Kate Moore (16 page)

18

Kirby stared out the window of his room. In the long spring twilight, lamps were just beginning to show in the streets and windows. Tomorrow he would complete his revenge. Tonight, across town, Juliet Lacy was preparing for her come-out ball.

He gripped the top of the rough window frame and leaned his head against his arm. For him there was little left to do. He had sent a trunk with most of his possessions to the docks to be loaded on board ship, keeping only those that would help him prove his identity to his father. He had written a letter to Juliet and a message that would bring his father to the meeting place he had chosen. Tomorrow he would send them.

He should be feeling not elation, he didn’t expect that, but satisfaction. He had done what he set out to do. He had kept the promise he made to himself. True, with Juliet Lacy on his mind, he had wavered the day after Vauxhall. All his delaying had been on account of her. He wished he had kissed her more often. He wished he could see her again. She had caught him off guard that night, insisting on a parting before he was ready. There were things he hadn’t said.

He left the window and paced his small sitting room. He wanted to hit something and regretted that he could not go to Hill’s any longer. He would go out soon to get some supper and find a way to occupy himself until he was tired enough to sleep. His gaze fell on the pile of props he had borrowed from Mrs. Hayter—the gray wig, the mask, and the domino. He would need them one more time.

He had not seen his neighbor since the night she had offered him a bath, had not known what he would say if he did see her. He had thought about the episode more than once. He had sensed danger there, but Mrs. Hayter had shown him nothing but kindness. It made no sense that she would want him in her bed. Unless she was lonely, as Circe had been on her island, dreaming that Odysseus would someday come. The gods had ordered the hero to share the goddess’s bed, and so he had.

Kirby should at least thank Mrs. Hayter for her kindness. He straightened his collar, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped across the landing to her rooms.

Her maid answered his knock and ushered him into the drawing room. In a few minutes Molly Hayter joined him, wearing the sea-green wrapper he remembered, her hair loose and tumbling down her back, her feet bare. He drew in a steadying breath.

She stood just inside the room, studying him. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

He nodded. “I will be leaving London within two days, and I wanted to . . . thank you for . . . your help. You have been kind.”

She did not move. “Yet you always run from me.”

She looked hurt and vulnerable, and he thought he should offer some explanation. Maybe if he told her about Juliet Lacy, she would understand. “I . . . I’m not sure what you want from me,” he said.

“A bit of company,” she replied. “Is that so much?”

He shook his head.

She came into the room then and extended her hand to him. He took it, and she smiled sweetly. “I know you’re hungry. You’re always hungry. Will you have some meat and wine?”

“I will,” he said.

She sent one of her maids to fetch a meal and drew Kirby to the scroll-ended sofa where they had sat once before. She began at once to question him, and when the wine came she poured them a glass with her own hand and watched him drink, encouraging him.

He found the wine made it easy to talk. He told her about the American cities he had thought of settling in and what he knew of them. He supposed he’d do theatre work or box until he found regular employment. She offered him more wine, and as she poured he remembered her small kindnesses. He must explain himself. He mentioned Juliet Lacy.

“Ah,” said Molly. “You’ve fallen in love.”

He put his hand to his head. He was feeling muddled. “She won’t have me though,” he said. “She makes her come-out tonight. She’ll have some fine lord.”

“Not a poor boy like you?” Molly said.

“No, never me, unless I . . . unless . . .”

Molly Hayter snatched the wine glass from the young man’s suddenly slack hand and watched as he slid down the curve of the sofa and came to rest sprawled half-on, half-off the seat. For a few minutes she studied her guest’s sleeping form, then rose and called for her maids. With some difficulty Molly and the two maids eased him onto a blanket on the floor and pulled the blanket along the hall to Molly’s bedroom. It was more difficult to raise the sleeping man to Molly’s bed, but Molly had had enough experience with the effects of laudanum to manage. She left her maids with orders to strip the young man and went to search his rooms.

“How very thorough you are, my young lordling,” she said when she found the two letters he had written. She returned to her rooms and laid the letters on her table. For an hour or more she simply read and reread each message, pacing back and forth, speaking aloud, imagining certain conversations she might have with Lord Warne and Miss Juliet Lacy. In time she stopped, arrested by an idea that had come to her.

