by Allison Lane
Not that she could use them immediately. They were young, half trained, and spirited. Her driving skills were still in their infancy. Both she and the horses would require several months of daily training before they were ready for each other.
“Mannering!” exclaimed a blond-haired captain. “I haven’t seen you in an age.”
“Hello, Hanson.” Thomas smiled. “When did you get back? I thought you were on the Peninsula.”
Captain Hanson shuddered. “True. And will be again in another month or so. I truly think we have Boney on the run at last.”
“Are you acting courier these days?”
“No, just recovering from a scratch I picked up a couple of months back. Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. Your wife is a lovely lady.”
“Thank you. But where have you been that I haven’t seen you?”
“Out by Newmarket at that mill. Wonderful bout. You should have seen it.”
Thomas ruefully shook his head, for he really would have liked to attend. “The price of settling down. I was already late getting to town because of estate problems.”
“Your sister has turned into quite a charmer,” observed the captain obliquely.
“Are you developing an interest in that quarter?” asked Thomas in surprise.
“Possibly, though your mother seems not to approve.”
“Mother disapproves of everything and everyone. I wouldn’t let it worry you.” Though he could see why she might try to discourage Hanson. Military life was harsh at best, yet the captain was not a career soldier. With an estate of his own and a comfortable fortune, he would make an unexceptionable husband for Eleanor, and with similar natures that craved action and excitement, they were probably well-suited. “So tell me about the mill,” he urged, turning the subject. “Was McKay as formidable as reported?”
“More so.” Hanson embarked on a blow-by-blow description that lasted well into the day’s auction. Thomas’s tacit approval went a long way toward settling his feelings about Lady Eleanor.
Thomas thoroughly enjoyed their talk, which soon ranged over additional topics, including a realistic assessment of the never-ending war with Napoleon. He kept one eye on the auction ring, buying a promising colt and two well-conformed broodmares, then remained silent as several riding hacks changed hands. He had still not found a horse for Caroline, but none in today’s offering would do.
At last the bidding began for the pair he wanted. They were clearly the best horses up for sale and interest was widespread. The price rapidly approached his limit.
“Four hundred,” he offered, hoping it would suffice. All had dropped out at three except Delaney’s heir, young Lawrence. Barely eighteen, the lad had descended on London the week before, and was already eagerly sowing wild oats. Thomas smiled at memories of himself at that age. How simple life had been.
“I wonder if the cub has any sense at all,” he murmured to Hanson as the boy paused to consider what to do next.
“Eight hundred,” Delaney announced to a collective gasp from the crowd.
“Obviously not,” replied Hanson in sympathy.
Thomas shook his head. “At least he is well to grass.” What would Lord Delaney say when he learned his son had paid double their value for a pair of half-trained horses? He signaled that he was done bidding. Perhaps he would have better luck next week.
* * * *
That night everyone from Marchgate House attended a musical evening across the square at Lord Pressington’s modest town house. Both London’s newest singer and a well-regarded harpist would perform. As was customary, several young ladies would also demonstrate their skills, but such potential penance could not dampen Caroline’s spirits.
Not until they arrived did she learn that the Pressingtons were Alicia’s parents. As they approached along the receiving line, Lady Darnley began a sotto voce conversation with her mother, all the while staring daggers at Caroline. She began to feel uncomfortable. Nor did the smug smile that concluded their chat relieve her trepidation. But she soon relaxed. The vocalist was magnificent and the incident rapidly faded from memory.
“Thuch power and grace,” commented Robert, accompanying her to the refreshment room during the interval. “And Mozart is so intense.”
Caroline nodded. “I saw her last week in Don Giovanni, but I believe I enjoyed tonight more. I could hear.” Her eyes twinkled wickedly as Robert broke into helpless giggles.
“You are certainly in looks tonight, Caroline,” said Drew as he joined them. His eyes appreciatively scanned her figure. “But what have you done to send poor Hartford into a spasm?”
“Nothing, Drew. You look rather nice yourself. Have you broken many hearts lately?”
