Autumn Rain (8 page)

"I have heard nothing," Elinor confessed.

"I'm afraid Arthur keeps you far too sheltered, my dear, when he ought to warn you instead." The other woman leaned closer to confide, "There is to be another hearing."

"If he is divorced from her, I cannot see—" Elinor stopped. "Surely he is not being named correspondent in another instance, is he? I mean, he has been out of the country."

"Of course not," Sally retorted. "Most men are not so foolish as Longford. No, this is quite another matter." Her mouth flattened into a thin line of disapproval once more. "There is a child, I'm afraid."

"A child?"

"Probably more than one, if the truth were told, but no, you mistake my meaning. Diana has returned, asking for a settlement upon her daughter, and Longford means to fight it—he told Cowper so, in fact. Said it was why he was back." She waited for Elinor to express shock, and when the younger woman said nothing, she went on, "Do you not see? It will be the
on-dit
all over again, and how the Fentons are to stand it, I am sure I don't know."

"But is the child his?" Elinor wondered aloud.

"It does not matter," Lady Jersey declared dismissively. "As it is a girl, he ought not to quibble over it. If Oxford can accept that miscellany Jane has presented him, then Longford should pay for the child and not create such a fuss. It would be ever so much better to avert the scandal, but then he is certainly no stranger to that."

"But if it is not his, it scarce seems fair," Elinor pointed out reasonably. "Why should he acknowledge an heiress simply to avert unpleasant gossip?"

The countess smirked almost derisively, then retreated behind her fan. "My dear, you are an innocent," she murmured. "I daresay you must be faithful to your lord also."

Perceiving the comment to be censorious, Elinor felt the color rise in her face. "Yes," she said simply. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Arthur beckoning her, and she excused herself. "Your pardon, Lady Jersey, but my husband needs me."

"A pity. There are so many eligible gentlemen to amuse oneself with." The older woman sighed expressively. "But you are right, of course, for Kingsley has but the one heir. He might be rather vexed should another come in by the side door."

"I can assure you that will not happen," Elinor muttered dryly. "I think Arthur is ready to leave," she added, retreating. "Perhaps he is not feeling well."

"My dear, one should never live in one's husband's pocket," Sally Jersey warned her. "It only breeds contempt and boredom, not to mention it's unfashionable."

The crowd shifted to make room for the grand entrance of the Italian diva, and Elinor found the way suddenly blocked. Threading a narrow path among the press of bodies, she trod on someone's foot. "Your pardon, sir—I—" Her gaze traveled up to the coldly handsome face. "Oh."

"Lady Kingsley," he murmured, favoring her with that faint, seemingly derisive smile. "Lord Longford."

"You risk much acknowledging the parish, you know."

"Fiddle, sir."

His manner changed abruptly, and he looked to the elegantly clad gentleman with him. "Bell, have you been presented to Kingsley's Venus?"

"No. Been out of the country some," he reminded

Lucien rather pointedly, "but I've heard of her—conquered London, if the Beau can be believed."

Turning back to Elinor, Lucien made the introduction. "Lady Kingsley—Bellamy, Viscount Townsend."

"Charmed, Lady Kingsley, I assure you."

"Thank you."

"Were you presented at Court this year, Lady Kingsley?"

"Last year—and I still shudder when I think of the hoops and feathers," she murmured, smiling at him. "I looked a shocking fright, I am afraid."

"Daresay you weren't alone in that. Don't know why the females have got to dress like they was French royalty before the Revolution. Gentlemen either. I never did favor knee breeches and buckles." His eyes met Elinor's and there was no mistaking the open admiration in them. "How is Lord Kingsley, by the by?"

"He is here. In fact, I was on my way to him just now."

"Oh. Yes—well, perhaps I might call—to further the acquaintance, of course," Townsend ventured hopefully.

"We should be honored, I am sure. Your pardon, gentlemen, but I must find Arthur before the lights are doused."

Both men watched her disappear into the crowd, then Bell sighed. "Seems a shame, don't it? Beauty's wasted on an old man like that, don't you think?"

Longford's eyebrow rose. "My experience with elderly husbands is that they are inclined to keep everything they have bought, Bell."