She went to the big bed where the young man lay and pulled back the coverings from his sleeping form. He was beautiful even sprawled in drugged slumber, and she ran her fingers lightly down the warm smooth skin of his flank. He was like one of those Greeks Draycot had taken her to see, and about as lively.

“Kirby,” she whispered to the sleeper, “you are like him. You refused an invitation to my bed and thought to escape. Fool.”

She whirled away from him and went straight to the table and began to compose a letter of her own.

***

Evelina received her guests on the landing at the top of the fine painted staircase that swept up from the marble entry of her town house. The situation afforded her a view of each guest’s arrival. She must spy Lord Warne’s entrance before Lacy. She had stationed Susannah right behind her, though as Juliet’s companion the girl hardly belonged in such a spot. Really, there was no other choice. She had been unable to bring herself to write to Lord Warne or to quarrel outright with Lacy.

There was the marquess just behind Ann Trentfield and the Chaworth-Musters. Where was Chettle? Chettle was to show his lordship into the breakfast room. She greeted the Phillipses and reached back and gave Susannah’s arm an impatient squeeze.

“Susannah, dear, Warne’s here. Go down at once and explain the situation to him. I don’t see Chettle. Warne’s coming up the stairs. Hurry, dear.”

“Don’t worry, Aunt, I’m going,” Susannah replied. She slipped out of the niche behind her aunt and started down the crowded stairs. Lord Eastham and his friends Garrett and Newbury made way for her at the top of the stairs. She exchanged a quick greeting with one of Juliet’s friends midway, and braved Ann Trentfield’s cold glare as she neared the bottom. There she found Warne on the point of ascending.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bowen,” he said, the warmth of his greeting unmistakable. She thought of Ann Trentfield, just above them, hearing him.

She spoke as softly as she could, inviting him to step apart with her for a moment as Evelina had something particular she wished Susannah to convey. His warm expression vanished at once, but just then a footman appeared and bowed and indicated they were to follow. He led them to the breakfast room, lit the candles in the sconces, and withdrew.

Now that they were alone Susannah found it impossible to begin. They stood just inside the door in the narrow space between the end of the table and the wall. To look at him was to recall his arms about her, his mouth on hers, and her response. She glanced up, found him watching her, and faltered.

“If I promise not to kiss you here in your aunt’s house, will you find it easier to talk to me?” he asked. He rested one gloved hand on the table.

“I beg your pardon,” she answered. She gripped the back of the nearest chair and straightened, raising her gaze to his. “I should not make such a piece of work of conveying a message.”

“Then you haven’t changed your mind about talking to me?”

She shook her head. “My aunt asked me to speak to you. With my uncle staying here, Aunt Evelina does not have the freedom she had before to . . . to invite guests to this house.”

“So I am uninvited to the ball, and Lady Lacy chose you to tell me,” he said. Then more slowly, “Or did you volunteer to convey my congé?”

His face had assumed its dark, rigid aspect, the iron mask in place.

“I did not volunteer, and you must understand. My aunt is entirely dependent on my uncle’s good will, and he holds a grudge against you.”

“Against me?”

Susannah sighed. “When you ruined your father, you also ruined mine, Uncle John’s brother.”

“And do you hold that against me, too?” he asked stiffly.

“No.” She could not tell him that her father’s ruin came after he had cast her off and that she only heard of it when it had ceased to matter.

“But you do wish me to leave Miss Lacy’s ball?”

“I do,” she admitted.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a leveler. I suppose you know it will require an act of humility on my part. I’m not inclined to bend by nature.”

She smiled at him. “I know.” He flashed her a quick grin. “But you see, I’ve changed my mind about Juliet, and I must get Uncle to agree to another season for her.”

“Changed your mind? Why?”

Your kisses.
She gripped the chair back tightly. “Our . . . talks. You made me see that a safe marriage would not do for Juliet. And Juliet herself proved me wrong. She was not the fool I . . . thought she’d be.”

“So you don’t want her to take Eastham or Brentwood?”

