A Dangerous Beauty (20 page)

She rounded the turn toward the front stair and peered over the banister. Two footmen in casual conversation flanked the door. She would have to go around to the back stair. She hesitated, hearing the conversation below.

“The nerve o’ tha’ bloke, comin’ after dark yestereve.”

The other footman replied, “’Spect ’e was a-thinkin’ ’e’d catch the master a’ home, ’e did.”

“An’ when ’as that ever meant ’e’ll pay ’em? Why I’ve ’ad to shut the door in the faces of more ’an a dozen since the cap’n came back.”

The other footman shook his head.

“But why ’e owes every dressmaker in town, and the coalman in west Lon’un, and—”

“It’s a lady bird, if you were to arsk me,” the bewigged footman replied.

“Or three’s more like it. D’yer think one o’ them is that fancy piece, the Countess o’ Sheffield?”

“I wouldn’t care if ’twere the queen ’erself. I ’aven’t had me wages the last two quarters, I ’aven’t,” the other grumbled. “If it weren’t for wot he done fer me at Trafalgar—”

The other man squinted up toward her and Rosamunde ducked out of sight.

One of the men cleared his throat and Rosamunde crept on all fours back to the upper hallway toward the bedchambers.

He had a mistress?
She thought she might be ill. She tried to regulate her breathing. It just couldn’t be Grace Sheffey.

She bit her lips. Perhaps she had been a silly, gauche, countrified fool all this time.

Of course, it was the countess
. And probably there were more. He was not called Lord Fire and Ice without reason. The man had more dark, mesmerizing charm than the devil himself.

She stood up and turned only to bump face-first into a shadowed, solid wall. Two strong hands gripped her. She looked up into the hard planes of…his face.
His face
.

“Can’t sleep?” Luc St. Aubyn murmured in the warm baritone that made her want to weep.

She shook her head.

“It’s the ball next week, isn’t it?”

“Partially, I suppose,” she whispered.

“Come, let’s—”

“No,” she interrupted.

He paused. “Of course. Didn’t mean—-”

“No, I’m sorry.” She looked up to see the corner of his mouth curve.

“Are you ever going to let me finish a sentence?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Where were you going, crawling around like that?” Despite the dark hall, she could see the crinkles on the side of his eyes. “Chasing mice?”

“Rats, more like it,” she said, remembering he probably had a mistress.

“Ah yes, plenty to be found here,” he said with a chuckle.

“I’ve only seen one, actually.
A large black one
.”

He smiled hugely. “How appropriate.”

“Exactly,” she replied, folding her arms.

“Are you going to tell me where you were going or not? I hope you’re not thinking about going out alone. Ata should have warned you to take a maid at all times.”

“I know very well the importance of giving illusions. But I hate to wake someone just so I can walk two minutes to Hyde Park. The only people I shock are milkmaids and people of trade.”

He gawked at her. “Why ever are you going to the park at”—he checked his pocket watch and scratched his head—“six o’clock in the morning? There’s not a
lady out of bed in London before half ten. And that’s on the early side.”

“That’s why I go now.” She had a sudden notion of why he was up so early. He had probably spent the night at Number Thirty-four Portman Square and taken the rear stairs. The Countess of Sheffield’s town house was directly across the square’s garden from Helston House. “As I told you, I like gardens and flowers. They’re
silent
.”

He took her arm and ushered her down the back stair. “I’m not sure why you’re looking at me as if I’ve committed murder, but I won’t let you walk outside alone. If you’re determined to take the air, I’ll accompany you.”

“Really?” she asked more haughtily than she thought she knew how to do.

“Really.” He doffed the beaver hat he’d been carrying. “But not without a maid.” He called down to the kitchen and an aproned young girl flew up the stairs. With a word or two they were off, the beleaguered kitchen maid in tow.

The cool, fresh air revived Rosamunde’s spirit. She walked in long strides as she had always done, quite aware that other ladies preferred a most delicate strolling gait.

“What precise route would you like to take?” Luc asked after they crossed into the park a few minutes later.

“I like to start by the stand of trees on the north side. That’s where you can see a duel if you’re lucky and early enough. And then—”

Luc skidded to a stop, the kitchen maid almost bumping into them. “For God’s sake, Rosamunde. Are you out of your mind?” He shook his head. “I’d give you a litany of reasons why you shouldn’t put yourself in such danger, but if you haven’t figured it out at your advanced age, you’re a hopeless case, I’m afraid.”

