Rakehell's Widow (14 page)

“And what about your feelings for Piers?”

“I don’t think I really ever had any.” Jillian smiled, a
little shamefaced. “He was just there, he came along so
soon after Captain Francis— He is in the past as far as I’m concerned, and you really must believe that, for it is the
truth.”

Alabeth knew that indeed it was, that Piers had ceased to exist for Jillian, who was indeed contrite and meant to turn over a new leaf. But why this sudden change? Just
because the letter had not been mentioned? No matter how
Alabeth approached the problem, Jillian’s reaction simply
did not add up. But then, was it really important what
reason lay behind it? All that mattered was that the awkwardness and unpleasantness was over and things looked
set to be agreeable again between the Earl of Wall
borough’s daughters.

Jillian went to take the “accepted” invitations down
from the mantelpiece, sifting through them with more interest than she had ever shown hitherto.

“Oh, Alabeth, I’m so looking forward to the fete at
Carlton House, for I shall see at last if the Prince of Wales
is as handsome as they say.”

“He’s certainly as plump as they say.”

“And then there’s Ascot week at Stoneleigh Park, and the water party there before that.” Jillian looked ashamed
then as she glanced at Alabeth. “I’ve been atrocious,
haven’t I?”

“In a word, yes.”

“I shall be very good from now on, you’ll be proud of me, you’ll see. I shall absolutely dazzle Charles Allister at
Lady Dexter’s.”

“I feel quite sorry for him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the poor fellow was at your feet when you were being disagreeable; he’ll be positively devastated if
you begin to be agreeable instead.”

“I know that Father wishes me to marry him.”

“But you do not find him to your liking.”

“Oh, I
like
him, it’s just that—well, he’s so very dull.
He isn’t exciting at all; he’s just nice and gentle, he says
nothing to provoke me at all, and I feel that I could scream
sometimes, truly I do.”

“Please contain that urge at all costs.”

“I will.” Jillian gave a rueful smile. “I won’t let rip at
Carlton House, if that’s what you fear.”

“You do, and I’ll personally extinguish you.”

They smiled at each other then and suddenly Jillian ran
to her sister, kneeling beside her chair and flinging her
arms around her. “Please forgive me, Alabeth.”

Alabeth kissed the soft curly hair. “I forgive you, you wretch.”

Jillian sat back on her heels. “And what about you and
the Count?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you take it further with him?”

“Jillian!”

“Oh, come on now, Alabeth—”

“I have no intention of taking anything further with
anyone.”

“He is remarkably like Robert, everyone was comment
ing upon it.”

Alabeth looked away. “It makes no difference.”

“Doesn’t it? I thought he would eat you, and I didn’t think you were exactly shrinking away from him.”

“You have too much to say for yourself.”

“But isn’t it the very height of romance? You were
swept off your feet by Robert; you were passionately in
love with each other and he made you his bride. Now he’s
gone from you, but instead the Count steps into your life. Oh, Alabeth, I think it truly the most romantic coinci
dence, and I know that if a man like the Count looked at
me the way he looks at you—well, I’d most certainly take it
further; in fact, I’d take it to the ends of the earth.”

“Jillian Carstairs, you are incorrigible, do you know that? I’ve never known anyone so totally immersed in a
search for romance. You see it at every corner.”

“And I’ll truly find it one day, you see if I don’t. I’ve
made mistakes so far, but there won’t be any more.”

“I sincerely hope not.”

“I still think you should encourage the Count. Octavia
says you should, because it would do you good.”

“Octavia would.”

“And if you did, you’d be able to put in a word for me,
tell him that I’m just the very one to be his first pupil—”
She ducked as Alabeth threw a cushion at her.

It was well known that the Prince of Wales’ fete at Carlton
House for important figures in the world of French art was
much frowned upon at Court. Indeed, anything connected
with France was frowned upon, the King and Queen find
ing it justifiably impossible to forget that the French had
beheaded their own Royal Family. However, the Prince
was torn between his own repugnance at what had been
done in Paris and his desire at all costs to thumb his nose at
his father. Being an important and genuine patron of the
arts, and a sincere admirer of the Whigs and Charles Fox,
who admired anything to do with the revolution, he had decided upon his fete as being the perfect vehicle for his purpose. The
beau monde
found itself able to accept the invitations, for whatever one thought of the French, art
was always art and must be encouraged.

The invitations stipulated an arrival time of nine in the
evening, but already by eight there was a solid block of
carriages and chairs reaching from Carlton House to the top of St. James’s. By nine the Wallborough landau was part of a crush which extended to Bond Street, and Alabeth and Jillian were resigned to a long delay.

It was a splendid evening, warm and sunny, with a hint of approaching coolness after an almost thundery heat all day, but Jillian was hardly aware of the weather, she was too excited about seeing the Prince for the first time and
inspecting the magnificence of Carlton House, which was said by many to be one of the most superb mansions in the
whole of Europe.

