‘No, please! I’d love
the boys to stay.’ Olivia was aware of the urgency in her voice, which she
hoped would be interpreted as polite- ness, as she struggled upright in her
chair. ‘Tell me your names, boys, if you please.’
The exuberance had been
knocked out of them. Almost sullenly they ranged before her, fidgeting, anxious
no doubt to be out of doors and away from this strange lady. Olivia’s heart
nearly broke.
Julian didn’t recognize
her. Even when she took his hand to shake it, solemnly, there was no
recollection in his eyes. He was as restless as his cousins, turning his bright
gaze upon his Uncle Max as if begging to be reprieved and dismissed from the
room.
‘So, you’re Julian,’ she
repeated, forcing a tremulous smile. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Julian.’
‘Can I go now, Uncle
Max?’
Not two minutes in her
company and her darling boy couldn’t wait to leave. She meant nothing to him.
She closed her eyes,
briefly. Why should she? If his Uncle Max thought it, Julian thought it, too.
She had abandoned him. Forsaken him. Without a second thought.
A terrible lump formed
in her throat. She couldn’t swallow past it. She felt the tingling, swelling in
her glands as the tears forced their way up and out.
Releasing Julian’s hand,
she fell back into her chair. She tried to take a breath, choked on it, then
shuddered, burying her face in her hands as she let out a strangled wail.
When rational thought
returned, the boys had gone. Amelia, whom she’d barely even greeted with the
requisite courtesy, was sitting on the sofa opposite her, regarding her over
the top of her tea cup.
At least, she could see
part of Amelia. The rest of her was obscured by Mr Atherton.
Dear Lord, she was
squeezed up against him, her head upon his chest, her face wet with tears. She
supposed she must have been sobbing like a mad creature.
He gave a short laugh
when he saw her obvious dismay at the state of his coat sleeve.
‘No cause for concern.
I’m dressed like a country rustic and it’s not as if I’m unused to ruined
jackets, Mrs Templestowe, being so often in the company of snotty-nosed little
boys,’ he said, bracingly. He rose, perhaps realizing their closeness no longer
appropriate now that her tears had ceased. ‘Wonderful! A smile,’ he said, his
own warm and sympathetic as he gazed down at her. ‘Seems as if a good cry was
just what the doctor ordered.’ He stooped to place a comforting hand on her
shoulder, and his eyes met hers, their expression tender and enquiring. ‘Would
you care to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Max!’
‘It’s not impertinence.’
Mr Atherton sounded defensive as he turned to face his sister. ‘If Mrs
Templestowe is going to start sobbing in my drawing room for no apparent
reason, then I believe it’s a fair question to ask what might have upset her.
You, Amelia, are wearing a most unbecoming bonnet, which is surprising, for you
are generally in the first stare. If that is what upset Mrs Templestowe then I
would be relieved to know the fault did not lie with me, for I was up
beforeFrensham was on hand to dress me. Perhaps I’ve committed some
unpardonable crime in the manner in which I’ve mixed a green and black
waistcoat with buff pantaloons. If the fault lies with me, I’d much rather be
told.’
‘You are entirely
blameless, both of you,’ protested Olivia with a weak smile, sitting up
straight as embarrassment at her emotional outburst washed over her. ‘It’s just
...’
Her words trailed into
expectant silence. Stammering, she tried to come up with a plausible reason for
her distress. ‘Julian.’ Her voice became a whisper. ‘I lost my baby a year ago.
When I saw Julian—’
She couldn’t go on. She
took another heaving breath, trying with all her might to resist another embarrassing
deluge of sobs. Finally she managed a tremulous smile, blushing at being the
focus of attention. ‘I’m all right now,’ she said, waving away Mr Atherton who
looked like he was going to enfold her in his bear-like embrace once again.
There was nothing like sympathy to bring on a bout of self-pitiful and self-
indulgent wailing.
Yet hadn’t all her
efforts been with this portentous meeting in mind? Success seemed within her
grasp.
