Disappointment gripped him. A few more pleasantries were exchanged; then the group parted ways. Richard continued south in the direction he had come, feeling sick to his stomach, like a clumsy man who had just dropped a great treasure into deep waters.
* * * *
Lady Anne was sitting in the window at Gunter’s Tea Shop. A dainty silver bowl of raspberry-flavored ice sat before her, and she prodded at it with her spoon now and again. Her thoughts rested nowhere in particular but were merely consumed with a general anxiety over the upcoming ball. She had been trained all her life to be a perfect lady by an army of nurses, governesses, and highly paid tutors. The end result was a resounding success by any standards. Anne was everything a well-polished daughter and sister of a duke should be. Her only faults, if one was willing to call them such, was that she read novels and she dreamed.
At that moment, to give herself some tiny bit of escape, she allowed her thoughts to drift into one of the ornate dream worlds that she had concocted for herself.
This particular one featured a beautiful poet, an artist of unspeakable sensitivity and wit, much like Wordsworth, only not as old and grumpy. He would write beautiful love poetry to her that would set the literary word alight, and all the fawning ladies in the literary salons would have no idea that the poems were about
her
, little Lady Anne Avery, for the words themselves would conjure up images of the most enticing courtesan.
Despite her dainty beauty and perfection of manner, Anne did not think much of herself. She thought she was too small and slim, like a child. She longed to look like Lady Grendel, with her voluptuous figure and riot of raven-black curls. In Anne’s dreams, her romantic heroes would always chase such women but, upon seeing her, would suddenly realize that they had never really wanted them at all. They would fall to their knees and praise the delicate beauty of a small, slim girl who reminded them of a fragile orchid, not a buxom tawdry rose.
It had not been too long ago when her fantasy heroes had all looked like different men, grand personages that she had seen in various paintings from centuries past. Recently, however, they had all morphed into the same man with the same face. It was a sweet face, somewhat softer than was fashionable, with light brown eyes and floppy hair that never seemed to be in its proper place. He was not terribly tall, which suited her tiny build just fine. He was intelligent and kind and somewhat shy, not at all a Corinthian or any man who would cut a great dash.
He looked somewhat like Benjamin Cayson, though she could never make out the face in detail.
Mr. Cayson was the older brother of Anne’s good friend Emily Cayson. Their father was a baron and considered very good ton. He had even been a dinner guest of Anne’s brother Culfrey on several occasions, but Benjamin was the baron’s younger son and not likely to inherit. He was a firm member of established society, but not very high in the grand scheme of things. Not high enough for the daughter of a duke…
Lady Anne shook herself out of her dream and frowned. Now why on earth was she thinking of Benjamin Cayson? He was a pleasant and happy young man who had kept her and Emily company during her friendly visits. He was often even good enough to stand behind her and turn the music pages when she thumped away on Emily’s spinet now and again. But he was just a friend, as much as a young lady could have a gentleman for a friend.
“Lady Anne!”
She jumped at the rebuke from her governess, who sat across from her.
“You are dreaming again, and your lovely ice is melting away,” said the woman with a frown.
“Oh, yes.” Anne scooped up a pile of ice and ate it. It tasted wonderful.
“I do hope you won’t lose yourself in daydreams come this Thursday night,” the governess continued. “You will have to have your wits about you and be engaging. Gentlemen don’t like to feel as if they are boring.”
“No, of course not,” Anne agreed, for she really did feel bad when she allowed her daydreams to intrude in a social setting. It did not happen often.
“Good. We want to make a fine impression on, eh… Oh, dear me! His Grace does not tell me anything. What is the gentleman’s name again?”
“Kenly, I think. Viscount Kenly was a friend of my father’s some years ago.”
“I’m sure it will be a marvelous match, my lady.” The governess nodded sagely. “His Grace, the late duke, was a wise man.”
“Yes,” Anne agreed weakly. As much as she put forth a strong and determined front, she was terrified. What if the Viscount Kenly didn’t like her? What would Culfrey say to her? She would be such a disappointment! Or worse yet, what if she did not like
him?
