Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  No one at White’s could possibly have imagined such an end for him. He himself had always thought—

  “Milord,” inquired Fiona, her hand warm on his sleeve. “Is that Lord Byron? Down there in the pit?”

  He looked. “Yes, my dear.”

  “But is he so impoverished? That is, why does a lord sit down there? Why doesn’t he rent a box?”

  Her innocence was so refreshing. So like Katie’s. Strange, the memory of Katie no longer carried its heavy weight of pain. He could think of her almost with pleasure. “Of course Byron can afford better,” he said. “But he likes it in the pit. Says he can see and hear more.”

  She nodded. “Who’s that nice-looking young man he’s talking to?”

  He was instantly alert. “Don’t tell me—” If Caro was at it again. ... He searched the youth’s features, then relaxed. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Isn’t who?” Fiona asked.

  “It’s nothing, my love. I thought it might be Caro Lamb.”

  She frowned at him. “Why should you mistake a young man for Caro Lamb?”

  This was not a topic he wanted to pursue. He would have to learn to think before he spoke.

  She gave him a small smile. “Come, husband, you can tell me. After all, I’m a married woman.”

  He chuckled and patted her hand. He was fairly caught. And she was right. He might as well tell her. She would soon hear about it anyway. “Of course, my dear. Well, Caro used to masquerade as a youth. She dressed as a page and followed Byron about the city. I thought perhaps she was up to her old tricks again. But that is not her down there. Perhaps William has got her in hand. Fi­nally.”

  His wife’s beautiful forehead wrinkled into a frown. “She cannot help it if she loves Lord Byron. If she was forced to marry against her wishes—”

  “Forced?” He stared at her. She was carrying this love thing too far. “My dear, no one forces Caro Lamb to do anything. She wanted to marry William. And she did. Then she wanted to bed Byron—”

  “Please, Robert—”

  “Don’t look so shocked. You are the one who wanted to discuss such matters.”

  Fiona felt herself blushing again. He always seemed to be in the right. “Yes, well, let us talk about the play instead. Or rather, about Mr. Kean.”

  Her husband smiled. She liked his smile. Lately it had changed, had seemed softer and gentler. Sometimes it even seemed to reach his eyes. And perhaps he was right about Caro Lamb. Perhaps.

  “I would not interfere with your judgment of Kean,” he said. “Though I fear that inadvertently I have already—”

  The curtain went up. And there stood the cele­brated actor.

  “But he’s so little!” The shocked exclamation escaped her unawares, and caused startled glances from several nearby boxes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, mortified. “But he took me by surprise.”

  The earl smiled and leaned toward her. His warm breath caressed her ear and the memory of his kisses sent a frisson of delight skittering down her spine.

  “It’s all right, my dear. Everyone knows he’s lit­tle. But you’ll soon forget that.”

  She did not see how such a thing could be for­gotten. But since she’d already committed one faux pas, she kept her tongue between her teeth and turned her attention to the stage.

  And she discovered that Dreyford was right. When Kean spoke, his size became immaterial. Right before her eyes the man grew to heroic stat­ure.

  She sat fascinated, afraid to breathe for fear she would miss some special intonation, afraid to blink for fear she would lose some important piece of business. He was marvelous, he was—

  When intermission came, she expelled a great breath.

  “So.” Dreyford touched her arm. “What is your estimate of Kean’s performance?”

  “He’s magnificent, milord. Such power. His voice is like—like a musical instrument. And with it he plays upon our senses. And his eyes— So penetrating!”

  The earl smiled. “And in contrast to Kemble?”

  “The two are as different as night and day.”

  “And you prefer?”

  “Kean, of course.” She smiled at him. He was a good husband, one of the best. Maybe this was the time to ask him. But she hesitated. Perhaps it would be better to wait. Her idea needed some explaining. Better broach it later, after they had returned home and—

  She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks. Surely there was nothing wrong with a wife telling her husband things in their bed. It was a logical place to talk, an uninterrupted place.

