by Claudia Dain
“I don’t know,” she said liltingly. “It is strange how that happens. Perhaps because I am the most interesting person in any room? I do know that I have the best jewels. You do recognize them, of course.”
Westlin turned a particularly unflattering shade of red, a color to be avoided at all costs with his ruddy complexion, and bit out, “I should. I almost beggared myself to buy them for you.”
“Almost being the key point. One must learn not to make too much of things, Lord Westlin. You have an unfortunate habit for exaggeration. Why, just look at what you’ve done to your son. He was quite disposed to dislike me. A late gift from you, surely.”
“And well deserved,” he snarled, his erection tamed. For the moment. She knew exactly how to call it back and would, when it would cause Westlin the most discomfort. Some things in life were so charmingly predicable.
They stood in the doorway leading to the central stairs of Hyde House, away from the crush of people who were following the most social, most obvious route through the house. The blue and red reception rooms and the yellow drawing room could each be accessed by a cluster of small doors that led to the stairs. It was an easier, more private way to travel the circuit and had the advantage of avoiding the knot of people that had gathered like a stubborn cork in the bottleneck between the red reception room and the drawing room. Sophia knew exactly who the cork was and why. Now, all that was left was for Caroline to be Caroline; if she could do that, then Ashdon would behave predictably.
“Your daughter,” Westlin continued, “runs true to her common blood, Sophia. She is at this moment draped in pearl necklaces from no less than three men.”
“Three pearl necklaces,” Sophia gushed. “Why, the most I ever managed was one pearl necklace. We both remember how that turned out, don’t we?”
“You’re proud of her?”
Really, it looked as though Westlin’s eyes must soon jump off his face.
“For managing to acquire three pearl necklaces in a single night? I should only hope every mother can feel as I do at this moment. But tell me, they aren’t inferior pearls, are they? Caroline is a girl, inexperienced, naïve, far too trusting I should say. I would hate to have her cheated.”
“Cheated! You can speak of that? To me?”
“Darling Westy,” she said, lowering her voice to a seductive murmur. “Never tell me that you were cheated. We both know the truth of what passed between us, no matter what fiction you have invented to entertain Ashdon.”
“I’ll leave the past in the past, Sophia,” Westlin said with a malicious smile. “What happens now is all that matters. You thought to arrange a marriage between my son and your daughter. It will not be. How could you think I would allow it? Ashdon will ruin her, but he will never marry her.”
“And you know this how?” she said softly.
“You somehow think that a man who is eager to bed you will therefore be loyal to you, adopting your plans as his own. You are as naïve as you claim your daughter to be. A man wants a woman. So. What is that? It is nothing to want a woman. And it is nothing to have her. But there is nothing beyond the having.”
“What coils you must invent to explain Dalby,” she said.
“Dalby’s choice of you was all of thwarting me. That rivalry was older than you by a decade. When you remember Dalby, Sophia, remember me. Without me, you could never have caught him.”
“He was happily caught.”
“As Richborough is caught?” he sneered.
“Ah, Richborough. Ever attentive. Ever ready to advise. How well he played his part,” she said slowly, studying Westlin.
“The part I arranged for him.”
“Oh, so it was you who invited Richborough to my bed? That, dear Westlin, is an invitation only I may render. Surely you, of all people, must remember that.”
“You fell for a pretty face, Sophia,” he sneered.
Really, when had Westlin developed the habit of sneering instead of simply speaking? It was a distinctly unpleasant manner-ism. Someone should break him of it, and the sooner the better.
“And who does not?” she answered with a tiny shrug.
“He was in your bed not for your sake, but for mine.”
“That sounds rather debauched, Westlin. You truly haven’t changed, have you?” she said with a smug smile. “I shall never forget that night in July when you carried me down three flights of stairs so that we could entertain ourselves by the pearly light of a full moon by that very pretty pond on your property. You called me your wood nymph, and you of course, were my satryr. What happy, happy times those were.”
As she had expected, his breeches were close to bursting. It was too delightful.
“Ah, I see that you remember that night as vividly as I,” she said, tapping him gently with her fan. “Tell me, is the pond still . . . full? Do the waters still rush wildly in turgid, frothing energy over that rather rocky and steeply pitched . . .”
She let her voice trail off as she stared at his erection, straining and pulsing now in her direction. “Oh, I see that they do,” she said with a seductive smile. “How nice it is in these changing times that some things, the truly special things, stay the same.”
“You shall not have him,” Westlin gritted out. At least he was no longer sneering. “You shall not get your hands on Ashdon, but I will see your daughter ruined.”
“As I was ruined? Come, come, Westlin,” she purred. “Do I look ruined to you?”
“You look most desperately ruined,” he said.
“What an ill-bred thing to say to a lady of the realm. Your manners, Westlin; you simply must get to Town more often. Such language, most ill-advised.”
“Is that your attempt at a threat?”
