by M C Beaton
He realized that Percy and Lord Werford were eyeing him narrowly. Now was not the time to dream.
“We do not think you should come here again,” said Lord Werford. “But you will meet us at Giles’s coffeehouse in Cheapside tomorrow at noon; we will have found out by then the duke’s movements. Do not fail us.”
“I won’t fail,” said Sir Gerald cheerfully. He could not think of anything much other than the money in the huge wallet on his lap. The rudiments of conscience stirred somewhere within him, but he knew from experience that a good bottle of brandy would soon put paid to any unmanly qualms.
When he returned to his lodgings, it was to find a terse note from Lady Macdonald, demanding that he present himself at her box at the opera.
He wondered whether to ignore it or go and tell her that that particular game was at an end. But after some thought, he realized he needed her help. Alice and the duke must be kept apart at all costs. If Alice became pregnant, it would mean the awful Werford would expect him to murder her as well. And I don’t hurt ladies, thought Gerald sanctimoniously as he called for his man to lay out his evening clothes.
When he got there, the opera was ablaze with lights. He sat in the back of Lady Macdonald’s box and waited for the interval. Catalini was singing, and apart from reflecting on the fact that the diva received two hundred guineas for each performance and that she was so popular that she was about the only performer who could reduce society to a respectful listening silence, Gerald waited patiently, unmoved by the golden voice from the stage.
Madame Angelica Catalini’s voice was first noticed at the early age of twelve when she was in the convent of St. Lucia, at Gubbio, in Italy. At the age of fifteen, due to her father’s financial ruin, she was compelled to leave the convent and earn a living on the stage. At the age of sixteen, she made her debut at Venice, in an opera by Nasolini, and afterward sang at Florence, at La Scala in Milan, at Trieste, Rome, and Naples. Her fame got her an engagement in Lisbon, where she married Monsieur Valabregue, a French officer. Finally after Madrid and Paris, she came to London in 1806 and speedily became the rage. She was unwittingly the cause of the Old Price Riots. The theater raised its prices, stating that this was because they also had to pay Mrs. Siddons fifty guineas a performance as well as pay the opera singer’s high fees, and that the theater’s insurance premium was high, but the mob went wild, forgetting about Mrs. Siddons and blaming Catalini, the foreigner, for the increased prices. The riots went on for months. Their other grievance was that some of the public boxes had been made private. This they said was pandering to the vices of a decadent aristocracy. The riots went on until both sides, the law and the mob, became weary of them.
While Gerald sat in impatient indifference, Catalini sang on to a hushed house, as if she had never been the center of any riot or strife, and the days when the loud voices from the pit calling out, “No foreigners!” were, on this fashionable evening, definitely a thing of the past.
At last the interval came. Lady Macdonald was not alone. She was accompanied by a tired-looking, middle-aged Scotchwoman, some dusty relative, Gerald correctly surmised, who had been dug out of mothballs to give the dashing widow a spurious air of respectability.
“I want to speak to you in private,” he murmured.
Her cold eyes surveyed him. “Take me for a walk,” she said, “or we will be interrupted by my courtiers.”
They promenaded along the alley at the back of the boxes. “Now,” said Lady Macdonald sweetly, “I assume you are here to pay me my money back.”
“If you mean the Taylors’ ball, that was your scheme and I am not to blame if it did not work,” said Gerald. “Why so bitter? Did Ferrant give you your marching orders?”
“Ah, yes, he is become quite the puritan.”
“Courage, my beauty. The game is not over.”
They fell silent as a couple approached them. Gerald bowed and Lady Macdonald curtsied, and then, as soon as the couple had passed, Gerald said, “If Ferrant believed his little wife to be still enamored of me, you could have him back.”
Lady Macdonald looked at him scornfully. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“We gossip, beloved. A little word here, a little sigh there. Now the duchess has a friend in Lucy Vere, who increases daily with child. Women in such a condition are easily prey to fancies. Her husband is a bosom friend of Ferrant. We do not gossip to Mrs. Vere direct, mark you, but discreetly to one of her friends. Mrs. Vere will confide in her husband. He might say something to Ferrant.”
