Regency Rumours/A Scandalous Mistress/Dishonour And Desire (16 page)

The shaking of this belief came when Lord Dysart and his elderly sister eventually caught up with her during an interval. The handsomely coiffured black-laced Mrs Manners bore down upon her like a tidal wave. ‘Here she is!’ she announced. ‘At last! Now, my dear Lady Chester, I shall take you away from all these admirers because my brother and I want to know what has brought you to these foreign parts.’

The Earl was a good listener, a sociable and intelligent man whose contact with Amelie’s late husband had been of a business nature in Manchester. He had heard about his sad death, and although he and his sister could sympathise with Amelie’s reasons for moving away, they were adamant that her concerns were ill-founded and that duels were not as uncommon hereabouts as she had thought them to be. ‘In fact, my dear,’ said the Earl, looking around the crowded supper room, ‘I would not be surprised if almost half the men here had not been on the end of a duelling sword at some time in their lives. Even Elyot has.’

‘Pistols, Wilbraham,’ said his sister. ‘I believe they use pistols nowadays. Not nearly as interesting to watch. You can fire into the air with a pistol whereas you can’t quite do that with a—’

‘Yes, my dear Louisa,’ said Lord Dysart, patting her arm. ‘Thing is, it takes much less to scandalise ‘em up north than it does down here. I’m not saying that duels happen every day, nor is the gossip any kinder, but here they’re far more likely
to kick up a stink over bloodlines than they are over a whiff of scandal. It’s all about honour, you see. Duels are soon forgotten, my dear. Soon forgotten. Bloodlines ain’t. I seem to recall that your future mother-in-law, the Marchioness, got up to some party tricks in her youth, though perhaps I should not let the cat out of the bag too soon, eh?’

Beyond Mrs Manners’s powdered and feathered hairdo, Lord Elyot stood within earshot, talking to a gentleman and, as they turned, Amelie found herself face to face with another acquaintance from the past who had painted portraits of her and Sir Josiah in the year of their marriage.

‘Mr Lawrence,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re here too. What a delight.’

With his usual theatrical flourish, Thomas Lawrence bowed and, taking her hand, kissed it and held on to it to extend the contact. Once a child prodigy, he was now a witty and popular portraitist for whom Amelie remembered sitting with great pleasure. ‘My lady,’ he said, gravely, so that she knew he was about to say something teasingly complimentary, ‘is it possible that you could have grown even lovelier? Now, I have an idea. You shall put aside the first portrait and allow me to paint an up-to-date version to put in its place. My lord,’ he said to Lord Elyot, ‘you must back me up on this. You
must
have seen how her beauty has changed?’

A denial would have appeared strange, but he knew at once what was needed. ‘Of course she has,’ he said, ‘but we cannot dispense with the first one. We’ll have two. Shall we make a date for it?’ And without showing the least surprise that Amelie and the Royal Portrait Painter should know each other, he swung the conversation smoothly away from Amelie’s past towards the painter’s recent commissions, to the
music, to young Miss Chester’s interest in the singers, to anything except Lawrence’s sojourn in Buxton.

‘Thank you,’ Amelie whispered as they strolled back into the hall for the next part of the concert. ‘Does anything
ever
put you in a quake, my lord?’

Once more, the slow blink revealed laughing eyes that held a reply well away from the subject of conversations. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, softly. His gaze slid downwards past the emeralds. ‘But no need to be surprised, my lady. I promised you my protection and now, as a reward, I shall insist on seeing the portrait. Where do you keep it?’

‘Er …’ She studied a displaced bead on her reticule.

‘Well?’

‘Somewhere private.’

Now there was a bubble of laughter in his voice too. ‘Then you will have to admit me to this private place, or how shall I ever know how much you’ve changed?’

‘How did you know my gift to your sister had been accepted by the Royal Academy?’ she said, still poking at the bead.

‘The label was still on the back. I saw it first in your folio stand. You were not going to tell me of that either, were you?’

‘I have to keep some secrets from you.’

‘Not for much longer you don’t.’

‘My lord …’ she said, looking to see who might overhear them.

‘What?’

‘Hush … please!’

