by Candace Camp
Lady Belmartin shrugged. “Well, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, my dear.”
Color flamed in Rachel’s cheeks. “What? What sort of unfounded calumny is that? Are you saying that Michael—”
“Dear girl!” The old lady chuckled. “Don’t take my head off. I merely meant—Well, he is a man, after all.”
“He is an honorable man—and nothing like his father.”
“No, of course not.” Lady Belmartin’s eyes twinkled in a sly way that Rachel did not like at all.
Sylvia quickly linked her arm through Rachel’s, firmly pulling her with her as she backed away from the older women. “I fear we must go now. I must introduce Rachel to, um, another friend of mine.”
“Of course, dear.” Lady Belmartin and Lady Montgomery turned back to each other and started in on another hapless vicitim.
“The idea was not to argue with Lady Belmartin but to get information from her,” Sylvia whispered to Rachel. “Thank heavens she did not take it poorly.”
“It’s obvious she knew nothing about Michael,” Rachel replied, still feeling rather heated. “She was much too vague—making little hints like that. If she had actually known something, she would have said it outright.”
“Mmm. Probably,” Sylvia agreed, obviously losing interest. “Well, there you are, then—there is nothing secret in Michael’s past. Oh, look, here comes Perry Overhill.”
Rachel smiled and looked across the floor, where a fashionably dressed gentleman was hurrying toward them. Peregrine Overhill, better known to his friends as Perry, was an amiable soul, not quite portly, but certainly not slender, either, whose beaming round face could be found at almost every social occasion. Although a friend of Michael’s, he had none of Michael’s love of the country, preferring to spend his entire life within the environs of London. He was given to a love of clothes, and though he was not the sort who would follow the extremes of fashion—he never put a bouttoniere the size of a nosegay in his lapel or indulged in pink or puce waistcoats—he would generally be dressed in the forefront of style. His first thought, by his own genial admission, was always for his own comfort, but he was also a firm and loyal friend.
Rachel had met him her first Season, a few weeks before Michael came into her life, and ever since that time Perry had been one of the men who made up the circle of Rachel’s admirers. Any acknowledged Beauty, single or married, worthy of the name had such a retinue. The names and numbers varied. Some were young men truly enamored for the first time; others were older, confirmed bachelors who simply enjoyed the opportunity for light, meaningless flirtation; still others were, in Rachel’s opinion, men who had not the slightest interest in her as a woman but who approved of her style and beauty in a purely esthetic way.
The rules of flirtation were delicate and differed a great deal from the married Beauties to those just making their first debut. A man’s interest in an unmarried young woman was considered serious; with a married woman, the purpose was exactly the opposite. For the woman, her admirers were handy escorts when her husband could not or would not do so. They could be counted upon to make pretty compliments or bring one refreshments or stand up with one for a dance. For the men, much of the appeal lay in being able to do all those things without being measured as husband material by calculating mamas. There was, of course, the possibility of an affair between a married woman and one of her admirers, but such a thing would be conducted in secret, separate from the formalized interaction of a Beauty and her cisibeos.
Perry was a friend of Michael’s and quite fond of Rachel. As he was the only one of her admirers who had remained one of her retinue since her coming out, Rachel was sure that his continued attendance on her sprang more out of Perry’s laziness than from any actual love. Rachel found him comfortable to be with, which was one of the factors that made him her favorite escort. The other was that he had been a good friend of Michael’s for years, which meant that Michael would not have the slightest reason to doubt her intentions. She had been determined all the life of her marriage not to let the slightest hint of scandal attach to any of her actions.
Perry was grinning broadly now as he approached her through the crowd. Despite his love of fashion, there was almost invariably something a trifle off about whatever he wore—buttons done up wrong or a handkerchief tucked haphazardly into a pocket or a hat a trifle askew. Tonight was no exception; his cravat, knotted in an elegant style and pinned with a large pearl, had gotten turned a half inch off center, giving him a lopsided look.
Rachel returned his smile. Perry’s somewhat bumbling ways were part of his charm, as was the boyish aspect of his face, a fact which caused him great despair. His face was round, with apple cheeks, and was usually adorned with a smile.