There was Mr Atherton,
the man to whom Lucien had entrusted Julian’s future, and who was therefore
responsible for Olivia’s happiness, looking at her with transparent sympathy
and admiration. As if she were the most precious and novel creature ever to
have crossed his threshold. She acknowledged the look with a mixture of hope
and dread. She was used to men’s admiration but it had been a long time since
she had courted it. Her beauty was a poisoned chalice. Mr Atherton was kind and
decent. If she revealed to him her real identity he would be instantly
disgusted. Even if he chose to dismiss the rumours that had blackened her name
it wouldn’t be long before he discovered the rottenness within. Lucien had
tainted her. She knew better than anyone that the beautiful mask she presented
to the world concealed a soul that was destined to writhe in the flames of Hell
with her late husband.
Hadn’t The Reverend
Kirkman told her a thousand times?
It only strengthened her
quest to regain Julian in this life. At any cost.
‘I’ll see that Charlotte
is preparing the boys for nursery tea,’ Amelia excused herself.
‘It looks like rain yet
again. My sympathies, Mrs Templestowe.’ Amelia hesitated in the doorway,
looking at Olivia as if she couldn’t quite make her out. ‘I cannot imagine what
it must be to lose a child.’
Chapter One
London 1818
“THE ONLY WAY we can honour Helena’s
debt is by giving Lord Rampton the deeds to the plantation, Charles!” —
Rose cast a withering look at the comatose young woman upon the bed before
transferring her contempt to her brother — “since your wife is clearly in
no state to petition his lordship for clemency.”
Charles stroked the
limp, elegant hand that rested upon Helena’s chest as he knelt at her bedside,
his mulish stare focused on the spires of St Paul’s through the dirty window
pane rather than at his sister’s flushed and angry face. “We can delay
tonight’s dinner...play for time,” he muttered. “More time will allow us to
explore other options.” Though still a young man, the lines around his mouth
and the furrows across his brow were deeply etched.
Rose picked up the blue
glass vial, now empty, which had rolled under the bed. “Helena promised to wean
herself off this” —sighing, she tapped the bottle with fingers far more
workworn than those of the West Indies beauty whose gambling and laudanum
addictions threatened their futures — “if you promised to take her to
England. Perhaps it’s just as well she can’t attend tonight. Perhaps it would
be infinitely safer if I accompanied you.”
Dropping the laudanum
bottle into her pocket she gave Charles a wry smile. “No need to dismiss the
notion out of hand—”
“You can’t possibly go,
Rose, though don’t imagine I don’t appreciate your offer—” Charles looked
more horrified than he had when he’d set eyes on his unconscious wife minutes
before, and Rose laughed.
“Surely, you don’t
subscribe to the notion that marriage confers some kind of magical status which
I do not have, ”she mocked him, knowing it was true, “simply as your unmarried
sister?” As the idea gained credence in her own mind, she added, more
carefully, “Lord Rampton is due to set sail for the Continent before the week
is up and our visit is for less than two months. We’ll have returned to the
plantation before he’s back in England.” Suddenly the idea seemed to offer
itself as their only salvation. And why not? She stroked his arm, her tone
wheedling. “As you’ve said, I can perform no useful role as your unmarried
sister but you cannot possibly go alone. We need to get the measure of this
Lord Rampton. Discover his weaknesses and play on them to get the time we need
to find the money. I’m certain poor Mama and Papa have a few relatives
mouldering in the wings who could help. And besides” – she forced herself
to sound light and playful while the merits of her idea grew– “you’d be
the first to admit that you’re no good at the kind of inconsequential chatter
that encourages a person to let down his guard.”
Rose could see Charles
was wavering. His stubborn streak was always the final hurdle to overcome. To
give in without a fight compromised the feeling that he was in charge, the
young baronet, head of his household: his wife and two sisters.
“I’m not suggesting I go
in place of Helena.” She steeled herself for his reaction to her next suggestion,
careful to sound nonchalant, now fully confident of her plan’s merits. “I shall
go
as
Helena.”