What if she was fated to marry a horrible brute of a man who just wanted heirs and a pleasant face to grace his drawing room?
Lady Anne closed her eyes against welling tears, but that would not do. She recovered herself and ate her lovely, expensive ice in silence.
Chapter Five
The Ball
It seemed that fate was not on friendly terms with Lord Richard Avery. After getting clear of Bolling and Sir William in the park, Richard doubled back along a different path and rode full-out for the north gate, no doubt putting the fear of God into several innocent pedestrians. Despite his efforts, there was no sign of Henry. His short interrogation of a boy selling newspapers on the corner also yielded nothing.
“Can’t say, milord,” the boy said with a shrug. “The Quality all looks the same t’me.”
Richard continued on home, frustrated and snappish, and sunk himself into a bottle of brandy. The next day he moved around like an old man, his head pounding and his temper on edge. But he rallied himself soon enough with a stern internal lecture and reminded himself that becoming a melancholy bore was not going to solve anything. But fate did not care about his change in attitude.
Four days later, on the evening of his sister’s debut ball, his valet was adjusting his cravat to perfection when his butler appeared in the dressing room door.
“My lord, the groomsman has just informed me that your town carriage will not be available for this evening.”
“What? Why not?” Richard demanded.
“The axle snapped when they were bringing it out to ready, my lord.”
“That carriage was just serviced!”
The butler cleared his throat. “Yes, my lord, but the head groom is insisting that the livery works must have done a shoddy job.”
“Call him up here.” Richard sighed.
“Would that I could, my lord, but he took the broken axle in a market cart and headed off to the livery works but a few minutes ago.”
Richard rolled his eyes to the ceiling. There was no point in complaining. Better that the damn thing break down now rather than halfway to Avery House.
“My barouche will have to do,” Richard said. “See that it is made ready quickly.”
“I took the liberty, my lord. Unfortunately, it would appear that the order of wheels you placed last week has not yet come through. The barouche is on blocks in the stable yard.”
“Damnation!” Richard cried, swatting his valet away from him. “Send a footman to the livery stables and hire a carriage. I don’t have time to dawdle.”
The butler bowed and disappeared. Avery House was barely a fifteen-minute walk, but social conventions made it a rule that one must always arrive to a ton event in efficient style.
Richard tolerated the final ministrations of his valet, then stood before the long mirror to examine the result. Richard was not a vain man, but one merely possessed of a realistic acknowledgment of his finer points. He wore the stark black-and-white evening dress that had become highly fashionable of late, though he had chosen more traditional knee breeches and stockings rather than the newer trousers. His embroidered white waistcoat was crossed by a gold watch chain, and a gold-handled quizzing glass hung from a black ribbon on his lapel, though he hated the affectation and never used it. In all, he was rather pleased with the image he made. Fashionable yet nowhere near foppish.
He snatched up his gloves and headed out, his valet brushing the shoulders of his coat till the very last moment.
His only consolation over the past four days, he thought wearily, was that he had been too busy with calls and other preparations for Anne’s ball to think too much about Henry or his frustration over the loss. The potential loss—and despite Richard’s best efforts, he had come to view it as a loss—was made even more real by the fact that Julian had not called on him once since their argument in the carriage that night. Julian had sent over a note instead, stating that he truly regretted his “offense” and that he understood if their “friendship” was at an end. He would like very much, though, if they could continue to be “amicable acquaintances.”
It was all very formal and very vague, as Richard had fully expected. No men such as they would be foolish enough to put anything more direct in writing, but Richard could read between the lines. Julian was not the sort to say that he regretted something if he did not honestly feel that way. Despite the man’s failings, he was not a liar. Richard had entertained hopes of something more intimate and lasting with Julian, but he had realized that night at the gambling hell that those hopes had been misplaced. There were few men like them, and even fewer when limited to the narrow world of the beau monde. He had to accept that he had never loved Julian; he had just desperately wanted to love him.
