“I’m sorry miss, but your father took the gown from me to have it destroyed. He said it wasn’t proper and not fit for the daughter of an earl. He muttered something about heathen practices and instructed me to gather all the garments from Brighton to dispose in the same manner.”
A disappointed note of silence followed. Angelica wouldn’t elaborate on her father’s hypocritical and incongruous perceptions. There wasn’t enough time for that discussion. Instead, a knowing smile began at one corner of her mouth and marched to the other side. “Nora, what would you wear were you going to Hay Market?” She eyed the top of the maid’s head, only a few inches below her own height, the servant’s build only a stone heavier.
“Clever one, I have just the thing.” Nora snapped her fingers together. “If I hurry during lunch preparation, I can walk home and return before anyone notices I’ve gone. When the earl assumes his prayer ritual and retires to the drawing room to read psalms after the meal, it will provide me the extra time needed.”
“But you still must hurry so I can change into your clothes and leave straight after.” Bleak desperation bled through her words. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t for Helen.” If only she could ascertain whether running away from home proved beneficial or detrimental, then at last Angelica could find peace with her insistence that Helen flee.
“Bite your tongue. She is my lady.” Nora clasped Angelica’s hands and the two shared a thoughtful moment until the vital necessity of their cause forced action.
“No, this is a foolish plan; the risk too great.” Beatrice remained unconvinced, her hands clasped tightly together. “The earl will punish you severely considering all that has transpired of late.”
“That may happen anyway, Bea. My future is my punishment and finding Helen, ensuring she is well, is worth any risk. It is a chance I must take.” She placed a gentle hand on Bea’s shoulder, aware the maid worried for her the way few people did. Then, the moment past, she reached for Nora with the other hand, drawing her close. “We have a plan then. It’s imperative my father not suspect a thing. Helen’s welfare depends on it.” She eyed both maids, her tone determined as she squeezed their fingers tight.
“Aye, I’ll do my very best.” The maid’s promise rang with sincerity.
“We shall, all of us.” Beatrice laid her palm atop the others, their plan sealed.
Chapter Seventeen
Kellaway eyed his grandfather’s residence situated in Mayfair on the outskirts of London, far from the traffic and congested social flutter, yet chosen for its precise proximity because it allowed him to maintain a perspicacious connection to any events meriting his attendance. The three-level home reflected the composed, stoic man inside; even the topiaries projected an aloof impression, not a leaf out of place, precisely manicured, tall and rigid. They did their duty and flanked the mahogany door with obsequious reverence to the duchy. The title projected duty, reputation, esteemed respect, and above all else, refinement, yet the duke had raised a spoiled daughter who often made poor decisions and committed acts of selfish attention seeking, her most foolish choice in accepting a husband who by any measure had proved a philandering ill-moraled lout.
Kell had never questioned his grandfather as to how his parents’ union came to be, his father the last man the duke would have chosen to wed his daughter, for the subject had been declared off limits. Instead, as Kell had grown into manhood, he’d distanced himself from his relations, their squabbles and embarrassments, scandals and societal failings, and evolved into an adult who floated through life with little meaning, no matter that deep down he yearned for more substance and familial inclusion.
Now he waved Moira on, the stout driver urging the team toward the stables at the east side of the property while Kell took the alabaster steps and dropped the knocker, his mind racing with what his visit signified. He’d returned. With any luck, his grandfather would be pleased.
The butler led him to a sophisticated drawing room decorated in varying shades of taupe, with heavy azure draperies edged with delicate jasmine-colored fringe, and Kell was at once reminded of long, golden tresses sweeping across his chest as he’d embraced Angel on the beach. Every shade of yellow caught light in her hair. He valued each variety of smile she’d shared, holding each one rare and precious. Her crystalline eyes shone luminous, fluid as ocean water mixed with a magic reminiscent of the gloaming, part real and part fantasy, enchanting to behold. He didn’t immediately discard the memory, allowing her image to flood his senses, and for some unidentifiable reason, he found a calming solace that served him well.
