An Impossible Confession (16 page)

H
e wasn’t aware of her, for as she saw him he turned to look up at the clock. There was something restless and almost uneasy in the way he glanced at it and then turned again to search over the sea of people crowding the hall. Then he seemed to suddenly sense her presence, his gaze moving unerringly toward her. His mask didn’t conceal his lips, and she saw him smile as he held out his hands to her.

She hurried to him, her fingers curling around his. He drew her close, holding her for a moment without speaking. She could feel his heart against hers, and she closed her eyes. Dear God, how she loved him.

He pulled back a little. ‘I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.’

‘My watch was wrong,’ she confessed ruefully. ‘I put it in my reticule but forgot to wind it up! I’m always doing it, I just don’t seem able to remember.’

‘I’m afraid I have to leave at half past twelve, I’ve been called urgently to London.’

‘The situation in Europe?’

‘I fear so. Wellington expects to come to grips with Bonaparte any day now.’

Her thoughts turned instinctively toward Gregory. ‘Is – is that why Colonel Bourne has been sent for? I’ve heard everyone commenting on his absence,’ she added quickly.

He smiled a little wryly. ‘And no doubt you’ve also heard comment that he’s been recalled because of Drummond family spite. It’s true that my uncle Llancwm wrote to him; it’s also true – as you already know – that I attended a War Office meeting
chaired by my uncle; but it’s
not
true that vengeance was the motive for Bourne’s recall. He’s been sent for because of his involvement with the Berkshire Militia, and he’s not alone, because every officer in command of militia has been sent for. I’m not party to every War Office decision, and so have no positive knowledge of what’s intended, but I’d be very surprised indeed if Mrs Bourne’s loudly expressed fears concerning her husband’s imminent dispatch to Brussels have any foundation at all. Bourne, and those like him, are of prime importance on the home front should the enemy invade, and it’s my guess that the powers that be merely wish to confirm contingency plans should such an invasion take place.’

She took a long, steadying breath. ‘I think you should know that Ralph St John may not be in a position to continue his vendetta for much longer.’

His blue eyes sharpened. ‘Why do you say that?’

She glanced around. ‘It’s too public here. Can’t we go somewhere more quiet? The gardens, maybe? I have so much to tell you, so much I should already have confessed….’

‘Is tonight the right time? I have to leave for London in only a few minutes now.’

‘I must say it all, Adam. I can’t bear things to go on as they are. Please, can we go out to the gardens?’

‘Of course.’ His fingers were warm and firm around hers as he led her back into the ballroom, and then out onto the terrace.

At the foot of the steps, in case Mr St John was still there, she made him take her down the other side of the lily pond to a
similar
alcove with the same degree of privacy, opposite the former.

The sound of the ball faded behind them, drowned by the rush and splash of the fountain, which had been repaired at last. The satin surface of the water had been broken into countless shining spangles, and the fountain played with such height and vigor that she could feel the spray on her skin as they reached the alcove. She glanced through the dancing water at the alcove on the other side, but it was empty now; Mr St John had gone.

Adam reached up to remove her domino, putting it on the bench, then he took off his own mask before facing her. ‘Don’t say a word, not yet,’ he murmured, drawing her close and bending his
head to kiss her on the lips. He took his time, and her senses stirred to move in time with his. She felt the same tempting warmth as before; it stole richly over her, enticing and irresistible. Her body ached with love and desire, and she slipped her arms around his neck, pressing against him. There was a shameless surrender in her response, but she was a victim of her own heart, incapable of denying the passion she felt for this one man.

He drew gently back, his eyes dark as he smiled. ‘I’m in danger of giving in right here to certain base notions where you’re concerned, and that wouldn’t do at all,’ he said softly. ‘I’m afraid you bring out the beastly male in me.’

‘I like the beastly male in you.’

‘That’s a most improper admission,’ he said with a low laugh.

‘I feel very improper when I’m with you, and that’s an even more improper admission,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve broken so many rules in order to be with you that I vow the doors of Almack’s would be slammed in my face if the truth was known.’

