Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  Her eyes pleaded with him. And in that instant he realized that scandal and gossip meant nothing to her. In Caro Lamb she saw simply a creature in pain.

  But he didn’t want his wife comforting this woman. Caro’s ideas were too farfetched, never mind that she got them from William. A woman could not behave as a man did, running about freely, taking whomever she chose. It set a bad example. It was—it was indecent.

  He spied Kitty crossing the room toward him and moved to meet her.

  “Quite a spectacle,” she said, smiling at him.

  He frowned. “Yes, and my wife has to rush to the rescue.”

  Kitty chuckled. “It must run in the family. And she has infected me, as you know. But of course you started it.”

  As always, Kitty could make him smile, though this time ruefully. “I know,” he said. “But who would have thought it would lead to this? Kitty, please, get my wife to give this thing up. You know Caro can’t be good for her.”

  She patted his hand. “I’ll do my best. But Rob­bie, Fiona has a good heart. And you know, good-hearted people are the hardest to move.”

  “I have confidence in you.”

  She grimaced. “Let us hope it is not ill placed.”

  Fiona saw her husband and Kitty exchange looks. Why couldn’t the man understand about love? Caro Lamb, for all her infamous reputation, was still a human being. It could not be easy to be rejected by the man you loved, to be laughed at and insulted by people who were no better, and might certainly be worse, than you.

  Caro moaned and Fiona leaned closer. “What is it, dear?”

  “I love him so. But he . . .” And two great tears trickled down Caro’s pale cheeks to stain the front of her already ruined gown.

  Fiona said the first thing that came to mind. “He’s not worth it.”

  “Oh, but he is! He is worth . . . everything.”

  Yes, Fiona thought. She remembered how Lonigan had been everything to her. But Lonigan had been a good man. About Lord Byron she had her doubts, especially as he was now standing across the room, conversing with Roxanne as though nothing untoward had even happened.

  Caro fell silent then. William Lamb came up, his eyes grave. “Thank you,” he said to Fiona. “It was kind of you to help. The carriage will be out front now. I’ll take my wife home.”

  When her husband lifted her, Caro opened her eyes once more. “Come . . . see me,” she whis­pered.

  “Yes, yes, I shall. I promise.”

  Fiona stood up, her heart in her throat, unshed tears in her eyes. Caro’s husband seemed to love her. Yet Caro’s love was given to Byron, who did not love her. What a tangle life was. Why couldn’t the right people love each other?

  “Fiona.”

  She turned and there stood her friend. “Kitty, I see you got here.”

  Kitty nodded. “But evidently not in time for all the excitement.”

  “The poor thing. She loves him so.”

  Kitty frowned. “There are many kinds of love. Some are more destructive than others.”

  “Perhaps. But love should always be respected. It is so important.”

  Kitty sighed. “And what of marriage vows?”

  That was not a matter Fiona cared to discuss. She changed the subject. “I like her,” she said, knowing Kitty would raise an eyebrow. “She goes after what she wants.”

  Kitty shook her head. “She should have lis­tened to herself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When she first met him, Caro said Byron was mad, bad, and dangerous to know. And she was right.”

  “He certainly did not do anything to help her tonight. And did you hear Roxanne?”

  Kitty shrugged. “Forget Roxanne. Why should Byron get involved? He has made it quite clear that their affair is over. Caro is behaving stupidly, chasing after a man who no longer wants her.” Kitty sniffed disdainfully. “I should have more pride than that. You’d better not see her again. She’s bad business all around.”

  Kitty was probably right. Still, Fiona asked, “Where does she live?”

  Kitty frowned. “In Melbourne House with his people. Why?”

  “Because I mean to go round tomorrow to see how she is.”

  Kitty’s frown deepened. “Fiona, Dreyford will not like this. He will not like it one little bit.”

  “I know. But it’s no use, Kitty. This is where I take my stand.”

  “But that is foolishness. I did not mean any­thing like this.”

