“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” Mr. Stowe repeated, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a head shorter than Lord Wessex’s.
Blake scowled, but he was not as angry as he had been when he stormed out of the town house into the rain and had been unable to hail a carriage for a full block. “I suppose it could not be helped.”
“No, my lord, it could not be,” Stowe answered firmly. “If you wish, I shall bring about proceedings first thing tomorrow morning to have the countess removed from your property.”
Blake caught sight of the butler hovering in the doorway. “Get me a scotch,” he grunted.
“Certainly, my lord.” The man rushed forward. “Could I take your wet things now, my lord, and then bring you a meal, as well?”
Blake handed him his hat and the scarf and coat. “Thank you, but nothing to eat. Just the scotch. I’ve another engagement, but I think I’d best fortify myself before I go.”
“Yes, my lord.” Calvin bowed. “Just let me get you a chair, my lord.”
“I can get my own,” Blake grumbled, grabbing an upholstered chair from the nearest empty table. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Barker.” He placed the chair at the linen-set table and thrust out his hand to shake Barker’s. “I suppose you’re a barrister, too. You’ve got the same barreled abdomen as Stowe and a dozen like you. Comes from sitting behind that desk all day.”
“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Barker pumped Blake’s hand enthusiastically, and all three men took their seats.
“Damn it, tell me what the hell I’m to do now, Stowe. And don’t tell me it’s my prerogative to throw these women out on the street.” Blake gave his head a shake. “I knew I should never have made this journey. I knew it would be nothing but trouble.” He accepted the glass the bartender brought him and impolitely lifted it to his lips, not waiting for the other two men before he drank. “Tell me what you advise concerning the countess and her frog spawn, else they’ll be sleeping in your bed tonight, sir.”
After two scotches, Blake was able to catch a hackney—even in the rain—thanks to the butler at the men’s club. He arrived at the address of one of his business associates more than two hours beyond the engraved invitation’s specified time, but was nonetheless greeted by a flurry of activity and fuss. He had gained overnight status as a celebrity of sorts and everyone addressed him as Lord Wessex. The party was in celebration of his associate Mr. Todd Warrington’s daughter’s eighteenth birthday, but Blake barely gave her a moment’s notice beyond propriety’s perfunctory waltz. He preferred his women a little older, and certainly more experienced.
A brandy in his hand, Blake wandered out onto the granite balcony that overlooked a lush garden. The rain had stopped and a crescent moon had risen high in the sky. As he gazed upward he realized that the night sky was different here in Europe, different in a way that made him yearn for Boston.
“Good evening.”
Blake turned at the soft voice to see a woman close to his own age dressed in a pale pink gown, her light blond hair upswept in an elaborate coiffure, a heavy string of pearls hanging above a well-rounded bosom. He immediately understood the tone of her voice due to his many late-night balcony experiences, with women who stood alone in the darkness while a lively party ensued inside. They were sad women, vulnerable.
“Good evening,” he replied with a smile.
Hesitantly, she moved toward him, offering her hand. “Elizabeth Barclay…Mrs. Williams,” she corrected herself, as if on second thought.
“Blake Thixton.” He took her hand, kissing it…lingering. She smelled of lilacs and utter femininity.
“I know who you are, Lord Wessex.”
When he lifted his head, he saw that she was smiling at him. Not exactly a coy smile, but an honest one, a sad one. He had read her tone correctly.
“And I believe I know you, Mrs. Williams. New York, right? Your husband is Jefferson Williams, in iron?” He recalled meeting Williams once in New York City, an ugly man twice his wife’s age with an even uglier disposition.
“That’s correct.” She withdrew her bare hand; she wasn’t wearing gloves like all the other women.
“Your husband is here in London on business?”
She nodded, coming to stand beside him to gaze down into the garden below. She shivered, and Blake reached out to draw her matching silk wrap around her bare shoulders. When she turned, her mouth rested half open, as if longing to be kissed by someone younger than sixty.