He became more serious. ‘Tell me the truth then.’

Tears filled her eyes and she tried desperately to blink them back. ‘I’m so afraid you won’t understand, that you’ll hate me for what I’ve done.’

‘Hate you? I could never hate you.’ He put his hand to her cheek. ‘Please tell me, for I can’t bear to see you so unhappy.’

She tried to meet his eyes, but was so miserable now the moment was upon her that she had to look tearfully away again. She strove for the right words, but they simply wouldn’t come. Suddenly she remembered the letter. Maybe it was better if he read it after all, for at least the written word didn’t break down in
helpless
tears. She fumbled in her reticule, but as she took the crumpled letter out it somehow slipped from her trembling fingers, floating inexorably on an invisible draft to fall onto the surface of the lily pond, where the splashing of the fountain swiftly dashed it out of sight beneath the lilypads.

Numb with disbelief, Helen could only stare at the water. How could fate continually play such cruel tricks on her? Each time she tried to put things right, something happened to prevent her. It was almost as if she wasn’t meant to be honest with him. More hot tears stung her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned away, trying
desperately to compose herself.

He came closer, resting his hands gently on her shaking shoulders. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said softly, his voice almost inaudible above the splash of the fountain. ‘Whatever was written in that letter, you can tell me to my face.’ Slowly he turned her toward him again.

For a moment she strove to regain her self-possession, then she swallowed and made herself look at him, but even as her lips parted to say it all at last, a tinkle of laughter drifted along the pergola, and with a gasp she turned to see Margaret’s pink
shepherdess
dress shining beneath the lanterns as she strolled in company with the Cardusays and Huff-and-Puff.

Helen froze. No, not again,
please
, not again. Not another perverse stroke of fate! But Margaret was coming relentlessly closer and at any moment might glance directly at the alcove. What little was left of Helen’s failing nerve disintegrated into complete confusion, and with a panic-stricken sob she pulled from Adam’s startled arms, snatched up her domino, and fled along the pergola away from Margaret. The ribbons on her gown fluttered wildly, and her hair was shaken loose from its neat pins, but she reached the far end without her sister’s seeing anything, and in a moment had disappeared into the anonymity of the gardens.

Behind her, Adam was riveted by the suddenness of her flight. He glanced in the other direction to see what had frightened her, but Margaret and her companions had turned back again and were ascending the terrace steps again, intent upon raiding the supper room, and Adam didn’t recognize them. Taking up his mask, for a moment he considered pursuing Helen, but the gardens were vast, and his chances of finding her very slender indeed. Time wasn’t on the side of love, it was pressing him hard to set off for London, and affairs of state had to take precedence over affairs of the heart.

With a sigh he glanced in the direction she’d fled, and then slowly walked back toward the house, beckoning to a footman as he reached the top of the terrace steps.

In the welcome darkness of the gardens, Helen’s distress knew few bounds. Casting around for somewhere to hide away from everyone, her glance fell on the line of waiting carriages, drawn up two abreast along the drive. By pure chance she saw the Bourne
End landau, its hoods raised now against the cooler night air. The coachman was with some of his fellows, standing around intently watching a game of dice, and no one saw her hurrying toward the vehicle, or heard the door open and close as she crept inside.

She flung herself onto the seat, giving way to a flood of bitter tears. Her whole body shook with wretchedness. What had she done to deserve all this bad luck? It just wasn’t fair. She wanted so much to wipe her foolish slate clean, but each time she tried to do so something happened to stop her. She’d tried to tell him on the terrace at Windsor, but her courage had failed her, and before that she’d been about to tell him by the lake, when Ralph’s approach had interrupted. She’d fretted long and hard over writing an explanatory letter, only to have Lord Swag intervene, and now she’d failed again, suffering the twin blows of watching that same letter sink beneath the surface of the lily pond and then having the confession frozen on her lips by the sound of her sister’s laughter.