“A threat?” she said on a chuckle. “How absurd. With what would I threaten you? Oh, how stupid of me,” she said, her smile falling off her like a discarded mask. “Of course, your son. I could use Ashdon to wound you. But of course, I would not. Ashdon is a dear man, so earnest, so intense in a rather quiet sort of way.”
“He is earnest, earnest in his obedience to me,” Westlin said. “He will do as I instruct him.”
“How fortunate that you have such a malleable, docile son. And he is how old now? Thirty? To ruin an innocent girl on your command, how proud you must be.”
She had not thought it possible, but Westlin’s eyes appeared to be turning red. Most remarkable. He certainly knew how to display a fine outrage. It was most considerate of him as she found provoking him endlessly entertaining. But, as much fun as she was having, she simply must save something for another day. Revenge was a meal best enjoyed in small doses, if only so that the pleasure of it could be savored.
“Now, as charming as it always is to run into you, darling Westy, I must admire my daughter’s triple strand of pearls. This is a moment that will be talked of for years. I don’t want to miss a second of it. If you will excuse me,” she said, not asking at all.
Sophia slipped into the yellow drawing room, a most admirable room to be sure; it was her favorite in the house and so lovely that Caro’s moment should happen in it. Things could not be going better.
The room was an absolute crush of people, all gawking and squawking as if they had never seen a woman wear pearls before. Delicious. Things couldn’t possibly be going better than if, well, than if she’d planned them. Sophia swallowed a smile. The crowd parted for her, as they must if they had any hope of seeing her reaction to Caro’s fall from propriety. What look would do for that? Sympathy? Horror? Shock? Amusement?
That last had some appeal if only for being unique in situations such as these. She remembered quite clearly that when Lady Blanfig’s only daughter was found with her bodice gaping in the yew maze of the third Duke of Northam’s spectacular home, with Lord Pyworthy’s right hand where it had no business being, well, Lady Blanfig had screamed so loudly and so long that she had been unable to utter another syllable for a fortnight. Sophia thought she must improve on that performance, she sim
ply must. For one, she could not do without her voice for a fortnight. For another, screaming lacked a certain grace.
Pyworthy and the girl had been married for almost two years now, with two children to show for it. These things had a way of working themselves out.
Sophia smiled her way through the crowd, an expression of pleasant curiosity mixed with just a touch of parental concern painted on her features. She could just make out Caro, surrounded by Blakesley, Dutton, and Ashdon, all of them pressed almost into the far corner of the drawing room, like mice without a hole in sight. She was almost within speaking range when Richborough, of all people, stood in front of her, blocking her path. Really, it was most irritating. Richborough had played his part; it was time to exit the stage. Poor boy, he really didn’t have much going for him beyond rather spectacular good looks and an old title. Fortunately for Richborough, that would be enough for him to exist nicely.
“Tannington has been following you all evening, Sophia,” he said. At least fourteen people heard him. Richborough was so appalling indiscreet. She was so relieved to finally be finished with him.
“Has he really?” she said, looking around casually. “He has yet to catch me. I suppose I should slow down, shouldn’t I? Though if he’s not going to be quick off the mark, then . . .” She shrugged delicately. “Then again, the race doesn’t always go to the swift, does it, Richborough?”
“What the devil does that mean?” he scowled. He did it very well, scowling, but he did it rather too often. Everything, in time, must pall, particularly a youngish man of no discretion.
“It means, darling, that I’m finished with you. You’ve run your race and you’ve done very well, but now,” she said, patting his arm as she would that of the smallest of boys, “it’s off with you.”
“You,” he stammered, scowling more deeply. He must think his scowls impressive. Some nurse had probably given him that mistaken idea. One must be so careful in hiring the right nurse with the exact right disposition. His nurse had clearly been too impressed with scowls. These childhood habits, once acquired, were so difficult to break. Why, just look at her darling Markham, the ninth Earl of Dalby; he had toyed with the notion of sucking his thumb. A good nurse and a dosing of vinegar had seen to that. Now Dalby had the loveliest mouth imaginable and quite the straightest teeth. “You,” Richborough repeated. Oh, yes, she’d almost forgotten about Richborough.
“Yes? I?” she prompted. “I really must move on, darling. I see Caro, just there.”
“You can’t mean to end our affaire. Because of Tannington? Because he’s trailing after you like some dog?”
“How charmingly put,” she said sarcastically. “But no, not because of Tannington. Just because of you, darling. Simply you. You played your part brilliantly, if that’s any consolation, which I’m sure it must be. You couldn’t have managed Lord Westlin better if I’d given you a script.”
Richborough blanched just slightly. It was an improvement over the scowl and she welcomed the change.
“What about Westlin?” he said. “If he told you anything—”
“But, darling, of course he told me absolutely everything. That’s the way he does things. And of course, that’s the way you do things as well. You see how well it worked out, how perfect a fit you were. Now, well done, and off you go.”
“Sophia,” he said, grabbing her arm as she walked past him.
“Let go of me, Richborough,” she said softly and without any amusement. “Don’t ever touch me again. And don’t ever come to my home.”
