by Diane Gaston
He stopped and faced her. ‘I did not see you, Lorene.’
‘You were not angry with me?’ she asked.
‘Angry?’ He shook his head. ‘For what?’
For that almost kiss, she wanted to say. But suppose she had been mistaken? Suppose it had only been her romantic notions that made her think that was what he was about to do?
She smiled. ‘I did not know a reason. I thought it had been a very pleasant evening we shared the night before that.’
He looked down into her eyes. ‘It was very pleasant.’
They walked a few steps further before she broke the silence again.
‘Who was the young lady you danced with at the Duchess’s ball?’ she asked.
He’d danced only one dance.
He did not answer right away. ‘Lady Alice. Lord Brackton’s daughter.’
‘She was very pretty.’
‘Yes.’
She wanted to ask many prying questions, but what right did she have to do so?
They arrived at his town house, which looked the same on the outside as the houses next to it. Even its brick exterior was so close in colour as to be indistinguishable.
‘They did a wonderful job with the outside,’ she exclaimed.
The expression on his face was not one of admiration, however. It was akin to horror.
He pulled a key from his pocket with a shaking hand and unlocked the door. She felt his tension rise as they crossed the threshold.
Except for the marble below her feet, this was a house without walls or ceilings. Instead it was a cavernous space tinged with the faint scent of smoke and the aura of many tears.
He became silent and still. His eyes filled with pain.
She did not think; she simply put her arms around him. His arms circled her and held on tight as if he feared a great wind would blow him away if he let go. She’d hugged Edmund that way when he’d suffered an injury, but Edmund had been a little boy. Dell was a man.
‘It hurts, I know,’ she said soothingly, although she truly had no idea what pain there might be in losing everyone who mattered to you. She’d spent a night in terror that she’d lost Tess when Tess was caught in the storm the night Glenville rescued her. It must feel like that, only worse. Tess came home to her the next day.
He released her. ‘Forgive me. I keep imagining them in the fire, unable to get out.’
She kept hold of his hands. ‘Their suffering is over.’
He nodded. ‘Mine continues, it seems.’
In that way his pain was like guilt. Lorene’s guilt seemed always to be with her.
‘I am so sorry,’ she murmured, touching his face.
His eyes darkened and that same feeling came over her that had come over her that night in the inn. Was he about to kiss her?
The moment passed and he stepped back. She’d been wrong again.
She walked further into the space. ‘What of the lower floor? The kitchen and the servants’ rooms?’
‘They did not fare as badly. The maids in the attic were—were killed, but the housekeeper, butler and footmen escaped. Do you want to see the lower floor?’
‘Certainly.’
In the corner of the vacant space was another staircase, this one leading below. They descended the stairs and came upon several rooms, now clear of furniture. The kitchen’s hearth and ovens remained, as well as a long work table.
‘Do you still have the pots and pans?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘They are packed in crates.’
‘It would not take much to put the kitchen in order, then,’ she said.
They returned to what had once been the hall.
‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Will you help me with this, Lorene?’
She looked around again, at the empty space filled only by a marble stairway leading nowhere. ‘I do not know of building walls and putting in floors.’
‘I hired a student of Sir John Soane’s to do the exterior,’ he said. ‘I could hire him for the inside, but I cannot depend upon his taste. If you could pick out the details, the colours, the furniture, the carpets, he could do the architectural work.’
She smiled at him. ‘I could do that.’
She would love to do that! To design the rooms from top to bottom? It would be heaven. She would make the rooms bright with colour and light. She would use wallpaper, carpet and furniture to dispel the gloom and the memories.
‘You must tell me what colours you like,’ she said.
‘No.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘You decide. I do not want to involve myself.’
It saddened her that the exciting project brought him such pain. ‘I would be delighted to help you, Dell.’
He extended his hand for her to shake. ‘We have a bargain, then.’
She placed her hand in his. ‘A bargain.’
Chapter Eleven
Lorene took her man of business into her confidence about assisting Dell in the refurbishment of his town house. Mr Walters accompanied her when she met with the architect and came along any time there were negotiations to be made. Her mother had not the least curiosity of where Lorene went during the day, so the secret was easily kept.
Because she refused to attend society events, the ton’s curiosity about her seemed to have disappeared as well. Her name did not again appear in the newspapers, even though her mother and Count von Osten were regularly in print, usually for something outrageous her mother said or did.
Days passed and Lorene’s mother still did not tell her about the dinner she planned. Not only had she heard of the dinner from Dell, but also from her cook and housekeeper. Her mother never spoke of it until Lorene caught her mother addressing invitations.
Lorene found her mother in an upstairs sitting room at a writing table, a stack of folded paper next to her.
‘What are you doing?’ She sauntered over to the table.
Her mother first made an attempt to cover her writing, but then seemed to reconsider. She smiled up at Lorene. ‘I am writing invitations.’
Lorene lifted her brows. ‘Invitations?’
Her mother seized her hand. ‘My darling daughter, it was to be a surprise! I am giving a dinner party. Nothing grand. A family dinner party.’
‘And where is this party to be held?’ she asked, as if she did not know.
