Splendor (21 page)

Marie-Elena smiled at her, very coldly. "And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?'' she said, her tone dripping with condescension.

Carolyn's heart had slammed to a halt. Now it beat with frightening force. She managed a smile and a curtsy. "Carolyn Browne, Princess."

Marie-Elena stared. "And just how do you know my husband?" she asked imperiously.

Carolyn felt her cheeks flaming. "He, er, my father sells books. He specializes in locating rare manuscripts. The prince has asked him to locate a copy of Bartholomew and the original Sic et Non by Abelard." Carolyn's face continued to burn. Now shame and guilt afflicted her. It was one thing to know by hearsay that Sverayov had a wife from whom he was estranged. It was another to be confronted by the woman after having shared even the briefest passionate encounter with her husband. But Marie-Elena could not know. Carolyn was not soothed.

Marie-Elena tossed back her head, exposing the lovely column of her throat, and she laughed. "A bookseller's daughter?" She was incredulous. Carolyn might as well have claimed that she was an odd species of animal from Africa. "A bookseller's daughter!" She laughed again, and shook her head. "My, Niki has lost his head, indeed, he has. Whatever can he be thinking!"

Carolyn was frozen, shocked by Marie-Elena's rude response, incapable of finding her tongue. The other woman turned abruptly, still chuckling, and melted into the crowd.

Carolyn hugged herself. Oh, dear. Whatever had she done?

And what, pray tell, should she do now?

^ Fifteen a*.

MIDLANDS was a wide, rectangular manor built of pale stone earlier in the reign of the mad King George III. Spacious green lawns swept up to it, rioting gardens encroached upon the house, and rolling green hills, dotted with sheep, surrounded it. The air was fresh and clean. The sky overhead was as blue as any robin's egg. Today was Edith Owsley's seventy-fifth birthday. Midlands was her favorite home, and these past ten years she had spent more time there than anywhere, by choice. But today she felt no peace, no serenity, no happiness. She could not find beauty in the environs. She was depressed.

The old lady tossed her London newspaper aside. Not even the witty Copperville, whom she so enjoyed, could lift her spirits today. She sat outside in the gardens which were to the back of the house, wrapped in a light shawl, thinking grimly about her life—thinking about how short it had been. How fast it had gone by. And what, pray tell, did she have to show for it all?

One day, sooner or later, she would die—and that vain idiot Thomas would inherit everything.

Margaret's image flitted through her mind, as she had been when Edith had last seen her, thirteen years ago on a cold, snowy day. Pale and blond, with a beauty that went far deeper than the skin. Edith closed her eyes. She lived

with regret every day of her life. If only Margaret had not run away with that fool, Browne. Dammit.

She sighed. But she was a survivor and a warrior, however unfashionable those traits might be. She had survived Margaret's betrayal, and her death. Just as she had survived the death of her husband, Seymour, another male fool, thirty years ago. Edith had chosen not to remarry, although, being a handsome woman, and a wealthy one, she had had many suitors. Edith had rejected them all. She had enjoyed the absoluteness of her newfound freedom, not that she had really allowed Seymour to fetter her in any way when he was alive. Seymour had always thought he knew best, but in truth, he had been susceptible to suggestion and quite pliable, indeed. It hadn't hurt to let him think he was running everything! And Edith had been fond of him, she supposed, in her own way, for he had been gentle and kind and besotted with her from the first.

Edith hated dwelling on the past. But her birthdays always did this to her. Soon Thomas and his nitwit wife, his spoiled sons, would arrive to celebrate her birthday—when Edith had told him years ago that she hated celebrating the passage of another year. Against her will, she thought about Margaret again, and this time, about Margaret's daughter, who was now, Edith knew, eighteen.

Eighteen and unwed. Eighteen and living atop a bookshop, with her imbecile father—the man who had ruined Margaret's life.

Edith leaned forward and picked up the beautifully bound leather volume which was comprised of the best essays of Edmund Burke. That was Carolyn's gift to her and it had arrived earlier that day in the post. Margaret must have told her daughter before she died just how much Edith loved to read—but not nonsense, mind you, only intelligent, thought-provoking essays and such. She read half a dozen books every week—not to mention reviews, journals, periodicals, and newspapers. Edith was very fond of Burke.

