Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  “And then he’ll remove to the Towers.”

  “If he does, you’ll just have to practice patience. Even if you have to wait months to encounter him, nothing important is going to happen.”

  “I have discovered that I am not of a patient disposition!”

  Elf would have invaded Fort’s entertainment if she’d believed for a moment that she could get away with it, but she had no intention of making a fool of herself.

  Again.

  Instead, she dispatched to his house a gaudy handkerchief of red silk trimmed with gold-and-black lace.

  Lord Coalport was clearly delighted to be asked to Walgrave House, and to hear Lord Walgrave ask for his daughter’s hand. To Fort’s irritation, he did not immediately grant it.

  He received Coalport in the library on the ground floor, where a narrow bed sat behind a screen. Fort was settled comfortably in a chair, his leg supported on a cushioned bench. It was a significant improvement, but he felt for all the world like a victim of the gout.

  Coalport was not a likely candidate for gout. His build was trim and healthy, his actions brisk, and Fort doubted that he ever overindulged in anything. Not a bad stable for a wife.

  “You see, my lord,” said Coalport, crossing one leg over the other, “I’ve promised my wife that our little Lydia will have her say on the matter. Now, I’m sure it’s just a matter of you courting her a little, for you’re a fine, handsome man, particularly now you’ve put off your blacks. But I can’t settle the details before you have her interest.”

  “But I am tied to a chair most of the time, Coalport.”

  “Aye well, there’s no hurry.” Coalport leaned forward and patted Fort’s hand. “I assure you, Walgrave, she’ll not go to another before you have your chance. There are others interested, I’ll not deny it. Doubtless you’d not believe it if I were to try, for she’s quite the prettiest lady on the town this decade. But you have my favor, and will have your chance.”

  Fort felt like cursing the doting father for he was now in a fix. He could hardly go after another woman who would agree more speedily, and yet he was in no shape to court anyone.

  “I confess to some urgency,” he said, hoping he looked like a love-struck fool. “Soon all the world will be leaving London, and your estates are far removed from mine.”

  Coalport nodded, much struck by that. “True enough, my lord. True enough. My wife does talk of leaving within the fortnight.” He scratched beneath his neat gray wig. “I could have you over to the house, for you could sit there as well as here, but I tell you, Walgrave, it would look a little too particular if your first venture out were to call upon Lydia. I’ll not have her pressured.”

  “Then perhaps I had better take up some general social moves,” said Fort, forcing a smile. “I am much improved. Not up to dancing, of course, but as you say, I can sit as well in company as alone.”

  “That’s it, my lord! And if you tell me where you plan to be, I’ll see that Lydia attends if it be suitable.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I think we will soon find everything just as we would wish.”

  Coalport grasped his hand and shook it. “I believe it will be so, Walgrave. Indeed I do. And there isn’t a girl in the world to match my Lydia.”

  And so that night, despite hating to appear such a figure, Fort ordered his sedan chair, and had himself carried into the gaming room at White’s, where he hobbled to a chair.

  He was immediately surrounded by friends and the merely curious, telling the approved tale of a madman down at the wharf who had fired into a crowd and unfortunately hit him. In fact, soon he was having a grand time and silently blaming Elf Malloren for keeping him trapped in his house for a fortnight.

  Until Rothgar turned up.

  Fort eyed him, both wary and cool. It was, after all, the first time they had met since that encounter at Sappho’s.

  The marquess’s brows rose slightly, then he strolled over to Fort. “I am delighted to see you about again, Walgrave.”

  “It is a relief to me, too,” Fort said. “I feel more in control of my life.”

  “I rejoice.”

  “In fact,” said Fort, suddenly determined to seal the matter, “I’m thinking of marriage.”

  “Indeed.” Rothgar flicked open a gold snuffbox one-handed and presented it.

  Fort took a small pinch. “Nothing is settled of course,” he said and inhaled, letting the powder create its own moment of well-being. “But the young lady’s father gives me reason to hope.”

  Rothgar did not so much as pause in his own use of the snuff, and took the time to wipe his fingers on his silk handkerchief. Then he smiled approvingly. “Accept my felicitations in advance of the happy event.”

  With that he bowed and moved away leaving Fort prey to sudden doubts. He should have realized that Rothgar wouldn’t want another alliance between their families, even when Fort and Elf had enjoyed the privileges of the wedded state.

  By escaping Elf, Fort could be doing just as Rothgar wished.

  For a moment, the old urge returned, the urge to do anything that would make life difficult for Rothgar. He pushed it aside and concentrated on cards. He’d given up judging his every act by its effect on the Mallorens.

  The next morning, Elf was poring over financial statements when Rothgar strolled into her study. Rather than change her boudoir into a place of business she had taken over a spare room for an office and it had now become one of her favorite places.

  “ ‘All work and no play . . . ,” ’ her brother remarked. “The same applies to Jill as Jack, I think.”

  Elf smiled up at him. “Perhaps this is play.”

  “You are distressingly like Bryght, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose we are all a mix of the same ingredients. Did you know that if we were to buy—”

  “No,” he said, raising his hand. “I have no interest in it. Explain it to Bryght. I think you should be out in society.”

