by Tessa Candle
“Oh my. That is something.”
“I thought so, too.” Lydia looked down at the grass. “But I am not of the quality. Might he not be merely amusing himself with a meaningless flirtation?”
“It is not impossible. But although you have no claim to rank, his lordship’s manners should be dictated by the right customs of the nobility. Still, I do not know anything of his character, yet.”
“And we cannot assume,” added Lydia, thoughtfully, “that noble birth means gentlemanly conduct.”
Tilly's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Has Lord Aldley taken some liberties with you?”
“No, not at all. I mean, not Lord Aldley.” Lydia winced at the air of disappointment in her voice.
“I see. Well then, this is what you wished to tell me, I suppose.” Tilly gave her an alarmed look. “I should have let you speak first. Out with it.”
Lydia relived the shock, anger and mortification of Mr. Delacroix's affront as she relayed it to her friend. She also included the details of Mr. Delacroix's prior conduct outside her father's club and his forwardness when paying call the day after the Delacroix party.
She decided to omit the bits about her tree-climbing. In the end, she felt relieved to have finally told it all to someone.
“What shall I do, Tilly?”
“Well, first off, you must stop going about town unescorted.” Tilly furrowed her brows and shook her head. “I admit I was a little suspicious of the veracity of your note on that day you left us in the shops—though I was relieved you had made it home uneventfully. You and I have no title, no claim even to the ranks of gentle folk, and so we are a little more at liberty than ladies are, but there are limits. In some ways we are more vulnerable than ladies, and London is not a safe place for women in general. There is good reason for your mother's strictures on the topic.”
“Are you sure you are truly my friend, Tilly, and not some imposter? I should have thought you would be more sympathetic to my desire for liberty.”
“I am entirely sympathetic. But this is not the countryside, and you are no longer a child. London is a cesspool of crime and vice. If you have any interest in Lord Aldley, you must desist in conduct that can only result in the certain death of your chances in polite society, or worse, in the suspicion of your loss of virtue.”
Lydia was shocked that her carefree friend was suddenly so deadly serious.
“Very well. You have my word. I shall always have a servant with me, at least, and I shall avoid the alleys on Bond Street.” Then, noting Tilly's lifted brow, she added, “I shall avoid alleys altogether, and all streets entirely, unless I have a proper chaperone.”
“That will do for a start. But you must absolutely tell no one else of this effrontery. No good can come out of it.”
“Not even to warn Miss Dervish?”
“No. It is too risky. And I think she may already be on her guard, for, according to your account of the ball, she disentangled herself from him with some haste.”
Lydia's brow creased. “But what of Mr. Delacroix? What shall I do about him?”
“Never permit yourself to be alone with him again. That means you must avoid being alone, even at safe social gatherings in respectable homes, if there is any possibility that he might be present. I also think it advisable that you have both a man and a maid servant with you whenever you set a foot out of doors, unless your father should accompany you. I am developing a rather dim theory of what Delacroix's interest in you might be, and I suspect it is more than mere dalliance that would tempt him into such bad ton as invading Lady Goodram's ball by stealth.”
“Do you think he is fortune hunting?”
“I do, indeed.” Tilly's face was very serious again. “His family has some small fortune, but of course his elder brother, the viscount, holds the purse strings. It can be rather hard for younger sons, particularly if they enjoy gambling for high stakes. But I do not think you were his principle prey, as he approached Miss Dervish first. I believe your encounter with him was the product of opportunity, rather than design.”
“Yes, I take your point.”
“Still, he is acting somewhat desperately. I should think that fox will spring on whichever duck first steps out of the pond.”
“That is a flattering metaphor.” Lydia feigned an offended look.
“I am pleased you think so. But, upon reflection, perhaps I should have said goose.” Tilly was unrepentant.
Glad to have the serious mood dispelled, Lydia picked a weed and threw it at her friend.
“Such uncivil conduct will never win you an earl, you know. And anyway—good Lord!” Tilly suddenly exclaimed. “Is that not the earl himself? What the devil is he staring up into that tree for?”
Lydia flushed a deep red. He could certainly see the tree house from that vantage point. “I cannot imagine. But I had rather not meet him just now. Let us turn back.”
Chapter 13
Aldley took in the view of the back gardens from his enormous picture window. He used to love playing with his father in their enclosure as a lad, and the yard at his London dwelling reminded him of it. A rope swing hung from a mossy tree.
He smiled when he remembered his father pushing him on just such a swing. The rope had been rotten when Aldley moved in, so he replaced it. Upon his return from Paris he had also replaced the deteriorating wooden seat, despite the fact that the swing was never used.
He chuckled to himself. If Miss Norwood were here, she might ask whether, if all the parts had been replaced, it was truly the same swing?
He wondered if Miss Norwood would like it. Would she enjoy swinging her little children there, laughing along with them as they experienced the exhilaration of near flight? Where had that thought come from? Aldley shook his head.
Why was he ignoring his guest and musing about a relative stranger? He should be thinking of his sister. He should never have let things get so far out of hand with her awful husband.
He turned from the window and went to the sideboard to pour dark rum into two heavy-bottomed cut crystal glasses. He handed one to Rutherford, who had slung his long body over one of the leather chairs. His friend took the glass gratefully.