Carolyn never forgot a single birthday. But neither had ■ Margaret, before her death.

Edith squinted, noticing the dark carriage rolling through the hills on the dirt road that would eventually turn into Midlands. That would be Thomas, his spectacularly unintelligent wife, Dorothea, and their two little boys, who, so far, appeared to take after their father exactly. She sighed and got to her feet. The two cocker spaniels which had been sleeping by her chair immediately awoke, and began dancing around her skirts, tails wagging. Three servants appeared at her side, almost materializing from the air itself. Her butler asked her if there was anything she wished. Edith waved him away. "Unless you can make me sixty-five, Winslow, the answer is no. Got to greet my birthday guests." She gave Winslow a glare. He was as old as she was—if not more so.

Her strides were brisk for a woman her age, but Edith thought that was because she rode twice a day every day, rain or snow. She skirted the house, not entering it, even though it would have been faster to go through it. But she also liked walking, and she rarely used a cane.

But the past was on her mind now, dammit. She hated thinking about it. It was too painful. Still, every time she did, the thought planted itself in her head: if only she could have kept George Browne and her daughter apart. It had been one of the few failures in her life.

Edith Owsley planted herself on the front steps and waited with vast patience for the brown carriage to finish its approach. It finally halted in the drive in front of her and the door was swung open. Foolish Dorothea stepped down first, for Thomas had no manners, he never had, and clearly did not think to help his own wife down. But he took after his mother, Georgia, who hadn't a brain in her silly head, either. Georgia was not coming to the fete. She was one of those women who were constantly ill with one malady after another. Actually, Edith knew the truth. Georgia was afraid of her mother, and preferred staying as far away as possible from her. Edith did not mind.

Margaret had had all the brains in the family—or so Edith had thought until the fateful day of her elopement.

Edith scowled now as Thomas alighted, the carriage dipping a bit under his weight. He was stouter than ever, Edith saw. She had little use for fools who could not discipline themselves, who could not even say no to a mere piece of bread. She herself was as slim as the day she'd gotten married. She wondered what Thomas would do when she told him how she intended to dispose of her personal fortune.

She smiled.

"Grandmother," Thomas cried, beaming. He threw his arms around her. "Happy seventy-fifth!"

Edith glared until he released her. "Do you have to remind me of my age?''

"I'm sorry. But you look wonderful." He backed up and pulled his wife forward. "Kiss Grandmother, Dottie."

"Stop fawning," Edith said irritably. Edith allowed the timid bird to peck her cheek. Than she ignored her. "Let me see the boys," she demanded.

Thomas pulled his two squirming sons forward. They were six and seven, and already showing signs that they would one day be as stout as their father. "Congratulate your great-grandmother on her birthday," he said firmly.

Henry bowed over her hand. "Happy birthday, madam."

Tom did the same. "Ail the best, madam^."

Edith smdied them, but they were unable to meet her gaze. They were flushed and perspiring. The younger one had chocolate all over his shirt. "What have you done to them? Why are they twitching? Why is Henry fat? Why won't they look me in the eye? What does Tom have in his pocket? Is that leftover cake?''

"Stop twitching," Thomas growled. "Henry has been eating too many desserts. Tom, what is in your pocket? Good God! Get rid of that moldy thing. Look at Lady Stafford, boys!"

The boys straightened and met Edith's gaze. She saw no sign of remarkable character or intelligence in their eyes. She already knew from their tutors, whom she had interviewed both privately and secretly, that the boys were not good students. They were more than lazy, they were

spoiled, demanding, boisterous, and filled with uppity airs. Even had they better comportment, their tutors despaired of them ever being more than competent in the pursuit of an education. Edith had been horrified by their report. As she paid for Thomas's entire life until three years ago when he'd come of age, including the education of his sons, it was quite depressing.

Yes, she had made the right decision—because Thomas would merely fritter away the fortune she had acquired over the years—and if he did not, then his sons would after him.

They adjourned to the house. To Edith's relief, Dorothea pleaded a headache and retired instantly to her rooms, while the boys ran outside with the spaniels in spite of their tutor's protests. Thomas beamed at Edith and handed her a small gift-wrapped parcel. "May I give you your present now?" he asked.

