by Lily Dalton
Jackson grinned. “Expensive.”
“All for a necessary cause.”
Money. Lord knew he still had plenty of that. He’d spent only a fraction of his Bengal fortune since returning to England two years ago. The resurrection of Bellefrost Manor to her former shine and glory had been no great expense, since she had not been overly grand to begin with. Yet to him and his family, she was priceless and they had continued to live there despite now being in possession of the much grander Champdeer estates, which earned enough in tenant rents to wholly support themselves.
Originally, he’d thought to bring his mother and father to town, along with little Michael, but he feared that in some way, his parents’ spirit had been forever broken by Laura’s death. The mother he’d once known would have grown giddy at the thought of suddenly becoming a countess, and of going to town for her first London season, and his father, while never impressed by a title, would have enjoyed days filled with scientific exhibitions and lectures. But they had declined, preferring to remain at Bellefrost with Michael, in the insulated world he had created for them. They were reasonably happy, of course. They did not live each day immersed in misery. Michael was a delight, for all of them, but at the same time a reminder of the injustice done to Laura. A grievous injustice that had yet to be set right.
His parents had long ago begged him not to seek revenge. Not because they’d forgiven whoever had dishonored Laura, nor forgotten. But because they feared losing him, too, perhaps to a duel or to some other violence or misfortune. Also, who would be there for Michael once they were gone? It had to be him.
So he hadn’t told them of his true intentions in coming here, and he’d promised not to stay long, saying that he intended only to take in a few weeks of the customary festivities. The opera. A gallery viewing. An agricultural lecture or two, but nothing else. After all, it wasn’t as if he was looking for a wife, because Sir Snaith had undergone a change of heart about the return of their lands. He was more than willing to overlook a little scandal in the Northmore family’s recent past, in exchange for a gentleman’s agreement that his young daughter would one day be betrothed to an earl, the earl of course being himself. Cormack was fully at peace with that future because by marrying the girl he would bring about the return of their ancestral properties and bring his world one step closer to being whole again, leaving only the mystery and injustice of Laura’s death to be resolved.
This new endeavor of taking a house in London would require that he write his parents a letter to advise them he intended to extend his stay. He would of course again invite them to join him. After all, whatever revenge he exacted would be of a private nature, so as not to distress them more. What he intended, even he did not know, but the man responsible would answer for what he had done. Cormack had committed murder in his mind a thousand times over, but would he kill the man who had shamed his sister if given the chance? He didn’t like to think about it. He only knew he wasn’t walking away.
“So, somewhere near Hamilton Place, you say?” Jackson grinned slyly, naming the square where Kate lived. He spread a piece of linen and laid out a shaving blade and leather strop.
He hadn’t said Hamilton Place, but Jackson knew him better than anyone else.
He shrugged and rubbed a cloth heated by the water over his face. “I liked the feel of it last night. It’s close to Hyde Park, where the Four-in-Hand Club gathers to show off to one another on Sundays, and there’s a few gentlemen in that club I’d like to meet.”
The Four-in-Hand Club boasted within its membership some of the most powerful titled men in England. They were competitive, and gamblers by nature. It only made sense that there might be members of the Invisibilis among them.
“Grosvenor Square is closer to Hyde Park. So is Berkeley Square, for that matter.”
“I don’t care for those areas quite so much.” It was not that he wanted to pursue a relationship with Kate. She’d made clear that couldn’t happen.
“No, I didn’t think you would.” In a circular motion, his manservant frothed the shaving lather in an earthenware mug. “While I’m off looking for a house, what do you intend to do?”
He set down the cup and lifted the blade, which he drew across the well-worn strop.
“Go to Savile Row, for bespoke clothes, then Tattersalls, where I’m going to purchase the most ridiculously priced horseflesh I can find.”
“Ah, a horse. After all, it is the attention of their lordships you wish to attract. Not the ladies.”