“Has someone died?” His grandfather, the Duke of Acholl, entered with his usual bluster. “Though I’m not certain even that occurrence would cause your appearance. I haven’t heard from you in years, Kellaway.”
Kell adjusted his shoulders and accepted the guilt of his negligence. He should first decipher his grandfather’s mood before engaging in committal conversation. He’d never intended to become a reckless scoundrel, the quality not inborn, although a good many would dispute that claim. Yet when accomplishment failed to gain the slightest nod in his direction, he’d aimed his attentions on becoming an accomplished rakehell. Poor choice did seem his parents’ preferred behavior. Sadly, the same result persisted. No one cared. No one pulled him to heel or punished him, and aside from his grandfather, no one made any remark. And so he continued unencumbered by parental interference, and they continued unencumbered by familial obligation.
A knee-high overfed black hound dodged the duke’s feet as he advanced across the expensive Turkish carpet.
“So what havoc have your parents caused? Are you planning another trip abroad or are you still sulking in that estate you’ve built in Brighton?” The accusations accompanied his grandfather as he stopped a few strides away and assessed Kell’s person with a slow survey of the eyes. The creases across his brow smoothed. A good sign.
“You’ve noticed.” Kell quirked some semblance of a smile.
“I stay informed of my interests and investments. You embody both.” His reply revealed a hint of aspersion and he settled in a velvet-cushioned chair near the side table while the hound sauntered onto a low-lying ottoman on the left, both seemingly accustomed to the well-established routine.
“How is Prinny faring?” Kell took a seat now and glanced at the dog, lolling across the expensive cushion as privileged as a prince.
“Prinny…” his grandfather rubbed the dog vigorously behind the ears “…is faring well as you can see. He keeps me company, but more importantly provides the perfect excuse whenever I wish to decline a slippery social invitation or avoid an unexpected visitor. No one can criticize when I beg off with the explanation Prinny is joining me for dinner.”
“He does so every night.” Kell relaxed against the cushions. “And yet you do not lie.”
“Exactly.” The duke displayed a proud expression at his manipulation of the truth.
“So no one has discovered your ruse?” Tension fled the room. Kell let loose a short exhalation.
“If someone has, they know better than to expose me for a charlatan.” He offered a final pat to the dog’s head. “You look well. I approve of the grooming.”
“Are we still discussing the dog?” Kell couldn’t resist, though his appearance was far from the devil-may-care viscount who inhabited the Brighton house on the cliff.
His grandfather cracked what some would consider an amused grin. Perhaps the old man missed him.
“Have you finished playing pirate?” He allowed no time for Kell to reply. “No one knows better than I that you lost your childhood, but this fascination with the ocean, I have no cure for that. After you’d set off on adventure to India and the like, I assumed you’d return and set a course for serious aspiration. Instead you’ve drifted in and out of London with nothing more than a by-your-leave—rumors of outrageous gambling and daring phaeton races left in your wake, as well as a sea of disappointed females who haven’t gained your interest.” He
paused to release a deflated sigh. “I expected more.”
A servant stood at the door waiting for an indication she should enter with tea and refreshments and once His Grace gave a nod, she bustled in and set about serving. As soon as the servant exited, the duke continued.
“As sudden as your visit is, your timing is excellent. Your mother has left for Italy or thereabouts.” He gestured in a way that indicated he dismissed the subject entirely. “She rarely keeps me informed, convinced if the words never leave her mouth somehow I’ll remain unaware. She should realize by now I have my resources. I am always aware.”
Kell watched as his grandfather lifted his teacup, giving the shallowest tremble as he raised the china to take a sip. The duke remained strong and healthy, yet age was a merciless taskmaster who took what it wanted with no warning. Kell knew all too well how fickle life could be.
“I understand you suffered a recent loss.”
As if Grandfather read his thoughts. Kell clenched his teeth, then realized the duke watched his every movement and formed a fist beyond the side of the chair, well out of sight. He forced himself to reply.
