Mrs. Lochmaddy dressed her on the evening of the rout. Delia found herself with little strength or inclination to help. Her silver gown was more loose than when first fitted. Morag pinned it skillfully. Delia found strength to sweep a little rice powder about her eyes to conceal the dark smudges beneath them. Even her sapphire eardrops felt too heavy for her hand when she moved to lift them. She would not look in the glass as her attendant set the matching clasp in her black curls. She saw anxiety in Morag's face, and was powerless to assuage it.
At length, all was in readiness. Delia nodded for Morag to open the door for her to enter the parlour. Lifting her chin, and summoning a smile, Delia took a deep breath and joined the two gentlemen standing within.
Charles was beaming with happiness. His evening dress was impeccable, and probably chosen by Bowland. The earl was sombre, his fine-boned face ravaged as it had been when they first met. Delia swayed as she met his darkened blue eyes for the first time in days. He appeared shocked by her fragility, and moved to cross the room to her side. As he approached, Delia reached for the nearest chair to support her. But she failed to find it, and for the first time in her life, she fainted dead away.
When Delia came to herself, Rupert was placing her gently on her bed. Charles, with anxiety in his face, was at his shoulder. Rupert straightened and stepped away, but Charles did not. Morag Lochmaddy drew a coverlet over her, regardless of the silver gauze gown.
"You must not come. You cannot attend." Charles bent to kiss her cheek. "The strain has been too much. Forgive my selfishness...I should have known it, should have seen. I shall make your excuses."
"You must," she said. "Present Lady Slimbridge my apologies. I will write to her. I wish you every joy, Charles."
"I will not say goodbye. We are siblings. We must surely meet again. We will at least remain in correspondence. So it is only farewell." Charles was eloquent in his distress.
Delia was aware that a great tear slipped down her cheek, and she closed her eyes.
"Go to the carriage," Rupert said to his brother. "I shall be with you momentarily."
With a last helpless look at Delia, Charles obeyed. Mrs. Lochmaddy left the room with him.
Delia, aware in every fibre of the Rupert's presence, opened her eyes again.
He knelt beside her bed. "I will always love you, Delia. I will not see you again before you leave tomorrow. I shall be fixed at Manningford if ever you change your mind, if ever you need me." He kissed her lips once very gently, with a powerful passion held in check. She could see it latent in his eyes, feel his great restraint in every muscle. He stroked her hair, and the silken curls clung to his fingers. Smothering a groan, he rose, and without a backward look went away.
***
The ladies were gone, Bowland informed the earl when he returned to Grillon's late in the morning the next day.
Rupert had spent the night after the rout in a leather chair at White's. He had not slept, nor had he touched the full decanter at his side. The party, he supposed, had gone very well -- the guests and the hosts the epitome of politeness, the betrothed couple the very picture of joy. There had been a few surprised queries from those who had expected to meet Delia at the party. Lady Slimbridge was particularly concerned. He had explained and prevaricated. Only with Charles, late in the evening, did he discuss his concerns for Delia's health.
She must have slept and regained some strength. He knew that Morag Lochmaddy would not have allowed her mistress to travel if she thought her health endangered.
Rupert shaved and changed his clothes, choosing buff pantaloons absently and declining to don the green superfine coat. Then he wandered to the tidy parlour.
Bowland need not have reported the ladies' departure. Torgreave must have known it anyway for there was no half-complete needlework on the table and there were no books scattered about. There was only an elusive scent of tuberose in the air. His long hands clenched involuntarily. He dropped into a chair, his blank gaze on the carpet at his Hessian-booted feet. If only her blue eyes had not been so tragic, if only he did not see her expressive face when he looked in the glass, if only....
"My lord?" Rupert looked up to see his valet surveying him with some concern.
"The rector is gone out," Bowland informed him. "He asked me to say he might be abroad for the day, and he hoped to dine with the Slimbridges. Can I be of service at all, my lord?"