Or a lady’s maid, for that matter. He had done his duty to Kate, and sent her some lovely flowers, in what he hoped would be perceived as a fond gesture of good-bye. Now he must focus on the reason he was here, once and for all. Still, the idea of catching a glimpse of Kate walking in the park with her mistress would be immensely satisfying. He’d like to know she was happy, or at least safe and content.
He rested his head back against the heated metal. “That newspaper says the Marquess of Rackmorton rides in the park each afternoon at six o’clock sharp. He’s the only Marquess of R-dom whom I can discern is aged in his early thirties.” He eased lower into the tub.
Jackson approached with the mug of shaving lather and chuckled. “Then I feel sorry for him.”
*
Two days later, Daphne sat in Lady Harwick’s new canary yellow barouche, with her mother and sister, as they entered the gates at Hyde Park Corner. Already a haze of dust hung over the park, with hundreds of carriages crowding the lane. As they traveled past, excitement rippled through the fashionable pedestrian crowd that lined the central thoroughfare, in the form of raised voices and movement. Faces turned and stylishly clad bodies—most of them fellow members of the ton—surged toward their vehicle, with all eyes greedily seeking them out with more than customary interest.
But as all ladies of their class would certainly do, the three of them maintained blasé expressions and pretended not to notice.
Yet Clarissa said between her teeth, with only the barest movement of her lips, “Why is everyone looking at us?”
Lady Margaretta tilted her parasol just enough to obscure her face from curious eyes, and with a tilt of her head inquired, “Neither of you have done anything that requires a confession to your mother, have you?”
I have, Daphne mentally confessed, and prayed the interest of the crowd had nothing to do with her dancing on a stage made from shipping crates, or traipsing about London with a handsome saltpeter merchant.
“There’s Havering,” murmured Daphne. “Ask him if my petticoat is caught on the outside of the door.”
Indeed, Lord Havering appeared on horseback to ride alongside the carriage.
“Ladies.” He tilted his hat, revealing a glimpse of ash-blond hair. They acknowledged him fondly, with Daphne reaching both of her gloved hands for his, which he gallantly turned, and pressed upon them an affectionate kiss.
“Hello, my dear,” he said to her.
“Hello, my dear!” she exclaimed.
“And good morning to my other dear,” he said to Clarissa with a bow of his head.
“And to you, Fox!” she replied.
The crowding on the road forced their driver to slow their barouche to a stop, and their handsome escort followed suit. Havering, or “Fox” as they called him, had been their neighbor growing up. Having long ago repudiated all ties to his scandalous scoundrel of a father, for reasons that were only ever whispered about, he had been unofficially adopted into the family.
All her friends asked why one of the Bevington daughters hadn’t snatched up the handsome Corinthian as a husband, but he was more like a brother to them all. Except for Sophia, perhaps? They had been closer than the rest, likely because of their proximity of ages, but Sophia had married the Duke of Claxton instead. Sophia had once confided to her sisters, under the strictest of confidences, that despite Wolverton’s affection for the young man, he had long ago warned Havering against making designs on any of his granddaughters. Sophia didn’t know
the circumstances of the prohibition, and none of them had ever pried for more answers.
They’d come to a consensus that perhaps it had something to do with Havering’s mother, who, according to the village gossips, had gone quite mad when he’d been just a boy, and died in an asylum within months of having been committed there. It was a sad and terrible story, and they supposed that because madness often repeated itself in families, their patriarch simply sought to protect his own. Whatever the case, Havering had never seemed anything but admiring of the old man, and the old man of him, and that was all that seemed to matter.
“Daphne,” Havering said. “Please tell me again on what night your debut ball will take place.”
Daphne straightened the seams of her glove, hoping her downward glance concealed her frown, and the faint shadows under her eyes. Her ball. She hardly looked forward to it, knowing that the most exciting man in London wouldn’t be there. No offense to Havering.
Cormack. She sighed inwardly, trying to ignore the sudden surge of longing that had only intensified in the days since they’d said farewell. In her mind he had come to represent a fascinating world of adventure, one that existed far and away from wallpapered drawing rooms, museums, and manicured parks and gardens. A place where young ladies such as she weren’t ever supposed to go.