The sobs continued to rack her unhappy body, and she lay with her face hidden against the velvet upholstery. Her eyes were redrimmed from the tears, and she felt as if her heart was breaking.

It was a long time before the weeping subsided and she became aware of sounds, from the carriage drawn up alongside, a rather grand coach with gleaming black panels. Kittenish laughter carried into the landau, and Helen sat up slowly, realizing that two lovers were meeting. Taking a handkerchief from her reticule, she wiped her eyes and peeped out. The blinds were down on the other carriage, but the window glass was lowered just a little, and she could hear voices.

The woman was in a teasing mood. ‘Come now, Ferdy, are you going to tell me you don’t
like
what I’m almost wearing? Perhaps you’d have preferred all the hooks and eyes of the costume I nearly decided to choose tonight? They would certainly have hampered your, er, progress.’

‘And what costume was that?’ The man’s voice was
good-humored
.

‘Mistress Fuchsia, and you should just see how many wicked hooks and eyes there are on that dress.’

In the darkness of the landau, Helen gasped. Mistress Fuchsia. Of course!
That
was why Ralph’s miniature had seemed so familiar,
it was a likeness of Mrs Tully in her most famous role! He’d claimed to have purchased the miniature that day, and he’d said he had no idea who the lady was, but both claims were patently untrue.

Helen sat back, the realization suddenly so clear it was like being told aloud. She’d felt at the time that he’d been in the habit of gazing at the little portrait, and now it was quite obvious that he had. It was also quite obvious that his feelings for the actress had always run far deeper than he’d revealed. He’d pretended not to mind when Mrs Tully deserted him in order to pursue Adam, but in fact he’d minded very much indeed. Enough to want revenge? Was it as simple as that? Had the whole Prince Agamemnon business been contrived solely in order to punish Adam for wounding Ralph St John’s male vanity?

She exhaled slowly, knowing that she was right, but then her breath caught again as she remembered something Margaret had said. She’d revealed that Ralph had been her first admirer, but that she had fallen for Gregory. If Ralph could turn on Adam because of Mrs Tully, then surely he was equally capable of punishing Gregory because of Margaret, maybe not as much, because he hadn’t felt as much for Margaret, but enough to make Gregory suffer a little.

Helen twisted the strings of her reticule, oblivious now to the sounds from the adjoining coach. The final two pieces of the puzzle had quite suddenly and unexpectedly fallen into place, and now she knew exactly why Ralph St John had done everything. He was governed by injured pride. How a kindly, considerate man like his father had ever produced such a son she couldn’t even begin to know.

There were more sounds from the other carriage, and she looked out in time to see the lovers slipping out and back toward the house. It was time she returned as well, or Margaret might wonder where she was.

Composing herself, she pinned up her hair as best she could, and then put on her domino again, thinking that at least it would serve to hide her tear-stained face. Opening the landau door, she alighted in a rustle of muslin and ribbons, breathing deeply of the cool night air before retracing her steps toward the house.

The fountain still splashed noisily as she walked beneath the pergola, and she paused for a moment where only a short while before she’d been in Adam’s arms, then she hurried on to the terrace steps.

As she reached the top, a footman suddenly approached her. ‘Madam?’

‘Yes?’

‘Begging your pardon, but is your name Mrs Helen Brown?’

She stared at him. ‘Yes, it is,’ she replied hesitantly.

‘Then I’m charged to give you this, madam. The gentleman told me he had to leave, and that I was to watch for a lady answering your description returning from the gardens.’ He pressed a note into her hand and then walked away.

Slowly she opened the note, and read.

Tears pricked her eyes again, but this time they were tears of happiness. She had another chance.

I
t was twelve noon exactly as the Bourne End landau, its hoods down, bowled out of the lodge gates and turned west toward the heath and the racecourse, where society was converging in strength for the commencement of the turf ’s most fashionable occasion.

Helen and Margaret sat together, Margaret’s parasol twirling gaily beneath the brilliant June sun. They were both in a buoyant mood, although for entirely different reasons.

