Kate Moore (9 page)

“Take as long as you like,” she advised him, and withdrew.

He stared at the richness of her private apartment. She had hinted at some tragedy that had brought her down in the world, but behind the shabby exterior of the building she lived in comfort that surpassed any Kirby had seen outside of the great houses. Steam curled lazily from the bath. He sat and removed his boots, then stripped and eased into the tub. The heat was just bearable and went directly to his aches. He rested his head against the copper lip. His mind spun dizzily, and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the bath had cooled and Mrs. Hayter was sitting on the bench. He sat up with an abruptness that sent the water lapping at the sides of the tub.

“It’s not wise to fall asleep in the bath,” she remarked.

Kirby could not look away. Her shawl was gone, and the firelight revealed the fullness of her shape through the white gown. Sometime in his doze his thoughts had turned from his revenge to Miss Lacy. Now her lovely image faded, and the gentle rocking of the water against his naked flesh awoke desires he had been unwilling to admit.

“I’ve warmed a towel for you,” said Mrs. Hayter. She smiled and left him.

He stepped from the tub and grabbed the towel, applying it in long hurried strokes, looking for his clothes, but they had disappeared. He wrapped the towel about his waist, thinking furiously. Did she want him to stay? He glanced at the bed not more than a few feet away.

“A robe?” offered his hostess, reappearing from behind the screen.

Like a waiting manservant she held up a black silk wrapper, but what he saw was the smooth white curve of her arms. He thought of questions he had not asked of his mother, of jokes he had pretended to understand, of Ares and Aphrodite, the adulterers, under Hephaestus’s golden chain and all the gods come to see. He thought of all that had been denied him by his father’s absence in his childhood. Anger and lust united.

He turned his back, released the towel at his waist and slipped his arms into the robe. When he had tied it, he faced her.

“You want to kiss me don’t you,” she said. In her eyes was the patient, sympathetic look with which she had listened to his story.

He nodded. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her towards him. Fleetingly he thought of Juliet Lacy, but the wine fogged his mind and Mrs. Hayter’s mouth opened under his. He slid his hands downward, filling them with soft ripe flesh. His breath came hot and harsh, and he pulled back, to see what he touched. Mrs. Hayter guided his hand to the slender ribbon at the gathers of her bodice, and he loosed it, brushing aside the thin cloth. He stared at the white flesh, the dusky rose peaks.

She took him by the hand and pulled him gently toward the bed. Then he remembered where Odysseus was when he took that bath. The hero’s words came back, “It is I you hold, enticing into your chamber, to your dangerous bed, to take my manhood when you have me stripped . . .” Circe’s hall.

Kirby sought to hold onto the thought of danger, but Mrs. Hayter touched her mouth to his, beguiling him and driving him to press his body to hers.

Dimly he heard pounding and the whisper of slippered feet scurrying. “Molly! Sweet Molly! Open your door. Open your—” The loud pounding obscured the words. There were several voices, one of them Draycot’s. The actor was drunk, to judge from the sound. The woman in Kirby’s arms stiffened and drew back from him. He opened his eyes, surprised to see Molly Hayter.

“Wait for me,” she urged him, her fingers cleverly putting her bodice back in order. The shouting and pounding continued, and Mrs. Hayter hurried away. He heard her voice in the hall and the voices of the little maids.

The black robe had fallen open, and he stood exposed in his lust. Juliet Lacy’s image came back to him then, sweet and guileless, and he groaned. He didn’t want Molly Hayter. The muddle of anger, lust, and wine cleared, and he took a deep shaky breath. He raised his arm and rubbed the sleeve of the silk robe across his lips, cleansing them of the taste of Mrs. Hayter. He had to see Miss Lacy, to kiss
her.
He stepped from behind the screen, began looking for his clothes, and found them on a chair in the dark.

11

Susannah emerged from the cloakroom of the Royston mansion with serious misgivings about the evening ahead. Even in her season, Lord and Lady Royston’s ball had been a notorious event. Once a year the earl and his lady opened their garden and the many rooms of their large mansion to the whole of the
ton
, and expected approximately the behavior suited to Vauxhall. Only the high sticklers stayed away. Ten years before, Susannah had been thoroughly kissed in the gardens below the terrace; it had been one small step in her seduction.