"Bound to be bored with the old gent, I'd think," the viscount mused. "I wonder..."

"The girl's green. I doubt she would know how to play the game."

"You don't know that," Townsend retorted.

"Leave her alone, Bell—she's not up to your weight." Even as he said it, Lucien wondered why he bothered. If Kingsley's young wife got herself into a scandal, it was none of his affair. As soon as the new unpleasantness with Diana was over, he was going back to the Peninsula where things really mattered.

"It ain't like you to throw a spoke in a man's wheel," Townsend complained.

"You've thrown too many spokes in the wrong places, Bell," Lucien reminded him. "You cannot afford another misstep, you know."

But Townsend wasn't entirely convinced. He stared for a moment, then shrugged. "Some things might be worth the risk," he decided, plunging into the crowd after her. "Lady Kingsley, perhaps you'd care for a turn about the park?" he asked, catching up to her. "Got a new equippage and a splendid pair."

He was a handsome fellow, there was no denying that. "Well, I—"

"Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow, I am afraid. It's my day to go to Hookham's."

"Good night, Townsend," Arthur told him coldly.

"Set down, Bell?" Longford murmured at the viscount's elbow.

"Not precisely." Townsend's gaze followed her and Kingsley all the way to the door. "A pretty plum ripe for the picking, I'd still say."

"You've picked too many plums, Bell," was the dry reply. "I doubt the baron will be as complacent as I was."

Ensconced in the carriage and leaning back against the green velvet squabs, Elinor waited for the inevitable peal, and it was not long in coming.

"You little fool! You would ruin all I have striven for!" he hissed at her. "What were you thinking of?"

"I am not a child," she retorted, turning to stare out the window.

"When you saw the Jersey woman give him the cut direct, you should have also!"

"Who?" she inquired, feigning innocence.

"Longford! Don't know what Leighton was thinking of either, for the earl is not received. But it isn't the same—a man can survive the association!" He leaned across the seat and reached to lift the emerald collar with a cold fingertip.

She held herself very still, not wanting him to touch her. "I have enough credit to survive, I think."

"I'd not have it said my wife lacks breeding, Elinor. I do not pay for you to throw yourself at Longford. Town-send either."

"I should scarce call a few words throwing myself, Arthur," she responded coldly.

"I have made you, Elinor, and I'd not have you forget it. Without my money, Ashton would be rotting in Newgate, and your family would be on the rolls." When she said nothing more, his anger began to ebb, and he leaned back. "Well, I have said enough on that head, I think. No doubt you were too green to know what to do," he conceded finally.

She'd heard him say it before, not often, but still it rankled. She considered lashing out that she'd rather be free than rich, but it would serve no purpose. Instead, she watched the glowing yellow balls of the gaslights that lined the street.

For all that she'd vexed him, he did not want to further a quarrel, not when he needed her. "You must be exceedingly tired," he said after a time.

She wasn't, but she knew what to expect, so she merely nodded. Once home, he would order warm milk and honey for her and a glass of port for himself, and given that it was Saturday, he would join her in her bed. She considered saying that she did in fact have the headache, that she felt fever coming on, but that also would make no difference. He would tell her he was "healthy as a horse—always have been, in fact," and he would sleep with her for the sake of appearance, because his vanity required it.

She pulled the evening cloak about her, folding it over her arms, and told herself she was merely blue-deviled. She ought to give the man across from her credit—he'd made her into the envy of half the ladies in London. He'd showered her with jewels and pampered her with every convenience. He'd seen that nothing was too good for her. He'd guided her into the chancy waters of a gay, almost brittle society. It was altogether true—everything she was, he'd made from a green, scared fifteen-year-old girl, and yet despite all he'd given her, she was restive and bored with much of her life. She wanted more—she wanted someone to hold her, someone to love her for more than her face and form.

"Chilled, my dear?" he inquired solicitously. "Perhaps a toddy would be more useful than milk tonight."

"I don't want a toddy."

"If I have criticized you, it's for your own good, Elinor. I'd have you know how to go on."

She wanted to cry out that she didn't want to know how to go on, that she wanted to know how to
live.
As it was, she was growing old within a body that was not yet twenty.