  She turned her gaze to the pit where the dan­dies were on parade. One in particular caught her attention: a tall lanky fellow whose sky-blue uni­form was almost covered with gold braid. She watched him bend to talk to someone. And sud­denly the blood stood still in her veins.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be. But that man, the one the dandy had stopped to talk to— that man looked like Lonigan.

  And then he got to his feet and went out the aisle. She watched till he was out of sight.

  When the play resumed, she was still staring after him. It was all a mistake, she told herself. A trick of the light. She’d been thinking about Lonigan so much that she imagined she saw him. She would just forget the whole thing, put it from her mind.

  “Fiona. Fiona!” The earl repeated her name as though he’d already said it several times. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I—” To her surprise she saw that the play was over. “I am all right, milord. I was just— The play was so intense. The emotions so strong. I was still—thinking.”

  He nodded. “Do you wish to stay for the after­piece?”

  “I think not.” Seeing that man who looked so like Lonigan had been rather a shock. And her en­joyment of Kean’s performance had suffered for it. But she did not intend to let such wild imagin­ings spoil her plans for the rest of the evening. Her idea was important. She must make Dreyford un­derstand what it meant to her.

  Later, at home, they lay in peaceful silence, their arms around each other. Fiona savored the loveliness of it. To feel so cherished was special. The earl ran his fingers through the hair at her neck. “You have lovely hair. I shall buy you a dia­mond tiara to wear in it.”

  Now was the time to ask. She could not put it off any longer. “Please do not.”

  He raised an eyebrow and grinned. “How very strange. A woman who doesn’t want diamonds. Do not worry, my dear. I can well afford them.”

  “I know that. I only meant— Robert, I would rather have the money. For this project I have in mind.”

  He kissed her chin. “What sort of project is that?”

  She must do this right. It meant so much to her. “I want to open a shelter. For homeless dogs and cats.”

  His expression of surprise would have been amusing had she not been so concerned. The hours she had spent thinking and planning had made the shelter very real for her. She wanted it.

  She wanted it as she had never wanted anything except her homeplace.

  Finally he spoke. “My love, you have a tender heart. And I admire you for it. But, my dear, you cannot save the world.”

  She managed a little smile. “I don’t wish to save the world, Robert. Only a few poor animals.”

  His fingers moved idly over her arm, traced the curve of her elbow. “Who put this idea into your head?”

  “No one. It was mine. Well, Ben came to me this morning.” And there in the circle of his arm, she told him the story of the pups. “He was so sweet,” she concluded. “He said he wanted to be like you.”

  Dreyford registered surprise. He had never thought of himself as sweet. “Like me?”

  “Yes. You saved Lady Lucky. He wanted to save the pups.”

  He sighed. “And of course you told him they’d be spared.”

  Fiona nodded. “Of course. I’ll pay for their keep from my pin money.”

  He frowned. “And this shelter of yours? How do you propose to pay for it?”


  She turned pleading eyes on him. “I do not need so many new gowns. And I’ve plenty of jew­els. Oh, please, Robert. I have asked you for very little. Allow me this.”

  He sighed again. The puppies were no problem, of course. Ben was a good worker and deserved a reward. But this other idea . . . It was a ridicu­lous undertaking. The city was full of strays, human as well as animal. To endeavor to help them—

  From the rug by the bed came a soft whimper. There was no way Lady could understand what they were talking about—this dog who but for them would have been dead by now. And yet that whimper reached his heart.

  Perhaps Fiona was right. Perhaps it was better to do even a little than to do nothing at all.

  How they would laugh at him at White’s if they knew. Growing soft, they would say. And yet—

  “Very well,” he told her. “I’ll give you an al­lowance for this addlepated—”

  The rest of the sentence was cut off by his wife’s kisses. And very satisfying kisses they were, too. It seemed softness had its rewards.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Spring turned to summer. With Kitty’s help, Fiona found a building on Fleet Street and began getting it in shape. In early July they climbed into Kitty’s carriage after an exhausting afternoon there.