Rupert considered him blankly. "I think not," he muttered. "Life is going to be hell, Bowland, a solitary hell at Manningford." Then a wicked light dawned in his indigo eyes. "Get a footman up here. Send him to invite every loosefish, rake and opera dancer whose company we have ever enjoyed. Order food and wine from this hotel's service. Tonight before we depart London we shall have one last debauch."
"'Tis not what you want, my lord," his man dared to remonstrate.
"I cannot have what I want," Rupert snapped. "Do as I have said."
Bowland bowed, disapproval writ large on his face, and departed.
***
Rupert became aware of a disturbance outside the door of the suite some while past two in the morning. It could be heard even over the drunken, ribald laughter around him. Concentrating with an effort, he determined the disagreement to be the hotel's management, in argument with Bowland. As his man seemed to have the matter in hand, he disregarded the contretemps.
More than an hour later voices again were raised in the corridor and attracted his attention. This time he recognized Charles' emphatic tones combined with those of Bowland. He wove his way between his roistering 'friends' to the door, and swung it open. His brother stood there with outrage and something like sorrow in his face. Rupert was suddenly conscious that he was unsteady, that his neckcloth and waistcoat were gone, and that even his fine linen shirt was disarranged. To conceal his shame, he bowed elaborately to Charles, and said, "I am hosting a party."
"So I see." Charles was uncharacteristically grim. "You are disturbing the hotel's other guests. Bowland and I just sent the manager and two heavies to the rightabout, but this must end."
"More the aristocrat than the churchman, Charles. Shouldn't you have placated the manager?" Rupert mocked. Deliberately he walked away, for he could not bear the reproach in his younger brother's face.
A painted doxie draped herself about him. Rupert paid her no heed, but watched his brother surreptitiously.
Charles had spotted Hugh Taunton who was, Rupert estimated, slightly more sober than some in the room, and certainly more composed than he himself was. His younger brother's voice echoed to him.
"Hugh, take this gathering elsewhere," Charles begged. "Grillon's are about to throw us out. You know Rupert is not himself."
"Do not deceive yourself, dear boy," Taunton said. "This is more in Rupert's nature than the past six months of rectitude have been."
Rupert experienced a stab of mortification, and looked down at his shaking hands. He disengaged himself abruptly from the half-dressed Cyprian.
"Perhaps, but I want these people out of here, now," Charles said.
Rupert had never heard that note of grim authority in Charles' voice before. It must have convinced Taunton. He seemed to understand, and began to circulate the room with invitations to continue the orgy at the establishment of a notorious procuress.
Rupert made no move to stop him. In a shorter time than it had seemed possible, the chambers were empty. The candle flames, which had flickered wildly in the draft from the open door, settled once more to steadiness. Bowland scurried about, setting the room to rights.
"Leave it! Leave us," Rupert snapped at him. He lounged into a chair near the fire, a wine glass still in his long fingers.
Charles stood before him, anger and sorrow in his face.
"That is not the way to forget Delia," he stated.
Rupert flinched, and pulled at his disordered shirt.
"I thought you might lapse into past ways. I feared you would return to the bottle."
"I shall not. This was b
y way of a farewell soiree...a wake for my former life," Torgreave said. He was surprised that his voice was clear, though he had consumed a quantity of wine. "And I thank you for ending it. It was a mistake. I was not enjoying it."
"I should think not," Charles said.
"Ah, there speaks my little brother -- the clergyman -- and my father's son." Bitterness suffused Rupert's voice. "I was used to enjoy it, very much indeed. It was a way of life. Now...bah, even the wine disgusts me." He looked at the glass in his hand. "I shall be as pure as you, dear boy, give me a year or so at Manningford."
Charles slumped into a chair. He spoke with sad emphasis. "I spent a blissful day with Susannah. I dined at her home and then escorted her, in company with her parents, to the theatre. I wish you could know such ordinary pleasures, such happiness. Listen, Rupert, I deeply regret Delia's departure, but I cannot regret all that has happened. There has been much good come of Mrs. Inniskip's interference, even though you are left alone and unhappy now."