“Lady Westhampton!” he cried from several feet away and swept her a grand bow. “I had thought the sun was brighter today, and now I know why. It shone because you had returned to the city.”
Rachel chuckled and extended her hand to him. “Perry, you goose, stop posing and come here.”
He came forward and took her hand, raising it to his lips to bestow a light kiss upon it. “Rusticating must agree with you—you look stunning. But London has been dreadfully dull without you.”
“I am sure you found something to amuse you.”
“Poor substitutes for you,” he retorted.
“Can you not even spare a greeting for me, Perry?” Sylvia scolded.
“Lady Montgomery.” He turned slightly toward her to execute another bow. “You are a veritable vision tonight—a, um, star come down from the heavens.”
Sylvia tilted her head to the side. “All right; you have saved yourself with that compliment. I shall forgive the lack of greeting.”
“I need not ask how you have been,” Rachel told him. “You look exceedingly well, despite your supposed boredom.”
He smiled and looked somewhat abashed by the compliment.
“How is Gypsy?” Rachel asked, referring to the ill-tempered, snuffle-nosed pug that was Overhill’s much loved pet.
“He has missed you terribly. I shall have to bring him by to see you.”
Since Rachel had never known the dog to do anything but snap peevishly at her when she approached it, she had serious doubts about Perry’s oft-held claim that Gypsy adored her. But she did not express her reservations, merely smiled and nodded.
“How is Michael?” Perry went on, glancing around. “Did he come with you?”
“Actually, he did escort me to London, but I am afraid that he has left already to return to Westhampton. You know how he is about planting season.”
Perry grimaced. “Yes. Well, I will have to take him to task for leaving without even paying me a visit.”
“Perry…” Rachel began impulsively. “Do you know anything about Michael’s secrets?”
The man goggled at her for a moment in silence. “Secrets?” he asked after a long moment. “Rachel, my dear, what are you talking about?”
“I just wondered, you know, if you knew anything about something he might have done or—”
Overhill was staring at her now in alarm. “Michael has no secrets. Who has been telling you any differently?” He glanced at Sylvia.
She held up her hands in an expression of innocence, saying, “It was not I. Don’t look so fiercely at me.”
“But, well, it’s absurd to speak of Michael having secrets, especially from you, my dear. Everyone knows of his high regard for you. Who told you this?”
“No one,” Rachel admitted. She had been watching Perry’s face closely as he answered her, and it seemed to her that there was a slight relaxation of his face when she said that no one had told her anything. And had there been something just a trifle nervous in his eyes as he denied Michael’s secrets?
Quietly, she told him about the visit she had received from the highwayman, and he listened with rapt attention.
“Danger?” he said when she had finished. “Really, my dear, it’s nonsense. How could Micha
el be in danger? I am sure the fellow just wanted money.”
“But how did he know who Michael was?” Rachel pressed him.
Overhill blinked. “Well, ah…”
“You see?”
“I see that you have some unanswered questions,” Perry began carefully. “But I don’t think that they necessarily lead to the conclusion that Michael has kept secrets from you.”
“Secrets?” a woman’s voice drawled behind them. “The saintly Lord Westhampton? I am appalled.”
Perry grimaced at the sound of the voice. “Lady Vesey.”
Rachel turned around to look at the woman who stood behind her. She was a small woman with a voluptuous figure, which was tonight rather scantily clad in a gown of green voile. Her ample bosom swelled above the low neckline of the gown, and it was clear from the way the garment clung that Lady Vesey was wearing few, if any, petticoats beneath the evening dress. It was a style of dress adopted by the faster set of the Ton; some women even went so far as to dampen their gowns to make them cling even more provocatively, a practice Rachel viewed as unhealthy, as well as immodest. Few women, however, were able to fill their gowns out as well as Lady Leona Vesey did.