"It does not matter to me," Edith returned. She weighed the object in her hand. "This feels like jewelry."

"Open it. Grandmother," he said.

She did as he asked and held up a double strand of black pearls, which were quite beautiful. Of course, Edith was well aware of the fact that she had actually paid for the gift herself—since Thomas had never made a single penny on his own and the Owsley estates were very profitable only because of all that she had done, these past thirty years. "Thank you," she said, thinking about Carolyn, who received nothing from her and still sent her a gift. "You are very thoughtful," she said, knowing he would not understand her sarcasm.

"You know how I try," he said. "You know how much we all try to make you happy."

She made a sound, one that came out as disdainful as she felt.

"How are you these days, Grandmother?"

They entered the smaller of Midlands's three salons. Edith smiled. "I have never been better," she said. It was the truth. She had been ill during Easter, the last time she

had seen her grandson and his brood. Now she saw Thomas's dismay, which he tried to hide.

"That is wonderful," he hed.

He was just itching to get his hands on her money, by God. The oaf.

"By the by," he said, "when I was in town to purchase your gift, I stopped by at Browne's."

Edith froze. She rearranged her face before facing her grandson. "And?" she demanded. "Did you see her? Your cousin?"

Thomas was taken aback. "Grandmother, you are shouting. Am I upsetting you?"

' 'Thomas, you upset me every time you enter this house. She sent me a book, you know. A wonderful collection of essays." Edith smiled.

Thomas stared. "But I gave you very rare pearls."

"Hmmph. And what did Carolyn do and say?"

"She was very rude. She acmally ordered me out of the store."

"Really?" Thomas was not fooling Edith. She knew that he had probably been so obnoxious that Carolyn had had every reason to demand he leave. "What does she look like?" Edith asked, aware of an eagerness she refused to entertain.

He scowled. "Odd, I'd say. She has a funny haircut, far too short, as if she took scissors to it herself. And she is tall and thin. Of course, she was wearing some horrible dress, a real rag, if you ask me." Thomas smiled. "Yes, that is how I would describe her, as odd."

Edith knew better than to trust his judgment. It crossed her mind that she was old, and getting older every day, and that as she had not glimpsed Carolyn since the funeral, she might go to town and take a look for herself. Secretively, of course.

The idea stimulated her as nothing else had recently.

"Thomas, sit down," she said. "I wish to speak to you."

He seemed pleased with himself as he settled his bulk into a heavy brocade chair. Edith did not sit. She settled

her hands on her slim hips and anticipated his reaction to her next words. "Thomas, I have changed my will. You will, of course, retain the Owsley estates and all the titles, but I have decided to give my fortune away." Thomas turned white.

Carolyn was alone in the bookshop. Three days had passed since the opera. Carolyn was restless, could not concentrate, and knew precisely why. Every time a carriage passed by the shop on the street outside, or the doorbell sounded, she looked up, filled with sudden anticipation. And every time the coach turned out to be the mail, or a brougham or landau filled with gay, well-dressed ladies, or the door opened and a stranger appeared, her disappointment was overwhelming. Sverayov, it seemed, had forgotten all about her.

She had not forgotten about him.

How could she? She was highly dismrbed by their last two encounters and all that she had learned about him and his family. It was clear to her now that he was a man with hidden facets—facets he had no wish to reveal. He was not the superficial rendering she had expected to see. There was a great problem between him and his daughter, and he seemed to be harboring sorrow and grief. And Carolyn's heart also went out to the little girl. The child was unnaturally quiet, and Carolyn was quite certain that she was sad. None of this was her affair. Yet she could not stop thinking about them—about him.

And to make matters far worse, her interest and memories were hardly noble. They were hardly moral. She was not ever going to forget his embrace, his touch, his kiss. She had discovered passion, at long last—in the arms of a notorious womanizer.

And he was a married man, even if he and his wife went their separate ways. Carolyn wished she had not met his ravishing yet cruel wife. And while Carolyn did not approve of adultery, she thought it unfair to criticize arrangements like Sverayov's. It was undoubtedly for the best that he had forgotten all about her, Carolyn. While she had be-