by Edith Layton
*
As crack coachman of the Brighton Thunder, the Viscount Hazelton had arrived in London before either Mr. Jones or the Logans had. But though he arrived first, he was last to reach his destination, having had first to go the round at the stagecoach stop, touching his broad-brimmed hat to his passengers as they got their baggage or waited for transport to their own destination, and then having to stay standing and waiting beside those who’d forgotten to remember that their coachman expected a gratuity for his services.
“Damme,” one of the young gentlemen who’d ridden topside with him murmured to a friend, his uncertainty written in plain pink on his beardless young face, “give me a clue, do I give the fellow a tip or no? He’s a viscount, I’m only a baron’s son, what’s to do?”
“Why, young sir,” the coachman said on a laugh, having overheard his embarrassed question as he’d been waiting for another fashionable gentleman to dig his coins out of an extremely tight pocket, “the only question that matters is if you enjoyed the ride. For if you did, I hardly think it matters what rank your coachman holds, so long as he holds the reins right enough. I’d tip my barber,” he said on a nudge, “if he were a baron.”
So amid much laughter, he got his coin, and smiled and raised his hat to the young gentleman for it. But that was the coin he held apart from the others, and that was the one he spent at once, dropping it on the publican’s bar as though it were smoldering, when he bought his guard a drink after the passengers had all left.
They talked awhile about roads and conditions and complained about wages and gossiped about other coachmen and guards when they were joined by a few others. But when they’d done drinking and began walking out of the main coaching inn, the viscount looked pale and grew silent, as though his energy had left with his pose of hearty, convivial coachman.
“You’ll be laying over for a few days, eh?” the guard remarked as they walked down increasingly narrow and dirty streets.
“Not too long, no,” the viscount said softly, stepping aside quickly to avoid a noisome mess that had been flung from an upper window to the pavement, “no one pays me to rest.”
“Your friend give me ’is card back at t’Swan,” the guard said evenly, “tipped me ’andsome and ast me to see you remembered ’im.”
“He gave me one too,” the viscount said as he paused before the tavern and lodging house where he had his London room. “The fellow must have had a thousand printed up, no accounting for the way some people throw their money around. Don’t worry, I’ll remember him.”
But that, Julian Dylan thought sadly as he placed his friend’s card in a corner of the speckled looking glass in his room, was probably all he would do. For after all, he thought, lying down at last, fully clothed, upon the creaking bed that took up most of his small room, the world looked different on a wild night in a comfortable inn than it did in the cool sane light of a normal afternoon. His decisions to put his home at pawn and invest the proceeds, such a glowingly good idea when he’d been glowing himself with good fellowship and good rum, seemed foolish and dangerous now. The reality of the few coins he’d earned today, the truth of the indignity of standing before his fellowman hat in hand, pretending to a jovial unconcern with the amount they tossed to him, and with the way of his earning it, were all as present and actual as the poor sagging bed he sought repose on. And all the dreams of future wealth and happiness he’d envisioned with his old friend Warwick to guide him seemed about as real as the dreams he began to slowly let himself drift away into now.
His last thought as the afternoon light struggled between buildings to finally find a purchase on his high, narrow windowsill, was that he was lucky to have such a friend as Warwick, and he hoped he’d be forgiven for not seeking him out again, but for once the astute fellow had been wrong. Help might not be charity, and a friend might be expected to help, but he knew no friends who could work miracles. And in his case, only a miracle could help.
When the summons at his door woke him, a long twilight had begun. He’d been sleeping soundly, and the unexpected sleep of the daylight hours was so rare and disorienting that it took him a few moments to remember where he was, for he had several places he called home along his coaching route, and then a few more to recall who he was, for he often thought these days that he no longer knew.
When he groped to the door, he discovered the potboy from the tavern, grinning like a gargoyle, holding out a note to him. There was nothing on the paper but his name and a few lines, but he recognized the shape and scent of it, and snatched it from the boy’s grubby hand and scanned those few lines a few times over, not only because he was still groggy but also because it gave him increasing pleasure to do so. Then, grinning almost as widely as the boy did, he reached into his pocket and flipped the boy a coin so large one would think the urchin had just made the Brighton-to-London run in record time and not just skipped up the stairs from the tavern to his room. The boy caught the coin and cried a breathless “Thankee,” for he’d run all the way up the stairs, since, though unable to read those few lines, he recognized the paper and the scent when the paper had been handed to him in the tavern, and had some idea of its importance to its recipient.
The viscount read the note, and again and once more, and then took his watch from his vest’s fob pocket and checked the time a few more times to be sure. Then he sat holding the watch, which had been heated by his sleeping body so that its smooth metal case glowed warm in his hand as his own heart, and smiled to himself. For, he thought on a rising tide of joy, there was time, while he had life he had time, and if one believed, there was, clearly, still the possibility of miracles.