“No.”

“And you, Susannah? Do you want another season?” The little gap between them had diminished somehow though neither had taken a step.

He meant a real season, a season for her. She could see it in his eyes. Unthinkable, a season for her, for the constrained thing she had become. “No.”

“You could marry me, Susannah Bowen. Your cousin could spend a season with us.”

“What?”

“Marry me, Susannah.”

She knew a mad moment of joy, followed by a sharp, wrenching pain. “I can’t,” she blurted. She could if he had asked knowing the truth about her, but to tell him now would be unendurable. If he no longer believed her good and decent and honest, she could not bear it.

He was watching her closely. For a moment his eyes had been bright skies of hope. Now they were shadowed.

“Well then,” he said. “I’ll take my leave.”

She had to make him see the fault lay in her. “You deserve a better bride, lovelier, richer, I don’t know, better.” Her hands fluttered up uselessly.

He caught them and held them for a long moment.

“I thought we agreed weeks ago that I would be the judge of that,” he said. “Good night, Susannah.”

Juliet was dancing a waltz with Lord Eastham when it occurred to her that her resolution to have him might falter in the day-to-day intimacies of marriage. His proximity, the sticky warmth of the hand at her waist, the breath mingling with hers, struck her as circumstances that might be trying to endure, particularly with the recollection of other embraces clear in her mind. Susannah’s arguments began to gain unexpected force, and then there were the acrimonious scenes between her parents to which she’d been witness daily throughout the week. It was true, she had no heart to give, but she still had a mind, and she perceived that her mind was unlikely to be satisfied with Eastham. And if not with Eastham, certainly not, with Brentwood, and she doubted she could please Lord Atwell in that regard.

She blushed as she came to this conclusion, realizing that the man she was waltzing with was very likely framing a proposal even as they danced and with every expectation of her delighted acceptance. She began to consider how she might disabuse him of the notion.

When the music ended, Lord Eastham said. “Miss Lacy, would you step out onto the balcony with me for a bit of air?”

“Of course,” she said. She had formed no definite plan and looked round wildly for Susannah, but there was no companion to save her. Eastham was ready to pay his addresses she was sure. They strolled toward the open doors, and she thought of tripping or sneezing or pleading a headache. As they reached the doors a footman came up bearing a tray with only an envelope on it.

“Miss Lacy,” he called.

She stopped. Perhaps it was from Susannah. Her cousin had seen how close she was to the trap and had sent a messenger to save her.

“Excuse me, Lord Eastham, just a moment please,” she said. She lifted the envelope from the silver tray and looked at the writing. Not Susannah’s, but Kirby’s. Her hand trembled and she felt her heart race. She tore the missive open and scanned the words.

“He’s changed his mind,” she said aloud. “Oh dear, I must . . .” She looked up and found Eastham watching her, his brows drawn into a scowl.

“Oh, Lord Eastham, forgive me,” she said. “I must go. Thank you for being one of my
beaux
this season. You were very . . . nice. Thank you, excuse me.” She backed away from her frowning suitor, then whirled and hurried from the room.

Susannah was nowhere in sight. A quadrille was in progress. Papa was talking to Atwell; Mama, listening to Brentwood. She had perhaps a quarter of an hour to make her escape. She would just write Susannah a note. Susannah would be pleased.

***

Ann Trentfield had been to duller balls, but none that left her feeling quite so resentful. That that little nonentity Susannah Lacy, with her high collars and lace caps and no bosom to speak of, should command Warne, the only decent prospect on the marriage mart for a widow, was the outside of enough. And that she should pretend to respectability when she was nothing but Price’s castoff was infuriating. Ann had not missed the tête-à-tête between the supposed Mrs. Bowen and Warne, and then she had not seen the marquess again.

Mrs. Chaworth-Musters came up to her friend at that moment. “Have you noticed Lacy?” she asked.

“Lacy?” Ann glanced at their host, who looked exceptionally grim and stiff. She thought Evelina very clever to have managed to live apart from the man.

“You’d think he could produce a smile for his daughter’s come-out. Evelina looks terrified of him,” Mrs. Chaworth-Musters pointed out.