by Liz Carlyle
“Oh—” Anisha murmured. “Oh, dear God.”
“You really ought not wait, Mamma, until it is too late,” Teddy sagely advised. “It just sounded bad. What Janet said, I mean, about shriveling.”
But the tenuous thread had snapped, dropping a chilling pall over Rance. It furled down and around him like a cold, dead thing, then drew deep into his chest to lay like a weight against his heart. Somehow he finished buttoning his waistcoat and felt, to his horror, the hot press of tears stinging at the backs of his eyes.
Never had he dreamt a small boy could blurt out a more innocent—or accurate—truth.
“Teddy,” Anisha finally said, plainly changing the subject, “you really oughtn’t have been belowstairs at all. What were you doing?”
“Shooting marbles down the passageway,” he said, as if it had been obvious. “There’s a big hump in the flagstone where it goes over the kitchen drain, and it makes ’em leap and jump all around.”
Ever so silently, Rance turned and eased the door shut.
Already he felt like an interloper here. And Teddy—good God, could small children and servants see what Anisha could not? That life was moving on and passing her by. That she was waiting on something that was never going to happen. Waiting on someone—someone who had bollixed up his life so badly he was not worth waiting on.
Was that what Anisha had been doing for the last year? Waiting on him to get his mess of a life straightened out? With a deep sense of shame for what he’d just done—clouding the pristine waters of their friendship, painting false hope, risking pregnancy—he tossed his cravat round his neck in disgust.
Anisha did not want an affaire. She wanted a life. And she deserved it.
He could tell by the soft rumble of voices that mother and son had descended into argument—a lecture, most likely, on the dangers of shooting marbles where servants had to tread. The sweetness of the night now gone, Rance paced to the window and quietly pushed wide the draperies. Already he could see a hint of dawn limning the rooftops of Mayfair.
Later, he told himself that the approaching sunrise had been the urgency that had driven him as he’d quietly pushed up the sash and thrown one leg out the window. That, perhaps, and the pure masculine challenge of scaling down a drainpipe in the dark.
But even as his feet touched the gravel below and he strode out through Ruthveyn’s rear gardens with his cravat hanging loose round his neck, he was never sure.
It was likely just pure cowardice.
That, and the awful dread of facing the truth he feared he might see in Anisha’s eyes.
Chapter 9
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 57
Disappointments, the great William Penn had once written, are not always to be measured by the loss of the thing but by the overvaluation put upon it. Lady Anisha Stafford had believed herself inured to disappointment, having suffered more than a few. She had learned from an early age to temper her expectations, to value fairly what she had, and to cherish it while she had it, even as she remained ever mindful that joy, unlike disappointment, was often fleeting.
But Mr. Penn, Anisha darkly considered, had wed a sprightly chit of less than half his fifty-odd years who had proceeded to bear him eight children about as fast as other women tatted cushions. It did not seem to Anisha as if he had suffered too many disappointments in that regard.
On a sudden surge of bitterness, she tried to snap open her letter for the umpteenth time, but the paper had by now gone limp.
Behind her, Janet made a tch-tching sound. “Chin up, ma’am.” Her voice was sharp, as if she spoke to a child. “I’ve got to get this mess of hair put up before the carriage comes round, or you’ll be late.”
Anisha jerked her eyes up from the letter. “I’m sorry?”
In the mirror, Janet held her gaze steadily, one of the hair combs poised high. “Lady Anisha,” she said in mild exasperation. “You can keep readin’ that thing ’till the chickens roost, and you know not a blessed word of it’ll change.”
Anisha’s lips thinned. “I do hope, Janet, that you have not been reading my post.”
Janet stabbed in the comb. “No need, ma’am,” she said. “That’s laid on your dressing table four days now, and I know Lazonby’s hand, for it looks like wild monkeys trained him penmanship. And as to what’s in it—” Here, she paused to twist one rope of hair elaborately around another, then softened her voice. “As to what’s in it, my lady, well, I can guess as much, I daresay, from the look in your eyes.”
Anisha folded the letter, drew it smooth between her fingers, then gently laid it down. “That obvious, am I?”