  Kitty sank down onto the squabs with a weary sigh. “Lord, I am tired. I’d better take a nap when I get home.” She made a face. “Imagine! Me tak­ing a nap in midday.” She laughed. “I cannot be getting that old. To think that I used to be able to dance all night. By the way, what are you wearing to Lady Heathcote’s ball tonight?”

  Fiona smiled. “Robert told me to get a new gown, something dazzling.” She looked at her friend. “Kitty, I don’t want to be dazzling.” She grimaced. “The doting mamas all glare at me as it is.”

  Kitty laughed, bright tinkling laughter that turned the heads of passing gentlemen. “Of course they do. You walked off with the best catch in town.”

  Fiona smiled. “Yes, I know. Best heart, best hand, best leg. He told me so himself.”

  “He didn’t!” Kitty grinned. “Of course he did. Robbie’s never been one to deny his own worth.”

  “So, what are you wearing?”

  Kitty shrugged. “I don’t know if we’re going. Lately Ginsfield has been feeling so poorly. We never know whether we’re going out till the last minute.”

  “I hope it is nothing serious.”

  Kitty smiled. “A little too much port is all. It makes his gout act up. Then he’s grouchier than a dowager with an ugly daughter. Pain makes my husband positively dragonish.”

  “Poor Kitty,” said Fiona. “I should not like to deal with a dragonish Dreyford.”

  Kitty stared. “You mean you have not argued? Not yet?”

  Remembering the connecting door, Fiona felt herself coloring. “We—we have disagreed about some matters. But we have not really fought.”

  Kitty shook her head. “I expect it’s because you always give way to him. My dear, you must re­consider this. You are setting back the cause of wifehood by such lily-livered behavior.”

  “But, Kitty, he agreed to the shelter.”

  Kitty chuckled. “Because he wanted to humor you. But he will not always be so soft. You must stand up for your rights. Believe me, you must. Of course, Dreyford will be a little harder to move than some. But don’t you give in. It never pays to let a man have too much power.”

  Fiona smiled. “Really, Kitty. I can’t think why you should give me such contentious advice.” She chuckled. “If I did not know you better, I should think you were trying to ruin my marriage.”

  Kitty laughed. “Now, if I were Roxanne, you might well be suspicious of my motives.” She frowned. “Speaking of Roxanne, has she been around lately?”

  “No, she has not called again.”

  The carriage had stopped in front of the house on Grosvenor Square. “Well,” said Fiona, step­ping down. “Thank you for your help at the shel­ter. I hope to see you tonight.”

  * * * *

  Lady Heathcote’s ball was a select affair. Only the elite of society were invited. But, Fiona re­minded herself, these were people, flesh and blood like any other. Wearing her new tunic gown of pale green over white, edged with a darker green Greek motif, and with the Dreyford emeralds gleaming at her throat, she leaned on the earl’s arm.

  Kitty was not yet there, but Roxanne had just made a grand entrance in a gown of silver lame cut so low that every gentleman she passed found his eyes inevitably drawn to its neckline. She moved with the sinuous grace of a serpent, touch­ing a sleeve here, a lapel there, leaving behind her a trail of smiling husbands and seething wives.

  She came toward Fiona and the earl, her red mouth forming a seductive smile. “Lovely party, isn’t it, milord?” she said, reaching a white-gloved hand toward Dreyford’s sleeve.

  Fiona pulled his arm away, tucked it through hers. “Yes,” she said. “A lovely party. Robert,” she continued sweetly, “I believe Lady Jersey is motioning to us.”

  Lady Jersey had not gestured to them, of course. But she was pleased to see Dreyford ap­proach her, as any woman would be. And while the two of them chatted, Fiona caught her breath and looked around.

  Not five feet away stood a dowager whose os­trich plumes waved madly above a bright purple turban and whose bosom sported enough dia­monds to float a small navy. Over there were two more of the patronesses from Almack’s, cozily chatting, and deciding which people to allow into their choice establishment and which to exclude.

  And crossing the room came Lord Byron him­self, clad in very broad trousers, to hide his de­formed foot no doubt, black coat and waistcoat, and a narrow white cravat. Up close he was even more attractive. With those beautiful black curls and dark soulful eyes he was a man to turn a woman’s head. And he obviously knew it.

