“If I said that I am a man of my word, that you are released from your engagement ...”
There was a knock on the door. Robert ignored it, but Anne, conscious of her position, stepped back, disentangling herself from the intimacy of their stance. She swallowed. “That will be one of the underservants to sweep out the hearth. You should leave, my lord.”
Robert placed his fingers, very gently, on the corner of her mouth.
“This time, Celeste, I believe I shall.” Then, with a swift bow, he was gone almost before the handle turned.
The following morning was fine, and the male guests were in high fettle to be off over the commons to Lord Anchorford’s. The grouse was prodigious, and there was some talk of bagging larger game like venison.
Guns were loaded upon packhorses and sent on ahead, although many a gentleman still sported fishing rods. Lord Charles was blessed with a diligent gamekeeper, making his well-stocked streams an excellent choice for those with a less bloodthirsty turn of mind.
Lady Caroline, dressed in scarlet, was ready for the hunt. She nibbled delicately on a wafer of toast and allowed Lord Willoughby Rothbart to vie with Sir Archibald Dalrymple on the question of whether she would take tea, or something a little stronger.
In the event, she smiled charmingly at Sir Archibald—he was the handsomer, if lesser ranking, of the two—and admitted that some of the steaming, creamy, deliciously potent Irish coffee would be delightful.
She was surprised to find, upon her return to the morning room, that a card had been delivered from Lady Anchorford. She ripped open the seal and scanned the contents quickly. So! A flattering invitation to take up residence at the hunting box. It did not quite suit Caroline’s purposes, but whilst Lord Robert was away, there was no reason she supposed, to kick her heels at Carmichael Crescent. There would be time enough, after all, when she was married.
Besides—her eyes gleamed—a little light flirtation with Sir Archibald Dalrymple and the noble Lord Rothbart could be pleasant. They positively haunted the Anchorford estate. All things being equal, she thought she would accept. Besides, Miss Delia Wratcham was a cousin to the Marquis of Illswater. It would be fatal not to cultivate the connection.
It seemed that Lady Caroline was not the only one in for a surprise that day. Mrs. Tibbet was positively bursting from ill-suppressed excitement and wasted not a moment to draw Anne away from the prying ears of the lower servants and into the upper servants’ parlour. There, after fussing over a cushion clean and soft enough for Anne’s back—Anne had to remind her sternly that in the eyes of the world she was still a servant and unless Mrs. Tibbet wished to set the kitchens by their ears, she would continue treating her as one—she expounded at length, in tones of great excitement, something that sounded completely obscure to the normally astute Miss Derringer.
Finally, however, when the words stopped tumbling from Mrs. Tibbet’s mouth like a veritable waterfall, and when Jeeves had made a surly entrance muttering something about “jollification” and “extra work for them but what has mouths to feed,” she started to make sense of the puzzle. Lord Edgemere, it seemed, was to hold a ball. Not, in London terms, anything like a “crush” or a “squeeze”—for that he would need a hostess—but something quite creditably formal and indisputably select. The thing that sent Mrs. Tibbet’s mind atizz was that the notice was so short—only thirty-six hours. The upper housemaid, however, was more intrigued, when apprised of the situation, that the ball was to take place at all.
It was the first of its kind since Lord Edgemere’s mother, the seventh countess, had been the belle of all London. So followed a lot of reminiscing that gave Anne to understand that the seventh countess, like her son after her, was much beloved of the household. They hardly noticed when she slipped from her chair quietly and made her way to the topiary gardens. There, she could almost feel his presence. What had he meant, when he had started to question her? What exactly had he said? She closed her lustrous eyes and concentrated. “If I said I am a man of my word, that you are released from your engagement. . .”
So. He wanted her to leave. Perhaps it was better that way, for the attraction was becoming quite unbearable. She could have sworn, however, that he felt it, too. It was all so perplexing!
Lord Anchorford’s library was unrecognizable. The heavy beechwood furniture had been pushed back against the walls to make place for the billiard and card tables that had been carted in from his town house. The chintz drapes were drawn, and the walls had been hung with damask silk in bold, fleur de lis patterns. The drapery entirely covered the encyclopaedias, almanacs and scholarly works—leather—bound—of his father before him.