“Well, I have known you, my lady, since coming out to India twenty-some years ago,” said the maid, calmly drawing up the rest of Anisha’s hair a long, even brushstroke. “Serene as pond water, you were, even as a wee girl.”
“Was I?” Absently, Anisha fiddled with Janet’s dish of hairpins. “I can’t recall.”
“Oh, I’ll never forget.” Janet began deftly twisting the length of Anisha’s hair into an elegant coronet. “What a proper little Indian lady you looked in your bright silks, with that skinny spine straight as a stick and your manner so calm. Like an exotic duchess, you were. Even Captain Stafford, God rest him, and those two hellions upstairs couldn’t throw you out. But Lazonby? Now he agitates you, ma’am, and always has. ’Tis a bad sign, that, when a man can knock a steadfast female all a’kilter.”
Anisha made a pretense of poking about in the dish, biting hard at her lip so as not to cry. “Do not feel sorry for me, Janet,” she warned when the urge had passed.
“Oh, Lord, I don’t!” said the maid around the hairpins she’d just tucked between her lips. “You’re a rich, beautiful widow with a family that loves you—even if they do take advantage of your good heart. And if Lazonby don’t want you, ma’am, someone will.”
“Janet, really—!”
But Janet ignored her disapprobation. “No, my lady, ’tis Lazonby I feel for, and no mistake,” she continued. “Never saw a handsomer, more twisted-up sort of fellow. Oh, bless me—!” Stabbing a pin into place, Janet rammed a hand into her pocket and began rummaging. “Speaking of letters, Higgenthorpe gave me this. Then Tom chased that squirrel in through the conservatory, and Silk and Satin set off after it and I reckon my mind went skittering after ’em.”
“The morning post?” Anisha caught Janet’s gaze in the mirror as another letter was passed over her shoulder.
“No, that Mrs. Rutledge’s footman brought it,” said Janet. “T’will be good news, I pray.”
Anisha prayed so, too.
She had confided Luc’s indiscretion to Janet. Despite Anisha’s halfhearted accusation about Rance’s letter, she knew Janet was trustworthy to a fault. And Anisha had needed a second set of ears to guard against servants’ gossip—of which there had been none, thank God.
Swiftly, she opened the letter and let her eyes sweep down it before placing it facedown on her dressing table, relief washing through her.
It was precisely what Frederica Rutledge had led Anisha to expect: a polite but carefully veiled refusal of Luc’s offer, saying that the family feared he was too young and Lucy too headstrong to make a happy marriage, and expressing the Rutledges’ warmest wish of seeing them both today.
It seemed Mrs. Rutledge had indeed been able to somehow smooth the matter over with her husband. Lucan had been saved, through no effort of his own, from an early marriage.
And Miss Rutledge had been saved from Lucan.
Despite her own personal despair, Anisha was grateful. “It is good news, Janet,” she said quietly. “Lord Lucan has escaped the parson’s grasp. He has been lucky indeed.”
“Aye, and learnt a lesson, ’tis to be hoped,” said Janet darkly. Suddenly, her expression brightened. “Oh! Speaking of lucky, my lady . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was
just wondering.” Janet colored a little as Anisha watched her in the mirror. “Might I trouble you again? About my stars and such?”
“Jyotish?” Anisha hardened her stare. “Janet, what are you up to?”
“The Plate, ma’am. ’Tis this Thursday.” At Anisha’s blank stare, she added, “At Epsom? The horse race?”
“Oh, Janet, for heaven’s sake.” Anisha looked at her askance. “You know I do not care for gambling.”
But when Janet’s face fell, Anisha relented and spun half around on her dressing stool. “Oh, very well,” she said impatiently. “Just give me your hand.”
With a soft smile, Janet presented it.
Anisha took it and spread her fingers wide, lightly tracing the lines as she struggled to remember the maid’s particulars. “Such fine, long hands,” she murmured, tracing Janet’s heart line. “You are Mithuna ascendant, and so ruled by Mercury. Tell me about this race.”
