The Willful Widow (26 page)
"Yes." Justin seized the opportunity gratefully. "Jeremy insists that though the price of shares is quite low at the moment, it is sure to rise when the territories are divided so that the companies are not forced to cut their rates so drastically in order to compete with each other." 240
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"Hmm." The sharp dark eyes were thoughtful. "A clever piece of thinking, and it does offer a way to broaden one's field of investment. Tell me, where does your friend come by his information?"
And with the conversation safely diverted to the far less dangerous topics of finance and investment, they enjoyed a most stimulating discussion for the rest of their tour around the park. So engrossed were all three that they were completely unconscious of the notice that was being taken of them by many of the park's fashionable denizens. To be sure, there was nothing so unusual about a gentleman's taking two ladies for a drive, but when the gentleman was Lord Justin St. Clair, whom the
ton
was accustomed to seeing alone, magnificently mounted and stopping to talk with only the most dashing matrons of the beau monde, and when one of the women was a highly respectable woman well on in years and the other an extremely pretty but reclusive young widow, well, then, it was something indeed! More than one discreet glance carefully hidden behind a parasol was cast in their direction, and more than one knowing look was shared among the fair occupants of several carriages.
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The fashionable world that had first been treated to the sight of Justin St. Clair tamely driving through the park with two unexceptionable females was not left to speculate long as to the probability of his appearing in such unusual company for a second time. The very next evening, he could be seen seating them in a box at the Theatre Royal where they appeared to be thoroughly enjoying Miss O'Neill's interpretation of the Lady Teazle in
School for Scandal.
And what was more, St. Clair, who ordinarily divided his time between staring speculatively at the actresses or subjecting the audience to ironic scrutiny was doing neither, being engaged instead in a most earnest discussion with both of his companions. He even went so far as to laugh heartily now and then. In truth, the unusual state of affairs in the box was almost as diverting, if not more so than the action onstage to many in the audience. Afterward in select salons throughout the town, there was far more discussion concerning St. Clair and the ladies than there was of Mr. Sheridan's play. This remarkable phenomenon showed no signs of abating, though neither did it appear to be developing into anything more intriguing. The celebrated bachelor's attentions, which never revealed anything but interest of the most platonic sort, were equally divided between the two ladies. He was as solicitous of Lady Walden as he was of her niece, and he apparently found the conversation of either lady as amusing as that of the other.
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It was a great puzzle, indeed, but as nothing further seemed to come of it, the
ton
turned its fickle attention to more promising topics such as the Princess Charlotte's impending marriage or the possibility that Lady Clothilde Danforth was about to contract a hopeless mésalliance; so hopeless in fact that it was rumored that the young lady found herself in a most interesting condition. However, talk did not die down before it had reached the ears of Euterpe, Lady Sarandon, who, wishing to be the first with the
on-dit,
penned a coyly speculative letter to her poor friend Amelia—eternally immured in the country at Winterbourne—inquiring if perhaps her scapegrace brother-inlaw had been catched at last. Amelia taxed her husband with this information at dinner that evening, and Alfred, forced to withdraw his concentration from a formidable slab of roast beef, exhibited a rather disappointingly benign reaction to such startling news, merely muttering, "Eh, what's that. Lady Winterbourne? Euterpe shouldn't spread such stories. Justin leg-shackled? He's too much a here-and-thereian ever to settle down. Anyone trying to predict Justin's future is likely to catch cold at that." As if to punctuate his point, the earl stabbed viciously at a boiled potato, applying himself with gusto to the task immediately at hand.
Good! He congratulated himself for having consulted Justin on this affair. For once in his life, his brother actually was proving to be of use to someone besides himself. Now all that Alfred had to do was to talk some sense into his son's head, get him to abandon his ridiculous notion of setting himself up as some son of whining pedant, and point out to him the 243
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necessity of his returning to Winterbourne to take up his proper role as receptacle of his father's wisdom, as well as the treasured inheritance that was to be passed along to him, and all would be well.
The Earl of Winterbourne was provided with the opportunity to embark upon this laudable program at a much earlier date than expected, as the Viscount Chalford who, with the exception of his unfilial interest in scholarship, truly was a dutiful son and devoted brother, stopped off at Winterbourne en route to London from his study party at the Duke of Bellingrath's enormous estate.
With a certain amount of forethought, unusual in someone as oblivious as Reginald, he had had the wit to invite Denby and Cedric, second son to the duke, to stop at Winterbourne with him. For surely his father, faced with the scions of such ancient and noble families would curb his objections to his son's wasting his time in his scholarly pursuits. Reginald had accurately gauged his parent, and the earl was mollified by the sight of his exalted connections. However, he had not been able to keep himself from offering one piece of fatherly advice as his son was about to depart.
"You're a fine lad, Reggie," he began, impressively laying a heavy paternal hand on his son's shoulder.
"'Tis better by far to be spending time with these fine fellows than at the feet of a siren and a fortune hunter." Emboldened by the proximity of his friends and week of pursuing his own interests, Reginald replied with uncharacteristic firmness, "If you mean Lady Diana, sir, she is not a fortune hunter. As Lady Walden's great-niece, she is 244
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heiress to considerable fortune of her own, so has no need of any others."
An angry flush suffused the earl's already florid countenance. "Oh, come now lad, this is the purest speculation, why..."
"I heard it from Lady Walden myself," the viscount responded resolutely. "Good-bye Papa. Good-bye Mama. Be a good girl, Sarah, and remember to read the Plato I marked for you." Reginald turned to wave to the others standing inside the doorway before climbing into the Bellingrath carriage, which immediately began to proceed down the gravel drive leaving his father to gaze blankly after them and wonder if perhaps he had not been too clever for his own good. The situation certainly needed taking in hand. Much as he disliked the thought, he might be forced to post up to town and set things to rights. Leaving a fortune to a woman; who had ever heard of such a preposterous notion?