“Alas, no. I must be losing my touch.”
“Any number of mothers would doubtless welcome such a disaster,” she teased. “But do either of you know to whom we will be subjected in the next segment?”
Drew laughed, but shook his head.
“No more than three or four, I expect,” offered Robert in consolation, his lisp less obvious this night. “There is still the harpist. I would guess Miss Bromley to start, for Lady Pressington is her aunt. And Lady Darnley to finish, though that is no problem. Her playing is lovely.”
Mention of the fair Alicia dampened Caroline’s enthusiasm by reminding her of that odd, whispered exchange. But she hid her unease behind a social smile and turned the conversation to gossip, allowing Robert to regale her with the latest on-dits. Nor would she let her eyes drift to the strained discussion between Thomas and his idol across the room, though she sensed every minute of it, relaxing only when Thomas turned to speak with Eleanor.
They soon returned to their seats for the amateur portion of the program. Miss Bromley was indeed the first performer and acquitted herself adequately but without flair. Another niece, Miss Evelyn Pressington, performed next, with unfortunate results. Nervous, she floundered early in her sonata, her composure cracking badly when Alicia tittered. Caroline’s temper flared dangerously. How could Lady Darnley tease her cousin in such a publicly cruel manner? Even Thomas appeared shocked. Poor Miss Pressington never recovered, concluding her performance in a crash of discords after a single movement. The applause was more appreciative of her decision to retire than of her playing.
Lady Pressington stared directly at Caroline as she rose to thank Evelyn, restoring her uneasiness. “I have heard claims that Mrs. Mannering is a gifted musician. Not having heard her play, I would take this opportunity to remedy that deficiency. Mrs. Mannering?”
And how had she heard that? wondered Caroline, unable to imagine Thomas bragging about his wife to his lover. Then she caught a glimpse of Alicia and nearly burst out laughing. The Incomparable’s face radiated malicious gloating. Knowing that Caroline grew up in a vicarage and was unfamiliar with the ton, she plotted to embarrass her by revealing her lack of accomplishments. Caroline stifled an unchristian spurt of glee and smiled at her hostess.
“My pleasure, Lady Pressington.” She thought quickly as she seated herself at the keyboard. The pianoforte was of excellent quality, with a full, rich sound she had admired all evening. And in perfect tune. Spurning the music sheets piled on a nearby table, she chose to play from memory a recently published sonata by Herr Beethoven, his Pathétique in C minor, and instantly lost herself in the notes.
Thomas sat spellbound as Caroline moved from the somber introduction to the passionate allegro. The music grabbed his heart, pulling the emotional strings first one way, then another. Not since he’d accidentally overheard her practicing the first week of their marriage had he listened to her play. Nor had he believed that a single piece of music could unleash the power, majesty, or poignancy captured in this one. Within moments, he found his spirit soaring among the clouds. His frustrations faded into the background, leaving him in charity with her for the first time in weeks.
Caroline allowed the final flourish to die away before lifting her hands from the keys. It always took a mome
nt to return to the world, particularly after a piece with which she felt so closely attuned. The gathered audience must have felt the same way, for stunned silence continued a moment longer before she was engulfed in applause, accolades, and appreciation. Only Alicia refrained, her eyes blazing in fury.
“Encore!” shouted a male voice, and the cry was quickly taken up.
“Only one,” she agreed when Lady Pressington repeated the request.
This time she chose Beethoven’s gentle Für Elise, letting the notes slide across the room, binding her listeners in a seductive spell of love and peace. They exhaled in a collective sigh of loss when the last note died away.
“Remarkable talent,” breathed Drew as she passed his chair.
“Thank you.”
“Exquisite!” Robert beamed. He had missed none of the byplay. “You certainly rolled up her catty ladyship.”
“I wish I could play half as well,” mourned Eleanor.
Thomas remained silent, his face a study of awe. But he turned a smile on Caroline that sent her heart racing. She remembered that smile.
