Rakehell's Widow (7 page)

“Oh, I’m sure it is, Mrs. Bourne. I just wish to try something else.”

“Well, I don’t know—” The cook’s lips were pressed a little crossly together and her bosom expanded as she took a deep breath.

“The dishes are not too difficult for you, are they?” Alabeth asked lightly, knowing that such a slur on the cook’s skills would provoke the required response.

“Too difficult? Too
difficult?
I should say they are not!
I am quite able to produce the menu you require,
madam.”

“Oh, good, I’m so glad.” Alabeth smiled. “And I know
that my guests will be most appreciative and will wish they
too had such an excellent cook.”

Mrs. Bourne was a little mollified. “Well, if these newfangled things are what you really want—”

“They are, Mrs. Bourne.”

There was a slight sniff. “Very well, madam, I will
attend to your wishes.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bourne.”

When the cook had gone, Alabeth heaved a sigh of
relief, for although Mrs. Bourne was extremely set in her ways and could easily have been offended, she was really
too much of a treasure to risk losing. As it was, Alabeth
had had her way and the cook was now determined to
prove that she could produce dishes as fine as anything at
Carlton House, although she had gone away muttering
darkly about folk having Frenchified notions which had no
place in English kitchens, even if there
was
peace now!

Alabeth smiled, going to the window to look out over the garden, where the wooden seat beneath the mulberry tree looked so inviting in the morning sun. She had been intending to write to the Wallborough’s steward, as Jillian had already gone out to shop in Oxford Street, but sud
denly the thought of remaining inside was not at all inviting. Picking up the novel she had begun reading the night before, she left the house to enjoy an hour or so peacefully
reading in the garden.

She wore a cream muslin gown, its bodice drawn in by dainty tasseled strings, and its hem dragged across the
newly cut lawn. Her sapphire-blue spencer was left un
buttoned to reveal the gown’s delicate pin tucks and the
pearl droplet brooch she liked so much. Her hair was
pinned loosely so that the single large ringlet was once again falling down over her shoulder.

The sun sparkled on the lily pond and she could see the
fish darting between the flat leaves floating on the surface.
The daffodils and tulips smelled good and it was almost
possible to forget that she was in London. She settled her
self comfortably, removed the book marker, and began to
read.

How many minutes had passed she didn’t know, but she
was suddenly roused from the book by the recognized sound of Sanderson’s tread on the path. She glanced up
and saw immediately that the butler looked very discon
certed. “What is it?” she asked.

“Sir Piers Castleton has called, my lady.”

She closed the book with a snap. “I am not at home.”

“Oh, yes you are, Alabeth,” Piers himself said, strolling
casually along the path, his silver-handled cane swinging
between his gloved fingers. He was dressed quite perfectly,
like this Corinthian he was, in a close-fitting corbeau-
colored coat and nankeen breeches. The tassels of his Hessian boots swung from side to side as he walked, and
the diamond pin in his white cambric cravat flashed in the
sunlight as he paused before her, removing his hat and
bowing. “Good morning, Alabeth.”

“I have no wish to speak to you, sir.”

“How unfortunate, for I have every intention of speaking with you.”

“Leave immediately or I will have you thrown out.”

His gray eyes swept lazily over her and then swung to
Sanderson, who looked faint with horror at the thought of being asked to lay hands upon such a gentleman. Piers
smiled and then looked at her again. “I think not, Ala
beth, especially as I do not intend to take up a great deal of
your precious time.”

Her cheeks were hot as she felt forced to give way,
nodding to Sanderson that he was dismissed. Clasping her
hands in her lap, she looked coldly at Piers. “Well?”

Still smiling, he rested one boot on the seat beside her, leaning forward to look down into her angry eyes. “How very lovely you look, as pretty as a picture in your blue
gown, surrounded by spring flowers.”

“Please come to the point, sir.”

“Are you always as stormy as this, Alabeth?”

“
Lady
Alabeth.”

His eyebrow was raised. “So formal? I recall a time
when I was Piers to you.”

“Those times are long since gone, sir.”

“So it seems. Which brings me to the reason for my
visit. Am I to take it that your conduct yesterday in Hyde
Park was a sample of how you mean to go on?”

“It is, for I certainly do not think you merit anything
more.”

“Then shame on you, Alabeth Manvers, for your bad
manners verged on the vulgar.”

Quivering with anger, she rose from the seat. “Don’t
presume to comment upon my conduct, sirrah,” she
breathed furiously.

“I will comment as I see fit, madam, for you appear to believe that you may behave as you wish. Well you may
not, as I am here to inform you. It was inexcusable yester
day to have issued a dinner invitation to Charles Allister
and to have excluded me so pointedly. As a lady of quality,
of rank, and fashion, you should have known better, Ala
beth. Correctly you should have waited, written the invita
tion to him and had it delivered, thus avoided the embarrassment of what actually happened. I did not think it
would ever fall to me to have to point out the errors of
your way, but it has—and here I am.”

“How dare you! How dare you come here and insult
me!”

“On the contrary, madam, I came here because you in
sulted me. I have no intention at all of being subjected to such a dismal display of pettiness again.”

She hardly trusted herself to speak. “Please leave,” she
said, her voice shaking.

“Not until I have a guarantee that from now on the
summer will proceed with a little more decorum from
you.”

“I will not give you any such guarantee.”