Her eyes widened. “Advanced age?” she said outraged. “Why—”

He interrupted. “Seriously, why do you watch?”

“It’s just that…”

“What? It’s just what?”

“Well, it’s always interesting to see physical evidence that there are those having a worse go of it than yourself.”

Luc burst out laughing. “Rosamunde. You can’t be serious…”

“Well,” she said, “it is diverting.”

“You do like living dangerously. I could’ve used you in battle.”

“Hmmm. No duels today, I think,” she said, peering through the birch trees. “All right now, let’s cross toward Tattersalls and into Green Park.” She stooped to pick a few wildflowers along the way.

“And what is so interesting in Green Park? You’ll notice I don’t have to ask why you want to trot past Tats. Could we please slow down? You’ll be the death of Sally.”

She stopped abruptly. “This is why I hate to ask anyone to accompany me. Your poor maids have too much work to do as it is.” They admired the stream of horses being led from the famous stables for morn
ing exercise. The sleek horses’ muzzles sent swirls of heated breath through the early morning. They set off again when Sally caught up. “In truth, I don’t spend much time in Green Park. No formal flower gardens, you know.”

“No I didn’t know. Why not?”

“The lepers.”

“The
what
?”

“St. James’ Hospital buried them in unmarked graves there, and supposedly it’s kept somber out of respect for the dead.”

He shook his head. “How do you know these things?”

“You have a phenomenal library. And I’ve had little else to do other than help plan the ball and stay away from the windows.” They entered the northwest corner of the smaller park and Rosamunde dropped the wildflowers haphazardly along the way.

“Those I suppose are for the dead?”

“Of course,” she murmured, feeling more than a little foolish. “If I were a leper I would want flowers, not just dirt and tufts of grass.”

He cleared his throat uneasily. “I’m sorry you’ve been forced to remain at Helston House each day. It’s just that if we’ve any chance of restoring your—”

“I know, you don’t have to say it. I’m very willing to do whatever it takes to help everyone help me. It’s the least I can do after everything you and Ata have arranged. I’m only sorry I cannot repay you. Even though I don’t say it, I’m extremely grateful,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I haven’t shown it.”

“I think you know I prefer anything to gratitude.
Gratitude is the kissing cousin of pity.
Now, shall we discuss that hellish black rat you’ve been watching?”

She forced a smile. “Of course. And what a perfect spot to do so, don’t you think?” Green Park ended at the northern corner of St. James Park.

“Go ahead,” he said, revealing the slightly crooked tooth that made his rare smiles all that more heart-stopping. “I know you’re dying to tell me why.”

“It’s because King Charles the Second always liked to parade his mistress around Rosamond’s Pond.”

“And that has what to do with a black rat?” His eyes were sparkling as he shook his head in mock despair.

“Wicked peer, parading mistress,
Rosamond’s
Pond? I never thought you thickheaded.”

He barked with laughter. “I am this early in the morning. Now why don’t you tell me more about this delightful rodent?”

“I’ve said more than enough.”

He looked at her shrewdly. “Well then, shall we walk back? Or better yet, let me hail a hack or I shall have a very tired kitchen maid and an angry cook.”

The hack’s worn leather seats were slightly damp from the leather soap the driver had used at the start of his day. And the air was decidedly quieter given the kitchen maid’s presence. But Rosamunde was glad. She had made her point and he had understood she knew what he was about.

Rosamunde couldn’t have done it better if she had had time to rehearse a hundred times in her chamber. She had wanted him to think she was unaffected by his
obvious affair with the countess. And she had learned a very long time ago that it was always preferable to pretend indifference than to express emotion. Alfred had been her teacher. But then, she thought suddenly, wasn’t Luc St. Aubyn the master of them all?

She wasn’t sure she could maintain this cheerful façade much longer. She clutched her hands when she glanced at the mesmerizing blue of his eyes and prayed a letter from Phinn would be waiting for her upon their return.

Fortune-hunter,
n.
A man without wealth whom a rich woman catches and marries within an inch of his life.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

L
uc allowed his valet, or rather his former cabin boy, to tie his cravat. The young man was in raptures as he glanced back and forth between a drawing of some ridiculously complicated affair and Luc’s neck. His own patience was wearing thin.