For three nights she’d suffered the most intriguing and torturous dreams of him, and as a result hardly got any rest at all. The night before, for instance, she’d awakened just after midnight from the most sensual of fantasies, where they’d both been completely naked and making love in a field of flowers. Even now, their heady fragrance teased along the edges of her mind, along with the memory of the way he’d teased her breasts with their petals, before sucking all traces of the syrupy nectar from her aroused tips.
At one point, as she’d boldly stroked his male sex to attention, he’d been wearing a helmet like the Achilles statue, which she had found odd…but strangely titillating. Once awake, she’d been unable to return to sleep. She’d spent the rest of the night at her window, staring out over the city and wondering where he was, and hoping he was thinking of her. And replaying, again and again, every moment of the dream in her head. Just remembering brought heat to her cheeks, and a shameful wish to see him again.
“Daphne?” Havering was still there, waiting for his answer. “Are you all right? You look a bit feverish.”
“Two Thursdays hence,” she blurted.
“Invitations go out Tuesday,” added her mother.
Daphne remembered something just then that she’d intended to ask him. “Please tell me you intend to be my first dance. With Wolverton unable, and father and Vinson gone, I can think of no one else I’d rather it be.”
Cormack, her heart sighed. She wished it could be Cormack.
“To be honest, Wolverton had already spoken to me about it.” He reached to cover her hand with his own. “I’d be honored. You know you are like a sister to me.”
“Then it’s settled,” said Lady Harwick, who watched, misty eyed.
“About the invitations…” He leaned toward them and rested his forearm on the pommel of his saddle. “I’ve had three acquaintances in the last hour press upon me to use my influence to see that they are included on the guest list.”
Her mother smiled. “What a compliment!”
“And what a relief.” Clarissa relaxed into the seat. “For a moment after entering the park, we were concerned that we’d committed some dreadful faux pas, the way everyone went to chattering and staring. It is good to know we are still in good standing.”
Havering repositioned himself upon his saddle, unaware of the two Aimsley sisters, who at that very moment passed behind him in their carriage, gazing at him with the most fervent admiration—until their keen-eyed aunt leaned forward and, with her folded fan, smacked them both on the knee, to which they responded with squeals of outrage.
“Oh, Havering,” snorted Daphne, watching with unconcealed amusement over his shoulder. “I know who else will expect a dance with you. In fact, I must be on my guard that I am not shoved out of the way.”
Clarissa grinned. “Just think of the spectacle when he’s forced to dance with them both at once. I know for a fact that neither one is willing to settle for being second.”
“They’re behind me right now, aren’t they? The Aimsley sisters?” He grinned wickedly, and his eyebrows crept up. “You’ve invited them to your ball just to torment me.”
“Mother insisted,” Daphne confided playfully.
“I did nothing of the sort—at least not for that reason.” Lady Harwick smiled serenely, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “They are both delightful girls, just a bit overly enthusiastic in their admiration of you. How can I fault them for that?”
Their driver lowered his cane, and the barouche again moved forward.
Havering gathered his reins, and rode along beside them. “It has been lovely speaking to you ladies, but I have an appointment, and must take my leave of you. Oh, but one final thing. You mentioned the reaction of the gallery when you rode into the park today. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but word on the vine has it your daughters have been declared, by those revered authorities who do all the declaring, to be the season’s Incomparables. Note the plural.” He grinned. “Two sisters. When has that ever happened before? I say congratulations, to the three of you, and to Wolverton.”
Daphne glanced toward Clarissa, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
With a touch of his finger to his hat, and a kick of his heels, Fox cantered ahead.