She could not tell Evelina that, of course, and her objections to the ball had not swayed her aunt or her cousin. They had received vouchers for Almack’s, and Evelina was convinced that Juliet would have a great triumph there, but Susannah could not help thinking that it was too soon to be sure of Juliet’s success and too careless of her reputation to bring her to the Roystons’.

Juliet, herself, seemed consumed by an impatient longing for some decisive moment that would fix her fate. In little more than a fortnight the girl had become adept at judging the character of a gathering. Tonight she had chosen a sophisticated overdress of pale blue bordered with a deep lapis cord over a muslin slip. At Susannah’s side she adjusted her long gloves and eyed the other guests with open curiosity.

“Look,” she said, leaning toward Susannah, “it’s Mrs. Elvers, Royston’s mistress. She’s not as pretty as I thought she’d be.”

“Juliet,” protested Susannah, “where did you hear that piece of scandal?”

“It’s common knowledge, Susannah,” said Evelina. “I wonder that Louisa Elvers does not simply move in. The place is so large, Lady R. would be less likely to meet her rival here than in town.”

“Is Lady Royston so complacent about her husband’s infidelities?” Susannah asked.

“Don’t be prudish, dear. With Sir Roger Hume to console her Lady R. can be quite complacent. No doubt he’s here as well.”

“Then perhaps Byron and his Augusta should come; even they might find a welcome,” Susannah could not resist adding.

Her aunt stared at her, but made no reply, and they moved with the crowd into the Royston ballroom. The high-ceilinged room stretched along one wing of the building and opened across the rear of the mansion to a row of connecting salons, which had been turned into something of a Parisian street scene with vendors’ carts, lampposts, flower stands, potted trees, and tables under awnings. Between sets guests might stroll along this artificial avenue or step out onto the terrace and down into the garden below, where the paths were marked by strings of paper lanterns.

Evelina hardly noticed, pointing out instead the more notorious of the Roystons’ guests. Abruptly she broke off, saying, “There’s Ann Trentfield. I must catch her. She is sure to know all about the royal wedding plans. Juliet, dear, stay with Susannah.”

Susannah watched her aunt scurry off and then looked about her. Apparently there were no seats for chaperones. Nor did Susannah see a place where she and Juliet could settle and wait for gentlemen to request a dance. They began a circuit of the ballroom, feeling more and more buffeted by the laughter, the scents, and the bustle of the other guests until Susannah was relieved to see Lord Brentwood approaching.

But Juliet said, “Not here, too. Can’t I be free of Papa’s choices for one evening?”

Susannah regarded his lordship’s earnest face and recalled the marquess saying
“Brentwood.”
In her season she would not have tolerated the prosy peer for an hour. “Let’s find you another partner then, Juliet. Someone with a less wooden wit.”

Juliet blinked, as if she couldn’t believe what Susannah suggested. Then she smiled. Susannah indicated an opening in the crowd, and she and Juliet slipped away.

On the far side of the ballroom they encountered Alan Garrett. He sought to present some friends of his, but had apparently lost them in the confusion of so many guests. To Susannah he looked a trifle on the go, but he was certainly an unexceptional partner for Juliet and he engaged her at once for the next set.

***

Kirby entered the Royston mansion with Garrett, Newbury, and a half dozen other friends from Hill’s, whom he’d met as they finished dinner. The wine they’d consumed had made them ready to accept the sketchy account he offered to explain why he hadn’t joined them earlier. Then they were off to the ball, never doubting that he had been invited. He fell in with their plans. If nothing else they would get him to the West End, and if the party proved to lack Miss Lacy, he would search for her elsewhere.