Her mother gave her an innocent smile. ‘Why, here, of course.’
A memory flashed through Lorene’s mind of Lord Tinmore telling her what dinner parties he had planned, parties he’d not bothered to tell her about until they were a fait accompli. She could say nothing of that, but her life was different now.
She withdrew her hand. ‘Without asking me first?’
‘It was to be a surprise for you, my love.’ Her mother’s voice was wounded.
‘No surprises, Mother, please,’ she stated. ‘I insist on knowing what is happening in my house.’
Her mother stood and gave her a buss on the cheek. ‘As you wish, my love.’ She picked up the completed invitations. ‘As you will see, it is merely family.’
‘No more secrets.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Promise me?’
Her mother blinked. ‘Oh, I promise. I do.’
‘Good.’ Lorene turned to leave.
‘Will you come to the opera with us tonight, my love?’ her mother asked. ‘We will sit in the Duke of Archester’s box.’
For a woman who had created scandal after scandal in the early years of her marriage, Lorene’s mother never seemed to want for invitations, although her companions were reputed to be a fast set. She also persisted in trying to persuade Lorene to attend with her.
‘Thank you, no,’ Lorene said.
* * *
The dinner party was scheduled
for the next week. Dell received an invitation as Lady Summerfield had promised. On the night of the party he stood at the window of the drawing room in the Duke of Kessington’s Mayfair mansion, watching for the carriage to be brought around to take the Duke and Duchess and him to Lorene’s town house.
The Duke and Duchess, also in the room, talked together over a glass of sherry.
‘Are you certain I cannot beg off with a sick headache?’ the Duchess asked her husband.
Ross’s father’s second wife had never been a favourite of Ross’s and Dell could easily see why. Her interest had always been in the prestige and power of her husband’s title more than in her husband. It was not a love match, but as a political partnership it worked well enough. Dell could credit both the Duke and Duchess with helping him fit himself into the political machinations of the House of Lords.
Dell could agree with Ross that the Duchess had an exaggerated sense of her own importance. Even though her rhetoric supported the rights of ordinary people, she did tend to look down her nose at anyone who had not reached her lofty heights.
‘I cannot bear to be in the company of that woman.’ The Duchess meant Lady Summerfield. ‘Her name is in the newspapers nearly every day.’
‘We cannot cry off,’ Ross’s father said. ‘We are obliged to attend. Like it or not, she is Ross’s mother-in-law.’
‘Why Ross wanted to marry that woman’s daughter, I will never know,’ she went on. ‘Goodness. Ross’s wife planned to go into trade, selling portraits, of all things. I shall never hire Vespery to paint another portrait for us. He will not be forgiven for taking her on as a student. And her sisters are quite as bad. We shall have to sit at the table with Lady Northdon, as well.’
Dell did not turn from the window, but he made his voice heard. ‘Your Grace, may I remind you that I am Ross’s friend and all these people are important to him? I do not like to hear them be maligned. Besides, I share a surname and some ancestors with the Summerfield sisters, so you might say I am related.’
‘Well, not to her,’ the Duchess shot back, meaning Lady Summerfield. ‘And most probably not to the sisters either, if one can believe the rumours of their paternity.’
‘Constance!’ The Duke raised his voice. ‘That is quite enough. You do not need to become bosom beaux with any of them, but you will attend this dinner and keep a civil tongue in your mouth.’
Dell turned and nodded approvingly to the Duke, who inclined his head in response.
The Duke took a sip of his sherry. ‘Let us be glad that we do not have to cosy up to that windbag Tinmore.’
The Duchess lifted her chin. ‘Hmmph! You scold me, but listen to you speak disrespectfully of the dead!’
The Duke still had the glass against his lip. ‘He was a windbag.’
Dell turned back to the window. ‘The carriage is here.’
Dell and the Duke donned their topcoats and hats, the Duchess, her cloak, and they were soon taking the short trip to Lorene’s town house. They arrived and were announced. Ross and Genna were already there. Lorene made the introductions to her mother and von Osten.
She managed a smile for Dell.
He walked over to where Ross and Genna stood.
‘I’m pouring claret.’ Ross lifted the decanter.
‘Pour a glass for me,’ Dell said.
‘He will not pour me another one,’ Genna complained. ‘And I need a second glass for this evening, do you not think so, Dell?’
‘Indeed I do,’ he said in good humour. ‘As do I. The Duchess was in rare form tonight.’
‘What was it?’ asked Genna. ‘Was she complaining about my mother or about me?’
Dell accepted a glass from Ross and took a sip. ‘Apparently she has not forgiven you for wanting to support yourself as an artist, but her main complaint was needing to be in the presence of your mother.’
Genna rolled her eyes. ‘My only consolation. My mother might soon drive the Duchess insane.’
Ross laughed. ‘Perhaps Constance will meet her match.’ He left them to offer wine to his father and the Duchess.
A moment later the butler came to the door and announced Tess and Glenville and Glenville’s parents, Lord and Lady Northdon, but a man walked through the doorway instead. Dell did not recognise him.
‘Edmund!’ Lady Summerfield cried and rushed over to him. ‘You did come. You naughty boy. Why did you not write me you were coming?’