  Fiona smiled. “I know. But I do mean it. And no one can stop me.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Kitty with a sigh. “But I will tell you this. You are making a huge mis­take.”

  By the next afternoon Fiona was not so sure she should disregard Kitty’s advice. After all. Kitty did know a lot more about the world of the ton than she did. But she was genuinely worried about Caro Lamb and so, taking her meager cour­age in her hands, she ordered the carriage and set out.

  Melbourne House was quite imposing, but she did not allow herself time to admire the architec­ture. She descended from the carriage and went immediately to the front door.

  The butler was imposing, too, but he softened when she gave her name. “She’ll be glad to see a friendly face,” he whispered, before his own face reset into its stem mask. “Up those stairs, Lady Dreyford.”

  Caro was lying on the couch. She held a novel in one hand and a half-eaten chocolate in the other. “Oh, do come in,” she cried. “It will be lovely to have someone to talk to. Mama and Wil­liam have been positively fierce. Take off your bonnet and stay awhile. Do.”

  Fiona took a chair and removed her bonnet. She had expected a pale weak invalid, scarcely able to speak, and here was Caro, devouring choco­lates.

  “Help yourself,” Caro said, indicating the box. “They’re passable.” She smiled and her face became younger, softer. “You were so kind to me last night, Fiona. Everyone else . . .”

  She waved a hand and Fiona winced at the sight of her bandaged wrist.

  “Everyone else kept yammering about my fool­ishness.” And then to Fiona’s complete surprise, Caro Lamb actually grinned. “They are the fools, not to value love.”

  “But—” Fiona did not quite know how to talk to this fey creature. “But if he doesn’t love you . . .”

  Caro’s face darkened. “He loves me. He’ll re­member how it was with us. He’s—he’s a strange man. Secretive. Scarred.”

  “His clubfoot—”

  “No, no!” Caro waved a hand impatiently. “Not scars on his body. Scars on his mind. His childhood . . . his sister . . .” She sighed. “He has suffered and so he makes others suffer.”

  Fiona wished to dispute the sense of such ac­tions. Surely suffering need not be compounded in this awful fashion. But Caro’s eyes were grow­ing wilder, her gestures more violent. “Tell me,” Fiona said. “Did you really mean to—to—”

  “To kill myself?” Caro’s innocent expression was in such contrast to her words that Fiona shiv­ered. “I don’t really know. I did not plan it out ahead, if that’s what you mean. I just wanted to see him. To talk to him. But he didn’t want— He wouldn’t even—” She stopped and rubbed at her eyes. “But he will change his mind. He has to.”

  She leaned forward. “But, please, let us talk about you. So you’re married to Dreyford.”

  “Yes, to Dreyford.”

  Caro shook her head. “Marriage, marriage is not all they say it is. I thought— William and I were so happy. And then, then . . .”

  Her eyes filled with tears again and Fiona hur­ried to change the subject. “I—I believe I will try one of those chocolates after all. Where did you get them?”

  Caro smiled. “Mama had them sent. Mama is good to me. So is William, really, I—I just . . .”

  Again the tears threatened, and Fiona hastened to ask, “What are you reading today?”

  “A novel. William brought it to me. It is very good. The heroine loves so madly, so passion­ately. And the hero . . . the hero is
like my Byron. They will get together at the end. As we will.”

  Fiona could think of no reply to make to this. The Byron she had seen clearly did not feel as Caro did. If once he had loved her passionately, madly—and given his reputation Fiona had no reason to doubt it—he certainly no longer har­bored such feelings. For Lord Byron, this affair was over.

  After another hour during which Caro re­counted the entire history of her tumultuous rela­tionship with the poet, Fiona took her departure. It was clear to her that Caro Lamb was badly in need of a friend. And in spite of all her problems, her wildness, and her shocking behavior, there was about her a sort of strange innocence, a child­ishness that Fiona found intriguing.

  * * * *

  Fiona stepped into the front hall of the house on Grosvenor Square just as the earl gave his curly-brimmed beaver to Berkins and bent to scratch behind the eager dog’s ears. “Hello,” he said. “Out making calls?”

