Lord Lightning (12 page)

But even so, though she had not touched her wine, Eliza felt almost drunk with the heady sensation of being the focus of so many eyes. What fun it must be to really be a beauty and draw men’s attention in this way. And as Lord Hartwood flirted with her so outrageously from his end of the table, she felt how intoxicating it was to meet the electrifying gaze of a handsome, sensuous man and to see approval in his eyes—indeed, something far stronger than approval. It was unsettling, but it was delightful too—as long as she didn’t make the mistake of ever forgetting it was all part of a game.

At length, the gentleman who sat the closest to her turned his head in her direction and attempted conversation. He had been introduced to her as a Mr. Snodgrass and, from what she had overheard from his previous conversation, he appeared to be a wealthy button maker whose factory here in Brighton made buttons out of the local seashells.

He was seated with his daughter, a quiet girl she judged to be about the same age as herself. The daughter wore a fashionable turbaned headdress that featured a tall ostrich plume and heavy and expensive jewelry that unfortunately emphasized the dullness of her thin face.

“Quite a lovely necklace you’ve got there,” Mr. Snodgrass said to Eliza in the loud voice of a person whose hearing was starting to go. “I count myself quite a judge of such things. Have to be in the business I’m in. My daughter there has a necklace quite like it, though I must say that I don’t think her stones are near as large as yours.”

This was the first speech that had been addressed to her since the dinner had begun, and she wondered how best to reply so as to maintain the character she was supposed to be portraying. But before she could answer, Lord Hartwood’s voice cut across the table, “Your daughter’s jewels could not possibly be anywhere near so large as my mistress’s. These were purchased from Rundell and Bridge on Ludgate Hill. They came from some Indian chap, a rajah. Worth a mort of money. Man there told me there was nothing like them to be had anywhere else.”

“I shouldn’t think there was,” said Mr. Snodgrass. “The necklace I bought my daughter was from Neate—he’s much cheaper than Rundell and Bridge, though I think the quality comparable. With Neate you’re not paying extra for the stylish address. But even so, he charged me a good two thousand pounds for them. Yours must have cost at least that much or more.”

“Far more,” Lord Hartwood said complacently. “If you were to guess at twenty thousand pounds, you’d be close. But what can we do?” he added with a studied lack of concern. “The women must have their little trinkets.”

The heads of all the diners swiveled as one as they stared at Eliza’s necklace, until she feared the concentrated power of their regard must soon set her neck ablaze. But she, too, could feel her eyes open wide in amazement. Twenty thousand pounds would have been enough money for she and her aunt to have lived on in comfort for the rest of their lives. To think that Lord Hartwood’s father had spent that much on a single gift for a mistress!

No wonder women left the paths of virtue. It struck her anew what an innocent she had been to have demanded only forty-five pounds from Lord Hartwood as the price of her own virtue. No wonder he had seemed so amused when he negotiated with her. She felt a burst of gratitude that he had not gone ahead and truly made her his mistress in return for such a paltry sum. She could not have respected a man who would have taken that kind of advantage of her naïveté.

A low hum of conversation had sprung up after Lord Hartwood’s disclosure, but it was cut short when his mother’s voice rose, silencing it. “Edward has always had an unfortunate tendency to extravagance.” She glared at her son from her place at the head of the table. “My poor dear James used to tell me he would outgrow it, but James was always so kind to his little brother and so willing to overlook his many faults.”

“James himself knew nothing of extravagance, Mother, did he?” her son replied coolly. “Yet, I cannot help but remember that it was poor dear
James who introduced me to Rundell and Bridge. They were his favorite jeweler. Do you not remember that set of rubies he gave his wife? They were from that shop, too—” He paused dramatically. “Oh, no, I mistake myself. It was not his wife he gave those rubies to. It was that other woman.” And with that he turned his attention back to the plate of turbot before him.

He’d scored a hit. Eliza could see Lady Hartwood flinch, though almost imperceptibly. But it was not polite to stare—though just as she was about to turn her gaze away she remembered that in her role as a vulgar mistress she should stare as rudely as possible. So she raised her eyes again and locked eyes with Lady Hartwood, impudently, until Lady Hartwood herself turned away, visibly shaken.