Blake set his brandy on the balcony’s rail and drew her against him with the arm he had raised to cover her shoulders. She gasped and stiffened in surprise as he touched his lips to hers, but when his tongue entered her mouth, she surrendered.
Blake knew Elizabeth Williams had never made love to a stranger on a balcony, but he had done so many times. Holding her in his arms, covering her mouth, her neck, her breasts with hot kisses, he led her to the darkest corner of the balcony, beyond the musicians’ waltz and the bright gas lamps that flanked the double doors that led inside to the ballroom.
Elizabeth struggled for breath, clearly shocked by her reaction to him. He thrust his hand into the bodice of her pink gown and felt her nipples harden instantly at his touch. She moaned. She was starved for a man’s touch. He lowered his head, taking one nipple between his lips and tugged gently with his teeth.
She groaned aloud, leaning against the damp stone wall, both arms above her head in utter surrender to her need. Lifting her skirts without further preliminaries, he pulled aside her silk encumbrances, penetrated her roughly and deeply, and satisfied them both.
Only afterward, as he fastened his wool trousers and smoothed her silk skirts and bodice, did he see a single tear slip down her pale face.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured as he kissed her cheek.
“I…I’ve never done this before,” she said breathlessly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, a woman whose needs must be met—”
“Mrs. Williams, are you here?” called an older gentleman.
She flinched at the sound of the door opening onto the balcony.
Blake kissed her, whispering against her lips. “Come see me in Boston.”
By the time Mr. Jefferson Williams stepped onto the balcony to retrieve his wife, Blake was at the rail again, sipping his brandy, looking into the garden. If Williams saw him, he paid him no mind.
“Are you ready to go, Mrs. Williams? I have an early morning appointment.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Williams.”
The hem of her gown almost brushed Blake’s polished boot as she glided past him. Either Mr. Williams didn’t see him or he didn’t care what his wife did on balconies with strangers.
Blake smiled. Yet another reason to be in no hurry to wed…
5
“Ah, there you are, ma chère.” Lucia swept into the bedchamber Sapphire and Angelique were sharing on the third floor of Lord and Lady Carlisle’s town house near Charing Cross, dressed for the afternoon in a pale green and lavender barege gown, gloves and a berib-boned straw bonnet. “Are you certain you won’t join Lady Carlisle and me for tea at Lady Morrow’s?”
“No, thank you, Auntie.” Sapphire glanced up from her book of Lord Byron’s poetry, trying to appear fatigued. “I’m afraid I’m still tired. My horseback ride this morning with Lord Carlisle was long and I think I’d rather just stay here and cozy up with my book.”
“Very well, puss.” Lucia sighed as she adjusted her new bonnet with its upturned brim that made her look years younger. “I can stay with you if you like, though. I don’t really want to go visit with Lady Morrow. Nearly a month on the ship with her was enough to last me a lifetime, but I was just going so we could stop at the Royal Exchange on the way home.”
Sapphire, wearing a ruffled, ribboned blue dressing gown, was seated in a chair under the window, her legs tucked beneath her. “Don’t be silly, Auntie. I wouldn’t want you to stay on my behalf, especially when you have the chance to shop.�
�� She smiled mischievously.
“Well, I suppose Angelique will be here with you should you need anything.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Sapphire intoned, pretending to read again.
“Where is Angelique, anyway?”
“I believe she might be taking a walk in the gardens.” Sapphire licked her fingertip and turned the page of the book without looking up. “Or did she say she was going to the stables to see those new kittens again? I can’t recall.”
“Well, all right.” Lucia rested her hand on the glass doorknob. “You’re certain you’ll be fine?”
“Of course—now go and don’t worry about me. A little reading, perhaps a nap, and I’ll be fine by dinner.” Sapphire smiled sweetly.
“All right, dear.” Lucia opened the door to go, then turned back, her hand still on the doorknob. “I do hope this has nothing to do with my not allowing you to go immediately to Lord Wessex’s residence. I understand your impatience with wanting to meet your father, but we’ve not even been here a full day and there are channels to follow, society rules to oblige. This is far too important to make a muck of it.”