Edmund. Edmund was the sisters’ half-brother, their father’s bastard son.
Dell glanced at Lorene to see her response to this surprise. Her face was radiant with pleasure and her eyes sparkled with tears of joy.
Edmund laughed and gave Lady Summerfield a kiss on the cheek. ‘You are not the only one who can arrange a surprise.’
Genna ran over to Edmund and threw her arms around him. Lorene held back, watching and waiting. Tess, Glenville and Lord and Lady Northdon entered the room, all smiles. A lovely young woman about Genna’s age was with them. Edmund’s wife, Dell presumed. Edmund’s wife was Glenville’s sister and the Northdons’ daughter.
Genna let go of Edmund and turned to give his wife an exuberant hug. Edmund strode up to Lorene.
‘Lorene.’ He enfolded her in his arms and held her there a long time. When he released her, she wiped her eyes with her fingers.
She turned to greet Edmund’s wife, who, tall and blonde, looked more like Genna’s sister than Genna looked like Lorene’s. Tess joined them.
Genna pulled Ross over. His father and the Duchess followed.
Dell was outside this family group, this joyous reunion. He closed his eyes against the sight. He must not care. He must not remember that he once had a family to embrace.
Someone touched his arm. He opened his eyes.
Lorene.
‘Come meet my brother.’ She looked happier than he’d ever seen her.
He let her lead him to her brother.
‘Edmund,’ she cried as they came near. ‘This is Dell—the Earl of Penford. He inherited Summerfield.’
In Dell’s opinion, Edmund should have been the rightful heir of the Summerfield estate, but Edmund was illegitimate and, therefore, could not inherit the entailed property. Instead the family line needed to be traced back three generations to find Dell’s father—and a few months later, Dell.
‘I am pleased to meet you.’ He shook Edmund’s hand.
Edmund’s expression turned serious. ‘I have heard of you, of course. You have been very generous to Lorene. To all the sisters. I am indebted to you.’
Dell assumed this man knew all about Tinmore’s death and Dell’s unwitting part in it. No one ever spoke of that out loud, though.
Dinner was announced and they formed by rank, leaving Edmund and his wife at the end, which seemed wrong considering they had travelled all the way from the Lake District to be there.
Count von Osten as the host sat at the head of the table and Lady Summerfield at the other end, another protocol that rankled with Dell. This was Lorene’s house, was it not?
Dell did not complain, because the seating arrangement put him between Lorene and Lady Northdon, whom he liked enormously and whose manners were head and shoulders above the Duchess’s. The first course was served and the first conversation at the table was about grandchildren. Lady Summerfield and Lady Northdon enthused about Edmund’s and Tess’s boys. Lady Summerfield started the conversation in French, which seemed to Dell a notable and respectful acknowledgement of Lady Northdon’s background. Edmund and his wife had their son the year before. The boy would now be a year old, a few months older than Tess and Glenville’s son.
Two sons and heirs. Deux fils et héritiers.
Dell thought about having children with Lady Alice, sons to carry the family name and to carry on the family legacy. He might be able to separa
te his emotions from Lady Alice, but a child of his own—and his family’s—blood? What a risk to have a baby to love. Babies so easily died.
After the cleverness and delights of the grandsons were documented in great detail en français, the Duchess spoke up, directing her comment to Lady Summerfield.
‘You attended the theatre last night, did you not, Lady Summerfield?’ the Duchess asked.
Lady Summerfield smiled. ‘I did indeed. Were you there?’
‘His Grace and I had a more important engagement.’ She let that barb prick before delivering another one. ‘I read about it in the Morning Post.’
The Morning Post had noted that scandalous Lady S—had appeared in the Prince Regent’s box and was obviously manoeuvring to become the next lady under his protection. It was just the latest gossip. It seemed her name reached the papers every time she ventured out.
Lady Summerfield laughed. ‘How silly was that?’ She gave a loving glance to von Osten. ‘To think I would be unfaithful to my Ossie. It would never happen. Besides, Ossie was with me in his Royal Highness’s box. I do believe the newspapers left that part out.’
The Duchess returned a very sceptical look, then feigned an innocent one. ‘I suppose the papers believe such nonsense when it is known you do not intend to marry the Count.’
‘Is it known?’ Lady Summerfield countered in a clipped voice. ‘Because I do not know it.’
‘Are you going to marry, then?’ the Duchess pressed.
The rest of the table went silent. Not even one fork clattered against a plate.
Lady Summerfield made a sly grin. ‘Perhaps we will. Perhaps we will not. I dare say it is for the Count and me to decide. Not the newspapers.’ She stared directly at the Duchess. ‘Or their readers.’
‘You and the Count are thinking of getting married?’ Edmund broke in. ‘I would be happy for you. What good news.’ Edmund’s obvious sincerity cut through the Duchess’s vitriol.
Edmund, Dell knew from the Summerfield sisters, had corresponded with Lady Summerfield for many years. He had briefly lived with Lady Summerfield and Count von Osten before and after the Battle of Waterloo. Unlike his sisters, he seemed totally at ease with her and obviously very fond of her.