Most noticeable was the smell of smoke that twined through the room and encrusted itself in the Kidderminster carpets and velvet furnishings that the room temporarily housed. This was not surprising, since Lord Anchorford was excessively generous with his beautifully fashioned cigars. He was also a noted collector of snuff boxes, and since each box contained quantities of high grade tobacco and were displayed open, for easy consumption, it was not surprising that the library was now smelling—as well as looking—like a common gaming hell.
It was dark, and the select dinner hosted by her ladyship was long since served. The hunting box was illuminated prettily inside and out with scores of candles in long, elaborate holders. These were complemented by the gaslamps which emitted a delicate, slightly ethereal hue.
The conversation among the ladies was polite and desultory, for Lady Anchorford had not had a great deal of time to prepare for the occasion. The gathering would have been livelier had she invited her dear acquaintance Lady Codswall or even the Salinger sisters. Still, the presence of Miss Wratcham and the Ladies Elizabeth and Mary Bellafonte lent the evening a degree of refinement. All three were kin of dukes and marquises. Lady Anchorford sighed in satisfaction at the social coup.
Then there was Lady Caroline Dashford. She offered poise and beauty, but really Lady Anchorford could not help thinking, for all her angel ringlets, she was something of a cold fish. She wondered, for an instant, how much longer the men would linger in the library. They had surely been a prodigiously long time over their port! Still, men would be men... .
“Miss Hampstead, would you care to favour us with a song? Lady Elizabeth might wish to accompany you.” And so the evening progressed.
“What is up, Robert? You have been buying up that Dalrymple fellow’s vowels all evening. I wager they are not worth the paper they are written on, for he has been dipping deep.”
Lord Edgemere smiled in satisfaction. He bowed to an acquaintance and turned to his dear, thick-witted friend Lord Charles Anchorford.
“Excellent! It is as I hoped.”
“But why? You shall lose on the transaction.”
“Do I ever lose?”
“You have the devil’s own luck if that is what you mean! ”
“It is. Now cease worrying over me like some addlepated sheep. Go and fetch Sir Archibald for me and tell him I have a proposition.”
Lord Charles set down his glass and looked at the clock. “Gracious! Lady A will hang, draw and quarter me if I don’t return with the gentlemen.”
“Then, that is your fate, Charlie, for I must speak with Sir Archibald! I wish to challenge him to a game of faro.”
“Faro? You should rather choose commerce or vingt-et-un. You are too skilled simply for a game of chance.”
Lord Edgemere sighed as he wiped off a speck of invisible dirt from the chitterlings of his fine lawn shirt.
“Do as I say, Charles! And if you are so worried about the ladies, draw them in.”
“To the gaming room? Robert, have you lost your senses?”
“The library, Charles, the library! And when you tell them this is at stake, I warrant that they shall cast aside all objections!”
With a flourish, Robert pulled out the blue-white diamonds. They were no longer in their pouch, so he allowed them to drop down the length of his dove grey gloves and fli
cker tantalizingly as he turned them over in the light of a hundred candles.
Fourteen
The chatter in the room ceased as several gentlemen noticed the gesture and sauntered over to see what sport was up. Sir Archibald, a little green from his recent excesses, and more than a trifle aware that his losses were greater than his winnings, stared harder than most.
Lord Anchorford slipped out to invite the ladies to view the spectacle. His exit was unnoticed by all but the central protagonist, Lord Robert Carmichael. He now placed the necklace on the makeshift faro table and gestured lightly to Sir Archibald.
“Dalrymple!”
“M ... my lord?” Archibald was prone to an unfortunate stutter when agitated.
“You seem dazzled by these beauties! Would you care to stake a claim on them?”
Dalrymple hesitated. The diamonds would be precisely what he needed to hold off the duns, cover his immediate debts and retrieve his credit at Weston. On the other hand, he did not need to do too much thinking to know he was too far dipped to be able to cover the dibs. He looked uncertainly around the room. He owed too much! Not even that idiot Crawley would be so obliging as to stand buff. But the diamonds... . Oh! How they sparkled and danced to the light! He stepped forward and fingered them longingly.