“I did.” Twofold.
“You cared for that horse. I understand. I would react in the same way if anything happened to Prinny.” This revelation earned the hound a portion of seedcake.
“Nyx was…” Kell paused and searched for the appropriate word “…important to me. How did you know?”
“Resources.” He stroked Prinny and then reclined more fully into his chair. Again Kell noticed the toll of near seventy years on his grandfather’s face. Lines etched his forehead from difficult decisions and multiple disappointments. Wrinkles from anger and judgment creased his skin. Kell had stayed away too long. Deep down he missed his grandfather and what might have been. Instead he’d carried another lonely void of a relationship that promised fulfillment but which never satisfied.
“Your father left London soon after you traveled to Brighton. He appeared the fool after your squabble in the square. Even the most jaded gossip-rabid bystander couldn’t overlook a son’s valiance in defending his mother. You were painted the hero. Your father, well he should be nearly to Africa by now.” The duke chuckled, apparently pleased with whatever consequence he’d machinated.
“Africa?” Kell’s brows shot toward the ceiling. He drank his tea for the sake of polite behavior, and startled when the blend, cardamom and sweet cherry, brought with it a rush of emotion. He recovered and eyed his grandfather in expectation of explanation although a riot of confliction rattled around his brain.
“Resources.” He spoke the word matter-of-factly and offered Prinny another piece of cake. “So then, what brings you here? What do you wish?”
The latter question begged for laughter. “Not only has my appearance changed, but my outlook as well.”
“Because of the horse?”
Because of the girl. He wouldn’t allow the thought. “That’s part of it.”
“You’re no angel.”
Kell started at the word.
“Yet you’re here to convince me you’ve outgrown reckless gambling and rakish activity?” Reprimand and approval battled in the duke’s expression. “There’s no need. I already know you’re a fine man, controlled in all passions. If any beneficial shred of goodness can be salvaged from your parents’ poor example it served to instill in you a need for control and vigilant abhorrence for consequences of unrestrained indulgence. And yet there is a greater force behind my insistence. You’ve caught the interest of the Prince Regent. He wants your cavorting and adventure-seeking to end, your title put to greater use. He also wishes to overshadow the shameful antics of your parents. In this way, you’re to marry and marry well. No more scandals. No more inappropriate liaisons or gaming hells or foolish challenges.”
“No more fun.”
“Fun is a small sacrifice to pay to please the crown. I will not live forever and you’ll need a strong ally.”
Several ticks of the ormolu clock on the mantel ensued. Kell moved his eyes from the clock face up the chimneypiece over the hearth to where a huge portrait of the duke—with a severe expression—looked down on everyone. Even Prinny. His Grace was not one to be trifled with.
Apparently his grandfather waited for him to speak.
“I would pursue the responsibilities of my title with better care. Adopt social decorum, take up state affairs and become more participatory in Parliamentary obligation.”
“Have you run out of money?” It was clear from the start the question was little more than a jest.
“Not at all.” Kell allowed a chuckle though a beat of contemplative silence followed.
“Your mention of Parliament caused the suspicion. With the Quadruple Alliance formed, England is stronger than ever. It presents a fine time to take up a seat.” He paused for a long breath. “I’ve missed you. You’re the only one who turned out. Your parents did wrong by you.” The duke attended Prinny while he spoke, though his words were clear and defined.
The confession startled Kell, but offered a small portion of the familiar bond he craved.
“Is there anything else, Kellaway?”
“Only that I would know you better, Grandfather, now that I’ve retuned.”
“I would like that.” He paused and met Kell’s eyes. “Will I see great grandsons then?”
Had Kell gambled on the path of their conversation, he would have lost all.
“I question my suitability as husband material, never mind my form to offer an exemplary role to children.” The words sounded as bleak as the current reality, but he aimed to remedy that. “But I will not abandon the idea.”