“Corky, you have precisely three more minutes before I tie you to a chair using those perfectly good neckcloths you ruined.”

“I’m sorry, Cap’n, er, Your Grace.”

“‘Captain’ will do in private.” He vastly preferred his old Royal Navy designation. He’d never gotten used to the other. Reminded him too much of his fa
ther, or worse, the loss of his brother, who should’ve held the title far longer.

“Right, Captain.” Corky stressed the “t.”

Luc hid a smile. Corky was trying so hard to become a proper gentleman’s man and Luc had given him so little chance to practice his arts.

“There. Now hold still, Cap’n. Her Grace gave me this.”

He looked down to see a single gleaming ruby on a neckcloth pin.

“Not if you treasure your life,” he said dryly.

“Her Grace said you have to wear red, for ‘fire.’”

Ata, Grace, and Rosamunde were impossible when they put their heads together. They’d gone ahead and ordered the invitations without consulting him. “Fire and Ice Ball” indeed. He muttered something not fit for anyone’s ears and Corky raised his impish brows. Well, he had to concede they had been somewhat brilliant. Not one of the four hundred invitations had been declined. Seemed the
ton
had a fascination for humorous secret references and scandal after all.

Luc fended off most of Corky’s final touches and made his way across Portman Square to Number Thirty-four. Inside, a chorus of feminine voices assaulted his ears.

“Luc,” Ata moaned, “what are we to do?”

“Drink and frolic with pretentious toadies?”

“Oh, not now,” Ata pleaded. “You’ve
got
to help us.”

“Half of the orchestra,” Grace Sheffey said, “all the strings, have yet to arrive. The conductor says they
were engaged to play this afternoon at Lady Iveagh’s garden party on the edge of Hampstead Heath.”

“Well,” he replied, looking at the bevy of hopeful faces. Where were Rosamunde and her sister? “We’ll have to double the champagne or we’re wrecked.”

At that moment the door to the ballroom opened and Rosamunde entered the hall. Her sister and a beleaguered-looking man carrying sheet music followed her. And suddenly Luc couldn’t hear Ata’s babbling, or anything else for that matter.

She was stunning
.

Absolutely, breathtakingly, achingly ravishing. She looked like a bride.
His bride
.

Dressed in white with red and white rosebuds threading her ebony hair, she glided forward, her expression remarkably filled with relaxed good humor. She should be terrified. Instead, it was the sister who looked ready to expire.

Rosamunde stepped forward and curtsied. “Your Grace.”

He bowed and forced himself not to sweep her into his arms.

“Ata and Grace, I hope you don’t mind,” Rosamunde said, “but I’ve taken the liberty of asking Mr. Brown to arrange for two carriages to go to Lady Iveagh’s. Perhaps there was an accident. And Sylvia has agreed to play the harp until the strings arrive and the dancing begins.”

“And if they don’t arrive?” He tried not to stare too intently at her beautiful face.

“Well, I do have an idea, but let’s not talk about that
yet. Ah, thank you, Mr. Wynn,” she said, dismissing the conductor. She leaned forward and whispered to the intimate group, “Mr. Brown asked me to suggest bribing several of the violinists playing at the countess of Home’s house at Number Twenty in this square. Seems she’s having a musicale tonight. Not that I’m recommending this course, you understand.”

Ata pounced on the idea like a mouse on cheese. “Oh yes, let’s do. How many violinists does she really need anyway? No one likes musicales. Don’t you agree, Luc?”

“I would like to hear your last resort,” he said, turning to Rosamunde.

When her sister remained mute, Lady Sylvia cleared her throat and said softly, “I told Rosamunde she should sing.”

Silence greeted this news.

“You’re not serious?” he drawled, then paused when Rosamunde’s eyes narrowed. “You’re serious.”

Her eyes dared him to say another word.

“I’ll go get the bribe,” he said before the countess grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Luc, I like Sylvia’s idea better,” Grace Sheffey said.

And for the first time Luc wondered how much Grace was willing to show of her heretofore-unseen perfectly manicured little claws.

Rosamunde could barely breathe, let alone enjoy the beauty of the Countess of Sheffield’s mansion furnished “in the first stare.” But then she had had two
days to see every square inch of one of the most stylish town houses in Mayfair while she oversaw the formidable floral decorations.

