Love Lessons at Midnight (15 page)

“Nonsense. He will be delighted to meet you. I am certain
of it.” With that Abigail began wending her way through the press of much taller gentlemen, holding the delightful young widow’s arm firmly. If the baroness was as unsuitable as she suspected, this lady might be the perfect anecdote! How fortunate they had met.

Rob saw his mother’s slight form appear. Members of Lords stepped aside, as if she were Moses parting the Red Sea. He smiled and walked over to greet her. That was when he saw the woman behind her. His mother had Fantasia’s arm in the kind of grip she had often employed to subdue unruly schoolchildren—even boys a head taller than she. He stopped dead in his tracks, his mind completely numb.

A beaming Abigail St. John said, “You were brilliant, Robert!”

He nodded woodenly, replying, “I hope I acquitted myself well, Mother.” Then he turned to Fantasia, who remained a prisoner of Abigail’s grip. “M’lady,” he said, bowing politely.

“Oh, my, have you already met?” his mother asked with a puzzled frown.

“Yes,” Rob replied

“No,” Amber said at the same time.

Now Abigail’s frown evaporated as she swiveled her glance from the flush stealing up her son’s face to the startled posture of the young lady. Whatever was afoot, it was obvious that the two were attracted to each other. Smiling once more, she said, “I was so eager to introduce the two of you that I neglected to learn your friend’s name. Robert, please introduce us.”

Rob swallowed, trying to dislodge the knot forming at the back of his throat. “Lady Smithton,” he said.

At that precise instant Amber blurted out, “Amber Leighigh.” Immediately horrified consternation struck her. What on earth had possessed her to give her maiden name? She had not uttered it in over a decade. Amber Leighigh Wolverton was dead and buried in Northumberland—and
needed to stay that way! Recovering her wits, she said, “I had forgotten that we both attended one of the more frequented political salons.”

Rob nodded. “Ah…yes. Lady Aberley’s.”

At his hesitation, Amber again spoke too quickly, saying, “The Berry sisters.”

Then in unison they said, “Both!”

Now Abigail chuckled. “Well, there appears to be a bit of confusion here,” she said, arching one silvery eyebrow as she studied the darkening red beneath her son’s sun-darkened face. She was positive that if she could have seen the widow’s complexion, it would be flushed as well. An intriguing mystery…one that she intended to solve. “It does not matter where you have met, but I would prefer to know your name, my dear,” she said kindly to the agitated young widow.

“I have used an assumed name at salons because I am newly widowed—it would not be proper for me to meet gentlemen outside of my immediate family…” Amber’s voice trailed away in abject embarrassment, which she hoped would satisfy the earl’s shrewd mother.

“Smithton is a common name,” Rob chimed in awkwardly.

Without giving either of them the chance for further prevarication, Abigail whispered to her son, “That dreadful Lord Teesdale is bearing down on you. You shall have to deal with him.” She patted his arm. “I know how crowded your schedule must be as the session draws to a close. Do attend your duties, only refrain from breaking Teesdale’s nose as you did the Harper boy when you were a lad.”

Rob stood rooted to the floor as the Tory headed directly toward him with a sullen expression on his face. At the moment, the earl would have been relieved if Prime Minister Liverpool and Home Secretary Sidmouth had him carted off to Newgate—or better yet, he would be delighted to break Teesdale’s nose!

Without paying her son the slightest mind, Abigail turned
to the widow. “This is a beastly hot day. I have heard that a place called Gunter’s in Berkeley Square sells the most delicious ices in all of London. My dear, would it be too great an imposition to ask you to accompany me there?”

Amber looked pleadingly to Rob, but Teesdale intruded, rudely ignoring her and Rob’s mother, demanding a meeting with members of Commons to discuss compromise legislation. “I should be delighted,” Amber managed to reply. “My carriage driver will be waiting in the courtyard.”

“Splendid,” Abigail replied, nodding farewell to her son. She could see that he was distressed but she quickly hurried her young companion off before he could break free of Teesdale. She was relieved when he let them go without further protest.

Once they were settled in the luxurious interior of the “poor widow’s” carriage, Abigail turned to her and said, “In spite of being perceived as a country bumpkin, I am a fair judge of character, my dear…Amber, is it?”