“Very well, then I must issue a warning to you.”

“A warning?”

“That I shall not meekly accept whatever affront you
see fit to toss at me.”

“I conduct myself in the only way possible, given what
has happened in the past.”

He searched her face for a moment. “You may give thanks that you are a woman, Alabeth, for I would not endure such churlishness from a man.”

“It is hardly churlishness.”

“Oh, but it is, and I think you know it.”

She looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.
“Please leave,” she said again.

“You still refuse to moderate your behavior toward me
in public?”

“I do,” she replied, feeling very hot and uncomfortable before his steady eyes.

“Oh, how challenging you are, Alabeth,” he said softly,
“and I was never a man to refuse a challenge. Consider the gauntlet picked up and be on your guard from now on, for
I no longer promise to turn the other cheek to your
insults.”

“What you do is immaterial to me.”

“Is that really so?” He smiled a little. “I think not; I think it matters very much to you what I do and where I
am.”

“You flatter yourself.”

“No, Alabeth. I just know you very well indeed.”

“You may have known me once, sir. That is certainly no
longer the case.” She turned away sharply. “I have asked
you to leave.”

“So you have, but there is one thing more….”

“Yes?”

“Have you seen Zaleski yet?”

Baffled by this sudden change of subject, she turned
back to face him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Count Adam Zaleski, have you seen him yet?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I think you may be in for something of a
shock, Alabeth.”

She stared at him. “I don’t understand….”

“You will, the moment you see him—at Octavia Sea
ham’s ball, I believe. I think you will wish you had
remained in Charterleigh.”

Her green eyes moved slowly over his face. “I wish that
anyway, sir.”

He smiled. “No doubt. Good day, Alabeth.”

“Sir.”

She watched him walk away, wondering what he had
meant when he had talked of the Count. She was conscious
that she was trembling still, and she sat down, auto
matically picking up her book, but the pages swam blindly before her and she closed it again, glancing back along the path where he had gone.

The curiosity she had felt at his remarks about the Count
faded into the background, and anger stirred again in her breast. Let him threaten what he would, she would not temper her conduct in the slightest, for he merited every
thing he received at her hands. Please let it not be that
Jillian had formed an attachment for him, for that would be too dreadful to countenance. She lowered her eyes, angry with herself then, for not once during the time he had been with her had she thought of saying anything to
him about Jillian. She should have done so; she should
have informed him that she expected him to stay well away
from her sister, over whom she had total charge.

Suddenly she stood up again; she could no longer delay writing to Wallborough. As she entered the house, she called Sanderson.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I wish to write a letter.”

“I will bring the materials immediately, my lady.”

She returned to the morning room, where it was still
sunny, and a minute or so later the butler was setting out the paper, inkstand, and quills. Alone again, she sat at the table. How did one write discreetly that one suspected
one’s father of not telling the entire truth and one’s sister
of maybe conducting a clandestine affair with an unsuit
able gentleman? Pensively she drew the quill through her
fingers, gazing at the gleaming silver inkstand, and then at
last she dipped the quill in the ink and began to write.

Dear Mr. Bateman,

Forgive me for writing such an unusual letter to you, and
please understand that my only anxiety is to be careful in attending to my duties as my sister’s guardian. I know that
I may safely communicate with you as you are an old and trusted friend. As you are no doubt aware, I have charge of
my sister this summer, but I am troubled that there is something which I have not been told, something which most
probably occurred while she was at Wallborough. I fear that a certain gentleman’s name may be involved, the same gentleman whose appearance at Charterleigh caused so
much upset several years ago. I realize that I may be asking
you to break my father’s confidence, but my position is
rendered very difficult by not being in full possession of the
facts. Please understand that my father will never hear of
any reply you may give me. I will certainly destroy any
communication, for I would not wish to jeopardize your
situation in any way. Forgive me again for involving you in
my predicament.

I am, yours very sincerely,

Alabeth Manvers

She read the letter again, pondering the steward’s
reaction when he received it. She could see him now, a
comfortable, rather untidy man complete with a rather
dilapidated gray-powdered wig and clay pipe, sitting back
in his enormous high-backed chair in the kitchen at the home farm. He was indeed an old and trusted friend, and she knew in her heart that if he knew anything at all concerning Jillian, he would respond to this appeal.

She folded the letter and then held the sealing wax to a candle flame. The thick wax dripped onto the paper and a moment later she was pressing her seal ring into the soft
surface. There, it was done now—it would be taken by the
letter carrier that very afternoon and would reach Derby
shire in a day or so. She hated going behind people’s backs
in this way, but Jillian’s present attitude made any other
course impossible, and after the business of Captain Fran
cis, Alabeth knew she did not dare to take any chance
where her hasty, romantically inclined sister was
concerned.

The grave misgivings she had felt that night at Charter
leigh when she had at last given in to her father’s wishes returned to her now as she placed the letter in the silver
dish in the vestibule. You should have refused, Alabeth
Manvers, she told herself, you should have refused….

Mrs. Bourne came up trumps for the dinner party,
producing a meal which all the guests pronounced to be
superb. For Alabeth, too, it was something of a triumph,
as it was her first venture into entertaining since Robert’s death and it had been important to her that it went well.
Jillian was perhaps a little restrained still, but she
abstained from being too difficult and her manner was put
down to shyness rather than willfulness.