It was strange to behave so dreadfully in public, but Eliza couldn’t help but admit there was a certain thrill of pleasure in doing it. She had always kept a tight rein on her emotions to reassure her aunt, who had given up so much to raise her, that she was not tainted with her mother’s or father’s failings. Now for a brief two weeks she could be someone else entirely, someone brazen and vulgar, someone who need not control her unruly impulses.

But it wasn’t wise to take so much pleasure from this new role. Not only would she have to guard her wayward heart from falling prey to Lord Hartwood’s seductive charm, she must also not let herself become too comfortable behaving
brazenly, or how would she return to being a prudent woman when the fortnight was over and she gave up this new role?

Discomfited by these thoughts, she directed her attention back to her dinner, which was excellent. There was a delicate sauce on the fish with a hint of some herb she was unable to identify, something French perhaps. She’d heard many of the aristocracy now had French chefs to serve them. She cut off a piece of the fish and picked it up carefully with the fish fork, allowing herself a delicate sniff of the sauce before popping it into her mouth. Delicious! But as she chewed, she noticed that Lord Hartwood was staring at her fork with something of disapproval.

What could she have done wrong? Aunt Celestina was something of a Tartar about table manners so she knew hers to be perfect. Of course! That was it. Her table manners were far too good for a woman of the class from which a man like Lord Hartwood would take a mistress. Immediately, she picked up her knife with her left hand, and pushed a few peas and some sauce onto it with the fingers of her right, before lifting it to her mouth. The peas disposed of, she licked the sauce off her fingers.

A look of pleasure flitted across Lord Hartwood’s face. Her gesture had made an impression on the others, too. The many eyes that had been following her throughout dinner looked away for a moment, embarrassed. Her slip had made them aware again of the unbridgeable gulf that lay between
themselves and a woman of the sort she was supposed to be, no matter how beautiful. She applied herself to the fish with continued pleasure, chewing noisily while displaying her teeth. But as she ate, she sensed that one pair of eyes was still trained on her, a pair of cold gray eyes so very unlike her son’s warm brown ones.

Eliza felt herself shrink under their scrutiny. No matter what the others might have concluded about her manners, Lady Hartwood was not entirely taken in.

The dinner was almost over when a small commotion indicated that the last of the guests had arrived. Lord Hartwood rose to greet the new arrival and led her to the table. “Mother,” he said languidly, “I believe it has been some time since you have had the pleasure of meeting my father’s close friend, Mrs. Atwater, but you surely cannot have forgot her.”

Mrs. Atwater. His father’s mistress. The woman who had demanded that Hartwood’s father buy her the ruinous necklace that now lay around her own neck.

Lord Hartwood seated Mrs. Atwater in the empty chair to Eliza’s right. His mother sat like a stone, her eyes flickering from her husband’s mistress to her son’s, while refusing to acknowledge them in any other way.

Examining Mrs. Atwater, Eliza could barely believe that this was the woman who had played such a fatal role in Lord Hartwood’s life. She had
expected to see a glamorous woman. How else had she been able to demand the extravagant necklace from her besotted lover that meant his family’s ruin? But the woman beside her reminded her most forcibly of one of the village women who had come to clean for her aunt, though upon further examination, she could detect the good bones buried beneath the fat that framed Mrs. Atwater’s face. In her youth she must, indeed, have been beautiful. Beautiful enough to ruin Lord Hartwood and his family.

Lord Hartwood turned to one of the ladies who was seated near his mother. “Lady Hermione, may I introduce to you my friend, Mrs. Atwater. I believe that Mrs. Atwater was also acquainted with your ex-husband, the earl, before your divorce.” Lady Hermione’s tinkling laugh was replaced by something more like a nervous giggle as she nodded to the new visitors.

A portly man wearing a barrister’s wig, who was seated between Lady Hermione and Lady Hartwood cleared his throat as if preparing to protest, but Hartwood gave him no time to react before turning back to his father’s mistress. “Mrs. Atwater,” he said. “Let me introduce to you my dear friend Miss Eliza Farrell. As you can see, like my father before me, I have a great appreciation of feminine beauty.”