Once home, as soon as he took her cloak, the butler informed Kingsley, "Master Charles is at home, sir."

"The devil he is," Arthur muttered, clearly displeased by the news. "Gone up to bed, has he?"

"No, my lord—he awaits you in the bookroom."

The old man's face creased into a deep frown. "You'd best go on, my dear," he told Elinor. "I shall be up directly. Tell Mary when she fetches your toddy that I'd take half a glass of port and no more. Got a twinge of the gout tonight, I'm afraid." Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. "Best have her put another blanket on the bed."

As she climbed the stairs, she heard him enter the bookroom, and she stopped on the landing to listen. At first, there was the indistinguishable murmur of voices, then the sounds of a quarrel rose acrimoniously as Arthur shouted at his grandson and was answered angrily. Charles had been sent down from Oxford, and it did not appear that he was sorry for it. He could not study, he declared, not when England's finest were fighting for her life and honor. All he wanted, he cried, was for his grandfather to buy his colors. There was a stunned silence, then Arthur thundered, "I have reared an ingrate—an ingrate—do you hear me? You are my heir, Charles—I have built an empire for you!"

"You don't understand me! I cannot—"

"There is nothing to discuss, Charles! I forbid this nonsense! I did not send you to Harrow and Oxford for this!"

"I won't go back!"

"You won't go to Spain either! Let the poor fight the Corsican upstart! No grandson of mine goes!" The door opened, and she hastened up the stairs. Behind her, the young man trod angrily, catching her at the top. Below, Arthur shouted for him to come back.

"Guess you heard," Charles muttered at her shoulder. "Damn him! Sorry—shouldn't have said that before you. But he doesn't care what I want—he doesn't care what anybody wants! It's all his plans—
his
plans! What about mine? I don't want to sit around waiting for him to die! I want to live my own life, Elinor! I'm ready to fight Boney—I'm ready to fight for England!"

She turned around to face him, and as she looked up into his angry, troubled eyes, she felt an instant sympathy. She knew exactly what he meant.

"I know."

"You cannot know! You are a female!" he retorted.

"I thought you were going to bed, Elinor," Arthur observed from the bottom of the stairs. "As for you, Charles," he said coldly, "I will speak with you again in the morning."

The young man's face flushed, but he managed to hold his tongue. Impulsively, Elinor reached to touch his arm, whispering, "You are not alone, Charles." Then, knowing that her husband came up, she moved quickly to her bedchamber.

"The young master's home," Mary observed as Elinor sat down before her dressing table.

"Yes." Elinor tried to hide her exhilaration at the news. For a time at least, she would have someone to talk with, someone to laugh with, someone young enough to understand.

"Jeremy, the lower footman, says he got sent down fer a prank."

"I don't know."

"Well, it don't matter—he ain't the first," the maid went on as she began taking the pins from Elinor's head. "No."

"I heard ye in the hall, so's I ordered the milk fer ye." She paused a moment to drop the pins into an enameled box. "I knew as how ye didn't like any toddy."

"Thank you."

"Stands to reason—if ye'd wanted toddy, he'd ordered milk, don't you see?" When Elinor did not answer, Mary continued, "I got laudanum if you was wanting to lace his port, ye know."

"What?"

"Well, it's his night to come to you, ain't it? And if you wasn't wanting to—well, thought maybe ye'd want the laudanum."

It occurred to Elinor then that the maid really did not know that Arthur did not touch her as a wife. "No—but I thank you, Mary," she said sincerely.

"I'm sorry, my dear—I did not mean for Charles to disturb you," he murmured, coming into the room. "An unfortunate matter, but I don't mean to bend."

He was waiting to watch her undress, and she knew it. A shiver crept down her spine, sending a shudder through her. But as always, he turned a chair to face her. "Do go on," he directed Mary. "By the by, I sent back the milk, and James is fetching the toddy. It will warm her."

CHAPTER 8

"Don't know why it had to be Hookham's," Charles muttered behind her. "Damme if I ain't had enough of books for a while. If you are not wanting to take a turn about the park, I can think of a dozen other places besides a damned library. Sure you would not rather go to the Mint—or the Menagerie at the Tower?"

"No."