That realization took away much of the sting.
Richard made his way down to the front hall and took his hat and cane from the footman. The butler laid a cloak on his shoulders, and Richard went down the steps to the waiting carriage. The sound of running steps approached. It was a young man, one of the stable boys Richard employed.
“Oh, my lord!” the boy cried. “Old Fizzy went down to the livery stables to give them what for on your busted carriage!”
“I am well aware, my boy.” Lord Richard sighed. He was going to be late.
“But my lord!” the boy cried again.
“Now, see here!” the butler hissed as he came down the steps. “His Lordship does not have time for your theatrics. Off to the stable, or it will be the sack for you.”
Lord Richard had learned long ago that nine times out of ten, servants preferred their lofty employers to mind their own business and not interfere in working matters of which they knew nothing. To that end, Richard stepped into the carriage and took his seat without a backward glance.
“But ye don’t understand!” the boy was still shouting, bouncing in place. “Old Fizzy got into a scrape with that carriage man and bloodied his nose good. Now the lads got Fizzy held fast and sayin’ as how they called the constable and will have Fizzy taken off to that Aussie place!”
“Transportation? For a mere brawl?” The butler sniffed.
“He is right, lad,” Richard said through the open door. “Men are not transported for fisticuffs. Half of Britain would reside in Australia if they were.”
The boy was teary now, for despite his demanding ways, the head groomsman, Fizzy, treated the stable boys more like sons than employees. He was very popular with the staff.
“But the carriage man is friends with the constable, my lord,” the boy went on. “Old chums, that’s what the men at the livery said. They was gloatin’ as how their master is gonna have Fizzy sent off for sure. I seen pictures in Piccadilly of devil things like snakes, only they got legs and long mouths of teeth, and they’ll eat up Fizzy for sure in that awful place!”
Richard could feel a twitch forming above his eye. It had been one hell of a day. One hell of a week! As easy as it would be to turn his aristocratic nose forward and order the coach away, he could not. Much of the process surrounding deportation was known to be corrupt, and he would not put it past a constable to favor a friend in such a situation as this. Besides, Richard liked his servants. They would not be his servants otherwise.
“Holy hell!” he cursed and slapped his gloves down on the seat next to him. “Hop in here, boy. Coachman, take us to the livery stables, and quickly!”
Being late was not an option, more so for Anne’s sake than to avoid his brother’s wrath. In order to reach Avery House on time, Richard decided that he might have to go on foot, since evening carriage traffic in London moved at a snail’s pace. No matter. He would just go round to the servants’ entrance and make it appear as if he had been in the house the whole time. That would not fool his brother, but he was not particularly concerned with Culfrey at the moment.
The hired carriage moved swiftly through the streets away from Mayfair and reached the wider spaces near the park, where many of the public and private stables were housed. The boy on the seat across peered anxiously through the windows. As soon as the carriage stopped, the boy leaped out and set down the steps before the groom could dismount.
Richard immediately saw the broken carriage axle and the market cart. Both were still sitting in the stable front yard. A group of workers was in the process of pulling it down while a heavy, florid man in a baize apron supervised.
“I trust you are taking that to be duly repaired?” Richard said.
The man in the apron looked up sharply, his expression startled. “Of course, my lord,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement brought him a little better into the light of the torches that surrounded the yard. The man’s nose was swollen and discolored.
Ah
… “Where is my man?” Richard demanded.
“Your man, my lord?” The man in the apron, who was obviously the proprietor of the stable works, shifted his eyes nervously.
“Yes, you damn fool! You know who I am, and you know full well that Tom Fitzgerald is my head groom.
Where is he?
”
The stable owner turned visibly pale. No doubt he had not counted on someone as lofty as a lord actually concerning himself with his servants.
“He was raging mad, my lord!” the stable owner insisted. “He struck me and said he would kill the lot of us. Blamed us for the destruction of your carriage what he himself broke!”
“I do not for one moment believe that he threatened to kill anyone, and that broken axle is
your fault
. I say again. Where is he?”