She looked very lovely, with tiny strings of pearls in her
golden hair and a jeweled comb which flashed in the
evening sunlight. Her gown was of particularly delicate
white lawn, its dainty bodice stitched with more little pearls, and her shawl was embroidered with beautiful
sprays of pink roses. She looked every inch a young lady of
quality and had begun to really enjoy the Season, being
very much the center of male attention wherever she went.
She had been true to her promise on the afternoon of
Alabeth’s confrontation with Piers, and was now her old
self, being sweet, charming, and very agreeable company
indeed, as the large numbers of admirers at Almack’s had been certain evidence. Almack’s had disappointed her,
however, for although Octavia’s acquisition of the coveted
voucher had been greeted with squeaks of excitement and
she had set off in the Seaham carriage that Wednesday
evening in a high state of anticipation bordering on the
ecstatic, she had returned in a very different frame of
mind. The temple of high fashion had taken a considerable
tumble in her estimation and she stated quite bluntly that she could not imagine why everyone wished to be seen
there. The proceedings had been very dull, the orchestra uninspiring; there had been no iced champagne to liven
things up, only lemonade and stewed tea, and the food
consisted of bread and butter and stale cake. Yes, indeed, Almack’s had definitely failed to live up to its reputation,
and Alabeth had had to point out at some length that being
on its list was very important and necessary to a young lady, and that she would therefore have to put up with bread and lemonade. Jillian had grumbled a little, but had
consoled herself with the fact that at least the place had
been filled to capacity with eligible young men, nearly all
of them flatteringly attentive. Her
faux pas
at Octavia’s ball and in Hyde Park seemed to have been forgotten, her
more recent appearances in society having been much more
decorous and acceptable, and all in all, she was approved of. There seemed no hint of regret about the ending of her
affair with Piers Castleton; it was almost as if it had never been, and now she was set upon enjoying the Season to the
full. Her eyes shone as she sat impatiently on the edge of
the landau’s velvet seat, and Alabeth would not have been
at all surprised if she had suggested they got out and
walked, which would not have done at all!

Alabeth did not display any of Jillian’s excitement or impatience, for she had been to Carlton House a number of times, both before her marriage and then as Robert’s
wife, for Robert had been a great favorite with the Prince.
She looked cool and composed as she sat opposite her
sister, her gossamer light muslin gown looking very white
indeed in the fading sunlight. It was a plain gown,
unadorned in any way, but she more than made up for it
with the jaunty crimson plumes in her jeweled hair and her
favorite ruby necklace at her throat. Her shawl was a
dazzling affair, embroidered all over with golden threads,
as was her reticule, and she looked very elegant and poised,
as if nothing in the world could ruffle her. But inwardly she was not so calm and assured; in fact, she was more
than a little apprehensive. Tonight she would undoubtedly
see Piers Castleton again, for the first time since he had
humiliated her with his scornful kiss, and she was not look
ing forward at all to the encounter, for she felt more
shamed than ever when she remembered how very close she
had come to responding to him.

Tonight, too, she would see Count Adam Zaleski again, for he was to play for the French guests of honor. She had
thought a great deal about the Count, knowing full well
that he intended to pursue her, but how would she react? She knew that she found him attractive, but then there
could be very few women who would not have been
unsettled by such a man. When he played the pianoforte,
he could make love with his music; his looks had been
justifiably described as divine, and his charm was no less
formidable. His reputation as a lover was such that half
the ladies in London seemed to be intent upon beginning a
liaison with him, but for Lady Alabeth Manvers there
would be no difficulty at all in finding her way into his arms—she would only have to beckon and he would be
there. But was that what she wanted? Did she even
consider this possibility now because she found him attrac
tive for himself, or did she really consider it, as Piers Castleton had said, because she saw in him the image of
her dead love? Whatever it was, Piers had been right about
one thing: she was at risk.

The landau was coming nearer to Carlton House now
and there were interested onlookers lining the way, staring
in open admiration at the elegantly clothed ladies and gentlemen en route to the capital’s grand night. Jillian was
positively fidgeting with excitement when at last the
Prince’s residence came into sight behind its Ionic colonnade. Outwardly Carlton House was unremarkable, but it
was set in beautiful, extensive gardens which stretched the
length of Pall Mall as far as the wall of Marlborough
House. They were natural and informal grounds, as
fashion now dictated, and they were noted for some
particularly magnificent elms, some charming bowers and
grottoes, a waterfall, a temple with an Italian marble floor,
and an observatory. Now, in the fading evening light, they
were ablaze with little colored lanterns, and it was like
looking into fairyland itself.

It seemed that the landau would never turn into the
courtyard, where a band was playing, but eventually it was maneuvering between the columns and drawing to a long-
awaited standstill by the dignified Corinthian portico. Ser
vants, wearing the Prince’s livery of dark blue trimmed
with gold lace, were waiting to assist the guests to alight, and Alabeth and Jillian stepped down onto a sprinkling of scented moss and rose petals, to be escorted up to the open
doors by two liveried Negroes carrying flaming torches.

There were lanterns everywhere, shining down from the
portico and twinkling beneath the colonnade, and the
music from the band was vying a little with that of the
orchestra playing in the ballroom. Members of the Prince’s
household received them in the magnificent hall where
more Ionic columns, this time of brown Siena marble,
lined the way to an octagon from which rose a graceful double staircase to the state apartments above. The walls
were hung with an impressive number of the Prince’s
prized Dutch paintings, and high above was a chandelier of
such opulence that Jillian gazed at it in wonder.

The whole house was beautifully and expensively fur
nished, the pieces mostly chosen by the Prince himself. The
French influence, thought by many to have been most un
desirable while the war endured, was in evidence everywhere: in the pictures, girandoles, clocks, looking glasses,
the bronzes, the Sevres china, the Gobelin tapestries, and
the many other
objets d’art
which combined to make up
this fabulous place. All in all, it was a little too ornate for Alabeth—she much preferred the Tudor style of Charterleigh—but Jillian thought it quite exquisite and told the Prince as much when she was presented to him a moment later. She could not have said anything more calculated to
make him pleased, and he had beamed at her, pronouncing
her a most delightful creature, most delightful.