Rosamunde stood with the countess, Luc, and Ata on the second-story landing, staring down at the magnificent marble stairway. Swags of greenery topped with petite bouquets of red and white flowers twined the railings. Only Rosamunde knew their significance, which gave her comfort for some odd reason.

She glanced at Luc out of the corner of her eye. He was resplendent in the harsh black of his knee breeches and dress coat with long tails. She knew why he had chosen to stand next to her. It was to dare the
haut ton
to utter a single affront.

Below, the butler opened the heavily lacquered front door and Rosamunde clenched her hands together. Good Lord, the guests were already arriving.

A lovely lady entered with all the splendor and stature of a queen. A dull-looking fellow was beside her.

Ata’s hands flew to her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh thank heaven,” she whispered to the countess. “I don’t know how you managed it.”

“It’s Lady Cowper, one of Almack’s patronesses,” Luc confided to Rosamunde. “And of course her lack-wit husband—although, stupidity is a trait to cherish if you’re going to cuckold your husband, don’t you think?” His eyes danced with laughter.

“You’re abominable,” Rosamunde whispered, watching the regal lady surrender her wrap and mount the stair.

“Oh no. I adore Emily. Her mother, Lady Mel
bourne, was one of the cleverest women alive. On her deathbed, she told her daughter to be true to her lover instead of her husband.” He cleared his throat and stepped forward to accept Lady Cowper’s proffered hand. “Lady Cowper,” he bent to kiss her glove.

“Helston,” she replied. “Delighted to see you back in town. It’s been an age.”

“Thank you for standing up with us tonight,” he said warmly and greeted Lord Cowper.

“Oh pish. Hold on to your appreciation, Luc,” Lady Cowper said. “Haven’t you heard? ‘
Gratitude is the kissing cousin of pity.
’”

Rosamunde glanced at him. It was a moment of déjà vu.

He blanched. “I had no idea,” he said faintly.

“Well, you would if you’d read
Lucifer’s Lexicon
. Fabulous, simply fabulous. Even if you haven’t a moment to read in your rakish existence, you must find a copy. Everyone is talking about it.”

“Indeed,” he said quietly.

Lady Cowper turned an assessing glance in Rosamunde’s direction.

“Well, it’s always a pleasure to help launch a deserving lady.” Lady Cowper nodded, the crimson ostrich feathers in her turban trembling. The grande dame winked coyly. “You must be Rosamunde Baird. I told your father long ago he should have managed that earlier nonsense much better than he did. I’ve been longing to meet you.”

Rosamunde felt a warm glow around her heart and she curtsied. “You do me a great honor, Lady Cowper.”

“Pish, it’s nothing.”

But they both knew it was everything.

“Now,” Lady Cowper said, linking her arm with her own, “I shall stand on one side of you and Luc shall take your other side. Oh, and look, just in time. Get ready now, chin up. Now let’s see who dares…Lady and Lord Hardwick, how good of you to join us. May I present the Earl of Twenlyne’s daughter, Lady Rosamunde?”

Oh, her confidence almost deserting her, she was being presented as her father’s daughter. Rosamunde had refused to use her former title since the fateful day she had gotten into Alfred’s shabby carriage and left her father’s house, bound for Scotland.

In the next hour, Rosamunde greeted almost four hundred guests. From time to time, she looked down the stair, hoping to see her brother Phinn’s fair head. An ache in her heart and in her limbs made her weary. She had been forced to curtsy so many times, she felt her knees begin to wobble with the effort.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” Luc whispered in her ear. “You’ll have to dance soon.”

Ata leaned in. “But the strings haven’t arrived yet,” she moaned.

And then it happened. Someone gave her the cut direct. Lady Cowper had turned away to greet someone while Luc placated Ata. A very plump matron glanced at her and turned away with a harrumph as she tugged on her husband’s elbow.

“Did you say something, Lady Skiffington?” Luc said, sharply turning around and almost barring
her entrance to the ballroom beyond. “I do believe you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Lady Rosamunde.”

The older lady sputtered, “I’ve met everyone I need to, young man.”

Luc smiled shrewdly as he stepped sideways at the same moment the lady tried to move around him. “I think not.”

Rosamunde wanted to crawl under the side table but she stood very still and very tall.