“The duchess will deny all.”
“As she would if she were guilty,” he said smoothly.
She tapped his arm with her fan. “You are a wicked man, Sir Gerald, but I confess you have put me in a good humor. Go ahead with your plan. You gossip on your side and I will confide in Mrs. Tumley, who is a friend of Lucy Vere’s and a gossipy rattle if ever there was one.”
He smiled to himself. Alice, hurt and rejected by her husband, would be all the readier to fall into his arms after the duke’s death. He realized with surprise that he was contemplating this murder without a qualm and felt extremely powerful and Machiavellian.
Alice was beginning to feel at ease with her husband for the first time. He laughed at the Irishmen’s tall stories and capped them with some of his own. They had a pleasant supper in the Star and Garter at Richmond, sitting in the bay of the window and watching the Thames, silver in the moonlight, flow past.
When it was time to leave, he suggested to Alice that, as he was driving them, she might like to accompany him on the box. Alice was helped up onto the high perch while Mrs. Duggan and the two gallants climbed inside. The duke tenderly wrapped Alice in an enormous bearskin rug despite her protests that the night was fine and warm. The drive home was exhilarating for Alice as they raced through the moonlit countryside. She was very aware of her husband, of his long, white hands on the reins, of the muscled strength of his legs on the spatterboard. She stole little glances at his high, strong profile, and once, when he turned his head and smiled down at her, she felt strangely breathless.
They deposited Mrs. Duggan at her home and then took Lord Dunfear and Mr. Donnelly to their lodgings before going home themselves. Ostlers came running around from the mews to seize the horses’ heads. The duke climbed down and then lifted Alice down, holding her briefly in his arms before setting her on the ground.
For the first time they walked up the staircase together until they reached the landing, where their ways divided. Alice turned to go to her own apartments and then turned back and held out her hand.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ferrant,” she said shyly.
He took her hand in his. “My name is John,” he said.
“Thank you, John.”
He turned her hand over and slowly undid the little buttons at the wrist of her glove, then drew off the glove and bent and kissed her wrist. His lips were warm. He then straightened up and looked into her eyes. Her face in the shadowy landing looked young and soft and her eyes enormous.
He placed both his long hands on either side of her face and bent and kissed her, his mouth now firm and hard, pressing down on her soft lips, which trembled under his own.
He sighed against her lips and wound his arms about her and lifted her up against his body. The rigid spasm of fear that had gripped her when he had first begun to kiss her, obscure, half-remembered memories of what men were supposed to do to women flooding her brain, ebbed away. There was nothing threatening in his kisses. She hoped naively he was enjoying himself. It was a bit suffocating, but provided she kept her nose to the side so that she was able to breath, she would be all right. She supposed he would soon carry her off to bed and do whatever it was that gentlemen did that every woman was supposed to grit her teeth and endure, and that would be a great pity, for she was reading a fascinating romance and had promised herself the luxury of a few chapters before falling asleep. Then there was Oracle to pet and talk to. He released her lips and set
her down and stood back a little, surveying her. Alice felt sure she should say something or other, but she felt very embarrassed. She shuffled her feet and looked at the floor.
He put one long finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “Go to bed, Alice,” he said quietly. “I’ faith, you are very young.”
Alice bobbed a quick curtsy and escaped to her own quarters. She had told Betty not to wait up for her and so, as she got ready for bed, she chatted to Oracle about the evening in Richmond; the bird replied with squawks as it hopped about the room, glad of this temporary freedom from its cage.