  Still, Dreyford was more handsome. Actually, Dreyford was better-looking than any man in the room. And his clothes were superb. His corbeau-colored coat and breeches were spotless and wrinkle-free. His cravat was shining white and intricately tied. He was the epitome of Beau Brummell’s well-dressed gentleman. And she was his wife. She could not quite forgo a feeling of in­tense satisfaction. She had married the man all London had been after. Why shouldn’t she be glad about it?

  While she was congratulating herself, a wisp of a girl paused in the doorway and stood gazing at Byron. Her eyes were huge, rimmed by dark cir­cles and set in a small heart-shaped face that even among these powdered ladies looked pale. Short hair curling around her face gave her a curiously boyish look. And a white muslin gown that on Roxanne would have been shocking, on this young woman only made her look like a sad little girl playing at grown-ups.

  At Fiona’s side the earl groaned. “Oh, no. Why did she come?”

  Fiona turned. “Dreyford, what is it?”

  “Caro Lamb’s here. I certainly hope she be­haves.”

  His choice of words seemed strange. Why shouldn’t a lady behave?

  But Caro Lamb moved on, away from Byron, and Fiona, looking about for Kitty, ceased to think about the scandalous pair.

  She and Dreyford had reached the dining room door when a cry rang out behind them. They turned, of course, but because of the press of peo­ple, they could see nothing.

  “Wait here,” Dreyford said, but she shook her head. So when he made his way back into the other room, she was at his side.

  “My God!” Dreyford cried. “The woman is mad. What a thing to do.”

  Fiona’s hand went to her mouth. There on Lady Heathcote’s elegant Persian carpet lay an uncon­scious Caro Lamb. Drops of crimson stained her white gown. By her side knelt several men. But Lord Byron was not among them.

  While the men used napkins to staunch the blood welling from Caro’s limp white wrists, Byron stood alone, his face whiter than his gleaming cravat. “She broke the glass,” he was saying to anyone who would listen. “Broke it and cut her wrists.”

  “You poor man.” Roxann
e rushed to his side. “What a horrible thing for you.”

  For him! Any sympathy Fiona might have felt for the man was instantly obliterated. How could Roxanne be so heartless! And Lord Byron! The woman who loved him was lying unconscious on the carpet and he was lapping up that harpy’s sympathy.

  With a murmur of disgust Fiona dropped Dreyford’s arm and hurried to Caro’s side. Heedless of her new gown, she knelt to take the frail body into her arms. “Here now,” she soothed, comfort­ing this young woman as she might have com­forted a distraught Constance. “It will be all right.”

  Caro’s eyelids flickered and opened. Such a look of gratitude was in those eyes. Fiona felt the tears coming and blinked them back. Caro’s lips formed a word. Fiona bent to hear it. “Stay,” the lost soul pleaded. “Stay—with—me.”

  “Do not worry,” Fiona reassured her. “I shall stay as long as you need me.”

  Just then Dreyford reached her side. She felt his hand on her shoulder, heavy with disapproval. And his voice held the same. “Fiona, come. Leave her to the others.”

  She shook her head. “Robert, I cannot. Let me stay with her till the physician comes. Please.”

  He frowned. “Fiona, this is not seemly. Can’t you see? No other women have come to her aid. You must listen.”

  Fiona wanted to please him. And it was true, the other women in the room were all busily oc­cupying themselves with something besides the stricken young wife. These men were obviously competent. Maybe she should . . .

  From across the room came Roxanne’s dulcet tones. “Yes, of course, that’s Dreyford’s countess. She must be excused. First it was homeless dogs. Can you imagine? And now it’s Caro Lamb. But then, poor Fiona’s from the country. She doesn’t know any better.”

  Fiona, who had been about to rise in response to Dreyford’s look, clasped the injured young woman more tightly to her. “I cannot leave her,” she whispered fiercely. “She needs me.”

  Dreyford swallowed a curse. These society people could not understand such tender­heartedness. In a twisted way Roxanne was right. By her kindness Fiona was making herself a laughing stock.