Lady Vesey’s wild ways had earned her the censure of most of the leading ladies of London Society. She was not received at many houses, and Rachel felt sure that Lady Tarleton would receive a blistering scolding from several of the more prominent women for inviting her to the party tonight. But, despite the disapprobation of the Ton, there were few who would deny that she was one of the great Beauties of the last two decades. Though she was nearing forty, age and dissipation had not yet scored their lines into her face—at least not in here in the glow of the candlelight. Her strawberries-and-cream complexion was soft, her lips full and pouting, her golden eyes large and dark lashed, and though Rachel suspected that her face owed much to the skillful application of cosmetics, the result was admittedly stunning.
Rachel thoroughly disliked the woman for her years of wicked influence over Dev, and it was clear that Leona Vesey returned the feeling in full measure. Rachel had been present last summer during a scene at Darkwater where Miranda successfully demonstrated to Lady Vesey that she had lost control over Dev, and since then, Leona had seemed to regard Rachel with even more venom than she had before.
“Rachel…” she purred now in a falsely sympathetic voice. “You should know better than to ask someone like Perry for your husband’s secrets. You should have come to me. I would have been happy to have told you all about his indiscretions.”
Rachel gave Leona a level look. “Had I thought you had any knowledge or any capacity for telling the truth, perhaps I would have.”
She turned back to Perry and Sylvia, regretting the fact that she had said anything to the woman. Her mother would have given Leona the cut direct, sending an icy glance right through her, then turning away as if Leona were not there. Rachel, however, had never been able to deliver such a cutting gesture, even to Lady Vesey.
But Leona was not to be denied. She plowed ahead, saying, “Oh, I know your husband’s secrets, Lady Westhampton. A great deal of London does. Perhaps you should ask Lord Westhampton about his visits to Mrs. Neeley. I am sure you would find his answers quite informative.”
Rachel was startled by Leona’s words. She had assumed that Leona was simply being annoying; she had not really considered that Leona actually had a tale about Michael to tell her. Even so, she would not have been alarmed had it not been for the fact that Perry stiffened, his eyes suddenly looking as if they were about to pop out of his head.
A chill rippled through Rachel. Obviously the name Leona had just used meant something to Perry. She turned back to Leona.
A smile curved Leona’s mouth, and there was a smug set to her face that irritated Rachel beyond measure. “Ah, I see I have your attention now.”
“I don’t know who you are talking about, but I am sure it is all nonsense. Vicious nonsense.”
“Really?” Leona gave a throaty little laugh. “If you were so certain as all that, I suspect you would not be standing there, waiting for me to tell you more. Mrs. Neeley—I give her the title, you see, but I am sure it is one purely of courtesy—is the owner of a rather popular gaming establishment. She has been for some years now—about the same amount of time that she has been granting Lord Westhampton her favors.”
Rachel sucked in her breath sharply, as if Lady Vesey had landed her a blow to the stomach.
Beside her, Sylvia said hotly, “How dare you say something like that!”
“I dare because it is the truth. Lilith Neeley has been Lord Westhampton’s mistress for years. He has been seen any number of times going in and out of her house—at all hours of the day and night. His comings and goings bespeak a great deal of famliarity with the woman.”
Perry moved between Lady Vesey and Rachel, saying, “Lady Vesey, I think it is time that you were going.”
“Oh, yes,” Leona’s voice dripped scorn. “We must not say anything to sully Lady Westhampton’s ears. What does it matter if all London knows about her husband’s dalliance with Lilith Neeley as long as Rachel can retain her naive ignorance?” She stepped neatly around Perry’s bulk to look directly at Rachel and say, “Perhaps if you were not so ignorant, my dear, your husband would not have strayed.”
Leona turned and sauntered off, smugness in every line of her voluptuous body. Rachel watched her go, feeling numb. There was a roaring in her ears, and she could not move, could scarcely think. She was afraid that she might faint.
“Perry…” She murmured, reaching out a hand, and Perry quickly took it and tucked it into his arm, shooting a significant look at Lady Montgomery.
Sylvia immediately moved closer to Rachel to grab her other arm if need be, and Perry led them through the throng of people to a bench. Rachel sank down upon it, with Perry and Sylvia flanking her. Sylvia took her hand and squeezed it.