“Well, it’s just the Grand Stand Plate, ma’am.” At Anisha’s blank look, she went on. “ ’Tis run every year. My brother—the one who buttles for Lord Sherrell—says his lordship’s to go, and he’ll place one bet for the both of us. We’ve only to agree upon the horse.”
“And who shall you choose?” Anisha asked, her attention fixed upon the palm.
“Jim—my brother—he says Idle Boy or Gardenia. But I thought perhaps Lord Chesterfield’s Sampson, seeing as you once told me S was lucky for me.”
“Usually, yes.” Still Anisha did not look up at her. “But no, none of those. And remember, Janet, the stars are never static, just as our lives never are. We are all of us—always—in a state of constant and fluid change.”
“Well . . .” said Janet pensively, “I wouldn’t know about fluids. But there’s always Lord Exeter’s horse—or one o’ them.”
“What is the horse’s name?” Anisha gently folded Janet’s fingers in.
“Hmm, let me think which was the S one—oh, yes! ’Tis Swordplayer.”
“Ah.” Anisha gave Janet’s fist a squeeze, and let it go. “Well. Have you the ruby chip pendant I gave you?”
“Yes, ma’am. In my room. But you told me not to wear it all the time.”
“Indeed, but you must put it on now,” said Anisha, “and wear it the rest of the week. Then tell Jim to place his bet on Swordplayer.”
“Really, ma’am?” Janet sounded in alt. “And will we win, then?”
Anisha’s smile was crooked. “Well, I believe life will fall into good order for you in the coming days,” she said. “That is all I can tell you. Now, you must on no account let on to Luc we had this discussion, for he’ll want me to—”
Just then, a knock sounded, and Luc himself dashed in, pinching a pair of waistcoats by their collars. Chatterjee stood behind him, his eyes catching Anisha’s in a speaking glance.
Luc, it seemed, was being a problem this morning.
“Which, Nish?” he said a little nervously. “I can’t decide. I don’t know why.”
Anisha turned her head so that Janet might insert the last comb. “You don’t know why you can’t decide?”
“Yes, precisely,” said the young man, one guinea-gold curl bouncing down the center of his forehead. “Almost precisely. I mean, I can’t decide whether to look dashing. Or dandyish. Or solemn. Or what.” Here he thrust the waistcoats forward in turn. “Gold makes my eyes more vivid, but the charcoal looks more sedate. Sedate might be good, I daresay?”
“And you wish to please the Rutledges?” Anisha murmured. “You might have thought of that three days ago, and worried less about your waistcoats.”
“Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it?” he said, the old bitterness edging back into his voice. “Good God, do you mean to flog me over this forever, Nish?”
But the young man, Anisha realized, had no conception of what forever felt like.
Forever felt like a life lived waiting on your father’s approval. A decade spent in a near-loveless marriage. A year wasted in wait of a kiss—or just a mere sidelong look of hopeless yearning.
Forever felt like her life.
Anisha felt the well of tears rush in again and was compelled to fight it down.
Something in her gaze must have softened Luc’s tone. “Nish, I’m sorry,” he said pleadingly, “for I know I’ve bollixed things up. But now I wish merely to make a good impression on Mr. Rutledge. Frankie Fitzwater said Rutledge was a sporting chap in his day, but not much of a blade—at least, not fashionwise . . .”
Anisha waved toward the charcoal. “Well, if he decides to run you through,” she managed, “it will be easier for Chatterjee to get the bloodstains out of that one.”
Luc groaned and flung himself onto her bed, sending Silk and Satin scattering. “Nish, good God!”
“Give me those,” Chatterjee chided, nearly tripping over the cats to seize the garments. “Didn’t I just press them? One cannot wallow about on good fabric like a pig.”
Anisha turned around on her dressing stool and regarded the both of them steadily. “Chatterjee, we will find Lucan a new valet soon, I promise,” she said. “One who will stay put this time.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Chatterjee sang as he vanished, “and cows will leap over the moon!”
“As to you, Luc, you may relax,” she dryly added, presenting the letter between two fingers. “Your suit of Lucy Rutledge has been politely refused.”
Luc sat abruptly upright from the bed, blinking. “Refused?”