“Amanda Barnstable,” Ata said quietly, “you should be ashamed of yourself. But then at Miss Dilford’s School you never could balance a book on your head to save your life. Now if you would just follow the example of Lady Rosamunde.”

“Well!” Lady Skiffington huffed, “I never thought—”

“And you never do, my dear,” Lady Cowper interrupted.

Rosamunde felt a hysterical giggle tickling her throat amid the tension. She wondered if Lady Cowper had taken lessons from Ata. Evidently, intimidation by way of interruption was something of an art form taught at Miss Dilford’s. It was too bad Lady Skiffington hadn’t been an adept pupil. Rosamunde almost felt sorry for her.

The older woman nodded a fraction of an inch, and Rosamunde curtsied politely. “Delighted you could come, Lady Skiffington,” she murmured, while Luc bowed and extended his arm toward the ballroom.

“The trick,” Lady Cowper said to her, “is to know when to stand firm. The Duke of Helston has always
known how to do it perfectly. You are lucky to have him in your corner, my dear. You’ll be the envy of half the ladies here tonight.”

“But, he’s not—” she whispered before being interrupted by an expert.

“A lover to give up without a fight,” Lady Cowper said quietly yet firmly while smiling at the last guest to enter the ballroom. She turned to Luc and continued smoothly, “Now what is this I hear about Rosamunde singing for us tonight? Grace tells me we’ve a shortage of strings, unless you’ve managed to snare a few from under the Countess of Home’s nose.”

Luc sighed. “It appears she doubled my incentive.”

“Well, I don’t blame her. She’s been in a temper ever since she heard you picked the same date as her little musicale. I say ‘little’ because almost everyone but her most stalwart circle chose to attend this ball over her amusement.”

Rosamunde heard the faint sound of a harp coming from the ballroom, and her heart plummeted. When she’d agreed to this mad scheme, she’d been sure Mr. Brown would be able to secure the musicians from the garden party. She hadn’t really thought about how impossible it would be to stand up in front of four hundred members of the
ton
, some of whom would be only too delighted to witness her mortification.

“Feeling like you might have bitten off more than you can chew?” Luc asked, looking down from hooded eyes.

“Not at all,” she muttered. “I’ve always enjoyed
large portions of humiliation with intense mortification on the side.”

Lady Cowper laughed. “Me too. Good for the soul, don’t you think? Come along, my dear, I shall introduce you.”

The ballroom was awash with the magnificent splendor of hundreds of vividly attired members of the
beau monde
. It seemed they took their entertainment very seriously, and loved dressing the part.

Rosamunde and Lady Cowper ascended the three stairs to the musicians’ small stage and stood near Sylvia, who was furiously blushing behind a harp. The conductor tapped his stand and Lady Cowper raised her hand to quiet the crowd.

“I do hope you’ve all been enjoying yourselves. You’ve been immensely patient. But we promised mystery and more during this Fire and Ice Ball, and so without further ado, I give you Lady Rosamunde Langdon, daughter of the Earl of Twenlyne, who shall perform an enchanting song to welcome you tonight.” Lady Cowper, winked and nodded to her with encouragement.

She faced the huge crowd and thought she might just very well faint. Her body felt stiff and her breath had completely deserted her. A faint buzzing in her ears began, which threatened to overtake the opening measures of Sylvia’s harp, joined by a flute and pianoforte. She glanced down and saw Luc standing directly in front of her. He shook his head ever so slightly and directed her gaze to his eyes with
V
’d fingers of one hand. If she had had her wits about her she would
have taken perverse humor in the fact that he appeared more anxious than she.

Slowly, ever so slowly as she focused on the depths of his eyes, the rest of the crowd seemed to melt away, leaving her alone with him and the music.

The lyrical Welsh notes soared and at the highest point, Rosamunde joined her voice to one endlessly long melancholy note. Rosamunde closed her eyes against the bittersweet memories of the song.

It was her father’s favorite, one she hadn’t dared sing since leaving Edgecumbe. She sang of love and loss, of hope and sorrow, and of a passion that never died.

She sang the story of life. Of her own life. And during the last phrases of the song, she opened her eyes and scanned the room, no longer afraid to meet the faces staring back at her. With the greenery edging them, the many guests wearing red and white and black looked like a glorious field of scarlet poppies swaying in the wind.