But Garrett discovered her shortly after their arrival. It had required some quick footwork on Kirby’s part to fade into the crowd as his friend approached the girl. It would not do to be presented to Miss Lacy with others there to witness the encounter. He was meeting her for the first time with no disguise and could not be sure she would not give the game away. He thought it wiser to bide his time and get her alone, and the Royston party seemed contrived to help him achieve his object. The din, the milling guests, the number of rooms, the dozen doors opening on a wide terrace, and the paths below in the darkened garden fairly encouraged dalliance. He moved around the ballroom, observing her dance with Garrett and planning his strategy.

***

Susannah could not be sure precisely when she lost Juliet. Her cousin had danced a lively country dance with Mr. Garrett and then accepted that gentleman’s arm. A turn about the ballroom would bring them back to Susannah, but she had been distracted momentarily by the start of a waltz. When she looked for Juliet again, the girl had vanished. And the press of people made a search difficult.

Everywhere Susannah turned she saw toques and turbans and waving plumes, not the maidenly curls Juliet wore. To progress through the crowd it was necessary to say “pardon me,” in a voice much louder than her accustomed speaking voice, and even then, her fellow guests were not inclined to make way for her. She doubted there was another lace cap in the place. Nevertheless, she had reached the first of the salons along the rear of the house when she encountered Lord Warne.

“Mrs. Bowen,” he said, blocking her way, taller than those around them, and dressed in black pantaloons and a black evening coat. “Looking for a partner?”

“Of course not.”

“Pity.”

The regret in his tone stopped her, and her gaze settled on his mouth. Her treacherous memory betrayed her instantly with a recollection of his kiss in the park. His contained elegance now was nothing like the loose cambric shirt he had worn in the park, but Susannah was no less aware of the man under the clothes. Her pulse unaccountably raced.

“You’ve lost your cousin, I think,” he said. His gaze seemed to note her distress.

She touched her cap, making sure the circle of lace was properly settled on her head. “We have merely been parted by the movement of the crowd.”

“Your eyes betray your alarm, Mrs. Bowen. Shall I help you look for Miss Lacy?”

“Have you seen her?”

He shook his head.

“Excuse me, then, my lord.” She stepped to one side, intent on passing him, but with a slight move he again blocked her way. Not touching her, but so close, she was suddenly conscious of the rough edge of her lace tuck against her sensitive breasts and the thin silk of her gown clinging to her hips and thighs. A wanton and mortifying heat flashed through her, and she raised her chin to give him a level stare, but the marquess’s blue eyes did not waver.

“I can help, you know, and your efforts will look less obvious if you are seen strolling on my arm rather than struggling through the press on your own. You have no wish to create a scandal, I take it.”

“None,” she said tightly.

He turned and offered his arm, and she took it. Then with a word to the gentleman in front of them, he began to clear a path for them.

As they passed into the first of the large salons along the rear of the house, he asked about Juliet’s dress and the persons of her acquaintance who were or who might be supposed to be at the Royston ball. They saw Evelina in conversation with their host. But no sign of Juliet.

In the second of the large rooms they found Garrett in a crowd of gentlemen hovering about a stunning young woman. He had the same besotted look he wore when talking to Juliet. Susannah clutched Warne’s arm, and he drew her closer. Why had she let Juliet dance with Garrett? If Brentwood had danced with Juliet, he would never have left her side. She would be safe.

“That’s Letitia Duren,” Warne whispered in her ear, “an actress. Was Miss Lacy with Garrett earlier?”

Susannah nodded.

“What is to become of your charge’s
safe
marriage?” he asked.

“Do not joke, sir,” said Susannah. “My cousin will pay for imprudent behavior the rest of her life.”

“As you have done?”

It was so sudden and unexpected a hit that Susannah had raised her gaze to his before she realized how such an action must give her away. She halted and would have pulled away, but he covered her hand with his own. Under his, hers trembled.

“I am living as I choose to live. A woman, my lord, is more vulnerable to attacks on her good name than any man and must live more circumspectly.”

“Byron would argue with you.”

“But Caro Lamb would not.”

“Brentwood is not the answer for your cousin,” he argued.

“And you can tell me who is?”

“Should Miss Lacy take a leaf from your book and wear caps and never dance?”

“Choices appropriate to my age and station, my lord.”