Taking her hand, he clasped it in his and held it upon his thigh until the four vocalists walked onto the dais and were applauded. Solos, duets and quartets by Purcell were followed by a
furioso
performance on the pianoforte of Steibelt’s celebrated
‘Storm Rondo’ which, if anything could, drowned out all the inconsistent information about the importance, or not, of scandal to this society. Lord Elyot had implied that his parents would not tolerate any whiff of scandal, yet Lord Dysart had said that few people hereabouts would care one way or the other, citing the Marchioness’s own indiscretions, though vaguely. In fact, the only difficult moment had been as a result of this so-called betrothal to Lord Elyot himself who was expected to know more about her than he did. How ironic was that?

But there was also a disturbing conclusion to be drawn from her conversation with Lord Dysart, which went some way to confirming what Amelie feared that, despite the
illusion
of good breeding, if it was not borne out by fact, she would be unacceptable in the eyes of a potential husband and his family. Bloodlines, the Earl had termed it. And now, his pronouncement lay like a dead weight upon Amelie’s heart, for it was her
own
bloodlines that concerned her most, a pedigree so insubstantial that it faded into nothing. Even if no one discovered her secret, she could never go through with such an appalling deception, and the shaky contract she had entered into with Lord Elyot would be broken with some with relief on his part.

It would have mattered less, no doubt, if she had not allowed her feelings for him to get out of hand. But she had. She had thought that her love for Josiah was ‘being in love’. Now she knew the ache, the yearning, the churning inside like a sickness, and there in the great hall, in the midst of a sublime quartet that told of love, betrayal and anguish from four different viewpoints, her heart swelled, her eyes filled with tears and her breathing staggered and trembled as the overlapping
voices soared upwards towards the dark gallery, tearing her composure apart, pulling at her heartstrings.

A large warm hand moved across to cover hers, but the thumb that smoothed her skin added yet another layer of sensation to those already brought alive by the music, and it took every ounce of her self-control to close the doors of her mind while clinging to his hand as if to a life raft.

The applause was appreciative and prolonged, and when Amelie leaned towards Caterina to comment, she saw tears in her eyes too. ‘Like it?’ she said, above the noise of applause.

Gulping, clapping and craning her neck to see more, Caterina nodded. ‘
Loved
it!’ she replied. ‘That’s what
I
’m going to do. Wonderful!
Bravo!
’

‘What, sing in public?’

‘Yes. I can do that.’ Her voice dropped with the volume. ‘I
could
, you know.’

‘What can she do?’ said Lord Elyot.

‘Caterina wants to be a vocal artiste.’

‘Then we must introduce her to Signor Rauzzini. He’s the tenor. He composed the last song. The best singing coach. Lives in Bath.’

‘You know him?’

‘Not personally, but Salomon will introduce us.’ He looked closely at her. ‘You all right now?’

‘Yes, my lord. It’s the music, that’s all.’ She knew he was not convinced, though he appeared to accept her explanation.

Whatever it was that had gone askew in the relationship between Caterina and Lord Rayne, it seemed to have been straightened out by the heady events of the evening and, by the time they were packed into the dark intimate space of the
town coach for the short journey home, the atmosphere could be described as companionable. Very little was said except the occasional, “Did you speak to …? Did you see …? Did you like the Telemann?” after which all four of them found their own thoughts enough to keep them occupied.

Dwelling on her most recent discoveries, Amelie would like to have tackled Lord Elyot head-on about the glaring discrepancies in his reading of her difficult situation, which he had used to his advantage, but this was hardly the time, and the hour was late, and it would have been churlish to thank him with an argument. Better to save it for another time when she’d had a chance to weigh up the implications.

It appeared that the brothers had made plans of their own when, on arriving at Paradise Road, the ladies were handed down, escorted into the hall, and were then left rather hastily by Lord Rayne who wished the remaining three a very good evening before striding back to the carriage.

‘Where’s he going?’ said Amelie, staring after him.

‘Home,’ said Lord Elyot, quietly, handing his cloak to Henry.

‘You mean …
home
? To Sheen Court?’

‘Shall we go in? You’re going to show me a portrait, I believe.’

Amelie waited for Caterina to reach the first landing. ‘No … look … this is late. What am I going to tell—?’

‘You’re not going to tell them anything,’ he said, taking her elbow. ‘And I think it’s time you had a butler as well as a housekeeper.’