Amber recognized the shrewd light in those blue eyes.
Little escapes this woman’s attention.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. Perhaps a bit of the truth could be fashioned into a believable tale. “I have not used my true name for many years. My husband was brutal and I hold no fondness for his memory, nor would any of his family welcome me.”

“Do you have children?” Abigail asked, concerned with the obvious pain in Amber’s voice.

“No.”

The terse reply spoke volumes. “No family of your own, either?”

At this, Amber smiled inwardly and her voice softened. “No, although I have an abundance of friends who have become more dear to me than my own blood.”

Abigail knew there was far more to Amber’s sad history but did not press. “It is a great blessing to have friends. I would like very much to be one.”

“I would be honored, Mrs. St. John.”

“Please, call me Abigail. I have spent my life in the country as a clergyman’s wife. I never imagined becoming the mother of an earl, until my brother-in-law and his two sons passed away.”

Although Amber knew how keenly Rob felt the losses in his family, she could not reveal any knowledge of the tragedies. “It must have been very difficult for you and the earl.”

“I am a woman of faith, child. One day we shall all be reunited. For now, I look forward to seeing my son settled in life. He is a good man, struggling with a fate he never expected to have thrust upon him.”

“He has done extraordinarily well in Parliament,” Amber replied cautiously. Was Abigail matchmaking? What a tangle that would create—a parson’s widow confronting the proprietor of the ton’s most infamous house of courtesans! She had to divert the conversation in another direction, but before she could say anything more, her coach stopped under an oak tree across from Gunter’s shop.

Boxer swung down from his seat next to the driver. He examined the busy street, paying particular attention to the carriages and closed coaches of other customers. In a moment an attentive waiter approached the coach.

“Would you and Peter enjoy an ice, Sergeant Major?” Amber asked.

“That would be most kind, m’lady,” the crusty older man replied while his eyes continued to scan the busy street.

“Strawberry, correct?” she asked, knowing his preference.

“Very good, m’lady.”

Abigail had been observing the older military man carefully. Most interesting. When Amber asked what flavor of ice she preferred, Abigail replied, “Whatever selection you deem suitable will be lovely.” When the ices were brought to their coach, the women settled back to enjoy the treat. Abigail watched Amber raise the veil on her bonnet just enough to
allow her to eat the confection.
She is afraid of something…or someone.
In time, she would gain Amber’s confidence and learn what it was. “You are a very beautiful young woman, my dear.”

“You are most kind,” Amber replied, directing her attention to the ice. The faster she ate, the sooner she could hide her face. It was folly to raise the veil, even if her hair remained concealed.

“I could not help but notice that you addressed your footman as ‘Sergeant Major.’ He has a military air about him.” Gentle prodding often worked.

“Mr. Boxer was a sergeant major during the war. I employ a number of veterans in my home. They have served their country nobly and been ill repaid by His Majesty’s government.”

The “poor widow” could afford to hire numerous servants and owned a handsome carriage. She was obviously a lady of substance. “Robert agrees with you. He, too, has many former soldiers in his employ.” She paused to dab daintily at her mouth. “I did notice that Mr. Boxer appears more bodyguard than footman, or am I mistaken?” she asked innocently.

This woman was entirely too keen of wit…just like her son. Amber smiled. “I fear you are mistaken. Mr. Boxer is simply protective of me because I have shown him kindness, nothing more,” she said firmly.

Realizing her question had made Amber uncomfortable, Abigail said, “Robert has introduced a bill to award pensions to our brave soldiers. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes, although I fear Lord Liverpool’s government has no intention of allowing the royal treasury to waste money on common soldiers. The earl’s proposals have fallen on mostly deaf ears, no matter how eloquently he speaks, but that will not deter him.”

“Indeed, Robert has obviously overcome the shyness that plagued him as a boy,” Abigail replied.

“I find it difficult to imagine the earl in any way retiring.” Amber remembered his acute discomfiture during their first meeting when she was Fantasia…and when she was Gabrielle. Distracted by those memories, she did not hear Abigail’s reply. “Oh, I apologize, Abigail. I must have been woolgathering.”

Abigail laughed merrily. “I said, Robert has grown quite bold and assertive. He carries the title well, and for that, I am grateful.”