During the blissful days spent in the country, his mind roving from Catullus to Tacitus, Virgil to Pliny the Younger, Reginald had hardly given a thought to his goddess, but having had her recalled to mind by his father's infelicitous remark, he was eager to see her again. He barely stopped at his lodgings long enough to refresh himself after the journey before hurrying to present himself at Brook Street. As he approached that temple of all his hopes and dreams, he was struck by what looked suspiciously like his Uncle Justin's curricle being led around to the back. Uncomfortably aware of the slight friction that seemed to exist between his beloved and his uncle, Reginald at first misdoubted his sight, 245
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but there was no mistaking the splendid horseflesh and elegant equipage of someone as noted for his rigs as Justin St. Clair.
Puzzled, Reginald followed Finchley to the drawing room where a remarkably domestic scene met his eyes. Seated next to each other on the settee poring over some important looking documents were his uncle and his ladylove. A ball of white fuzz slumbered peacefully between them, its head resting in the lady's lap while over in a corner by the fire Lady Walden was perusing the
Times
and, off by the window, Boney clung to the curtains.
"The Viscount Chalford, my lady," Finchley announced.
"Well hello, Reginald. Did you have a pleasant journey?" Diana rose to greet him, disturbing the ball of fuzz that uncurled itself into the recognizable shape of a puppy before turning around to plump it's chin on Justin's knee and resume his nap. "And have you completely had your fill of scholarship? We have nothing to offer you here that is more uplifting than idle chatter."
"Oh no, Lady Diana. Your conversation is always enlightening." Reginald blushed vividly.
"Been on a study party have you, lad?" Justin looked up from the papers he was perusing long enough to smile quizzically at his nephew.
"Well I, well, yes, Uncle Justin, I have." It all came out in a rush. "You see, Denby's a first-rate scholar, and he and I were, well we, well Cedric..."
"Good lad. It sounds far more intriguing than anything London has had to offer this age, and it is a shame to put a 246
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good mind to waste in the empty amusements of the
ton
or the rustic pursuits of a country gentleman." Justin returned to his papers.
"It is? I mean, you don't mind?" Reginald could hardly believe his ears.
Justin laid down the papers again. "Of course I don't mind. I consider all those things to be a dreadful bore myself. It is just that I find the problems plaguing the European powers and the intricacies of trade to be far more riveting than Homer or Virgil—but to each his own." Reginald stared at his uncle, but there was not a hint of the usual biting irony in his tone, no satirical gleam in his eye—He merely sat there stroking Wellington's ears while the puppy snored blissfully.
"There, I knew your uncle would understand." Diana smiled at him as she rang for refreshments. "And I am sure Aunt Seraphina does, too. Now, do tell us all about it." And Reginald proceeded to do so, waxing eloquent on Denby's brilliance, Cedric's diligence, and the joys of having a fine library all to oneself. So full was he of the glories of it all that he barely noticed the others. But later, as he strolled toward his lodgings, it occurred to him that he had never before felt so at ease with his brilliant sardonic uncle. He had always admired Justin's intellectual prowess, but his uncle's wit had always been so biting, his remarks so caustic that Reginald had been awed into silence in his presence. Somehow now he seemed—Reginald sought for just the words to describe him—softer and more friendly, that was it. He couldn't think when he'd seen his uncle act just that 247
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way. Nor had he ever seen him pay much attention to the opinions of others. However, he had been respectfully silent when Lady Diana and Lady Walden spoke. And several times Reginald had intercepted glances between his uncle and Lady Diana, which, even to the most obtuse observer, hinted that they were on excellent terms.
What had occurred? Certainly before he had gone into the country, they had not rubbed along at all well. Reginald was not precisely certain whether or not he was pleased with the turn of events. To be sure, he wished for the two people he most admired in the world to be friends, but ... but there had been something else—a warmth and intimacy call it—that was not normally present among casual acquaintances. He shook his head. It was all rather puzzling.
However, over the next several days, it became increasingly clear to the Viscount Chalford that Lord Justin St. Clair and Lady Diana Hatherill had buried whatever differences they had once had and were quite enjoying each other's company. Reginald caught glimpses of them riding in the park and attending the opera. He even saw them entering the exhibit at Somerset House where the picture of the Prince Leopold was on display. Of course. Lady Walden was always a member of these parties and was equally engaged in all the conversations, but a careful observer, such as the viscount had now become, was still left with an impression that some special sort of communication existed between his adored Diana and his uncle.
To be sure, Reginald, even in his wildest dreams, had never expected to win the hand, or even the attention of such 248
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a goddess as Lady Diana. At most, he had only hoped to be allowed to worship her from afar. He had been ecstatic when she had allowed him to call on her or to escort her to the theater, but if the truth were known, he had not been precisely certain of how to proceed next and for some time had been uncomfortably aware that as her most devoted admirer he ought to do something, but what? The idea of being anything more than a suppliant to such an exalted being terrified him. In fact, he could not imagine how his uncle could converse with her so casually and so easily. To be perfectly honest, Reginald had felt somewhat relieved that Cedric had gotten up a study party. It had been so very comfortable to poke around in the library with kindred spirits who were not always overwhelming him with their beauty, their elegance, or their clever wit. And he had begun to have his doubts about the nature of his feelings for Lady Diana. Of course he adored her to distraction, but such an elevated emotion was rather exhausting to maintain forever. Seeing that his uncle was a rather frequent visitor at Brook Street and that the ladies never lacked an escort, he became less assiduous in his attentions, slowly concentrating on the less exciting but less terrifying topics of classical antiquity, hoping desperately that Lady Diana would not notice a slackening in his interest.
