Rakehell's Widow (6 page)

Alabeth could not help returning the smile, for it was impossible to be really angry with Octavia. “You know
that you are not.”

Octavia kissed her on the cheeks again, enveloping her in
a cloud of Yardley’s lavender water. “I am so relieved to
hear you say that.”

“And to prove it I will tell you that you are still invited
to my first dinner party next week and that I shall still
suffer you sitting next to me.”

Octavia grinned. “That, my dear, was a bucket of
cold
water.” Her taffeta skirts rustled as she went to the door,
which Sanderson hurried to open for her. “Oh, by the
way, Alabeth….”

“Yes?”

“See that Charles Allister is on your list. We must pair
him off with Jillian!”

Alabeth laughed and Octavia went on out, but as the outer door closed, the smile faded a little from Alabeth’s
face. A flaw in Robert’s character which would have
emerged sooner or later, whether Piers Castleton had been
there or not? No, Octavia was wrong, the flaw had
emerged
because
Piers had been there….

Jillian emerged from her room in time for a light luncheon
of wine and wafers, but it was soon obvious that her
morning of seclusion had left her in a stormy mood, for
she was determined not to show enthusiasm for anything at
all. Alabeth tried to behave as if the previous day had not happened, hoping that this gesture of peace would be received in the manner with which it was offered, but all
fell on stony ground. A discussion about which invitations to accept and which names to place on various lists was conducted in a stilted manner which made the whole con
versation impossible, and Alabeth gave up long before any mention was made of what arrangements Jillian would like for her own ball. The only time a flicker of interest entered
Jillian’s blue eyes was at the mention of Octavia’s ball and
the fact that Count Adam Zaleski would play there for the
first time in England.

In desperation Alabeth decided to order the landau for an afternoon drive in Hyde Park, and so at the appointed
hour of four the two sisters drove out to join the fashionable throng parading there. It was a beautiful day, perfect
late-spring weather, and the air was filled with the scent of
flowers and young leaves. The sun shone down from a
clear blue sky and there was a lighthearted atmosphere in
the capital as England set about enjoying this first peacetime summer for many years, but in the Earl of Wall
borough’s elegant carriage the atmosphere was anything but lighthearted.

Jillian wasn’t smiling, although even Alabeth could tell that she was finding it an effort to remain so sulky. Really she was being very tiresome and difficult, determined to keep the feud simmering at all costs. She looked quite enchanting in her fresh white muslin gown and rose pelisse,
the front edges of which were perfectly frilled, and her face was framed by a straw country bonnet tied on with a gauze
scarf. Her golden curls were fluffy and there was some
thing quite captivating about her, as the admiring glances
of a number of young gentlemen gave proof. For
Alabeth’s benefit, Jillian kept her eyes lowered, but she
could not help glancing up coquettishly now and then,
being a natural flirt and unable to resist practicing her
wiles on every personable man to catch her eye.

Alabeth felt quite low-spirited, although she managed to
hide the fact behind a smiling exterior, for nothing would
have let her reveal to Jillian how much the atmosphere was
reaching her. She attracted her fair share of attention, for
she looked very fetching in a lemon lawn gown, an em
broidered mustard spencer, and a yellow chip hat, her hair dressed so that a heavy red ringlet tumbled down over one
shoulder. A pagoda parasol twirled behind her, its silken
fringe trembling to the motion of the carriage.

“I say! Alabeth!” A man was hailing her.

She turned toward the sound, and her face broke into a
warm smile as she saw Charles Allister and a companion riding swiftly toward the landau, but her smile faltered as they came closer and she saw that the companion was Sir Piers Castleton.

Charles was a pale, slender young man, his looks more
those of a poet than of a man of action, and he smiled
shyly as he reined in, removing his hat. “I was calling you
for some time. I began to think you were cutting me.”

“As if I would do that. How are you, Charles?”

“In the pink.” His hazel eyes moved to Jillian, the ad
miration plain. “It’s Lady Jillian, is it not?”

Jillian’s glance was haughty, but it changed abruptly as Piers reined in next to him. The hauteur melted from her
eyes and her lips parted—Alabeth could not tell whether it
was with alarm or excitement—and she sat forward, her
fingers toying nervously with the strings of her reticule.
“Good afternoon, Sir Piers, how good it is to see you
again.”

Piers nodded. “Good afternoon, Lady Jillian. Chats
worth, was it not?”

She flushed a little. “How flattering that you should remember.”

“It would be impossible to forget so lovely a face.”

Charles continued to stare at Jillian, almost as if he had
never before set eyes on such a vision of loveliness, but his
admiration went unrewarded, for Jillian all but ignored him. When Alabeth struggled to effect an introduction,
Jillian’s acknowledgment was cursory, barely within the
bounds of good manners.

Piers looked at Alabeth, his gray eyes almost lazy.
“Good afternoon, Lady Alabeth.”

“Sir.” Her back was stiff and straight and she did not look at him. This was dreadful, her first excursion from
the house and straightaway she encountered this man.

Charles cleared his throat, obviously a little out by
Jillian’s lack of interest. “When did you arrive in Town,
Alabeth? I called yesterday, but you had not arrived and
Lady Jillian was, regrettably, out calling upon Lady Sil
chester.”

Jillian was still looking at Piers with that strange unease
which Alabeth had detected so swiftly; she did not even seem to hear Charles speaking. Alabeth felt a little distracted herself, wondering what lay behind Jillian’s reac
tion and being more than a little dismayed at realizing that
Jillian and Piers were acquainted. She smiled nervously at
Charles. “I—er, I arrived yesterday evening. I knew you
had called, for I found your card. You must come to
dinner, I’m giving a party next Thursday—”

“I’d be honored.” He smiled at her.