Margaret was on top of the world, for she’d heard from Gregory that morning and knew not only that his recall had been entirely due to militia matters but that he’d be home that very evening, missing only this first day of the races. The fact that it was the day of the Maisemore Stakes and Musket’s much-heralded run against the Prince Regent’s well-fancied Cherry Brandy was a disappointment more than compensated for by the good news in the letter. Margaret paid scant attention to the rest of the letter, which spoke of disquiet in the streets of London because of the situation across the Channel; she was concerned only that now Gregory might return in time to escort her and Helen to the Cardusays’ anniversary water party

She looked very lovely in her Royal Ascot togs, soft white plumes curling down from her cerise silk hat. She wore cerise from head to toe, and it suited her very well. Her corded silk pelisse was trimmed with velour embroidery on the cuffs, collar, and hem, and her gown was of delicate, rather paler silk, its neckline low and square, its hem delightfully stiffened with rich rouleaux so that her neat ankles and little cerise patent leather shoes were shown off to excellent advantage. The fringed parasol that went with the outfit
cast only a delicate shadow over her face, and she was so bright and fresh that it was hard to believe she hadn’t gone to her bed until dawn after the ball.

Helen wore lime-green frilled muslin, and the color brought out the green of her eyes as well as making her hair shine like warm gold. Her sleeveless full-length pelisse was fitted lightly at the high waist by a wide gold-buckled belt, and the hem was stiffened by frills and by the almost mandatory rouleaux. Beneath the pelisse, she wore a long-sleeved gown, the cuffs gathered in a frill to match the one on the wide collar spilling out over the shoulders of the pelisse. Her hair was dressed in a knot from which fell a single heavy ringlet, and her wide-brimmed lime-green hat was held on by a dainty muslin scarf that was tied in a huge bow beneath her chin. She looked good, and knew it.

However, vanity and pride had little to do with her confidence today; she felt good because she’d come to terms with herself. This evening she had another opportunity to clear the air and let Adam know everything he should know, and after so many failures and disappointments, she didn’t intend to let this chance pass her by. The debacle by the Farrish House fountain the night before had taught her a salutary lesson, for as she’d wept in the landau she’d thought she’d ruined everything once and for all; his note had changed all that, and this time she knew she had the courage to finally say all she should. That was why she felt so buoyant now; she’d summoned up the inner strength that was necessary and she knew her nerve wouldn’t fail her again. Maybe it would all be in vain, maybe he’d spurn her once he knew who she was, but at least she’d have done the right thing.

As the landau drove smartly along the road to Ascot, she wondered if Mr St John had confronted Ralph. At the ball
nothing
more had been said, and when Ralph had escorted her and Margaret back to Bourne End, his manner indicated that he was still confident of having his own. way. Helen was glad he was to be taught a singular lesson, but her silent delight had been more than tempered by a deep regret that that lesson was being administered too late to undo the damage to Adam’s honor, and thus to her prospect of complete happiness. More than anything in the world she wanted to be with him, and she wanted him to be reconciled
with Margaret and Gregory, but after all that had happened she doubted if that would ever be possible. She could either be with him, or with her sister and brother-in-law, but not with both; and if he spurned her tonight anyway, then the decision was made for her.

The nearer they drove to the racecourse, the more the traffic and the landau’s speed was reduced to a mere crawl as it joined a crush of carriages, gigs, chaises, curricles, cabriolets, phaetons, and wagons. There were horsemen too, weaving swiftly in and out of the jam, or riding directly across country toward the heath.

As the racecourse loomed ahead, Helen’s thoughts returned to Adam again. He was in London now, expecting to return in time for the water party, but what if he returned earlier than that? What if he came to the racecourse and saw her in the Bourne box with Margaret? Suddenly she wished she’d worn a hat with a veil, but it was too late now.