  She pulled off a glove. “Ye-es.” She had not meant to hesitate, but she had never been good at lying.

  “Hear any interesting on dits?”

  “Not really.” She knew she was not putting a good face on it.

  The earl straightened. “Fiona, please come into the library with me. We have a matter that needs discussing.”

  “Yes, milord.” She gave her bonnet and gloves to Berkins and followed her husband into the li­brary. The dog, of course, went too.

  The earl pointed to a chair. “Sit down, please.”

  She sat. “What is it, milord?”

  He leaned against the mantelpiece, looking every inch the lord and master. “Last night you were tired, distraught. I did not wish to disturb you further. So I waited till today to discuss this rather distressing matter.”

  Indeed, he had not disturbed her at all, but left her lying all night alone, waiting for his coming. She sat silent, knowing there was more to be said. Knowing, too, that she did not want to hear it.

  “It was Christian of you to go to Caro Lamb’s assistance that way.” He straightened. “You have a kind nature. But you must take care.”

  He paused, and since he seemed to be waiting, she asked, “How so, milord?”

  He frowned. “Caro Lamb is not a fit friend for a woman of your position.”

  Deliberately she misunderstood him. “She is a lady. The wife of a lord. How can she not be fit?”

  “Fiona!” The thundered word sent Lady whim­pering under the couch. But Fiona refused to cower. “Yes, milord?”

  He took a deep breath. “You know quite well what I mean. Caro Lamb is the object of much gossip. Her immoral alliance with Byron . . .”

  She felt compelled to tell him. “Milord, she said they have never even—”

  His eyebrows met in a frown so fierce the dog whimpered again. “Such things should not be on a lady’s tongue.”

  Now he was being ridiculous. “May I remind you that I did not bring up the subject. It was you who said she is not fit.”

  “And she is not.”

  “Because she loves Byron.”

  “Yes.”

  “I daresay there are many young women in London who fancy themselves in love with Lord Byron. Am I to be forbidden the company of them all?”

  “Fi—” He stopped and glanced at the dog. When he spoke again, his tone was more moder­ate. “Must you bait me like this? My concern is only for you. If your name is connected with Caro Lamb’s you will become as infamous as she. I do not want my lady to be talked about.”

  There it was. His real concern was for his reputation. “Of course not,” she said icily. “But might I suggest that if people talk, it will be about you.”

  Dreyford smacked one fist into the other and winced. Why must she be so contrary? He tried counting to ten. But the Dreyford temper, once unleashed, was difficult to contain. “Of course they will talk about me, for permitting such an affiliation.”

  She stared back at him, her eyes cold. “That is not what I meant.”

  Again he had to count. This fractious creature would drive him to insanity yet. “Then what do you mean?”

  She faced him squarely, her chin up. “I mean that I may not befriend poor Caro Lamb. A woman whose worst sin is that she loves a man who does not return her love. But you may con­tinue your liaison with the Lady Roxanne.”

  Her eyes were fierce now. Did that mean she was jealous? To his surprise he found the idea rather satisfying. “You have been misinformed,” he said sharply. “I have no liaison with Roxanne. Nor have I had one since you and I were wed.”

  From the look on her face, she did not believe him. “Your suspicions are entirely unfounded,” he continued. “But even if they were not, the comparison is inapplicable.”

  Her eyes grew even fiercer. “Indeed. I suppose now you will tell me that men and women must comport themselves by different standards.”

  That seemed obvious enough to him. “Of course.”

  “And why is that?”

  He shrugged. “It has always been so.”

  She smiled, as an India tiger might smile before making a meal of a plump native. “I see. So a long history makes injustice permissible.”

  He had little patience left. “Of course not.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Forget what I said!” There he went again, thundering like some deranged potentate. Why did she make him so irrational? “That is—” He modulated his tone. “I do not wish to discuss this any further. It only upsets you and—”

  “I am not upset, milord.”