“Good God, Rose, are you
out of your mind?”
She hurried on. “Lord
Rampton has met none of us and Helena was in masquerade when she lost to this
other man who’s transferred the debt to his lordship. How’s Lord Rampton to
know the difference when it’s just for one evening? I’m sure I could persuade
him to alter the terms—”
“No, Rose.” Shrugging
off her hand, Charles ran a hand across his pallid brow. “As Helena’s husband I
am responsible for her debts and as your brother I am responsible for your
welfare. It would not be right to expose you to this ... well, we don’t know
what kind of man Lord Rampton is. Ruthless. Calculating. Those are just some of
the descriptions I’ve heard bandied about my Club. I admit it’s because of
Helena we’re in danger of losing the plantation. But you had nothing to do
with” – he looked pained – “the sordid business that night.”
“With due respect,
Charles,” Rose cut in, sharply, “I’ve had to contend with Helena’s dangerous
vices for the past five years and I think I can claim some credit for the fact
we still have a plantation!” Changing tack, she added, softly, “I shan’t
disgrace you, I promise. I’ll simply be there as Lady Chesterfield instead of
Miss Chesterfield. It’s not such a terribly wicked lie.”
“You will not
attend Lord Rampton’s dinner dressed like that!”
Edith, the loyal family
retainer who had mothered the family for as long as Rose could remember, raked
her charge with disapproving eyes before bundling Rose upstairs, pressing her
down before her dressing table. No further description was needed as to what
she thought of Rose’s drab grey velvet gown.
“It’s the best I have,”
argued Rose.
“And has been since you developed
a chest and were out of short clothes. Arabella! There you are! Tell me, what
do you think of your sister’s gown? Would you wear it in fine company?”
Arabella, combing out
her long, white-gold hair as she perched on the edge of Rose’s bed, regarded
her gravely. “Of course not, but Rose doesn’t have any fine clothes. If I knew
her ankles wouldn’t show I’d lend her something of mine ... which would still
be preferable to that old rag she has on.”
Watching as Edith went
about her task with deft fingers, smoothing her sister’s glossy chestnut hair
back from her high forehead, coaxing the curls from a fashionably high top
knot, she asked, “Does this mean you plan on going about in fine company, after
all, Rose? I thought you said the Season was a lot of nonsense and you wouldn’t
be caught dead at anyone’s ‘drawing room’?”
“Your sister only says
such things because there’s no money to launch both of you, my girl. And does
she look twenty-six with those fine eyes and glowing skin? Why, she’ll always
be a beauty.” Edith looked severely at her younger charge. “Just bear in mind
what a lucky girl you are, Miss Arabella, and how much you have your sister to
thank for that.”
“Perhaps you could wear
something of Helena’s,” Arabella suggested, chastened.
“I couldn’t possibly!”
“Well, you’re
exactly the same height as Helena and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, since you’re
going on her behalf.”
Rose looked grim. “That
was not what I was worried about.” An image of Helena with her languid self
possession and her love of finery flashed through her mind and for a moment the
enormity of what she was about to do threatened to engulf Rose. Could she carry
it off? After all, compared with the worldly Helena she was a greenhorn, an
unsophisticated Colonial. Cleverer than Helena, certainly, but by no means as
self assured. Nor as beautiful. Without these attributes was she not as good as
throwing herself to the lions and making fools of them all in the process?
She took a deep breath
and cast all doubts from her mind. It was the only way. She had a role to play,
and play it she would. To perfection.
“One of Helena’s gowns,”
she murmured, thoughtfully. Then, twisting her head to look at Arabella said,
wryly, “You’re right, dearest. Find me something...not too revealing. But don’t
tell Charles. Helena is still sleeping so I can’t ask her, but it’s for her
benefit. Dear Lord,” she muttered, putting her hand to her chest and stroking
the comforting drab grey velvet. She couldn’t remember if she had a cleavage
worth showing, or not.
Ashley Delacroix,
Viscount Rampton eyed his dinner guest appreciatively across the table.