“Cheers, Aldley.” Rutherford sipped the drink. “Mmm. This is my rum.”
“So it is. You have a most discerning palette. Have you heard anything from your connections in Venetia?”
“Not quite. It is too soon yet. My letters will have only recently arrived there. You should calm yourself.” Rutherford swirled his drink and admired the light passing through it from the window. “You have already provided adequate funds to your sister, so the worst of the problem has been attended to.”
“But the humiliation she must have suffered. I should like to lay a beating on that Essington cur. What kind of man leaves his wife and child without sufficient money to keep house while he is away, and with no reliable means of contacting him?” Aldley clenched a fist.
“Well, far be it from me to defend your mother's hand-picked pearl in the oyster of English nobility,” Rutherford rubbed an eyebrow idly, “but the address was reliable for the first few months.”
“That is not much of a defence, I should say.”
“No indeed. But we must not rule out the possibility that he is more a beefwit than a cad, and has merely got himself into some straits. I believe abductions are not entirely unheard of in some parts of that country.” Rutherford grinned.
“I should think someone would have received a demand for ransom, if that were the case. It is possible that he fell ill before he could send word of his new lodgings. Or...”
“Or he could be dead.” His friend's grin did not diminish.
“Indeed.” The thought had crossed Aldley's mind before.
“It is not Christian of me, but I confess I do not find that prospect entirely disagreeable,” added Rutherford.
“Nor I. To his health then.” They clinked glasses together and drained them. “This rum is heavenly, Rutherford. You shall
make a killing off of that cargo.”
“It is vulgar of you to say so, my lord, but I hope you are right. Then maybe you will permit me to renew my addresses to your sister, when her mourning is over.” Rutherford laughed at his own dark jest.
Aldley knew his friend was only joking, but the idea had some appeal. “You know you would have my blessing, Rutherford, though I believe I may demand those four greys as the bride price.”
“Much good it would do you, for you could never drive them. And I dare say your sister would not much care for your offering her hand in exchange for horse flesh, however sweetly they go.”
“But let us not be precipitous.” Aldley laughed along with his friend. “We have not found the wretch yet. And, as Lady Goodram advises me, weeds do not die.”
“A wise lady.” Rutherford drained his tumbler. “And did you enjoy her ball? You are of sturdier stuff than I. After our return journey from Essington Hall, I scarcely had time to swallow a bit of cold ham before I fell into a deep sleep—and I had not so recently made the crossing.”
“I only stayed for part of the first half and left before dinner, for which offence I shall owe that excellent lady a case of champagne in penance.”
“I hope that is not my case of champagne.”
“No, indeed.” Aldley stood to refresh his friend's drink. “You shall have yours tomorrow. I brought back about a ship full from France.” Aldley returned to staring out the window at the swing.
Rutherford interrupted his reverie. “I breakfasted with Frobisher, you know. He mentioned there was one young lady you danced with twice, though she is sadly bereft of the usual accomplishments of ladies.”
“She is not, in fact, even a lady, per se.” Aldley tried to look bored. “Is it not a little out of character for Frobisher to be gossiping like an old woman? What is his interest in this commoner with too little skill at needle work to meet his exacting standards?”
“As I said, his interest was in your having danced with her twice.” Rutherford pulled a stray hair off of his shoulder. “That is quite something for a man who did not stay through the first half. I dare say if you stayed for both you might have dined with her and managed six dances or perhaps even seven, and be well on your way to earning yourself a nouveau riche father-in-law.”
“Nonsense. If I had stayed for both, I should have paced myself.”
Rutherford's lip twitched. “Frobisher also mentioned that she was a tall girl with beautiful red hair and emerald green eyes. Not terribly fashionable, to be sure, but it puts me in mind of another commoner you once showed an interest in.”
“Oh, I was a mere lad then, a school boy imagining himself in love.” Aldley raised a disgusted brow at his friend's broad smile. “You think you are terribly clever and insightful, but the case is only this: I danced with her twice because she was interesting and more than a little pretty. That is all. I have scarcely thought of her since.”
“Fine, then.”
“It is only that, fashionable or not, I find red hair and green eyes alluring.” Aldley drained and refilled his glass. “Everyone has certain predilections, do they not? It does not mean they are entirely governed by them.”
His friend bowed assent, contriving only to smile blandly.
“Rutherford, I've changed my mind: I shall want the four greys and your barouche in advance, and my sister shall mourn for a full two years.”
His friend was seized with laughter, but raised his hand in protest.
“And one more word from you,” Aldley continued his proclamations, “and I shall take back the champagne.”
“That you have not yet delivered.” Rutherford's upper lip quivered.
Aldley ignored this last comment and stood. “Now, I have a matter to look into. I shall meet you at the club in two hours—that is, if you can stop giggling like a bacon-brained school lad and find your way to Pall Mall.”
“I believe I may be able to. Just.” Rutherford wiped his eyes.
When they met again at the club, Aldley was deep in thought. He scowled at the gleaming black oak table and downed a glass of brandy before commencing with his customary champagne.