She was already halfway up the steps. Sighing, he hastened after her. There was no accounting for female tastes, he decided, for it seemed as though every one of them among his acquaintance was addicted to the Gothic Romance. And he did not understand the appeal at all, particularly after a fellow in his hall at Harrow had smuggled one in and read it aloud after hours. He could still remember the snickers that had brought old Humphrey's rod down on them.

"Good afternoon, Lady Kingsley," the gentleman behind the desk greeted her, rising. "I have obtained the book you requested." He held up the leather-bound volume. "Miss Austen's
Sense and Sensibility.
Highly recommended by the ladies—we've, scarcely kept it in since it came out last November."

"Thank you. When I am done browsing about, I shall come back for it."

"No!" Charles protested. "Dash it, but I ain't—" He was too late, for she'd already started into the reading room. It was going to be a long afternoon, and he knew it.

"Females!" he uttered, rolling his eyes at the clerk.

"Do you have a subscription, sir?"

"No—and I don't want one neither. Thought I was going for a drive, if you want the truth of it. Said she wanted to stop in here, but how was I to know she meant to stay, I ask you?" he demanded, aggrieved. Then, perceiving that the clerk's expression was rather censurious, he muttered, "Don't suppose you even got any military books, do you?"

"Oh, yes—yes, indeed, sir. In fact, there is an excellent volume on Marlborough. And Rogers's diaries, I believe. And Caesar's campaigns. And an excellent study of—"

Afraid he was going to be treated to a cataloging, Charles cut him short. "You don't say."

"Perhaps if you do not wish to subscribe, Lady Kingsley might—"

"Lud, I don't think so. Tell you what—I'll just sit and wait for her in there."

She was opening a book to the last pages and reading it. Discarding it, she picked up another one and did the same. Finally, he could stand it no longer. "Dash it, if you was to know the end, why would you want to read it?"

"I don't read anything where everybody dies," she replied. "I despise tragedies."

"Every one of 'em is a tragedy, if you was to ask me." Just then, a solitary gentleman caught his eye, and he brightened. "Egad—Longford!"

"Shhhhh," someone hissed behind them.

"Dash it, but it's Longford!" he shot back, unrepentant. "Fellow's been in Spain with Old Douro!"

"Will
you be quiet, Charles?" Elinor whispered.

"Think I'll see him," he mumbled. "Ain't nothing else to do here." Ambling diffidently to where the earl sat absorbed in a book, he cleared his throat. "Sir?"

The black head snapped back almost warily, and the black eyes narrowed when they saw Charles. "I don't believe—" he began coldly.

"Kingsley—Charles Kingsley, my lord. We met in Cornwall some years back—in the winter—party at Stoneleigh," he offered, trying to prompt the earl's memory and yet hoping Longford would not remember his boorish behavior then. As the dispatches and news accounts had come in, Charles's earlier censure had turned to outright admiration. To him, Longford was more the hero than Mad Jack had been.

"Ah, yes. Kingsley," Lucien murmured. "The old man's son."

"Grandson." Charles dropped to a chair across from Longford. "Were you at Talavera, sir?" he blurted out. "Yes."

"And at Cuidad Rodrigo?"

"I was."

"And at Badajoz last month?"

"Yes." Uncomfortable, Lucien snapped his book shut and started to rise.

"Don't go, sir—please. I'd know what it was like— with Wellington, I mean. I'd know what it was like to beat the Frogs."

There was no mistaking the eagerness in the younger man's eyes, and despite the adulation he saw there, Lucien felt compelled to dispel it. "ft was hell," he said succinctly.

For a moment, Charles was taken aback by the flatness in Longford's voice, then he brightened. "We did give 'em hell, didn't we?"

"It was hell all around—for all of us." Lucien sat back down and stared for a long moment. "Hell," he repeated softly. When he looked up, Charles Kingsley still watched him, his face a mirror of boyish innocence. "You wouldn't like it," he said abruptly. "There is a stench to it—smoke, blood, animal offal—not very glorious, I'm afraid. And it's noisy—first there is the awful cannon fire, the rockets, the shouts—and when it's over only the cries of poor dying devils break the deafening silence."