“Don’t worry about what she said,” Sylvia said stoutly. “Leona Vesey has always been a liar. You know she would say anything to hurt you.”
“But she said everyone knew!” Rachel looked at her friend.
“I didn’t,” Sylvia replied. “And that means Sir Ian’s mother didn’t, either, which is most unlikely.”
Rachel turned to Perry. “Perry?”
“Rachel! ’Pon my honor,” Perry said. “How can you even ask me? Of course it’s not true.”
“But I saw you when she said that name,” Rachel pressed.
Perry blinked. “Oh, well…” His face reddened. “Of course I had heard the name. But I promise you she is not Michael’s, well, his, you know, light-of-love.”
“Michael would not be unfaithful to you. How can you think that?” Sylvia added. “Come, now, you cannot let Leona Vesey make you doubt your husband. That would give her exactly what she wants. It doesn’t matter to her whether she’s telling the truth—or even whether you find out later that it isn’t true. She will have disturbed you, made you worry and question Michael. That will be enough for her.”
“You are right, of course,” Rachel replied, summoning up a small smile for the other two. “I cannot let her see that she has upset me. It would please her no end.” She drew a breath. “I think we should promenade around the room and enjoy ourselves.” And let everyone see us do so, she added mentally.
Rachel was determined not to give Leona the satisfaction of seeing that she had hurt her, and she managed to keep up a good front through the rest of the party. But what she felt inside was a different matter entirely. Sylvia might be certain that Michael would not be unfaithful to Rachel, but Rachel was less so. Sylvia did not know the true state of Rachel and Michael’s marriage. Michael’s honor was deep and important to him, so much so that Rachel had never even considered the possibility that he might break his marriage vows. But now that Leona had inserted the worm of doubt into her mind, she could not help but think how very likely it might be. Yes, Michael was honorable, but he was a man, after all, with a man’s
needs. He had been married for seven years to a woman who did not share a bed with him—a woman who had so offended him with her own lack of honor that he would not even touch her.
Many men kept mistresses, even those who said they loved their wives. How much more likely would it be for a man who did not love his wife, whose affection for her had been trampled into nothingness by her betrayal? It should not surprise her, she told herself. If she were not naive, as Leona said, she would not have been surprised. She would have expected it.
But she had not expected it, and it hurt. She was not sure why—wounded pride, perhaps—but it did indeed hurt, as if someone had stabbed her through the heart. She wanted to run home and crawl into bed and cry.
Rachel told herself that there was the possibility that Leona had been lying. As Sylvia had said, Leona was given to lying, and she would seize any opportunity to hurt her. But how had she come up so quickly with a story to tell? It was absurd to think that she had planned it out beforehand; she had not known that she would overhear Rachel asking about Michael’s secrets. Indeed, she would have had no reason to think that Rachel would even be at the party; she had only got back into town the day before.
She believed that Sylvia had not heard the story, which lent some weight to its unbelievability, but on the other hand, men did not usually talk to the women of their family about the other world in which they moved, the world of gambling and drinking and mistresses. It was not considered a suitable topic for a lady to hear. A woman like Leona might easily learn of it; she dabbled in that environment herself. But Sir Ian would never have spoken to his mother or Sylvia about a woman who ran a gambling den or the fact that she was the mistress of Sylvia’s best friend’s husband.
However, she was certain that Perry knew a great deal more about Mrs. Neeley than he would tell her. No matter how much he insisted that Michael and Lilith Neeley were not having an affair, Rachel had seen his face when Leona first threw out the name at Rachel. He had looked as if he had just swallowed his tongue. His claim that he had simply recognized the name as belonging to the owner of a well-known gambling den was, in Rachel’s opinion, completely without merit. Had the name had no more meaning to him than that, he might have looked surprised, even a little shocked, at Leona’s bad taste in bringing it up in front of two ladies of the Ton. But the look in his eyes had not been merely surprise or social shock; it had been something closer to horror. And, even more significant, he had not looked outraged that she would couple Michael’s name with such a woman. Indeed, he had not immediately denied the claim; he had just moved to protect Rachel from Leona. He had not denied it until some time later, when Rachel asked him directly.