“I understand. You’re right, absolutely right.” Sapphire turned another page and reached for her teacup on the table beside her. “Have fun, and do buy yourself a hat. The one you’re wearing today is delightful.”
The door closed and Sapphire glanced up over the top of her book, listening as her guardian’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, then down the stairs. She took a deep breath, still listening, as she rose and set the book down, using a piece of wide hair ribbon to mark her place.
Walking to the bed, she knelt, pulled her mother’s old leather casket out and gently lifted the lid. Smiling tenderly, she drew her fingers over the brittle love letters given to her mother by her father when they were courting—letters she had reread a hundred times during the journey to London. Also inside was her mother’s locket, worn in her days in New Orleans, and a small curl of Sapphire’s auburn hair. Deeper in the small, leather-bound trunk she found pressed flowers, a tiny silver hairbrush that had been Sapphire’s as a baby and one of Armand’s old handkerchiefs. Digging beneath the lining at the bottom of the casket, her fingers found the velvet bag she sought. Sitting back on her knees, she opened the drawstrings of the bag and lifted the cold, smooth gem from the soft folds of the fabric.
Sapphire’s breath caught in her throat as she lifted the jewel toward the window and the sunlight struck it, lighting it with a blue brilliance that was almost blinding. After all these years, she was going to meet her father….
“But I think our meeting will not be what you imagined, Mama,” she said, pressing a kiss to the glittering jewel. “I’ve a thing or two to say to this man, I’ll warrant you.” She eased the sapphire into the black velvet bag, tightened the string and returned it beneath the casket’s worn burgundy velvet lining, so that even if a nosy servant did open the box, she would never suspect the treasure hidden inside. To the unknowing eye, the old, battered leather casket looked simply like a box of worthless female keepsakes.
Sapphire pushed the trunk back under the bed and got to her feet, her fingers untying the ribbons of her dressing gown. Confident Lucia was in Lady Carlisle’s carriage by now, she stripped off the gown to reveal the dress she’d bought as soon as they’d arrived in London, the dress she would wear when she confronted her father.
Sapphire placed the dressing gown on the bed and turned toward the floor-length oval mirror. The dress was actually of two pieces, a skirt and a front-buttoning jacket with a short basque in a brilliant jewel-blue challis. The sleeves were narrow, as was the latest fashion, and dainty new square-toed black leather boots peeked from beneath her petticoats.
She smiled at her reflection, knowing that the moment her father saw her eyes—one blue, one green like his—he would know who she was.
But she realized she had no time to waste if she was going to escape the house undetected, meet Lord Wessex, and then be back before Lucia and Lady Carlisle returned. She went in search of the bonnet she wanted to wear. It was her plan not to tell Lucia what she had done, and then, when they were formally introduced according to the plans Lady Carlisle and Lucia were making, there would be no scene. Once she had given him a piece of her mind privately—out of respect for her mother and Armand—she would be cordial, if not remote, publicly.
The door opened as Sapphire lowered her bonnet over her auburn curls, and she whipped around to see Angelique walk in, her dark hair mussed and the bodice of her peach-colored day gown slightly rumpled.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Angelique demanded.
Sapphire turned to the mirror, adjusting the hat before drawing the ribbons under her neck. “Me? What about you? What do you think you’ve been doing? Though why I bother to ask, I don’t know.”
Angelique sighed and threw herself on the bed. “His name is Robert and he’s the stable master’s eldest son. He thinks I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”
Sapphire glanced doubtfully at her companion, then back at the mirror, attempting to achieve just the right tilt of her bonnet. “We spoke of this before we left Martinique, Angel,” she chastised. “You cannot kiss every young man you run into.”
“And why not? I won’t be in nearly as much trouble for kissing Robert if I get caught as you will be for sneaking off to Lord Wessex’s.”
“I’m not sneaking.” Sapphire spun around. “I’m walking right out the front hall, out the front door and hiring a hackney to take me to Mayfair.”