He dropped her arm as if scorched, which he most definitely had been, and she walked on, the scene of Caro and her three men awaiting her. Delicious. Sophia almost smiled in anticipation, but of course she did not; smiling in the face of Caro’s ruin was not the appropriate response. Ruin, indeed. This night would be the making of her.
It was just then that Ashdon hit Dutton in the middle of his very nice waistcoat.
It was all Sophia could do to keep from laughing out loud.
Eighteen
CARO thought that, in the way of dreams and wishes, she ought to have been delighted. Three men, handsome and titled, were interested in her. Very interested to judge by the rain of pearls that was being showered upon her, arguing now as to who would have her, how, and in what order. Caro suppressed a shudder.
It was funny in a perfectly unamusing fashion how dreams could actually be frightening when they happened while awake. This was nothing, nothing, as she had imagined it. She had three pearl necklaces and three men and the whole world was watching to see how she would handle herself, as well as how she would handle the three men. She was absolutely in over her head.
She had no idea how her mother had managed it in her day.
If Caro had needed any further convincing that the life of a courtesan was not for her, and she did not, this moment, this ruinous moment, would have convinced her permanently. Just how did one go about choosing one man from among three? Because, no matter that Lord Henry Blakesley had given her pearls first, or that the Marquis of Dutton had given her pearls in the most seductive manner imaginable, it was Lord Ashdon, predictably tight-lipped and surly, whom she wanted.
Even if he did want her for a courtesan and not a wife.
Even if he had, obviously, told absolutely everyone that she was desirous of a lovely strand of pearls so that she had been besieged by absolutely hoards of men in the most fashionable assemblie of the year, and any hope she had of ever holding her face up in Town again was completely out of reach because of Lord Ashdon’s rather big, though completely mesmerizing, mouth in telling what had obviously been a private communication to everyone he knew and a few he didn’t.
What’s more, she was almost certain that the pearls Ashdon had given her, in the most sullen way imaginable, weren’t even his pearls to give. He didn’t have any money. Who knew that better than she?
It was in the middle of these thoughts, as her tribe of three men argued and haggled right in front of her as if she were no more than a bit of lace to be fingered and bargained over, that Ashdon hit Dutton in the stomach so that Dutton lurched over, huffing, while Blakesley burst into impolite laughter.
While she was staring at the mess she had made in the drawing room of Hyde House, Ashdon grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the large, rose-colored dressing room. They were not alone.
“Your grace,” Ashdon said, bowing curtly, tugging her into a curtsey.
“Good evening, Lord Ashdon, Lady Caroline,” the fourth Duke of Hyde said softly. “Bit of a row out there? Always happens at these affairs. I don’t know why the duchess insists upon having it year after year. I suppose she must like rows.”
Hyde was a soft-spoken man who had distinguished his name by performing well in the rebellion in the American colonies twenty-five years past. No one considered it his fault at all that the American colonies had been lost to Britain, least of all his wife, a native of the colony of Massachusetts. The Duchess of Hyde’s father had made a fortune in shipping. The fourth Duke of Hyde knew what to do with a fortune. It had been an ideal match, particularly as Molly, the Duchess of Hyde, had been run out of Boston with the rest of those loyal to the crown.
Molly had given Hyde six sons in eight years, a respectable showing by Boston standards she had declared, though the youngest had died before he left the nursery. William, Marquis of Iveston, as Hyde’s heir and one of the most eligible men in England, rarely ventured out during the Season for the very reason that he was one of the most eligible men in England. Iveston was his father’s son in that respect. Lord Henry Blakesley, Hyde’s fourth son, and part of the row that had happened in the yellow salon, clearly took after his mother, Molly, the Duchess of Hyde and previously of Boston, Massachusetts, by all accounts a most raucous town.
Caro didn’t think that Hyde knew that his son was involved in the disturbance, as was she, as was Ashdon. She didn’t think it prudent of her to tell him. For once, it appeared as though she and Ashdon wer
e in agreement.
“I’m sorry, your grace,” Ashdon said. “I didn’t mean to disturb your solitude. I only hoped to remove Lady Caroline from the—”
“Disturbance,” Caroline supplied. What else to call it? A tussle for a future courtesan? No, that wouldn’t do.
“Perfectly all right,” Hyde said, dipping his head sorrowfully. “I suppose I must go out and mingle. Molly is certain to cause a row of her own if she finds me . . .”
Hiding was the word that sprang to mind, and which obviously could not be uttered.
“Taking a moment to gather your thoughts?” Caro offered.
Hyde’s head lifted and he smiled rather brilliantly. “That’s it, exactly. I shall tell her that, if forced. Enjoy the evening,” he said with a lazy wave and made his way through the bedchamber, closing the dressing room door behind him.
They were alone, just. The sounds of the crowd, just beyond the dressing room door to the drawing room, were growing louder. Caro felt both exposed and hidden, like a hare holding still before the hounds, quaking and unmoving. If she just held still long enough, perhaps forever, the hounds would depart and things would return to the way they had been.