“What wonderful news,” declared the viscountess with an exuberant smile—one that instantly tilted into a frown. “What terrible news. While the distinction of being an Incomparable is indeed an honor, I had hoped this would be an enjoyable season for you both. Now everyone will scrutinize our every movement and word, down to your choices of dance partners. The smallest misstep will be spun into scandal. You know the ton. They thrive on spectacle, even if manufactured and untrue.” She sighed, closing her eyes. “Lord, I pray Mr. Kincraig does not humiliate us with any future drunken antics.”
The most recent, of course, had been two nights before when he’d been found in the fountain at Buckingham Palace, utterly sotted and wearing only a ballerina’s tutu. Or so she and Clarissa had overheard from the top of the staircase when the King’s Guards had delivered him to their home, with sworn promises of discretion. He’d been taken to one of the downstairs guest rooms to sleep his liquor off, but when Wolverton’s valet sought to attend to him early the next morning, he’d already taken his leave of the house. The whole incident had been such a disappointment to them all, when just the day before, according to her mother and sister, he had behaved so charmingly at the Heseldon ball.
“Ah, Mr. Kincraig. Well, then,” Clarissa murmured in a wan voice. “Consider me worried.”
“And I as well,” Daphne said softly, fretting silently over the word her mother had just said: scandal.
But not because of Mr. Kincraig.
What she, Daphne Bevington, had done three nights before had been more than just a small misstep. Yes, she’d gone to the Blue Swan for Kate, but hadn’t she owed as much loyalty to her own sister, whom she held so dear? If word of her appearance on the stage of the Blue Swan became public knowledge, it would utterly destroy her younger sister’s chance for a respectable match. No venerable family would ever welcome her into their ranks.
Why hadn’t Clarissa been more foremost in her mind that night, balanced with her concern for Kate? She just hadn’t been thinking and now, in retrospect, she suffered beneath the weight of a crushing guilt. She had the sudden urge to throw her arms around her sister, and press a kiss to her cheek and tell her a thousand times that she loved her. But then she’d have to explain her sudden outburst of emotion, not just to Clarissa but to their mother, and she just couldn’t. Not yet. Perhaps years from now, when everything had turned out well after all, and they could both laugh about it.
&nb
sp; But for now, Daphne’s secret had driven an invisible and regrettable wedge between them, even if Clarissa didn’t realize. They’d always told each other everything. But though the words had been on Daphne’s tongue a thousand times in the three days since, she couldn’t reveal to Clarissa what she’d done. She refused to place that burden on her sister’s shoulders.
Just then, a horse caught her attention—a magnificent animal! A bay mare with black legs, unparalleled by any other creature on the path. She’d always loved horses, though she did not ride anymore, not since that day four years ago when her father had died.
Clarissa touched her arm, and stared in the same direction. “Daphne, just look at that gentleman. Isn’t he magnificent? Who is he?”
She pointed, of course, in the same direction as the horse Daphne had just been admiring.
Her gaze swept upward to deduce the identity of its rider, who sat tall and broad shouldered in the saddle, impeccably dressed in a dark blue riding coat and fawn breeches. The direction of the sun shone at such a slant as to hide the upper half of his face in the deep shadow created by his hat brim, but his mouth and chin—
That mouth and chin.
She turned her head sharply, concealing her face with the brim of her hat.
She’d recognize those lips anywhere. They’d kissed her. Turned her world upside down, and left her dangerously dissatisfied with the path her life was destined to take. Only a moment ago, she’d been aching to see him, but she’d never truly anticipated that she would.
Cormack. Here?
Of course he was. Hyde Park was public. Anyone could ride there. Oh, she couldn’t let him see her. If he recognized her and endeavored to speak with her, there would be a mountain of questions. Questions from Cormack and her mother and her sister, none of which she could answer.
She held her rigid pose several seconds more, fixing her gaze on the pleated blue ribbon at the edge of her hat brim, hearing her mother and Clarissa’s voices, but not comprehending a single word they said. One second, two seconds, three. There came no shout of Kate! nor the clip-clop of horses’ hooves beside the carriage. He hadn’t seen her, and he’d ridden past without stopping. She let out the breath she’d been holding and, with all discretion, glanced over her shoulder—