He turned to Eliza. “Mrs. Atwater was once considered the most beautiful woman in Brighton and was well known for her fine taste in jewelry. Indeed, rumor had it at one time that the Regent’s
own mistress, Mrs. Fitzherbert, with whom he had contracted a secret marriage, was quite jealous of the attentions our beloved Regent paid Mrs. Atwater. But Mrs. Fitzherbert need not have worried. Mrs. Atwater’s regard for my father was quite strong. She was unusual for her kind, not being a fickle woman.”

He turned back to his guest. “So how do you find Brighton now, Mrs. Atwater?” he asked smoothly. “Surely it has changed since the days when you formed part of the circle around the Regent and Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

Mrs. Atwater nodded. Her face looked strained, indeed, almost as strained as that of his mother. “I don’t go out much now, Your Lordship. I’m an old lady, and the world is quite different from what it was in my youth, though seeing you today surely brings back the memories of those days. They were fine times indeed we had back then. The balls there used to be, and the riding about in phaetons with the toffs! It seems like only yesterday.” Her voice faded out as she caught sight of the necklace that glittered around Eliza’s neck.

“Dear me, I never thought to see those jewels again.” She sighed. “I had so hoped I’d never have to sell that necklace, I was that fond of your father, and you know it was he who gave it to me. But it was all I had to give my Charles, and he would insist on going to America. There is so little money to be had from keeping boarders.”

The clatter of silverware against china stopped as the diners turned to watch the spectacle unfolding
before them. Lord Hartwood turned back toward Eliza, his own supposed mistress. “I say, it is a shame you are not to have the opportunity to observe Mr. Charles Atwater. In his appearance he is most strikingly like my father. Indeed Charles was so like my father, I got a strange thrill the last time I saw him. It was as if my father were alive again. I had to remind myself that Black Neville died in some woman’s arms in Paris so it could not have been him in the flesh.”

“How quickly all our children grew up,” Mrs. Atwater interrupted, the strained look on her face showing how eager she was to change the subject. “Why it seems like only yesterday that you were in short pants, Your Lordship. You had the dearest little sailor suit and you were that proud of it, though you would tear off the neckerchief.”

“I had almost forgot that,” he said with a laugh. “My father would tie it on so tight I was afraid that I would strangle. I remember him bringing me to visit you once. It was a rare treat. He rarely paid me any mind at all. But I could have only been four or five years old back then. How astonishing of you to remember.”

“I could hardly forget. From your father’s description of you, I hadn’t expected you to be such a darling little boy. And you had such good manners, too.”

Eliza saw a look of genuine surprise sweep over Lord Hartwood’s face, softening its harsh planes for just a moment.

“Truly, I am glad to see you, Mrs. Atwater,” he
replied, the irony that had laced his voice suddenly gone, replaced by a warmth that stood out all the more clearly in contrast to his previous coolness. “We owe gratitude to those who were kind to us as children. You surely do have mine.”

And then he stood up from his place at the table and strolled over to the sideboard. He picked up a wineglass and gestured to a footman to fill it with claret. “A toast,” he called out, his voice ringing through the silence. “To the women who love us.”

“Hear, hear!” a rumble ran through the guests as they lifted their glasses.

“And to hell with those who do not!” He drained his glass and tossed it against the marble mantelpiece where it smashed, spattering drops of the ruby wine on the Turkey carpet. The guests paused, frozen, their glasses still in the air, their voices stilled, unsure of what to do. Then, guiltily, they brought them down. Dead silence filled the room.

Lady Hartwood lifted one hand in a subtle gesture to the footman to pull her bath chair from the table. “I bid you good night,” she announced. “I fear my health has proven too weak to sustain the challenge of so joyful a reunion. But please continue to enjoy the evening. My son has gone out of his way to provide you with entertainment. You must stay until the show has concluded. It is not often that we are treated to a circus here in Brighton.”

“T
he whore must go,” his mother snarled. She lay in the huge bed hung in black curtains that dominated the bedroom to which, somewhat to his surprise, she had summoned her son shortly after the last of her guests had decamped. She was playing the Tragic Mother to the hilt, Edward noted. Even her negligee was the black of full mourning.