5
Marbled with age, the looking glass was so small it couldn’t hold the whole of the image presented to it. There was no help for it since the room it was in wasn’t large enough for the gentleman to step back far enough to accommodate its shortsightedness. The light of the few candles on the table next to it gave the limited image a leaping, flaring, demonic aspect, but even these deficiencies couldn’t mar the gentleman’s reflected appearance. For he was fair and handsome as an angel, whatever shadows of doubt the glass cast on him.
The Viscount Hazelton had taken great pains with his appearance and so was grateful for the inconstant light because it proved that even after all his trouble, night was exactly what he needed to complete his outfit. The glaring light of day might show his perfectly fitted tight black velvet jacket to have somewhat less nap on its elbows than on the rest of its smooth surface; his shirtfront and high neckcloth gleamed white in candlelight, but after so many washings even the finest linen mellows to a creamier shade which only deeper shade can disguise; his gray pantaloons fitted to perfection, without a crease in them, but their wearer knew it was as well his lady’s brother had forbidden his suit, for if he were to get down on his knees in them tonight, it was entirely possible that their increasingly thin fabric might fly apart under such pressure, to leave him standing before his lady bare-legged and shamefaced as a boy.
His boots, at least, were a joy; the good leather had been a sound investment since it ripened with age to take on an easy, admirable shine. And the ease of one’s wardrobe, he’d soon found, was of utmost importance to a gentleman who’d had to learn to live without a valet. But some things any man can master. He’d brushed his fair hair until it glowed like another candle in the dim room, and newly washed and shaven, and anointed with the last bit of an expensive cologne he’d once believed he could afford, he was ready, at last, to meet with his lady.
She’d been the one who’d sent him the note; unsigned, he knew her hand, and the fact that she’d remembered his schedule was an extra wonderment to him. The whole glory, the miraculous aspect of it, was that the note had been waiting for him since the previous day, and the assignation she’d arranged was for tonight. And he was so excited about it, he thought as he snuffed the candles with a shaky hand, that it was as well he’d been unaware yesterday, since he might not have slept throu
gh the night thinking of it. The fact that he hadn’t slept a great deal anyway because of entirely different reasons occurred to him only to be discarded at once. He was a grown man and there were things a man did for his pleasures that never touched his heart. And this lady, ah, this lady, he believed as he took the stairs rapidly, she was his heart.
Those patrons of the Anchor Tavern where he lodged who didn’t know him but saw him come down the stair and leave through the taproom, thought he was a gentleman gone slumming. But the tavern wench, two decades his elder and mother to three who were senior to him, nonetheless smiled and remembered a dimple from her youth when he passed her and bent his glowing head in greeting, before he pushed out the doors into the night. He left her dreamy-eyed in the backwash of his lemon-and-sandlewood scent, and he knew it, for he was, he thought ruefully, always a great favorite of tavern wenches.
He was, in fact, he knew, a great favorite of all sorts of females. It was ironic, he thought, that it was only his lady whose sentiments remained in doubt. Her cool, classic features always wore a welcoming smile for him, she always listened with grave patience to his words, and gave him her hand, and sometimes her soft, cool cheek, and once, her lips, to kiss in farewell when he left her. But of all the females he’d ever known well, from the first girl to giggle at him when he was placed on his first pony, to the first one to sigh at him when he placed his body over hers, she was the only one whose affection he’d ever doubted. If he ever wondered if perhaps that was precisely her attraction for him (for he was not, whatever his emotions, a foolish gentleman), he had ample evidence of the world’s tribute to her to deny it.
Lady Marianna Moredon was an acclaimed beauty, a famous Incomparable, the object of sonnets and sketches, a female who had birth, beauty, a brain, and a fortune, and unfortunately a brother as well. And Warwick was entirely right in that, he thought as he strode through the streets, because Lord Robert Moredon was all that his friend had said, and possibly worse. He’d always seemed to scowl when he saw him, the viscount remembered. Once, years ago, at school, when his future had looked entirely clear and bright, he’d stopped to talk with a friend of Lord Robert’s, and when he’d approached the pair, had seen, that once, for one unguarded moment, the instant recoil, the glimpse of abhorrence and then avoidance in the man’s light blue eyes.
Perhaps he’d reminded the fellow of someone, perhaps it had been something he’d said at the time, he’d forgotten. But it was an unusual reaction, since the viscount had found he’d never had any trouble making men friends either. He was, he suspected, an easy fellow to like, since so many people seemed attracted to him; he was, as his friend Warwick had remarked years before, always loved—perhaps that was why he was always so loving. So it was only further irony that he’d never loved anything or anyone as he loved his Lady Marianna.
Because if Lord Robert had disapproved his attentions when he’d been believed to be a wealthy young sprig of fashion, now, of course, being penniless, he was not allowed in her vicinity. He’d been told to stay away only once, in a harsh barking command, and then Lord Robert had turned on his heel, leaving him to the pitying and fascinated stares of all the others at his sister’s soiree. Her brother had threatened to disown her if she so much as spoke with him again; she herself had told him so. But though she was a lady, he thought proudly, unconsciously raising his head as he walked and throwing back his shoulders at the thought of her, she had her own mind and knew unfairness when she saw it. So she’d still meet briefly with him, now and again, on certain safe nights when her brother was away, such as tonight. He could only hope her desire to see him was for more than that, but being a lady, she’d never told him more than that, for all he’d laid his devotion at her feet. But when he could honorably do more, he thought, why then, on that glorious day, she might well say more as well. That was his hope, his dream, his reason for continuance.