The door opened behind him, and the ladies crowded into the much beleaguered room. Lord Anchorford hurried solicitously to close his snuff boxes and extinguish some of the half-smoking cigars that had been discarded around the room. Lady Anchorford suffered a brief spasm over the state of one of the burnished leather chaise longues, but then even her attention turned to the scene that was unfolding.
Behind her, Lady Caroline gasped at the sight. The diamonds! Those were her diamonds! Lord Edgemere had pledged them to her! They could not be mistaken, for even in the tapering light she could recognize the clasp. Besides, the quality ... the quality was impeccable.
She opened her lips to object, then shut them again tightly. Lady Elizabeth and Miss Wratcham would think it very strange in her to be claiming valuable trinkets whilst she was still in the unwedded state. She was too clever and too careful with her reputation to fall into that trap. She smiled in amusement. So that was Edgemere’s game! He hoped to expose her for a grasping little tramp. Well, he could stake the diamonds. Her reputation would remain as pure as snow.
“Well?” Lord Edgemere allowed a hint of impatience to tinge his tone. Dalrymple, fearing that the chance of a lifetime would be whisked away in front of his very eyes, nodded. “I accept, Lord Edgemere, and stake my land upon it.”
Edgemere’s eyes glittered. He had banked on Dalrymple being a cad, and he had been correct. Sir Archibald’s land was entailed to the hilt—the commonest gabster knew it. Still, it served his purpose to have Sir Archibald accept his challenge.
He nodded off-handedly and drew out the faro box and a dice. “We shall dice to determine first call. Lord Melford, would you care to deal?”
The game did not take long. Lord Edgemere was declared the winner. To everyone’s shocked surprise—no more Sir Archibald’s, who looked fit to swoon—he called again. “I am in a frivolous mood, Sir Archibald! What say you to double or nothing? If I win, I shall take your country seat as well as the land. If I lose... well, there are always these.” He pointed to the sparkling stones once more. Dalrymple choked. As it was, he was ruined. Ruined, ruined, quite ruined! When Edgemere heard the land he had staked was entailed... it would be a debtor’s prison for him! Defaulting on a debt of honour... that he could have sunk so low!
A half-uttered moan issued from his lips. The perspiration poured mercilessly from his forehead and down onto his drooping shirt points. Not even the handkerchief he absentmindedly daubed himself with quite served its purpose. He was ruined, ruined. The thought caught at him like an icy wind. And still the diamonds sparkled. The ladies were crowding around, admiring them.
They could still be his... the more he thought about it, the more positive he became that his luck would turn. Must turn. Besides, he had nothing more to lose.
“Accepted, Lord Edgemere!”
Robert set down the glass he had taken up and bowed. “Very well, Dalrymple! It is your turn, I believe, to call.”
Sir Archibald stuttered through the order of cards. Lord Melford sprung the little machine, and to Dalrymple’s profound relief, the black spades appeared as if by answer to prayer.
Lord Edgemere raised his delectable blond lashes just slightly. His lips quirked a little, but all eyes were focused on the diamonds. These he lifted gently, allowing them to dangle, for an instant, in the air.
“Was it best of three, Dalrymple?”
“No it dashed well wasn’t!”
“Then, I suppose I must declare you the winner.” He turned to Lord Charles on his left and sighed in a bored, rather disinterested fashion. “A pity, I feel, Anchorford. The design of the clasp is quite exquisite.” He wound the whole into his palm and placed the clasp briefly under one of the candelabras. “Unique, quite unique!”
Miss Wratcham stepped forward to look. So, too, did Lady Elizabeth. Lord Edgemere permitted them for a moment, then he slid the whole across the table to Dalrymple.
“They are yours, dear fellow. Enjoy them with my compliments.” Then, with a sublime disregard for his loss, he bowed over the plump Miss Chartley’s fingers and offered her his arm.