Lady Darnley chose to play a challenging Scarlatti sonata. Caroline listened for some time before she identified the source of her disappointment. Though an excellent technician whose fingers executed the most difficult passages with ease, Alicia’s performance did not engage the senses.
Her mother had been right. You must throw your heart into your music, Caro, she had repeated often during her years of instruction. Think your way into the notes. Live there. Feel what the composer was feeling. Imagine what he was thinking. Only thus can you ever hope to engage your audience.
And it was true. Heartless Alicia felt no connection with either composer or opus. All emotion was missing. She might as well have been playing scales.
Thomas was also puzzled over his lack of response. But he finally discovered an excuse. Beethoven wrote for the pianoforte, taking advantage of its full, vibrant tone and exceptional dynamic range. Scarlatti had written for harpsichord. Any lack in Alicia’s performance was due to the composer’s restricted medium. Satisfied on an intellectual level, he nevertheless encountered no difficulty restraining his applause to the brief acknowledgement politeness demanded for any performer. The audience was on the move toward the refreshment room while Alicia’s last chord still echoed. No calls for an encore greeted her. Thomas refused to question either the situation or his own satisfaction over the turn of events.
He could not approach Caroline through her crowd of admirers and chose not to approach Alicia, whose face resembled a thundercloud. He instead turned to food and a new round of congratulations from friends and acquaintances that he wholeheartedly echoed.
Even the harpist proved anticlimactic.
Chapter 12
Caroline perched on a chair near the drawing room door, trying to avoid spilling tea on Lady Marchgate’s carpet as she fought to confine her laughter to a ladylike chuckle that would not attract the attention of Eleanor’s callers. Drew could be so droll.
“You impossible man,” she chided once she controlled her mirth. “How dare you embarrass me like this?”
Drew adopted a hangdog expression with eyes sad enough to induce sympathetic tears in the hardest heart.
“How can I forgive myself for so distressing you,” he intoned in a sepulchral bass.
Caroline giggled. “Stop that. Now sit down and behave like the gentleman you are not.”
“Ah, a mortal wound!” But his eyes were laughing and he sat. “Who would have thought I would discover a lady with whom I could be friends? You’ve added a new dimension to my life, Caro.”
“Fustian. There are any number of females who would enjoy friendship with you, cousin,” she declared. “But you will have to pull your brain out of bed to discover them. To say nothing of the rest of you.”
“That’s asking a lot, coz.” He laughed. “I daren’t take you driving again for a while or the tabbies will gossip, but what about an early morning ride tomorrow?”
“All our horses remain at Crawley.”
“That is not a problem, sweet Caroline,” urged Drew, letting his voice resume its usual seductive cadence. “I can mount you whenever you wish.”
Caroline shook her head in exasperation. “Thank you, but not tomorrow. I have other plans.”
“Spurned again!” he exclaimed dramatically.
“Oh, do be serious, Drew,” admonished Caroline. “Eleanor’s ball is tomorrow night and I really must help.”
“Of course.” He rose to take his leave.
* * * *
Fists clenched, Thomas continued upstairs. He had passed the drawing room just in time to overhear Wroxleigh’s promise to mount Caroline and her breathless acceptance. Between his own history of flirtatious double entendre and his chancy temper, he immediately assumed they were arranging an assignation. Fury engulfed him, more intense than ever. The approval he had felt at the musicale had not lasted the evening, being blasted to shreds when he spotted her with Wroxleigh, their expressions demonstrating a closeness of spirit he had rarely witnessed.
It was time to do something about her escalating affair. She was his. He expected adherence to the same code of honor he himself espoused. That meant no dalliance. If he could refrain from bedding the woman he loved, she could certainly forgo a casual affair with a heartless, teasing rake like Wroxleigh! He would never live down the ignominy if her actions became public. Imagine Thomas Mannering unable to satisfy his wife! He must speak to her.
But she did not return upstairs, and when he questioned her whereabouts, Reeves informed him that she and Jeremy had gone to Somerset House to view the Royal Academy exhibition. Such independence ill became a lady. He longed for Alicia’s clinging helplessness. It was past time they held a serious discussion about propriety. But she did not return before he joined George at his club for dinner.