It was a long journey through wretched streets to reach the Moredon town house, but he was glad of the opportunity to walk. Had the weather been bad, he would have had to hire a coach, taking on that extra expense only so that he wouldn’t arrive dripping at her door. He moved swiftly, and went unmolested, though many eyes watched him from the shadows. He looked a gentleman, he looked as though he might have interesting plunder in his pockets. That was precisely why no man came near him, though many who found murder only a means to an end observed him narrowly as he strode past. For they knew no true gentleman would walk these streets so confidently, alone. He was, they reasoned, up to some bad business even as they were, and wild as they were, like the hungry animals they resembled, they weren’t fools enough to prey on something they didn’t recognize, something that might turn and devour them.
The only ones to accost him were females wishful of selling themselves, because any male was their fair game. He shrugged them off politely. Even if he were a fellow who paid for his sport, he knew enough to never patronize these poor creatures; the very streets they frequented proved they were too debilitated or diseased to find custom in the better districts.
When he neared Lady Marianna’s house, when he reached those clean, wide streets, he slowed his pace. He walked as though he belonged here, as he’d once done. He sauntered as though he were a gentleman out for the pleasure of a stroll, because he knew no man with funds ever hurried on foot. No one remarked him, except to note that he was a fine-looking fellow, and he’d returned so far in his thoughts to what he’d been such a little while ago that he discovered himself angry again, and upset once more when he had to turn his steps to the back entrance of the Moredon town house to seek entry as a servant might, and as an unwelcome suitor must. But so she said he’d be safe, and so he waited for her maid to ease open the door and offer him whispered admittance.
It was an indignity to be led, hushed when his footfalls echoed too loudly, past the staff, past the butler, into a small music room to the side of the house, where his lady had asked her chaperon to let her alone so that she could concentrate on a difficult bit of music for her harp. It was embarrassing to have her maid settle wide-eyed in a chair in the corner to oversee the clandestine meeting, as though even his lady wondered about his intentions, though he recognized that as a lady she must hold to all the conventions she could. But all insult was forgotten when he beheld her.
She wore a white gown that showed her youthful slenderness. Her jet hair was pulled back from her serene face, with only a few curls left upon her brow to enhance her camellia-smooth, camellia-cream-tinted complexion. She was not yet twenty, yet her poise was such that she seemed ageless. So Leonardo had painted a Madonna he’d once seen, he remembered, as he raised her slender hand to his lips. But only an English lady could have such a clear gaze, he thought as he looked up from his bow into her calm blue eyes.
They spoke of inconsequential things, as any proper young couple ought, gossip and chatter about the social weather. He told her of her beauty, as he always did, until he could contain himself no longer, and wanting to see something other than cool interest and polite acceptance of his tribute in those lovely eyes, he surprised himself by telling her of his encounter with his old friend Warwick Jones, and of the plans to reinstate his fortune.
“But…indulge in trade?” she asked with a sudden incredulous inflection in her soft voice.
“Many gentlemen do,” he explained nervously, watching her reaction. “Warwick comes from an old family. And I know,” he added quickly, “Warwick himself told me, that several other well-known noblemen do too.”
When she said nothing further, he went on, as he hadn’t meant to do, feeling, ridiculously enough, a bit like a snitch back at boarding school as he did so. “…the Duke of Torquay, for example, and the Marquess Bessacarr and Lord Leith, oh, many noblemen have added to their fortunes that way. If it profits me to the point where I can offer for you openly at last, I think I’d trade with the devil himself. But now, at least I have hopes where I’d none before, and really, I don’t have to go quite so far.”
He said the last with a laugh, to ease her fears. But she only appeared pensive, and when she looked up again, it was to her maid.
“Oh, my lady,” that little creature said at once, “the time! I don’t know how much longer you can stay here.”
“I’m so sorry, Julian,” she said, rising and giving him her soft, cool hand again, sighing regretfully. “You must go now. Good luck, and I’ll write you again, when I can.”
He took her hand as he was supposed to, he bowed and began to leave as a gentleman ought, but then, at the last, because he couldn’t restrain himself, he looked back and asked, “You will continue to wait? You can wait? These rumors I hear of you and the Earl of Alford, they are rumors?”
“As you see, nothing has changed,” she said evenly.
It was little enough, he thought as he left the house with the stealth that he’d entered it. But it was enough, he thought, when he reached the pavements again. She was a lady, he an impoverished gentleman, in all propriety there could be no more, as yet. But she’d not forgotten, or given up on him, so neither could he. And so he strode home down all the long streets again, but he wore a slight smile this time, nor did he hurry this time, since all he had waiting for him at the end of his travels was his own narrow bed.
Or so he’d thought. But when he’d almost gotten there, when he was only blocks from his room, his world shattered.