Alice got into bed and reached for the romance she had been reading. She read on until the hero rescued the heroine from the dungeon of an Italian castle. He clasped her in his arms and kissed her, and she swooned with emotion. Alice put down the book with a little frown. Perhaps Ferrant had expected her to swoon. What of all that tremulous love she had felt for Sir Gerald? But when she had thought of him and being married to him, she had thought how jolly it would be when they set up house together. Gerald had never kissed her. He had been about to when the duke had come upon them in the rose garden. The duke smelled of clean starched linen and lavender water. Gerald had smelled of brandy, sweat, and tobacco.
If only she had not been so frightened, she was sure she would have enjoyed his kisses. He should have tried harder and longer. He was disappointed in her. He had said she was very young. Perhaps she should have shown more sensibility. But ladies were never supposed to show any passion whatsoever, only sluts did that, or so Alice had been told by parents and governess alike. But it was surely very ungenerous to be kissed without some answering show of affection. Alice wrinkled her brow. She would need to instigate the next kiss, and that would make things even.
She had half forgotten this resolve when she went down for breakfast. She never breakfasted in her room, always preferring to be up and downstairs at an hour that society would consider sadly unfashionable.
She was startled to find her husband in the breakfast room and nearly stammered out an apology and retreated before she remembered that they were supposed to be on good terms. Then she remembered her resolve to kiss him. It was difficult to see how she could manage it because after a murmured, “Good morning,” the duke had sat down at the table and barricaded himself behind the Morning Post.
Alice helped herself to tea and toast, thinking that the sooner she kissed him and got it over with, the sooner she could feel easy in her conscience. But she could not kiss him through a newspaper. He was in riding dress while she was in her undress—wrapper, lacy nightgown, and frilly nightcap—and she felt at a sartorial disadvantage.
“Ferrant,” she ventured.
“I told you to call me John,” came a voice from behind the newspaper.
“I have something on my conscience… John.”
He put down his newspaper and watched her, his eyes guarded. She was looking exceptionally beautiful with her auburn hair cascading down her back and with her thick-fringed hazel eyes regarding him so seriously.
“I suggest you unburden yourself,” said the duke politely.
“I feel when you kissed me last night that I was lacking some necessary warmth,” said Alice.
“You were, indeed,” he said amiably. “But such things cannot be forced.”
“The willingness was there,” she said seriously. “I am not practiced, you see. I was reading this amazing book, and when the hero kisses the heroine, she swoons from an excess of emotion.”
“The sad fact is that I do not wish you to manufacture feelings you do not have,” said the duke.
“I think it is nerves,” said Alice firmly. “Yes, that must be the case. For we have been enemies and now we are suddenly friends, you see, and so my feelings perhaps have not caught up with the new circumstances of our relationship.”
His eyes flashed with amusement. “Do you plan to do anything to alter your feelings?”
“Oh, yes, for that would only be fair. I really think I ought to kiss you, Ferrant… I mean, John.”
“Had you any particular occasion in mind?”
“Perhaps now would be a good idea… and then I could get finished with it and feel comfortable. The servants do not trouble one at breakfast.”
His eyes mocked her. “I am on this side of the table, my heart, and you are on the other.”
“Well, then,” she said bravely, “I shall rise and come to you, John, if you will take the trouble to stand.”
The duke dutifully stood up.
She walked round and looked up at him towering over her. Then she turned and stooped and picked up a footstool, placed it between them, and stood on it. “Now what?” he asked, his eyes dancing.
“If you would please close your eyes, I would not feel so self-conscious.”
He closed his eyes.
She put her little hands on either side of his face, copying his actions of the night before, and pressed her mouth to his. Good heavens, he thought, half-exasperated, half-amused, I swear the minx is timing this kiss so that it is exactly the same as I gave her. He slid his hand under the heavy masses of her hair and caressed the back of her neck. Alice began to sense a warm, drugged feeling coursing through her body. Perhaps she should put her arms around him. And then she forgot about everything but that mouth now pressing hard and searching on her own. Everything became sensation and sweetness and longing.
The door opened and Hoskins, the butler, walked in. The couple broke apart. Hoskins quickly withdrew.