“Do not make hay. The years pass faster than you realize and soon you find yourself alone.”
Kell didn’t reply.
“With a dog.”
There really wasn’t anything to add after that.
Later in the evening, determined to at least keep company, Kell arrived in Hay Market at half past eight. Time dragged, his thoughts consumed with loss, his heart with despair. He wanted her. There was no dissecting the truth of that fact. But where to start? How to find her? He had to believe his best efforts would place her once again in his path. He could hire discreet investigators, prepared to pursue the matter until he held Angel in his arms again.
He entered the Hound’s Tooth Tavern, quick to catch the attention of anyone who hadn’t already read of his return in the rags. With a fleeting glance across the room, he moved to join his friends, last to the table; then he motioned to the serving girl, ordered his ale, and settled in the single vacant chair.
“Who’s ripe to share the latest happenings since I abandoned this cesspool of iniquity we call home?”
His trio of friends stared with brazen curiosity at his appearance but not one uttered a word in reference. He’d dressed in his finest with his hair coiffed, a tightly knotted cravat brushing the fresh whiskers on his chin, polished down to the shine on his Hoby boots.
“Oliver’s smitten.” Penwick broke the silence with a pronouncement loud enough to override the raucous cheer of hearty laughter and clinking glass surrounding them.
Jasper snickered at Nicholson’s exaggerated denial and Kell accepted the tankard brought to the table, already at ease in the comfort of his bonhomous friends’ camaraderie. This proved one of the rare pleasantries of the city, their buffoonery a distraction from the hollow ache within.
“I thought it was Penwick who shopped for a wife.” Kell savored a long sip, anxious to lose himself in the convivial jocularity of their company.
“Nicholson’s in love with a woman who doesn’t know he exists.” This from Jasper who’d leaned back against his chair in a relaxed pose, an amused expression on his face, though he continued to watch Kell as if he were a rare species, his appearance all the crack. “But Penwick has become deedy about his comeuppance.”
“Don’t discuss me as if I’m a slow top. I’m shopping for a house, a stable of horses, and a wife. Quite an
intimidating list. My life has undergone a drastic change this past year. It’s rather unsettling.” Penwick lowered his brows and shook his head with an emphatic gesture.
“But it’s all for naught.” Oliver, relieved to have attention transferred to someone else, offered the tidbit. “No matter whom we suggest, debutante to bachelor fare, no female measures up to Penwick’s approval. Isn’t that right?”
“I’m narrowing the field, but let it be noted I have my reasons.” Penwick’s solemn admission seemed out of place within their chuckleheaded banter.
“Such as?” Kell asked the question everyone wished answered.
“No one truly wants to hear my sorrowful story, but as you ask, I’ll repeat it. I loved once.” Again Penwick nodded his head as if shaking loose a memory and after a long swig from his tankard, continued in a reminiscent tone. “If I’m to marry for sake of obligation and responsibility, and the woman chosen is to take the place of the woman who keeps my heart, I’d like to experience some type of treasured emotion. I am careful with my choices, yet I haven’t met anyone who meets the standard I’ve set.”
At first, no one knew how to breech the solemnity Penwick expressed, but then Oliver, who appeared to have over imbibed now that Kell had a clear view of his eyes, pressed for details.
“What, pray tell, ruined your affections in the past? You’ve baited us. Now we’re all on the hook.” He pantomimed this with a crooked finger and open mouth for added effect. “You must finish the tale.” He slid his eyes around the perimeter of the table and each of them urged their agreement.
“I’m not entirely sure.” Penwick exhaled a long-held breath, as if he’d kept so much emotion bottled up inside he’d just remembered to continue breathing. “We wrote faithfully to each other for almost two years, but then the letters stopped and the lady disappeared.”
Jasper, who had carelessly leaned backward to rock on the legs of his chair, righted himself with a smack. “Two years? You exchanged letters with this woman for two years? And then the letters stopped?”
Society's Most Scandalous Viscount Page 17