“Yes, he certainly does.” Amber wondered if his nights with Gaby had anything to do with his increased self-confidence, but doubted it. After all, becoming a skilled lover had nothing to do with being a skilled debater in Lords. He had already become famous as a champion of the poor when they met…and a moral crusader intent on closing bordellos!

Abigail leaned forward a bit. “Have you by any chance met Baroness Oberly? I would value your opinion of her.”

A
mber almost choked on the last swallow of her ice. “I have seen the lady,” she replied, “but I have never been introduced to her. Are you acquainted?”
Do you know Rob intends to court her?
She found herself hoping that Abigail had found fault with the baroness. Rob should not marry the vacuous and possibly avaricious female, but it was certainly not her place to say that.

“I have not met the lady, either, but…oh, dear, this is going to sound indelicate.” Abigail scooped up the last bit of her ice and swallowed it, seeing that she had drawn Amber’s interest. “Robert has considered—mind, only considered—paying the widow court. I fear that they do not suit. I was hoping that you knew a bit about her.”

“I do know that her father stands against everything in which the earl believes. But I do not think she has any convictions regarding political matters.” Amber felt it necessary to clarify that fact. When Abigail sighed in satisfaction, Amber wondered whether it was about the ice or her opinion.

“That is what he indicated to me, although he still wants me to meet her. And I must confess that I do require a lady to sponsor my granddaughter for next year’s season…”

Amber had a disturbing intuition that Rob’s mother wanted
her
to volunteer for the assignment next year when her “mourning period” would be over. What could she say? She decided to deflect the conversation back to the baroness. “Are you concerned that it would appear the earl intended to go forward with his suit if you approached her?”

“Just so.”

“I am certain the earl can find another lady—perhaps an older one,” she hurriedly added. “There must be many who would be delighted to sponsor his niece. He is quite popular in the political salons. Perhaps Lady Aberley? Then you would not require any assistance from the baroness.”

“Perhaps. I shall discuss it with Robert.” Abigail knew when to press and when to defer. Although every instinct told her there was more to her son’s relationship with the widow than either of them would admit, she would have to glean more information before she dared to meddle. She felt strongly that Amber was everything Robert required in a wife—intelligent, good-hearted, beautiful, and possessed of excellent breeding. Amber Leighigh was from the Quality. But why on earth had they pretended not to know each other?

Over the years as a parson’s wife, she had found the best way to induce a reluctant parishioner into confessing what troubled him was to ask a simple question. “I know this may be too coming of me since we have just met, but how long have you been in mourning, my dear?”

Amber’s mind raced. What could she say—ten years? She felt Abigail’s shrewd blue eyes fixed on her and knew she had to fabricate another half-truth that would end any matchmaking hopes Rob’s mother might hold. “I told you my marriage was not a happy one. Because of that, I have determined never to wed again.”

“Never is a long time, my dear,” Abigail said with a wistful smile.

“How long has it been since the earl’s father passed?” Amber asked gently, although she already knew the answer.

“Eight years, but we were blessed to be together for over thirty.”

“You are a charming, warmhearted lady who could have remarried, if you chose to do so,” Amber said.

“When my husband passed, I knew I would never marry
again. But I was an old woman and you are young with your whole life before you. My reasons for being content as a widow are quite the opposite from yours. Robert’s father and I shared a most blessed union and four wonderful children. We hoped our son and his first wife would have the same kind of marriage, but alas, he, like you, was not so fortunate. She died in sad circumstances and I fear for her soul.”

Amber blinked. She should have known a mother as wise as Abigail would recognize the discord between Rob and the spoiled Credelia. “But now he must wed again because he is the last Barrington, willy-nilly.”

Abigail cocked her head and smiled at Amber. “Do not make it sound so onerous. I admit that I was at first concerned because his devotion to duty might lead him to a second ill-considered match. That is the real reason I came to London. I intend to take this baroness’s measure.”

Amber read the determined sparkle in Abigail’s eyes.
Best beware, Lady Oberly.
She could not resist a sly smile from behind the veil she had once more lowered. “I have every confidence that you shall determine if she is worthy of your son.”

“Robert already has doubts, so I believe it will prove a simple task,” Abigail replied serenely.