"How can you say so when it's for the honor of England you fight?" the younger man cried.

"Honor?" It was little more than a snort. "Not for honor—nor glory neither."

"But—"

"Make no mistake about it—it's to stop Bonaparte before England stands alone."

"Well, I know that, but—"

"I'm ready now, Charles." Elinor hesitated, then spoke to the earl. "Hello, my lord—it's a pleasure to see you again."

She was as stunning in her bronze lustring walking dress as in her evening gown, and wisps of her bright hair framed her oval face beneath the pleated brim of her matching bonnet. The thought crossed his mind that not many could wear the color. Hers was, even to his jaded taste, an unusually appealing beauty.

But though her words were polite, her copper eyes darted nervously to the door, as if she half-expected Kingsley himself to appear. Lucien rose politely, inclining his head.

"Lady Kingsley."

Knowing that the earl was probably not received, Charles flushed guiltily, yet he was loath to leave. "Been talking to Longford a bit while I waited. His lordship's been everywhere."

"Everywhere?" One of her brows arched in disbelief, then she smiled impishly, making Lucien wonder at the easy discourse between them. "I shouldn't think quite everywhere, Charles. I mean, there is India—and America—and China—"

"In the war—Talavera—Cuidad Rodrigo—"

"Suffice it to say I have been in the Peninsula," Lucien cut in curtly.

"You staying home now?" the younger man wanted to know.

"No." Briefly, the earl appeared absorbed in the stamped title on his book, then he looked up, meeting Elinor's eyes. "A bit of business, then I am back, I'm afraid."

"Wish I were going with you," Charles declared.

"Be grateful that you are not," Longford retorted. "War steals a man's soul. And the last thing we have need of is more idealistic fools, for they seldom survive." He reached for his beaver hat and adjusted it over his black hair to suit him. "Your servant, Lady Kingsley. Kingsley."

Noting the flush in Charles's face, Elinor said stiffly, "I'm afraid you are not very civil, sir, when you are in the presence of an admirer."

The black brow rose quizzically. "You—or the boy?"

Perceiving that he meant to glean more than was there, she felt almost foolish. "Charles, of course."

"Oh, I did not take it amiss," Charles hastened to assure him. "Know what you meant—too many green 'uns sign up, don't they?"

"Precisely." Bowing slightly, Lucien looked intensely into Elinor's eyes again. "My compliments on your social success, my dear. And no, I have not forgotten our first meeting. You have a face that lingers in a man's memory." Pushing his chair back under the table, he turned to leave.

Later, she could not think for the life of her why she did it, but she called after him, "I wish you Godspeed, my lord. England depends on men like yourself." And once again, she felt the fool for saying it.

He turned back, and for a moment, the derisive smile curved his mouth. "Don't let Sally Jersey hear you," he advised softly. Then he walked to the counter, where he handed the clerk his book, and left.

Bemused, she stared after him until Charles tugged at her elbow. "What the devil did he mean by that? Damme if I was not at Stoneleigh also. But there's no denying he's a handsome fellow, I suppose—you just got to remember he's a rake, that's all. Dangerous to the females. Mad Jack's son, after all." Propelling her toward the desk, he muttered, "You ain't up to his weight, I hope you know."

"I am not entirely green, Charles. And I don't think Lord Longford was attempting a flirtation." Perceiving that the young man had been more than a little affronted by his hero's manner toward her, her eyes twinkled as she assured him, "From my
vast
experience in the matter, I have found amorous men much more inclined to flatter, so I think you can acquit Lord Longford."

"Which amorous men?" he demanded suspiciously.

"All of them."

As Elinor laid her selections before the gentleman behind the desk, Charles tried to read the title of the one Longford had handed in.
Marlborough.
"Er—I should like to borrow that one," he decided. "On her subscription." Seeing that Elinor stifled a smile, he retorted, "Dash it, but you ain't the only one as can read, you know. I ain't been to school for nothing."

Once outside, he looked up at the sky, and shook his head disgustedly. "Here I got the old gent's smartest cattle, and it ain't raining, and we ain't going anywhere."