Jillian spoke hurriedly. “Please come, too, Sir Piers.”

Alabeth’s heart sank, for the last thing she wanted was
Piers Castleton as her dinner guest, but she was saved from
such embarrassment, for he declined the invitation. “I fear
that I am otherwise engaged that evening, Lady Jillian.”

“Oh. I—I did not think you were in England, Sir Piers.
Were you not going to tour Europe?”

“I believe this peace will be too transitory for any such
undertaking to be wise.”

Her large eyes searched his dark face for a moment before being lowered, still with that air of flusterment
which caused Alabeth more and more unease as the
moments passed. There was no mistaking the fact that Jillian was affected by Piers Castleton, no mistaking it at
all, for she could not have made it more obvious had she
shouted it aloud. Alabeth could not tell anything from Piers’ face, but everything about Jillian reminded her of the Captain Francis affair the previous summer; the same
bubbling excitement, the same shining eyes, and the same
general air of agitation. Alabeth’s heart sank lower and
lower, for the dreadful possibility was that Jillian had transferred her affections to Piers.

To her relief, at that moment another carriage ap
proached from behind and was unable to pass, so she told
her coachman to drive on and Charles and Piers rode off
across the park, Jillian watching until they vanished from
sight. Alabeth said nothing, for to have mentioned any
thing now would be to certainly provoke another disagree
able argument, but inwardly she was most disquieted by
the whole incident. Jillian’s attitude suggested an interest
which went beyond a single meeting at Chatsworth—but why had her father not mentioned the fact that Jillian was
acquainted with Piers? Alabeth stared blindly ahead, her
mind racing. Could this be what the Earl was keeping from
her? Could an undesirable liaison between Piers Castleton
and Jillian have been the reason for the Earl’s determin
ation to have Jillian brought out this year, the year when
Piers was believed to be going to Europe? The more Ala
beth thought of it, the more convinced she became that this
was the case, and the more angry she became that her
father had not seen fit to tell her. But perhaps she was mis
taken, perhaps she had read far more into the whole inci
dent than there actually was. She kept her voice light when
she spoke. “I did not know you were acquainted with Sir
Piers.”

Jillian looked sharply at her. “I’m not. At least— I’ve
met him once.”

“At Chatsworth.”

“Yes, there was an autumn ball there last year.”

Alabeth said nothing more, but Jillian’s replies had not reassured her in any way. There was more to it than merely a meeting at a ball, and Alabeth knew she must find out—although asking Jillian directly was out of the question, for it would be regarded as unwarranted interference, only too similar in vein to the whole Francis business. But how
could she find anything out? Her father was on his way to
Madras, and communicating with him would take far too
long. No, there must be another way. Alabeth’s eyes
cleared suddenly. Of course, she would write secretly to her father’s trusted agent at Wallborough Castle, Mr.
Bateman, who was not only the steward but also an old friend. If there was anything to know, then he would know
it, and he could be persuaded to tell Alabeth, for whom he
had always had a soft spot. Yes, she would write to Mr.
Bateman and find out exactly what had gone on after that
meeting at Chatsworth.

The letter remained unwritten for the rest of that day,
however, for Jillian was in the house and there was always the risk that she might see what was being written. The following morning she was to go shopping and Alabeth had every intention of writing then, but before she could do so,
there was the somewhat ticklish matter of the menu for the
dinner party to attend to.

The Earl of Wallborough was a man of plain taste,
liking good, old-fashioned English cooking, especially
roast beef, and the cook, Mrs. Bourne, had never ventured
into the realms of more exciting dishes. Alabeth was determined not to serve roast beef at her first dinner party in more than two years, but the difficulty was persuading
Mrs. Bourne to a similar frame of mind. Alabeth waited in
the morning room after breakfast, knowing that it would
be no easy matter to achieve the cook’s willing cooperation.

Mrs. Bourne was plump, cheerful, and blissfully un
aware of the new dishes which were beginning to appear at fashionable dinner parties. Smoothing her crisp white apron, she bobbed a curtsy, her large mobcap wobbling on
her frizzy gray hair. “You sent for me, madam?”

“I did indeed. I wish to discuss the menu for the dinner
party next Thursday.”

“Yes, madam. There will be twelve guests, will there
not?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I know exactly how much beef to order for
that—”

“Ah. Well, I’m afraid that I do not have beef in mind,
Mrs. Bourne.”

The cook looked quite astounded. “Not have beef? But
the Earl always has beef.”

“I know that, Mrs. Bourne, but I do not wish to.”

The cook sniffed, straightening a little suspiciously.
“Mutton? Pork, perhaps?”

“Turkey—”

“Oh, yes, madam.” The cook looked positively re
lieved.

“—in a cream celery sauce,” went on Alabeth. “And
while I realize that my father always requested swede with
his dinner, Mrs. Bourne, I would prefer never to taste that
particular vegetable again, so please exclude it!”

The cook’s face had fallen. “No swede? And the turkey
served in
French
sauce?” She was horrified.

“I do not believe the sauce is French, but I do know that it is very good with turkey and that I wish to serve it next Thursday. I wish the meal to begin with purée of artichokes and to end with
meringues à la crème
.”

Mrs. Bourne looked quite faint. “Not oxtail soup and
fruit tart?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I realize that my father likes certain dishes which he
always expects to see set before him, but that is not my
way.”

“My roast beef is the finest in England.”