Her “simple task” would be to show Rob just how
un
worthy Lady Oberly was. “I wish you Godspeed.”

Abigail took Amber’s hand and squeezed it fondly. “Dear me, I have been quite thoughtless, taking so much of your time. Please forgive an old lady. You have been most kind to indulge me.”

“Nonsense. It has been a great pleasure!” The moment she spoke, Amber realized that it was true. If only her own mother had been half so kind…But that was in the past, best forgotten. “I was fascinated by your comments during the debate this afternoon. You are a keen political observer and a Christian lady who practices the tenets of her faith.”

“As are you, child.” Abigail nodded resolutely. “I trust in
the Lord and pray for Robert and his friends in Parliament. But that does not mean that I shall be content to sit back and do nothing to help him.”

Amber felt Abigail’s penetrating gaze on her and knew her words held a double meaning. She would not be deterred in her matchmaking.

Giving the impression that matters between them had been settled—for the present—Abigail announced briskly, “Now, I shall have a servant summon a hackney coach for me and leave you to go about your business.”

“I shall see you home in my coach—I insist,” Amber replied. Before Abigail could object, her young friend signaled Boxer, saying, “Please take Mrs. St. John to the earl’s city house.”

On the drive, the women discussed various measures in Parliament, the Luddite unrest in the countryside, and the current government’s suspension of habeas corpus. Before they knew it, the coach had pulled up in front of the earl’s home. “I have greatly enjoyed our visit, Abigail,” Amber said warmly as the older woman allowed the sergeant to help her down.

Abigail leaned toward Boxer and whispered loud enough for Amber to hear, “Since you did not ask for my direction, I assume your mistress already knew where my son resides.” Then she winked at Amber before turning to walk up the steps.

Northumberland

Elvira Greevy seized the cleaver from the girl assisting the marquess’s cook. “No, you stupid chit! This is the way you cut up a stew hen.” She raised the sharp implement and brought it down in a deadly arc. The blade sank into the milky white skin with a sharp hiss, cleaving a thigh cleanly away from the lower back. The cowering girl watched mutely as the
housekeeper quickly chopped the bird into pieces and tossed them into a pot bubbling on the kitchen hearth.

Seeing the horrified expression on the child’s face, Elvira smiled malevolently, shoving the cleaver back into the serving wench’s thin hands. “Watch you do not drop it and cut off your foot,” she said, whirling away in a flurry of gray muslin.

Plying the blade had been a good way of easing her frustration. But not nearly as satisfying as if she could use it on that French bitch! The marquess was upstairs gloating over a missive he had just received from the whore. The comtesse was returning in a fortnight. Elvira’s fury knew no bounds. After all these years of devoting her life to him, serving him selflessly, this was to be her reward—to give over her chatelaine’s keys to some Froggy piece of fluff!

If that vain, strutting young aristo became Wolverton’s new marchioness, Elvira would no longer be in charge of Wolf’s Gate. Her mouth was filled with the sour taste of bile just thinking of it. As she stormed through the servants’ quarters, everyone scurried to get out of her way.
We will see how long you last, you haughty outsider!
The housekeeper slammed the door to her quarters and walked over to the desk in the far corner of the spartan room whose only other furnishings were a narrow bed and a washstand.

She took a seat on the stool in front of the desk and then selected a tiny key from the heavy brass ring hanging at her waist. Opening a small compartment, she extracted half a dozen small vials and lined them up on the desktop. “Which one will give you the most subtle—and painful—death?” she mused to herself.

Over the past decade, Mrs. Greevy had become the most skilled practitioner of poisoning since Lucretia Borgia.

Downstairs the marquess sat back in his leather chair and sipped a fine port. He felt like celebrating in spite of the latest wretched report from Hull. He had just received a second far more cheering message from the Comtesse de St. Emilion.
When he married her, all the jewels and gold she had smuggled from France would be his. To sweeten the bargain the delicious Frenchwoman hinted broadly that she would soon share his bed. He was certain she would prove a lusty wench, able to give him more sons.