‘I don’t
need
a butler.’

‘I think you do. This way, is it?’

This was not what she had wanted, not while her emotions were pulled taut like harp strings, not when there was so much that was unclear in her mind, not when she wanted to talk to
Caterina about their evening or when she could feel the deception swirling about her like a mist. And not at
his
bidding, either, damn him. With an unusual lack of graciousness, she led the way into the Wedgwood-blue saloon, which Lord Elyot had admired and which now lay open to the matching dining room through two white-and-gold doors. Pale blue velvet curtains fell to the floor at both ends, and an oval table reflected in its brown satin surface a large bowl of cream roses and the soft flutter of candlelight. The scent wafted towards them as the door closed.

‘That was not very subtle, was it?’ Amelie complained, tossing her gloves and reticule on to a silk-covered settee by the wall. ‘Will you help yourself to brandy while I go and say good night to Caterina? I shall not keep you waiting.’ Suddenly, the magic of the evening was giving way to the fulfilment of a certain business contract.

Ten minutes later, she returned to find her guest reclining in the corner of the settee with a brandy glass on the table beside him, his long legs crossed in complete repose. He stood as she entered. ‘May I pour you a cordial?’ he said. ‘Blackcurrant juice. That’s it. Where do you keep it?’

‘No, perhaps I’d better have some brandy too.’

He was laughing softly as he came towards her, drawing her to the settee and seating her by his side. ‘Come, lass,’ he said. ‘Is this such an ordeal?’ From the curved back, he reached out a hand to touch one dark curl that spiralled in front of her ear. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Do I get to see Lawrence’s portrait?’

Though small, the gesture vibrated through her body to her knees, reminding her yet again how inept she was in the finer points of dalliance and that, while she had poise to spare for
an evening in company, she had no experience to help her through this kind of intimacy. She sat, rigid as a poker and almost as aggressive. ‘It’s all very well for you,’ she whispered, ‘but I have not done this kind of thing before. I’m not sure that I can. Is there not some alternative?’

Uncurling himself, he stood and took her hand to pull her up beside him. ‘We’ll continue this conversation upstairs, I think,’ he said. ‘Is your maid waiting for you?’

‘No, I’ve dismissed her.’

‘Good.’ Taking her shoulders, he held her chin up with one finger. ‘Perhaps you should stop thinking that I’m expecting you to do something, my lady. You need do nothing, unless you wish, and I shall not do anything you don’t want me to. That’s not my way. Our arrangement will make no difference to that. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

She nodded, unable to speak for the dryness of her mouth and shaking with the realisation that, though she had tried to prepare herself mentally for this moment, she was in fact as unprepared as one could be. She swayed, suddenly overcome with tiredness, with her attempts to make some sense of what she had heard that evening, and with the extraordinary effort at Ham House of holding her emotions in check. She felt that she ought to warn him of her inadequacies, but she did not, for it was in her own interests to make an effort. In Caterina’s interests.

Placing an arm about her waist, he supported her up the wide staircase as she supported her train, while from the quiet landing a door opened to let a shaft of soft light fall across their feet. Lise emerged from Amelie’s room, curtsied, and whispered, ‘Good night, my lady.’

‘Good night, Lise.’

Struck by the uniqueness of being ushered into her own
bedroom by a man, Amelie leaned against the Chinese wallpaper and watched Lord Elyot’s ghostly shadow slide across the polished floor and over the bedposts until his white-fronted reflection halted in the gilt-framed chimney mirror. A low fire had just begun to burn in the grate. She would have liked to saunter into her room as if his presence meant nothing to her, to kick off her shoes and to drop her shawl, to fall back upon her beautiful curtained bed for some moments of contemplation. Now, she dared not go near it. She spread her hands, helplessly. ‘My lord, can we talk about this?’

In the soft light, he appeared larger and darker than ever, yet by now she knew every detail of his immaculate dress and how he had outshone every other man that evening with his grace, elegance and devastating good looks, how the envious glances of women had scanned him from head to toe to approve the muscled calves beneath tight white stockings, the bulge of thighs and the deep chest that swelled the black coat. She saw how their eyes had lingered, hoping for a hint of recognition from him, a word, a bow, following his progress with thoughts as readable as a book. And how many of them, she wondered, would have given much to be in her place now?