Rupert understood very well, more even than his brother intended that he should. In face of Charles' joy, Delia's departure had little impact. "I have been alone and unhappy for a very long time," he said, without self-pity. He was suddenly deadly sober. "I had news about Augustus from Rhyle today. I travel to France tomorrow. When I return, I shall reside at Manningford. I thank God you and I are reconciled. I will be ever glad to see you there."
There was a suspicious moisture in his brother's eyes. Rupert rose with dignity and gripped the younger man's shoulder briefly. He stepped to the fire and very deliberately let his wineglass slip from his shaking hand. It smashed to glittering fragments on the hearth in a pool of heart-red wine. Then, aware that Charles was watching him, Rupert crossed the disordered room to his bedchamber without a backward look.
***
Rupert slept for five hours. Despite an aching head, he rose early and prepared to take horse for Dover. He looked devilish, he thought, as he shaved himself. Inevitably, as he looked in the mirror he thought of Delia, and wondered how she was and where. He was thankful that Bowland was uncommonly quiet as he moved about the chamber packing. He was not to be granted time for introspection, however. His thoughts were interrupted by his brother's entrance.
"You look terrible." Charles made no mention of the previous evening.
"Thank you," said Rupert not without humour. He rinsed and dried his face. He found that he could not meet his brother's eyes, and accepted a shirt from his valet. Unthinkingly, he turned his back on Charles
"I spoke out of concern," Charles said. He gasped with horror, "My God, Rupert! Your back. Those scars! How came you by them?"
Rupert spun around and dragged on his shirt. He emerged from its folds wearing a frown. "I did not intend you to see those! Ever!"
"How came you by them?" Charles repeated. "A brawl? A duel?" A thought seemed to give him pause. "Not...not those beatings you suffered from my father? How could he have done such a thing?"
"It was only once or twice his zeal overcame his good sense." Rupert fastened his buttons with unsteady fingers.
"Do not defend him. To scar you for life is indefensible." Charles seemed dazed. "You should have told me. I am your brother."
"My little brother. You were a child. Should I have showed you the blood and let you weep for me? I think not."
"I understand you better now."
"Really?" Torgreave lifted a black brow, sceptically. He deftly arranged the neckcloth Bowland brought to him. "Anyway, it is past, over...as are so many things."
"It must affect my opinion of my father."
"I suppose," Rupert said with indifference. "But my energies are on current matters."
Charles composed himself with visible effort. "I hope you find Augustus quickly, though I cannot believe he will have information to aid you."
"I hope you are wrong," Rupert said, shrugging into the waistcoat Bowland held.
"I also hope that I am," his brother retorted. He was silent for long minutes. "I think I shall remove to Long's Hotel tomorrow."
"Take my belongings, will you, and ask them to hold me a room against my return? By the by, you will be reassured. Bowland insists on accompanying me to France, though I am taking no more than a change of riding clothes." Rupert at last met his brother's gray-blue eyes.
Charles waited until he had donned his dark riding coat, then crossed to Rupert's side and embraced him. "I am relieved you will be accompanied. I will see us both fixed at Long's, and I will eagerly await your return. Be careful. You will not be the most welcome of visitors in France, if word of your wartime activities has traveled ahead of you."
***
Torgreave reached Paris in three days, though he nearly missed the tide at Dover, and had difficulty in hiring a horse at Calais. On the journey from the French coast to the city he took pains to avoid inns and posting houses where he was well known. He spoke to no one, but used Bowland to preserve his anonymity.
On his arrival in Paris, he took rooms in a small inn that proved clean and accommodating. There he ordered supper, prepared a list of hotels to canvass, and declined Bowland's assistance in his search. Above all he waited for dusk. He had no desire to be accosted by fashionable English acquaintances or irate French ones.
At nine in the evening, Rupert set out on foot, hatless and drab-coated. He carried no money but a few French coins. Secured in his deep right coat pocket he had a small pistol, defense against the footpads with which every city was infested. Paris had not yet recovered from the years of revolution and war. It was a dangerous place.