Ascot racecourse could have been the camp of Wellington’s army, for there were horses and tents everywhere, to say nothing of countless battalions of people, both elegant and not so elegant; it was as if Bonaparte himself must also be camped somewhere nearby, maybe in Windsor Great Park, and that soon the
long-expected
battle would commence. The noise was tremendous, and clouds of dust rose from the road as the vast concourse of vehicles and riders came together. The jam was made worse than ever as the Bourne End landau halted in the middle of the highway, the
coachman
alighting to solemnly raise the hoods in order to protect the occupants from the unpleasantness of the dust and noise. Other travelers were less than amused by this additonal delay to progress, and made their feelings known volubly, but the coachman returned impassively to his seat, driving on without giving anyone else the satisfaction of so much as a glance.

Behind the racecourse, the mushrooming of tents was now complete, and the city of canvas seemed to stretch for a half a mile or more over the heath. Along the white posted course, the two permanent stands had now been joined by a variety of temporary ones, including the one belonging to Bourne End. Close to the royal stand were those of the Jockey Club and the Master of the Buckhounds, the Marquess of Cornwallis. Next came the Bourne
stand, then a number of lesser boxes, before the rows of fine carriages drawn up behind the fence. From these carriages, the wealthy and privileged would watch the day’s racing, and during luncheon partake of their sumptuous picnics of cold viands, salad, fresh-baked white bread, and champagne. A military band was playing near the royal stand, the brisk notes of a march just
audible
above the general hubbub of the meeting.

The landau left the crowded road and made its exceedingly slow way toward the Bourne box, and Helen gazed out at the colorful scene. In the tents and booths, the vendors of spruce beer were doing a roaring trade on such a hot day, and the rigged gaming tables had already succeeded in relieving the unwise of their money. Every vice could apparently be indulged in, for there weren’t only alcohol and gambling tents, there were tents outside which paraded ladies of very dubious virtue, with painted faces and brazenly low-cut dresses. Helen stared at them for a moment, and then hastily averted her eyes, looking instead at some of the traveling entertainers without whom race-meetings were
incomplete
. There were some young women on stilts, some dancing dogs, numerous jugglers and dwarfs, and a giantess from Prussia, or so the gaily clothed showman on the raised stage proclaimed. Next she saw a hunch-backed ballad singer from the Low Countries, and a Bohemian who balanced coach wheels on his chin, much to the marvel of the onlooking crowds.

She lowered the window and the noise and excitement seemed to leap into the landau, a mixture of voices, music, and smells, the latter ranging from the odor of hundreds of horses to the
appetizing
aroma of hot pies. Helen’s gaze moved over the tumultuous scene. There were knowing ones and insiders everywhere, and bookmakers, or blacklegs and pencilers, as Margaret called them. Such an occasion as this attracted the shadier characters, and she knew there’d be a very liberal sprinkling of thieves and rogues. A large contingent of Bow Street Runners and constables had been drafted in to cope, and as she looked there was a disturbance as a pickpocket was caught in the very act of relieving a gentleman of his purse. Ladies in the crowd cried out in alarm as several burly runners pounced on the culprit, ignoring his vain protestations of innocence as they dragged him away to the pound.

The landau reached the Bourne box at last, and the footmen who’d been dispatched there not long after dawn with the copious supply of iced champagne and Fortnum and Mason hampers, hastened to open the carriage doors and assist the two ladies down. The select party of distinguished guests who were always invited to view the races from the box had already gathered inside and turned gladly to greet Margaret and Helen as they climbed the wooden steps and entered the luxuriously appointed room inside.

There were velvet-upholstered chairs and sofas, a table laden to groaning point with superior refreshments, and a matchless view over the racecourse itself. The grass where soon the horses would gallop was for the moment crowded with strolling people, but when the marshals cleared them all away, the winning post would be clearly visible.

Helen knew all the guests, having met them either at the dinner party or the ball, and she was no longer beset by nerves at the thought of conversing with a countess or a duke. Nor was she intimidated by the lady patronesses of Almack’s, for Lady Cowper and Countess Lieven were among the party, and both spoke graciously to her. One face was, for Helen, glaringly absent from the proceedings, for although Ralph St John had been invited, there was as yet no sign of him.