* * * *
Caroline had been delighted when Lady Marchgate asked her, shortly after her arrival, to assist with the preparations for Eleanor’s ball. Never having attended such a function, let alone planned one, she looked upon the experience as training for her own future entertainments. And the amount of work involved astonished her. Under the countess’s tutelage she learned the nuances of guest lists, precedence conventions, seating for the formal dinner preceding the ball, catering arrangements, wine choices, decorating, and a thousand and one other details. The logistics of hundreds of coaches converging on a single spot swirled through her head. Then there was the problem of accommodating five hundred guests, combining rooms to form a ballroom, setting up card rooms, refreshment rooms, retiring rooms, cloak rooms – the list went on and on. Servants, musicians, candles, flowers.
Her head spun. But she rapidly discovered that her talent for organization created order out of potential chaos. And by the day of the ball, the countess had dropped all pretense of formality. The two were fast friends.
Standing in the receiving line, she graciously welcomed each new arrival while striving not to detract from Eleanor’s come-out. The Marchgates had insisted that she receive, placing the final seal of approval on her introduction to London society although the ball itself was solely in Eleanor’s honor. After only a month in London, she was amazed by how many of the guests she knew.
Thomas stood beside her, his easy social smile firmly in place, but inwardly he seethed. He had found no opportunity to speak to her about Wroxleigh. Nor did he know what he would say when he did confront her. His lapse at Graystone still haunted him. Could he condemn her without confessing his own fault? His thinking was becoming so muddled that he was no longer sure he could trust his own judgment. And that was dangerous, for it invariably led to failure. Every time it happened, someone got hurt. When he had dared Robert to ride a horse he could not control, Robert had nearly broken his neck. When he had stupidly decided to flaunt his expertise on ice, he had nearly drowned.
He stifled a shudder as another ancient memory surfaced. Even at twelve, he should have
known better. His actions had been both reckless and dishonorable.
During a long break spent with George’s family, conversation had turned to ghosts, specifically to the gentleman who supposedly appeared each Midsummer’s Eve in Blatchford’s oldest wing. George’s sister, Mary, had openly scoffed at the legend, deriding the boys as fools for claiming to believe it. In response, Thomas had delivered an impassioned defense of the spirit world, daring her to confront the spectral visitor for herself.
But he would have done nothing more if George had not discovered a secret passage that very afternoon. It opened near the Elizabethan wing, its existence too provident to ignore. And so he had succumbed to temptation.
On Midsummer’s Eve, as full dark fell, a slender gentleman dressed in the doublet and hose of an Elizabethan courtier stepped from a seemingly solid wall to confront Mary Mason. She screamed and fled in panic. But Thomas’s glee turned to horror when she tripped on her hem and tumbled down a flight of stairs, breaking her leg. As servants converged on the spot, he threw honor to the winds and faded back into the secret passage, never telling a soul about his part in the debacle, though guilt assailed him for years afterward.
Why had the memory returned now? Was his conscious castigating him for ravishing Alicia? Or was he in danger of initiating some new disgrace? His pain and anger over Caroline’s liaison with Wroxleigh was nearing the explosion point, as was his frustration. Was he on the verge of again doing something stupid?
His temper worsened as the evening progressed. Caroline talked even less than usual as he led her into the opening dance. Nor could she hide an involuntary flinch as his hand touched hers unexpectedly. It was the first time she had ever demonstrated that she found his presence repulsive, and it confirmed his suspicion that she was seeking satisfaction elsewhere.
For Caroline, Thomas’s presence constituted a burgeoning problem. Daily she watched him flirt with countless women, charm self-conscious maidens, advise green cubs, and converse intelligently with worthy gentlemen. He demonstrated a character she could only admire – except with herself and Lady Darnley. Despite his aloof expression when in Alicia’s company, Caroline could feel his desire. She was aware of every look he bestowed on his idol and every longing glance when he believed himself unobserved.