“But not to your spirit. I have seen your eyes when a waltz is danced and your unfettered stride in the park, Mrs. Bowen. Your spirit is tightly reined in.”

“That is my choice, Lord Warne,” she replied.

***

Kirby took out one of his father’s cards inscribed with his message of revenge. It was the work of a few minutes to command a footman to take it to Miss Lacy. As he hoped it would, the card roused her attention. She was standing with Garrett and the others, and he saw her glance about with apparently no more than idle curiosity, but he held his breath when he felt the approach of her gaze. At any moment she would see him standing in a doorway to the terrace. Just then, their eyes met, and he felt the jolt of recognition that hit her. He backed out into the night and waited.

An interminable interval passed, in which he could hear nothing except his own heartbeat, and then she stepped through the doors. He caught her hand and pulled her toward him.

“‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand,’” he said.

“Is that Romeo again?” she asked, looking at him with open curiosity.

He swallowed. “Yes. Will you walk with me in the garden?”

“How did you get in here?”

“‘With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls.’”

“But it’s not safe, is it? Your . . . father told me they hang highwaymen,” she said gravely.

He stiffened. “I want to kiss you,” he said.

“I know,” she answered, accepting his lead and turning with him toward the terrace steps.

At the foot of the stairs they found a grassy path and followed it by the light of the paper lanterns until Kirby found a place where a break in the shrubbery allowed them to slip through. They stepped into a sort of alcove between the bushes and the high wall of the Royston garden. Without hesitation he took her in his arms and pressed his mouth firmly to hers. She tasted sweet like apples or berries, and she kissed him with an honest relish he could not mistake. He forgot the taste of wine and anger and lust, and he knew he would have to see her again. When they paused to draw breath, she framed his face with her hands. There was no lantern near, but in the light from the great rooms above them there was no hiding who he was.

“You look just like him, you know,” she said solemnly.

“No, I don’t,” he answered harshly, turning his head. He meant to pull back, but found his lips against her palm and pressed a kiss there. Her hand coaxed him to turn and look at her again.

“Does he know you are here?” she whispered.

“No, and he must not find out.”

She said nothing, but he read the questions in her eyes.

“I will tell you what I can when I can,” he said. “Meet me tomorrow?”

She nodded. “And I won’t say a word. But wouldn’t you be safer in disguise?” she asked.

“Probably,” he admitted. “Tonight I . . . wanted you to see me.”

She smiled, and he drew her close again.

***

Warne looked over the heads of the other guests and halted. He and Mrs. Bowen had come to the threshold of the last of the rooms across the rear of the mansion. Juliet Lacy appeared at the terrace doors, partially concealed by a potted lime tree. Warne slipped behind a large gentleman, pulling Mrs. Bowen after him. They could not be seen, but he could still see Miss Lacy.

“There’s your cousin now,” he said.

Mrs. Bowen stood on tiptoe and looked over his shoulder. “She’s been in the garden,” she said in a stricken voice that made him turn to her. Her dark eyes were wild with alarm, and she attempted to push past him, but he held her back.

“However desperate you are to prevent harm to your cousin’s reputation, dashing to her side in this crowd would not be wise,” he said.

She lowered her gaze in acquiescence, and the familiar gesture distracted him momentarily. Her fears went beyond a conscientious chaperone’s concern for an impulsive girl. If they were alone, if he had time, he knew he could discover the secret that fettered Susannah Bowen’s proud spirit.

Instead, he merely said, “Your cousin looks safe and sound.”

Miss Lacy straightened her gloves and her skirts and touched the curls that framed her face. She glanced around again, and seemed satisfied with her appearance. Then she tilted her head to one side as if listening intently. She gave a small nod, apparently assenting to something someone behind her in the darkness said, put a deliberate smile on her face and entered the salon.

Warne stiffened. Perhaps Susannah Bowen had good reason for her distress. Whoever had spoken to Miss Lacy from the darkness beyond the bright salon, it was not one of her usual suitors, but someone she felt obliged to conceal and protect with her careful return to the party, someone who could not accompany her into the lighted rooms of the Royston mansion. He must see who that someone was.