Of course, there was the matter of his damnable first wife. Amber. At first he had regretted that she was barren, but after a few months of her willful defiance, he wanted no offspring from her womb. Unnatural female. He frowned, considering Hull’s series of disastrous attempts to kidnap her. Now the dissolute young pup possessed the temerity to send a request for yet more money. He smiled bitterly. What could he do? Hull had learned the woman’s new identity and where she resided. Sooner or later he would succeed. Carrying the crystal glass with him, he walked over to the library table and wrote out another bank draft for Hull’s expenses.

“One day I shall have the pleasure of watching her die a most unnatural death…And in the meanwhile, I shall bed a woman worthy of bearing my heirs.” He upended the crystal and finished the port, then threw the glass against the brick hearth. As the shards glittered in the firelight, he fancied they looked like the diamonds the comtesse wore about her lovely throat.

At his mother’s insistence, Rob had accepted an invitation from Lord and Lady Montgomery to attend a gala. It was the sort of vapid, boring affair that ordinarily would not have held any appeal, but Baroness Oberly would be there and Abigail intended to meet her. He knew once his mother set her mind to a matter, there was no deterring her.

He was surprised to see that she had brought a lovely blue gown, doubtless borrowed from his sister Catherine, who was of a size with their mother. Abigail would never have considered spending money on silk and ruffles, nor did she own the sapphire pendant that hung around her neck. He
knew Catherine’s husband, a wealthy squire, had given it to his wife last Christmas.

“You will be the belle of the ball,” he said to her as they stood in the receiving line.

“Nonsense. I am far too old to be the belle of anything. I feel…what is it they say…bedizened?”

“If you mean overdressed, only look about the room. Your gown is the most tasteful of any,” he whispered.

“Why did fashions start changing from the soft, simple cuts of the last decade?”

“Perhaps English dislike for the Empress Josephine?” he suggested dryly.

“Or that poor Austrian child Napoleon divorced her to marry,” Abigail replied. “I never did understand why sensible English people have always felt compelled to follow French fashion dictates.”

“It was the French who introduced those simple gowns to which you are bidding a bitter adieu,” he reminded her with a smile.

“Your debate skills do not require sharpening at my expense, you young rascal,” Abigail said, tapping his arm with her fan.

Carrying a fan was another affectation his mother would never have used at home. She must be determined to see that his nieces all had suitable come-outs. He would have to discuss this with his sisters, he thought dolefully.

As they advanced in the line, he considered Fantasia’s taste in clothes. No slave to fashion, she still wore elegant clothes that flattered her slim, lovely figure, without the distraction of ruffles and flounces. What did Gabrielle wear during daylight hours? he wondered. He had sent a note to her yesterday, canceling their “lesson” tonight. She, like Fantasia, knew that his mother was in the city and accepted that their time together had to be curtailed until Abigail returned to Kent.

Then what? Would he resume making love with Gaby and holding those disturbingly charged discussions with Fantasia? He no longer had any valid excuse for spending time with either woman. He should be courting a lady he could make his countess. As if on cue, the baroness and her father were announced. He watched his mother turn to study the young widow.

“She is very lovely, isn’t she?” Her tone held a worried note.

“Yes, a delicate English rose,” he replied. Verity wore a pale pink gown adorned with tiered white lace. At her throat she had a deep pink velvet ribbon with a cameo on it, her only jewelry. As the current styles went, her ensemble was charming, if a bit on the girlish side. Since coming out of mourning, she certainly did favor pink, he noted, remembering the décor in her home.

Could he live in her peppermint candy world? The thought held no appeal, especially when compared to the cool elegance of the cream and green that Fantasia had chosen for her home.
Her home is a bordello!
The reminder did not make the contrast any more favorable to the baroness. His thoughts were interrupted when they reached their host and hostess. After presenting his mother, he escorted her toward the floor to watch the dancing.

“Since this is a waltz, I assume you would prefer to wait for a reel?” he asked.

“You have learned to waltz?” she asked, amazed. Although naturally graceful, Robert had always been painfully stiff and uncomfortable putting feet to music.

“Please, Mother, I have been forced into acquiring a few social graces. Shall I teach you?” he dared with a gleam in his eye.

“Perhaps it would be better if you asked Baroness Oberly to dance,” she replied.

Verity, with her father in tow, bore down on them from across the room. “How the devil did they get through the
receiving line so quickly?” he muttered beneath his breath. Aloud, he said, “If I dance with the lady, that will leave you in the less than charming company of her father.”