She felt sorry for him, for like her, he'd been constrained far too much in his nineteen years. "Well, I don't suppose a turn in the park would do any harm," she conceded. "I did tell Arthur that I would be at home this afternoon, but I suppose he will not refine too much if I am late. 'See and be seen,' he is forever telling me."

"That's the ticket. See and be seen—and Hyde Park's the place for it."

"But we shall be a bit early for the crowd."

"That don't matter. Thing is, we got a bang-up equippage to ride in, and it don't hurt m'credit to be seen with a Toast—be the envy of every fellow as sees me, in fact," he added gallantly. He stopped and looked back at her. "You know, for all I didn't like his saying it, Longford's right—you got a face a man don't forget—deuced pretty, you know."

"Spanish coin—but I shall accept it."

"Beauty," he declared solemnly. His blue eyes warmed as they met hers. "Thought you was the prettiest chit I'd ever see when you first came to Stoneleigh, you know, but I was wrong—look better every year."

"Now I
know
you are giving me Spanish coin, Charles," she told him severely.

"No, I ain't." Then, realizing that he'd probably said too much, he took her arm. "Come on—the rest of the day is waiting for us. And if there ain't anybody in the park, we'll repair to Gunther's for ices. And tomorrow, we'll go to the Mint—and maybe the Tower."

"Tomorrow I am being fitted at Madame Cecile's," she demurred.

"For what?" he fairly howled. "You keep the woman in business!"

She sighed. "I know, but Arthur would have it that I am in need of a new muslin or two—and some day dresses—and perhaps a new gown for the Devonshires' ball next month—not to mention a new riding habit."

"You cannot tell me you do not have more clothes than you can count," he snorted.

"Ah, but I have already been seen in most of them, you see."

He stopped to stare at her. "He don't let you wear 'em more'n once?"

"Not in public, I'm afraid."

"Egad."

"I find it a sad trial, if you would have the truth of it," she admitted. "It is such a waste that I have taken to sending my cast-offs to my sister Charlotte, though they are a bit old for her. And Mama has written me saying that I must economize more—as though I have the choice."

The liveried tiger brought the two-seater up to the curb and jumped down to take his place on the rear step. Charles handed Elinor up, then climbed onto the seat beside her. "Here—hold m'book, will you?" Taking the reins, he twisted them around his wrist, then flicked the small whip. "Always did like to drive," he told her, settling back against the leather seat.

The park was thin of company, allowing Charles to give the pair their heads. The air against Elinor's face was exhilarating, providing a feeling of freedom that the staid outings with Arthur lacked. As they turned a corner precariously, nearly oversetting a flower stand, the wind caught the brim of her bonnet, whipping it back from her face, and before she could catch it, the ribbons came loose. It sailed directly into the path of a single rider. On the instant, the rider shouted for them to halt as he reined in but inches from the hat. He dismounted to retrieve it, then walked toward them.

"Lady Kingsley," he murmured, holding it up to her.

"How kind of you, my lord. My thanks."

Bellamy Townsend bowed, but not before she saw the speculative glance he cast at Charles. "On your way to Hookham's?" he chided her meaningfully.

"Actually, already been," Charles answered for her. "Saw a friend of yours there, in fact."

"Oh?"

"Longford."

If he'd intended to embarrass the viscount, he was wide of the mark. Townsend merely smiled. "There is no ill-will there."

"Glad to hear of it," Charles muttered. "Servant, sir."

But before he could flick the reins, Elinor caught his arm, then leaned forward to address Townsend. "Forgive the lapse, but you are acquainted with my husband's grandson, are you not?"

"I have not had the pleasure, I am afraid."

"Charles Kingsley. And I am certain you have heard of his lordship. It's Viscount Townsend, Charles," she murmured.

"We ain't been in the same circles," the younger man said stiffly. "But I know all about him."

Bellamy Townsend favored him with a patronizing grin. "No—it has been some time since I was a schoolboy, I admit. Oxford—or Cambridge?"

Perceiving that he'd been set down, Charles bristled. "Neither—I am come to town. Been thinking of signing up to fight the Frogs, in fact," he added importantly.

One of Townsend's blond eyebrows rose. "Shouldn't think you'd like it—it's a dirty business best left to those below us."

"Longford don't think so," Charles retorted.