place.
Beyond her door, Mary’s and Alice’s voices rang, then their quick footsteps hurried for the stairs. Alathea quelled an impulse to look at the clock—she didn’t have time. “Jewelry.” Flinging open her jewelry box, she blinked. “Oh.” Her hand hovered over the contents, all neatly arranged.
A Secret Love Page 20