Anisha twitched the letter by way of proof.
But a red flush was creeping over Luc’s face. “What, am I not good enough now?” he said, leaping up to snatch it. “What the devil does she want, then? A duke?”
“I cannot say,” Anisha murmured. “Perhaps she does not want a husband at all. Is that so inconceivable?”
“Or perhaps she just doesn’t want me,” said Luc indignantly.
Janet set the lid on the hairpins with a clatter. “No pleasing some folk,” she muttered.
“Apparently not,” said Anisha. “And the fact is, Lucan, Lucy Rutledge is too young to know what she wants. As are you.”
“Apparently,” said Lucan a little bitterly, “age hasn’t anything to do with it. Bessett seems to have had a devil of a time deciding what he wanted, and the man is all of thirty.”
“Lucan, that is quite enough,” she said warningly.
But the lad wasn’t finished. “And you, Nish, do you know what you want?” he demanded. “And if you do, why aren’t you fighting for it? Perhaps, had you done a little kissing and groping in the dark, you’d not be where you are now.”
“Oh?” Anisha rose in a rustle of champagne-gold satin, her voice cold. “And where, precisely, am I, Lucan?”
“On your way to lifelong widowhood,” he said sarcastically. “And to a wedding that could have been yours instead of Miss de Rohan’s had you played your cards with a modicum of bravado.”
Anisha felt herself trembling inside with a rage that was not entirely directed at her brother. “You, Lucan, do not know a bloody thing about me or what I want,” she retorted, resisting the urge to slap him. “You know nothing of the life I’ve lived. Nothing of what it means to be a wife or mother or even a widow, come to that. You are just a cocksure little fool who hasn’t the good sense to know the hell he just escaped. And now you dare to question the Rutledges’ judgment? Or mine? Well, be damned to you.”
Luc froze, his face instantly stricken.
They were likely the first curse words to pass Anisha’s lips—certainly the first aimed at her brother. But now that she had spoken them, Anisha felt a little more free. A little more empowered. And very, very angry—at Luc. And at Rance.
Damn it, she was tired of presumptuous men.
But Lucan was still staring at her. “Nish, please forgive me. I . . . I am sorry.”
Anisha snatched her shawl from the bed. “No, Luc, you are naïve, and without the sense to know it,” she retorted. “Now go get into your coat. We’ve a wedding to attend.”
Lord and Lady Bessett’s wedding was a garden affair at a massive old house in Wellclose Square, a neighborhood far to the east of Mayfair. The bride, attired in a boldly colored gown of red and white silk, glowed with happiness.
For his part, Geoff looked inordinately pleased. He kissed Anaïs de Rohan lingeringly on the lips amidst a skirling shower of apple blossoms as the Reverend Mr. Sutherland, proudly beaming, pronounced them man and wife.
And as Anisha watched, smiling in all the right places, she thought about Lucan’s accusation.
Had she been too passive? Had she not fought for what she wanted?
It felt to Anisha as if she’d been fighting the whole of her life. But fighting what? Her father? Her husband? Or just conformity, and the subservient role English society had cast her into?
Certainly she was not the bold and dashing Anaïs de Rohan. No, “serene” and “proper” had been Janet’s words. And in hindsight, they sounded so frightfully dull.
Perhaps—just perhaps—there was something in between proper and dashing? Some middle ground the formerly serene might occupy while they looked about for what they truly wanted out of life? Or perhaps Lucan was right. Perhaps it was simply better to gird one’s loins and fight. Today, somehow, that notion suited her.
Afterward, as the crowd melted from the gardens back into the house for a wedding breakfast, Geoff caught up with Anisha and companionably caught her arm in his. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for coming, Nish. This day would not have been as special without you here to celebrate with us.”
“It was my great—” Her voice hitched as Rance passed by, his face expressionless.
Geoff stopped and turned to face her. “Nish?”
She forced a smile. “It was my great pleasure,” she said, but the words came out a little husky. “Thank you for having us.”
Geoff cut a dark look at Rance’s back as he vanished into the shadows of the house. “Nish, what now?” he demanded. “Do I need to call the old boy out after all?”