  “It’s so dull. People never talk of interesting things.”

  “Like trade and profit,” he said dryly. “Walgrave is breathing fresh air again.”

  Elf put down her pen and paid attention.

  “I encountered him at White’s last night.”

  “I’d hardly describe that as fresh air.”

  “I assume he passed through the streets to get there.”

  “Was he walking?”

  “With a cane, and with some difficulty. He let his chairmen carry him almost up to the table.”

  Butterflies had suddenly taken up residence in Elf’s stomach. No, not butterflies—wasps. Buzzing there, and likely to sting her. The time had come to act.

  But she might see him.

  At last, she might see him.

  “How did he look?” she asked.

  “Well, all in all. Rather less under a cloud.”

  “That’s good. I wonder . . .” She wondered where else he might turn up, but didn’t want to say it. Heaven knows but she had no pride left over this with her family. They all knew her desperate need. Still, she didn’t want to say it.

  “I believe he might be attending Lord Coalport’s picnic at his Chelsea villa.”

  “A picnic? White’s I can believe, but an alfresco meal probably largely attended by ladies? Can a pistol ball in the leg change a man that much?”

  “Perhaps he is just craving fresh air.” With that, Rothgar left, and Elf sat chewing her lower lip.

  Since her brother had come specifically to tell her about the picnic, he doubtless had made inquiries and thought Fort would be there. That didn’t necessarily mean that Rothgar thought she should attend.

  So should she?

  She looked down at the neat columns of figures that told the story of income and expense in a certain warehouse for upholstery fabrics. Life could be seen as neat columns, too. If she didn’t attempt to see Fort, she might as well just admit that she lacked the courage to pursue her aim.

  She’d have to leave him be.

  It
was tempting, for that’s what a lady was supposed to do, what she had been trained to do. She should sit at home demurely and make him woo her. A lady’s rights lay solely in the acceptance or rejection of an offer.

  She didn’t think Fort would woo her, though. Even if he wanted her.

  He must want her. Surely he must be drawn to her as she was to him. And the problems were her fault for so mishandling that intimacy. So she must put it right.

  Immediately she knew she’d reached the correct, the only decision. As they were all discovering, she was a complete Malloren. She could not help but try to steer the ship of fate.

  She pushed back from the desk and stood, then frowned at an inkstain on her finger. Lud. Perhaps lemon juice would help.

  As it turned out, Chastity knew of her brother’s intention to attend the picnic.

  “It’s not so strange,” Chastity said. “He attended such affairs at home before—”

  “Before he killed his father.”

  Elf had been astonished to find that the whole family knew Fort had shot his father, and everyone had assumed that she knew, too. She had been involved with Princess Augusta, however, and had missed some important meetings.

  After the death, Chastity and her sister, Verity, had spent a great deal of time with Fort. They had done everything they could to persuade him that it had been a necessary act to protect the innocent, not a heinous sin.

  They hadn’t succeeded, but Chastity had always believed he’d see it that way in time.

  Elf knew—or hoped at least—that their disastrous talk in the dark cellar had helped to crack the shell of guilt and anger around him, and started the healing. If so, it had been worth it, even if it had cost her any chance of love.

  More than possession, she wanted him free to be himself.

  “So?” prompted Chastity, pulling Elf out of her thoughts. “You want to attend this picnic?”

  “Quite desperately. But is it wise?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t speak of you. But he still has some poems, a fan, a toy, and a horribly gaudy handkerchief. And it was only a few days ago that he let a maid throw out the remains of some roses.”

  Elf couldn’t suppress a smile. That did sound hopeful. “Then by all means, let us go. At the very least, I will see him.”

  She hurried to her room, glad she’d taken the trouble to order some gowns to her new taste. She was still rather unsure of herself in this regard, but at least neither the mantua maker nor Chantal had blanched at her ideas.

  Two gowns had arrived so far, and the amber one might be ideal. The striped taffeta had caught her eye and she had felt sure it would harmonize with her difficult hair rather than fighting it. With rust-brown trimming and rich cream lace, she thought the effect strong but pleasing.

  And Chantal did not protest when ordered to produce it.

  However, remembering the way Fort had looked at her scarlet and gold and called it “appalling,” Elf could easily have been persuaded back into the safety of paler shades.

  Waiting for Chantal to bring the gown, she paced the room restlessly. Half of her wanted to cancel her plans, to put off this meeting till another day. But her need to be with him again, even among a crowd, overwhelmed even her terror of having him look coldly at her or even turn his back.

  He had kept her gifts.

  She hugged that thought to her as Chantal returned with the outfit and began to help Elf into it.

  She remembered, so long ago, telling Chastity that men often needed a bridge to cross the gulfs they themselves created. She’d been talking then of Cyn and Rothgar, who had created a chasm over the issue of whether Cyn should be allowed to join the army. It might apply to Fort too, though, mightn’t it?

  Elf didn’t look in the mirror until the gown was fastened, then she turned to the glass. She released her held breath and smiled. “It does look well, Chantal, doesn’t it?”