“Does Aunt Lucia know you’re going?”
Sapphire frowned as she opened the drawer of a chifforobe to retrieve a pair of scented travel gloves.
“Are you going to tell her where you’ve been when you return?”
Sapphire didn’t answer.
“Then you’re sneaking.”
“He’s my father, Angel. I will not have our first encounter in front of hundreds of people at some formal ball or another.”
“Let me go with you, then.”
“You’re not going with me.” Sapphire traversed the bedchamber to the door, tucking a stray pincurl beneath her bonnet. “You’re going to stay here and cover for me in case my father and I fall into a lengthy conversation and lose track of the time.” She glanced back at Angel. “Although I think that is highly unlikely, considering what I have to say to him.”
“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aunt Lucia is going to be furious.” Angelique followed her into the hallway. “Are you nervous?”
Sapphire shook her head, biting down on the soft flesh of her inner lip. It was a lie, of course, even Angel knew it, but saying she wasn’t nervous somehow made her feel stronger, bolder. “Cover for me if you must, but don’t get yourself in trouble. I wouldn’t ask that you lie for me.” Sapphire gave her friend a quick peck on the cheek and, seeing the third-story hall was empty, hurried for the staircase, raising a gloved hand in farewell. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
London was noisy, smelly, dirty and deafening. There were so many sights to see—churches, elegant town houses, narrow shops, public buildings—that she couldn’t decide where to look next. Throngs crowded the streets: butchers’ boys carrying huge sections of beef, mutton and pork; ladies’ maids hurrying by on errands; beggars; plump merchants’ wives; clergymen; farmers in wooden clogs and straw hats; bewigged judges and uniformed soldiers, all threading their way past riders on horseback, hackneys, carriages, ale wagons and wicker carts, not to mention the stray dogs, pigs and occasional chicken. The carriage ride from Charing Cross to the fashionable West End of London was not nearly as long as Sapphire would have liked, and before she knew it her coachman reined in his horse in front of the marble steps of an elegant town house—one she had discreetly discovered was her father’s home when he was in the city.
“Would you like me to wait, miss?” the driver called from the high seat of his hackney.
Sapphire put on a false smile, lifted her chin a notch
and tried to imagine how an earl’s daughter would behave around common working men. “No, thank you, sir. Good day.” She passed him what she hoped was the correct fee for his service.
He grinned, tugged at his forelock and nodded. “Thank’ee, miss.” Then he cracked his whip over the horse’s back and the hired carriage rolled away, leaving her no choice but to lift the ornate lion’s-head knocker on the paneled walnut door that was wide enough for two broad-shouldered men to pass through side by side.
The door was opened almost at once, startling her.
“May I help you?” a slender, middle-aged footman in a spotless black coat inquired, looking down at her through the lenses of his eyeglasses.
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Sapphire felt as if she couldn’t breathe as she stepped into the front hall without waiting to be asked. “I’m here to see Lord Wessex.” She was amazed how true and clear her voice sounded; it was without a hint of waver.
“And may I ask who is calling?”
Sapphire could tell by his tone of voice that he did not approve of her arrival without a proper invitation. In the day they had been in London, she had learned that English society life was quite different from the laissez-faire existence in Martinique among the wealthy French and English landowners. Here, there were rules concerning proper etiquette for visiting involving calling cards, morning invitations and evening invitations and even the length of sleeve appropriate. It was her lack of a proper calling card, presently at the printers, that probably made the footman suspicious of her.
“His daughter.” She smiled sweetly.
The footman could not hide his surprise. “Miss?”
“You ask who calls on Lord Wessex. I am his daughter.” She plucked off a glove, amazed at how easily she could fall into the role of Lady Sapphire Thixton. “Please tell him that I’m here. I haven’t but a moment.”
The butler gave a half bow, still looking as if he did not believe her. “Would you care to sit down while I see if his lordship is available?” He indicated a row of white and gold brocade chairs along one wall of the large, ornate receiving hall.
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