Rutherford lit a cigar calmly as he sat down. “I shall assume from your demeanour that the matter you were looking into poked you in the eye.”
“You could say that.”
“What is it, Aldley? Is there some development in your sister's case?”
“No. Happily it has nothing to do with Elizabeth.” Aldley stopped scowling, but he did not look pleased.
“What then?” Rutherford exhaled a long plume of smoke.
Aldley's shoulders slumped. “I believe what most bothers me is not so much a connection to the persons who might be at risk, but a hatred for the villain in the case.”
“Your riddles are most theatrical. Pray, have another drink.”
Aldley laughed. “You are a deplorable friend to attempt to pry information out of me, and then ridicule the form it takes. But as you insist,” he downed a glass of champagne, “there, that is much better.”
“Can you not at least tell me who the villain is?” Rutherford snapped his fingers and fresh glasses of champagne were brought.
“Not here. But let us say he is a member of the ton who has recently given me several reasons, and in more than one country, to lay a beating on him.”
“This hasn't anything to do with a certain opera singer in Paris, has it?” Rutherford quirked a brow.
Aldley's lips flattened. “That is merely the first instance. And if it were only that he had preyed on her youth and inexperience, I could perhaps overlook it. It was her willing decision to consort with him after all. True, it irked me greatly to see her throw herself and her talent away on such a worthless man, but it was her choice. That much I do not hold against him.”
“Ah, then I know what man you are speaking of. When you wrote me of the business with Solange, I admit I doubted your being entirely neutral.” Rutherford looked Aldley in the face. “Forgive me. I see now that you were not in the role of a jilted lover.”
“No. Ours was a friendship, nothing more. When she took up with him, our acquaintance ended. But shortly after my return to London, I received word from my Paris solicitor that Solange, deserted by the villain in question, had died in childbirth in some squalid place. But she first sent word to the solicitor to contact me and plead for aid for her child.”
“He abandoned her entirely? He did not even establish a home for her and his expected child?” Rutherford procured more champagne.
“Yes.” Aldley sighed heavily. “I made arrangements to bring the infant to London. But the child was sickly and had died before I even replied to the first letter. I learned of this two days later.”
“A sad story. But you know that had you taken this child in, anyone who discovered the fact would assume it was yours.” Rutherford extinguished his cigar and slung his arm over the chair back.
“Certainly. But the indignity of gossip is a small thing to tolerate, really, where a greater purpose is served. To add to his offences, the man in question has affronted a lady of my acquaintance by slithering his way into a ball to which he was not invited. Happily, I was there to escort him quietly out. He was upon the point of giving me such an insult as could only result in my demanding satisfaction, but then he wisely walked away. I detest him, but I do not want his blood on my hands.”
“Yes. Quite. I am glad of it. I should rather not be your second and be forced to get up before dawn. That would be a grave injustice.” Rutherford smirked. “But these are all past sins, what has so recently soured your mood?”
“Suffice it to say that he has attempted to correspond with a young lady clandestinely and in language that could seriously harm her reputation, if discovered.”
Rutherford stretched out his long legs and slid into a proper slouch, sighing, “Well, is she involved with him?”
“I believe I came upon the note before she knew of its existence. I apprehend from the content t
hat she has already spurned his attentions on more than one occasion. His intentions are principally dishonourable, though marriage is no doubt his object. I understand she has a considerable fortune.” Aldley sunk into sullen thought for a few minutes.
“I suppose you cannot expose him without casting a shadow upon her, as well.”
“Indeed.” Aldley's brows knit together. “But I have been considering revealing the letter to her father, that he may at least be on his guard.”
“That seems a good idea.” Rutherford's face brightened.
“I am only concerned that seeking the acquaintance and calling on him will create a suspicion that I mean to court his daughter.” Aldley sipped pensively at his drink.
“Did you not just say that you would tolerate the indignity of gossip in the pursuit of a higher purpose?” Rutherford's smile was lopsided.
“This is an entirely different matter. The gossip would not only concern me.”
“I dare say a rumour that she were wooed by a respectable gentleman, an earl no less, could not hurt her reputation within the beau monde. Perhaps you are more concerned about being trapped?”
“Not at all. Still, it would be good to have some company and to go under some other pretext.” Aldley quirked an eyebrow at his friend.
“Well I love a bit of subterfuge. You may count on me. Anything to escape these tedious doldrums you have sunk into.” Rutherford clinked his glass against Aldley's.
“Excellent. I have just come across some information that might serve our purpose. As you know I have been looking to buy horses, and Lord Malcolm just told me that the father has expressed an interest in selling his hunter.”
“I had understood you were looking to acquire a team for a chaise?” Rutherford looked sceptical.
“Well, yes. But Lord Malcolm is a bit vague—he could as easily have recollected that I was looking to purchase a sheep. And there is no reason I should not enquire after a hunting horse.”
“No reason at all,” Rutherford coughed, “aside from the fact that you do not fox hunt, nor even ride properly. I concede you are a crack shot, my friend, but a hunter? I dare say you would have a better chance of staying on the back of the sheep. Lord Malcolm's whimsical memory has served you ill, I fear. But do not let me put a damper on your plans.”