  The amber-and-brown silk created a rich effect that might have been a little strong for her pale skin except for the cream lace at neck and sleeves. “In fact,” said Elf, turning this way and that to check the line of the gown over her wide hoops, “my hair is pale amber! That sounds so much better than sandy.”

  “Yes, milady. The whole is good. It is . . . interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Elf echoed with a wry smile. “Is not that what they say of ladies of a certain age?” But with sudden confidence, she knew she looked well.

  Looking back at the mirror she could see that the gown did as she’d intended. It expressed Elf Malloren. It reflected the way she felt about herself these days—a woman, confident and moving beyond the tighter expectations of society. A person excited by the prospect of interesting things to do with her life.

  “What hat do you wish to wear, milady?”

  “Oh, the large leghorn to shade my face, I think.”

  As Elf waited for Chantal to find the straw hat, she continued to look at herself in the mirror. It was not vanity, just a satisfaction with a job well done.

  One among many.

  The burned-out piece of land down near the port had been purchased by the family and she had already met with the architect who was to build almshouses there. Dibby Cutlow and others like her would have a good place to live out their lives, but would not have to leave the area in which they felt comfortable.

  In the future, other similar places would be constructed around London. Too often, the old were forgotten.

  She was still considering ways to spread information about means to delay childbearing until the right time.

  She placed her hands on her flat abdomen. At least the prospect of inconvenient motherhood no longer troubled her. She’d had her courses. She didn’t carry a child. Her sensible part had rejoiced, but a tiny rebellious corner of her mind had wept. She could not be sure of winning Fort, and a child of his would have been something of him to cherish.

  It would have tied him to you, said stern honesty.

  “Yes, that too,” Elf whispered to the woman in the mirror.

  Then Chantal returned with the straw hat, deftly tying amber grosgrain ribbon around the crown. She brushed Elf’s curls, added a delicious lacy cap, then set the hat on top, tying a big bow beneath the chin.

  “Charming, milady!” declared Chantal in what seemed to be honest approval.

  Elf left the room hoping the maid was right.

  Chapter 19

  Elf and Chastity took the boat upriver to Chelsea. Elf soon realized that this wasn’t wise, for the boat held far too many memories for such a day.

  Fort had been upset to hear Bryght had shot the bridge and put her in danger.

  It was from this boat she’d watched him fall, and known he was wounded.

  It was from here that she’d ordered the execution of a man.

  Despite these thoughts, she managed a flow of light chatter throughout the journey.

  The boat conveyed them to Lord Coalport’s boathouse—a miniature cottage, complete with deep thatched roof. From there they climbed the steps to his pretty garden, which was in full summer bloom. Elf told herself that it was nothing like arriving at Vauxhall for a midsummer masquerade.

  It was daytime, for a start, and an ideal one for a picnic. They were blessed by a cloudless sky, but also by a light breeze to cut the heat. Tables of food and drink sat beneath shady trees, and ladies and gentlemen strolled paths and lawns, chatting. To one side, a small orchestra played peaceful, soothing music.

  A perfect English summer day.

  As they went in search of their host and hostess, however, Chastity swatted with one hand. “Wasps. That’s always a problem with picnics.”

  Elf sighed, seeing it as an unfortunate omen.

  She wore amber jewelry with her outfit, and the large pendant around her neck contained a winged insect trapped there through the ages. It was similar to the effect created by the wasp engraved in the topaz.

  Were she and Fort both trapped in a situation they could neither enjoy nor ful
ly escape?

  Her Malloren soul said there was always an escape for the brave. But did courage always bring victory?

  They headed toward the house, where Elf saw Lord Coalport standing by his wife’s chair near the terrace steps.

  She suddenly stopped dead.

  Chastity turned back. “What’s wrong?” She followed Elf’s eyes. “Oh, there’s Fort. What has you so shocked? You expected to encounter him here. Is it that he’s in colors again? I must have forgotten to mention it.”

  Certainly it was a small surprise to see Fort in blue silk, but that wasn’t what had frozen Elf to the spot. Couldn’t Chastity see? Sitting beside him was London’s latest darling—Lord Coalport’s daughter, Lydia.

  The girl had arrived in town in the spring and created a sensation. Pictures of her had appeared in the print shops—not scandalous pictures, but idealized ones of angelic beauty. Soon her every appearance and the details of every gown were in the newspapers. At one point the Horse Guards in the Mall had been called out to intervene to control the crowds of people wanting to catch a glimpse of her.

  Elf had not paid the girl much attention, for she’d seen such beauties come and go. But that did not deny the fact that Lady Lydia possessed extraordinary beauty. Glossy dark curls, a perfect heart-shaped face, huge eyes of an almost violet color . . .

  Even this catalog of perfections did not do her justice, for it was all put together perfectly and accompanied by grace and a charming youthful modesty.

  Lady Lydia, in an exquisite blue-and-lilac dress and a hat that appeared to be composed entirely of lace and flowers, sat beside Fort smiling up at him as if he were a god come to life. He was smiling back at her as if she were the most fascinating person he had ever met.

  Charming though she was, the girl could hardly put together two coherent sentences, so what had him so absorbed?

  As if that wasn’t obvious. Elf wanted nothing so much as to flee back to the boat and go home.