Lady Caroline stepped twice on her partner’s foot before excusing herself with a throbbing headache. She was furious that the earl had outmanoeuvred her. His trap to discredit her had failed dismally, but she had lost the diamonds in front of her eyes. Never before had her velvet tunic felt so tight, or the pearl beads embroidered daintily on their little silk disks looked quite as tawdry. Pearls were all very fine, but diamonds! Diamonds were what she coveted—what she had always coveted and what she had just lost. She would find Lord Robert and call him to account.
He would buy her a better set or she would instantly sue for breach. She wished she could force a proposal from his lips, but that, she knew, was pipe dreams. He would have to be tricked into that, and for such a trick to hold water, she needed the diamonds.
She turned from her course just as soon as the liveried footman closed the door. Unlike the rest of the guests, who seemed set for many more hours of pleasant carousing, Lord Carmichael would be heading for home. He had said so, after losing the fateful turn of cards. Caroline sneered inwardly. Yes, he may pretend to poised indifference, but she knew better! Why else would he leave so hastily, if not to lick his wounds in private? Well, she would add salt to them. It was no more than he deserved, after all.
If she waited for him close to the stables, she would be well-placed to steal a word. It was annoying, though, creeping about in velvet slippers and wielding a swansdown fan. There was nowhere to put it, however, so she resigned herself to her fate and waited patiently. She chose, for her rendezvous, a spot closer to the house than to the stables. It would be no good at all if she got her gown muddied, even if she did manage to get up to her chamber undetected. Her dresser, she knew, was a prodigious gossip.
The time seemed to drag interminably. She strained her ears for footsteps in either direction but, apart from several false alarms, heard nothing but the gentle sound of hooves and the odd snore from an errant stable boy. She was just pondering whether to return to the hunting box or continue her uncomfortable vigil, when her long wait was finally rewarded.
“Lord Carmichael!” She hissed the words as soon as she saw his unmistakably elegant calves—clad in the finest clocked stockings—make their appearance on the track. Robert stopped and allowed one of his famous lazy smiles to cross his face.
“Now, why am I not surprised to find you here?”
“Perhaps because you know I have a score to settle with you! You’ve treated me very shabbily, my lord.” Lady Caroline pouted and peeked up at him through her lashes. Perhaps cajolery was better than anger.
Lord Robert bowed. “No more than you, my angel! Bu
t what is it that you want? Perhaps, as we ponder the point, we should kiss and make up?”
Lady Caroline would have been glad to oblige if there had been a suitable audience to the spectacle. Then Lord Robert might be forced to come up to the mark. She looked round and cursed. There was no one in sight. Drat the man! He had never been serious anyway; she could tell from the cynical curl of his annoyingly handsome lips. He was playing a deep game, for he nevertheless advanced determinedly toward her. She stepped back coldly.
“Perhaps, my lord, you might cease taking this all so lightly!”
“I never take kisses lightly. But then, I never kiss where there is no inclination. Shall I make you inclined?” For an instant, his eyes sparked and Caroline felt the familiar magnetic power toying with her inclinations. She wished she hadn’t been so fast as to damp her underskirts, for her voluptuous form seemed to leave little to my lord’s imagination. In the past, he had stripped her naked. Now he did so with the veriest flicker of amused eyes. By God, she could feel the contempt! Caroline drew her breath in shock.
My lord turned his gaze to the intricate silver inter-leafed on the top of his cane. This he twirled absently before searing her, once more, with hazel brown eyes. “Make you inclined? No, I think, perhaps, not. I shall therefore retrieve my noble offer and ask, again, what it is that you want of me?”
“I hate you, Lord Robert Carmichael!”
“Very possibly, my dear. I am not, myself, overfond of you. Entrapment does not rank among my pet likes. It still begs the question, however, of what you are doing, lying in wait for me.”
“I am not lying in wait!”
“What odds? Standing in wait, then. By the by, your hem is getting muddied.”
Lady Caroline picked up her skirts crossly. Why did the man always seem to place her at such a decided disadvantage? It was hard to press home a point with threats when a victim did nothing but smile politely as one vainly wrestled with a swansdown fan and skirts more suited to the ballroom than the barn.
Seeking Celeste Page 14