Sipping champagne, she moved among the guests, who were primarily interested today in Musket’s prospects in the Maisemore. As with Prince Agamemnon the year before, a great deal of money was resting on the outcome of the race, and
everyone
was impatient to see if the Prince Regent’s horse was going to be seen off. Musket’s performance had improved at his last gallop, and before leaving for London Gregory had expressed himself much happier with the horse, so that today’s race promised to be very close indeed, although there were some reservations about the jockey’s weight. While discussing the race, it was inevitable that Prince Agamemnon should be mentioned, although clearly no one relished doing so, for it wasn’t at all the thing to speak of an event that had almost resulted in the permanent banning of their host from all races run under Jockey Club rules. One thing became clear to Helen, however, and that was that although the evidence against Adam seemed conclusive, many of the guests thronging the
elegant Bourne box harbored grave doubts about his guilt. Helen actually heard the Duke of Rutland murmur in an undertone to his uncle, the Duke of Beaufort, that he was dashed if he could believe Adam Drummond would ever do such a thing, not even to an enemy, and certainly not to a friend.

At last the prerace period came to an end, and the band by the royal stand broke off in mid-note to change from a march to the national anthem. It was the signal that the royal procession of carriages had arrived from Windsor, and the marshals immediately came out to clear the course. The great crowd began to cheer, pressing eagerly forward to watch as the first open carriage appeared, drawn by a team of cream horses. The Prince Regent was seated inside with his mother and sisters, waving graciously in acknowledgement. The cheering reached a crescendo, however, when the second carriage came into sight, for it contained the prince’s brother, the Duke of York, who was the racing fraternity’s darling.

As the prince’s carriage drove slowly past the Bourne box, he smiled charmingly at Margaret, who stood looking down at him, then he smiled at Helen too. Her heart almost stopped with pleased surprise. He’d actually remembered her!

Margaret waited until the royal procession had all passed, then came to speak to her. ‘How honored you are, sister mine.’

‘I can hardly believe he remembers me.’

‘He always remembers a pretty face, and you, you wretch, are very pretty indeed.’ Margaret glanced at Helen’s watch, which was pinned to the bodice of her lime-green pelisse. ‘I wonder where Ralph can have got to? He’s never late, especially not for Royal Ascot.’

‘Perhaps he’s had to change his plans.’

‘No one, but no one, changes plans for today,’ declared Margaret firmly. ‘I hope he hasn’t met with a mishap. The Windsor road is so busy today, maybe his carriage has overturned!’

‘Don’t overdramatize, Margaret. I’m sure he’s quite all right.’ To herself she added, He’s probably just nursing his furious
disbelief
that the tables have been turned on him.

But even as this uncharitable thought entered her head, the door of the box opened and Ralph came in. He was dressed very
elegantly in a dark gray coat and cream cord trousers, with a gray beaver top hat pulled forward on his head. A diamond pin glittered in the excellent folds of his starched neckcloth, and a silver-handled cane was held lightly in one gloved hand. He looked the picture of nonchalant sartorial excellence, but Helen could see by his eyes that his father had carried out the threat.

‘Greetings,
mes enfants
,’ he murmured, removing his hat and bowing over Margaret’s hand. ‘Forgive me for being late, but it was just one dashed thing after another.’

Margaret smiled, reaching up to kiss his cheek. ‘Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Isn’t it, Helen?’

‘Yes, of course.’

His eyes slid to Helen’s. ‘How kind of you to say so,’ he said softly.

She met his gaze squarely. ‘Not at all.’

For a long moment he continued to look at her, but then returned his attention to Margaret. ‘I’m afraid I have some very disagreeable news. I have to return to Jamaica immediately with my father.’

Margaret stared at him. ‘Oh, no, surely not. Whatever’s happened?’

‘My father had word this morning that there’s been a terrible fire on the plantation, and much of the house has been gutted. He has to go back immediately, he has no choice, and under the circumstances I can hardly permit him to go alone. It’s my duty to accompany him.’