  He refrained from kicking the fireplace fender. But only barely. What was worse, she was right. He was rapidly losing face. He pulled in another deep breath and made a supreme effort to be calm. “You are right,” he said. “I am upset. And conse­quently I am not doing this as well as I might wish. But regardless of that I mean to say some­thing. I think it extremely dangerous for you to pursue your friendship with Caro Lamb. So I am asking you to discontinue it, to give me your word that you will not see her again.”

  He had done it poorly. And from the look on her face, he had utterly failed in his intent.

  “I am sorry,” she said, head up, voice steady. “But I cannot in good conscience do such a thing. I do not desert my friends when they need me.”

  For a moment he considered making his request into a command. But from the look of her a com­mand would be wasted. He sighed. “Very well, I believe we have nothing more to say to each other.”

  Fiona watched him stalk out, the dog at his heels. And then, only then, did she let herself relax. She had angered him dreadfully. But she could not turn her back on her loyalties and still feel like a decent human being.

  With a sigh she rose from her seat and turned toward the stairs. It was going to be a long and lonely night.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  A week went by, a long difficult week in which the words exchanged by Fiona and Dreyford could be counted on the fingers of two hands.

  She did not refrain from seeing Caro Lamb, but she kept her visits discreet, not mentioning them during her other calls. And before too long Caro announced that her mother was taking her to the country to recuperate.

  A day or so after their departure Dreyford looked up from the breakfast table to announce rather diffidently, “Don’t forget, my dear. We’re expected at the Jerseys’ soiree tonight. It would please me if you wore the peach silk.”

  And so that afternoon as the carriage ap­proached the shelter on Fleet Street, she reported to Kitty. “He’s speaking to me again. I suppose it’s because Caro and her mother have left town.”

  “Thank goodness.” Kitty frowned. “I cannot understand how you could defy him so fla­grantly.”

  Fiona looked at her friend. “But you yourself suggested—”

  “Not in something like this. Not where your reputation is concerned.”

  Fiona swallowed a sigh. She dearly loved Kitty, but sometimes she was hard put to understand her. “It was a matter of principle,
you see. I could not turn my back on a friend.”

  “Friend?” Kitty raised an eyebrow. “Caro would turn her back on you. Faster even than Byron did on her.”

  Perhaps Kitty was right. Still, that did not alter matters. “I cannot help that. I had to do what I thought was right.”

  Kitty shook her head. “And you were not afraid for the shelter?”

  For a moment Fiona did not take her friend’s meaning. When she understood the question, she sent Kitty an accusing look. “Of course not. Dreyford would not do something like that. He’s not a petty man.”

  Kitty patted her hand. “You’re quite right, my dear. He is not petty at all. And lucky for you.” She adjusted her bonnet and smiled. “So, enough of that. Tell me, have you had any success finding someone to run the place?”

  Fiona sighed. “No. And it’s been quite difficult. It must be someone who truly loves animals, you know. And so far . . .” She frowned. “Many peo­ple have come in. But none of them will suit. I have some more interviews this afternoon. Per­haps one of them will do.”

  Kitty nodded. “I truly never thought we’d get this far. Just think, next week the shelter will be ready to open.”

  “Yes. Ben is so excited. He’s been down almost every day to see how things are going.”

  The carriage stopped and the two climbed down. “Better give us three hours,” Fiona told Huggins.

  “Yes, milady.”

  She stood there for a moment, surveying the building. It didn’t look like much: a dirty, run­down structure on a street that teemed with the worst dregs of humanity. But next week this non­descript building would house her dream come true.

  “Oh, Kitty, I am so pleased!”

  “And I. But you’d best get ready for your inter­views. You must find someone to run the place.” Kitty grinned. “I’m quite sure Robbie would draw the line at your doing that yourself!”

  Laughing together, they went inside.

  Several hours later, Fiona leaned back in her chair and sighed. The interviews had not been going well. Person after person had told her how much he loved animals. But there was something off-putting about each of them. And in this so im­portant matter she had only her instincts to trust.