By midnight he was footsore. Standing before the tenth and last hotel on his list, Rupert considered the possibilities. His uncle might be making a private visit in one of the great houses of the city, but it was unlikely so soon after the suspension of hostilities. Augustus might yet be en route to Paris, in which case his search was wasted. Or Gideon Rhyle's informants might have been wrong. Perhaps Augustus Manningford had had no intentions of traveling to Paris.
Rupert squared his shoulders and trod up the stairs of the final listed establishment. In his flawless French and with a humble demeanour, he requested information of the concierge. His relief was great when his conjecture was proved pointless. His uncle was in possession of a suite of rooms. The gentleman was out, however, and no one had knowledge of his whereabouts or his expected return. To the concern of the hotel's management and his uncle's valet, Rupert established himself in Augustus' private parlour.
He slipped into a weary drowse. When at last Augustus Manningford entered his rooms at three o'clock in the morning, Rupert was jolted awake. He rose to light two branches of candles from the feeble light flaring beside his chair. His uncle's valet was trying to explain the earl's presence to his master.
There was a family resemblance to be detected between them, in their slim height, straight black brows, and deep blue eyes. However the old man had his white hair carefully cropped, and his shoulders were weakening with accruing years.
"Quiet! Out!" Augustus snapped at his servant. "Nephew? What are you doing here?" he asked. "What do you want, Torgreave? You look...well, you always look depraved...but now you look positively devilish."
Rupert guessed his uncle had anticipated his bed, and was in consequence, peevish.
"Thank you. I feel devilish." Rupert bowed. "And it is a pleasure to see you, Uncle. You have been out raking about the city? Have you still an acquaintance with that lovely woman in the Rue de Chappelle?"
"None of your business. And you didn't seek me out to learn that. It's the middle of the night. I'm an old man. I need my sleep."
"You might have come home earlier then." Torgreave was sardonic.
"Could not. I was winning." Augustus grinned with youthful glee. "How are you, boy? Still carefree and wild?"
"I am less carefree than ever in my life, no longer heartwhole, and considerably dependent upon your charity. Augustus, I need information."
The older man stared at him. "You
came to Paris from London for information?"
"I am in full control of my faculties," Rupert said with irritation. "Was my father ever in Scotland?"
August backed away from him warily. "Can this not wait until morning?" he blustered. "I'm tired."
"Answer the question, if you please."
"A fine greeting this is! I wish you'd explain," his uncle said. He seated himself with a stiffness that revealed the ache in his back.
"I must explain that I have spent more than two months tracking your wanderings over Belgium and France -- as well as Denmark -- with the help of the Foreign Office's spies and Wellington's recon officers," Rupert said.
"You have gone to a deal of effort."
"For naught it seems," Rupert said with an impatient snap. He felt he would never get at the truth.
Augustus rose with a groan and hobbled to a side table. A tray reposed there bearing decanters and glasses. He poured himself a glass of wine with what Torgreave found to be aggravating torpidity.
"Will you answer my question if I give you news?"
His uncle did not respond.
Torgreave sighed. "I can tell you that I love a good and beautiful woman, that Charles and I are reconciled and that Manningford is in my possession once more."
He had captured his uncle's attention. "Indeed?" the old man asked. "Then why are you in search of me, instead of at home enjoying your reformation?"
"To discover your response to my question!" Rupert retorted.
Augustus stared at him with suspicion. Torgreave returned the stare for long minutes.
"Will you take a glass of wine?" his uncle asked.
Rupert sprang to his feet, and took a hasty stride towards Augustus.
"Oh, very well," the older man said. "No, my brother was never in Scotland. He swore he'd never leave England, and he never did. A more boring, consequential, parochial dry stick, I never knew. I thought him tedious beyond bearing." A rusty laugh grated in the old man's throat. "He thought me mad." He eyed his nephew curiously. "Mayhap madness runs in the family."
The Rake's Reflection Page 20