Alice stared up at the duke in a drowned way. Now, he thought, now I should scoop her up in my arms and take her to bed. There came a scratching at the door. “What is it?” called the duke angrily.
“Mr. Vere is called,” came the butler’s voice.
“Damn. Edward. I had forgot. I promised to go riding with Edward.”
“Then you must go,” said Alice, stepping down from the footstool.
“But later we shall go for a drive in the Park. Are you free?”
“Oh, yes,” said Alice happily, not knowing what she was engaged to do that day but meaning to cancel everything.
He smiled and gave her a sudden last hard kiss on the mouth.
He and Edward rode easily under the trees on Rotten Row. Edward was wondering how to bring up the matter his wife had commanded him to interrogate the duke about. It had all happened at the ball after the opera the night before. Mrs. Tumley, a chattering matron, had sought out Lucy and the two had become engaged in conversation. On the road home, Lucy, in anguish, had told him that, according to Mrs. Tumley, Alice was setting out on an affair with Sir Gerald, had been meeting him in secret, while the duke intended to get a speedy divorce and marry Lady Macdonald.
When at last they reined in, Edward said cautiously, “How is Alice?”
“Blooming, my dear Edward.”
“Never asked you before,” said Edward awkwardly, “but I feel things got off to a bad start with that cursed bird at the wedding.”
The duke looked at him shrewdly. “What’s this all about, Edward?”
“Nasty gossips are plaguing my Lucy with the intelligence that Alice is enamored of Sir Gerald and has been seen with him and—”
The duke spurred his horse and set off like the wind. Cursing, Edward followed, not catching up with the duke until the far side of the Park. The duke reined in and patted his horse’s neck. “Never again, Edward,” he said evenly, “relate any gossip about me or my wife to me again. Is that understood?”
“Of course, of course,” said Edward hurriedly. “Dashed sorry. It’s Lucy’s condition. Everything upsets her.”
Chapter Six
Alice passed the time, waiting for her husband to arrive to take her driving in the Park, by reading a magazine. In it a writer had satirized the diary of a woman of fashion that led Alice to think that she herself led a remarkably staid life.
Dreamed of the captain—certainly a fine man—counted my card money—lost considerably—never play again with the
dowager—breakfasted at two… dined at seven at Lady Rackett’s—the captain there—more than usually agreeable—went to the opera—captain in the party—house prodigiously crowded—my ci devant husband in the opposite box—rather mal à-propos—but no matter—telles choses sont—look into Lady Squander’s rout—positively a mob—sat down to cards—in great luck—won a cool hundred of my Lord Lackwit, and fifty of the baron—returned home at five in the morning—indulged in half an hour’s reflection—resolved on reformation, and erased my name from the Picnic Society.
Alice laughed at the last line of this satire. The Picnic Club was that most reputable of institutions, engaged as it was in musical performances and amateur theatricals. The lady of society had chosen the most respectable of interests to forego in the name of reformation.
Her husband walked into the room and she ran to him, laughing, and showed him the article. “Correct in every detail,” he said sourly, glancing through it, “down to the bad French. If society women insist on larding their conversation with French, why cannot they at least learn to speak it properly?”
“Tish! It is not just Englishwomen but Englishmen who are deficient in that respect,” said Alice. “Englishmen who go on the Grand Tour are well versed in Ancient Greek and Latin but not in any of the languages of the countries they must pass through. They leave all knowledge of foreign languages to their couriers.”
“Ah, yes, Sir Gerald Warby has been on the Grand Tour, I believe,” said the duke.
Alice blushed fiery red in anger and embarrassment. She thought all that nonsense had been resolved. But the duke saw that blush and put it down to guilt. He had never been jealous before and wondered why he could hardly control his own sour anger. From upstairs came banging and clanging as the decorators continued their work on the drawing room. He had a sudden urge to say that he liked his house as it was and would she please leave it alone, but the pettiness of that thought brought him somewhat to his senses.
