Rakes and Radishes (23 page)

She recognized her father’s barely legible scratch on the address.

Inside were two letters, the first a curt message from her father. He and Mr. Van Heerlen had arrived at Greenwich Park in the morning. They were staying at The Green Man in chambers seven and eight—very nice accommodations that Mr. Van Heerlen had suggested. He had forgotten his hairbrush. A carriage would be sent for her tomorrow in the late afternoon.

The other letter was penned in a more elegant hand.

My Dearest Miss Watson,

I do not recall if the trip was hard. It might have been. The hotel in Royster may have been drafty, and the wine watered down to a pale pink. I did not think of these things. I thought only of tomorrow evening and yourself. Lesser men win ladies with their athletic prowess or by executing chasse or glissade, but I shall endeavor to turn the telescope to the sky and find the elusive heavens for you.

Knowing you are not seven miles from me makes my heart long to fly from here and find you. I wish I could steal away. I am impatient for tomorrow evening. Unable to concentrate upon these old numbers and pages, my mind turns to our beautiful future.

Your faithful servant,

Pieter Van Heerlen

Kesseley’s shiny crested carriage lurched off the curb. He sat back in the shadows. How much time did he have? Ten minutes? He tried to practice.

Lady Sara, please do me the honor of…

The carriage stopped in front of the Duke of Houghton’s white boxy mansion. Hedged boxwoods ran in two parallel lines to the entrance.

Kesseley’s heart contracted—he felt dizzy. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He needed a place to hide where no one knew him for a few minutes, just until he could get his thoughts straightened.

He knocked on the carriage roof. “Take me to the Strand.”

On the Strand the merchants were lighting their torches and locking the doors to their shops. A few drops of rain fell from the dense clouds overhead.

Kesseley sent the carriage back to Curzon Street and then walked down to the corner. He turned down a small alley by a print shop. A large rendering of a British warship firing its cannon into a white smoky cloud hung in the window, smaller illustrations around it. He didn’t stop to view the prints, but headed to the Thames.

He thought of his future bride. Lady Sara would just be a beautiful face to the world, diverting its attention while he did as he pleased. Few of his station had the luxury of something more than an agreeable marriage. It was a business arrangement, like selling a breeding mare. Yet he knew every time that he would touch his bride, he would wish she were Henrietta. As Lady Sara lay under him, he would pretend he was making love to Henrietta.

He had the sensation that he was no longer looking down at the water, but had sunken below and looked up to the water’s surface from the bottom. As if he had drowned in the brown stinking waters of London.

The rain began to come down in hard drops, splattering the Thames. Kesseley wandered up to the Strand and into the tavern with those old crosshatched panes like in Henrietta’s house. He ordered a brandy and set his pocket watch on the table. The coal quietly hissed in the chimney. He leaned his head back over the edge of his chair and closed his eyes. Henrietta filled his mind. She had looked so fragile when he left. He wished he could have kissed her and assured her the best part of him would always love her.

He wished…

Everything was hopeless now. He had put his life into this knot. He could only tighten the strings until it couldn’t come undone. Until he could finally silence that damned hope niggling inside him.

Five minutes before eight, he gulped down the remainder of his brandy and restored his watch to his chain. Leaving the tavern, he lowered the brim of his hat and strode against the slanting rain back to the protective ledge of the print shop by the hackney stop. When a hack didn’t arrive after a minute, he turned to read the prints under the gaslight that was mounted beside the door. The same illustration was repeated in the windows like wallpaper. Kesseley’s jaw tensed as he studied the caricature. Atop a bed, a diminutive lady with long black curls and clad in a loose chemise played cards with several foppish gentlemen. At her side, covering her bared breast with his hand, was Kesseley. He could scarce read the caption for the black spots blinding his eyes.
The Little Companion.

How dare they! Henrietta was an innocent. She had nothing to do with anything. The lecherous illustrator had had the good sense not to leave any initial, else Kesseley would have hunted him down and put a bullet through him, then gladly hung for it.

He had to get back to Curzon Street and stop her. Then the terrible realization sunk into his mind. He was too late! The ball had already started.

He had to get to her before the others did.

With no hack in sight, he took to his heels and rushed into the darkened park.

***

Henrietta came to a halt in the grand entrance of the Duke of Houghton’s London mansion. She had never seen such opulence firsthand and had to turn about on her heel and marvel at the architecture. The house was like a regular cathedral on Piccadilly. Every little detail was a masterpiece. Above her were stacked balcony upon balcony, all lined with tall Greek columns. She had to squint to see the ceiling. Framed in gilded stucco ovals were murals of angels hovering about the masts of British battleships. A marble stair that ran the entire length of the back wall led to a platform flanked by statues of Greek goddesses in flowing gowns. From there, the stairs split into two smaller staircases that wound in graceful curves to the floor above.

“Come,” Lady Kesseley said, tugging Henrietta’s arm. She seemed unmoved by the splendor about her, as if it were commonplace. Henrietta realized she was just the mere daughter of an eccentric astronomer. She didn’t belong in this world. Yet Kesseley and his mother were welcomed with open arms. It was so easy for her to forget amongst the radishes and sheep that Kesseley was an earl. That he had even loved her or been her dearest friend was a miracle.

Now the only way she could love Kesseley was by letting him go into this beautiful world and praying for his happiness.

As Henrietta lifted the ruffled edge of her gown to mount the stairs, Lady Kesseley squeezed her elbow. “Let us stay together. I need you.”

Guests mingling on the balcony turned their heads as she and Lady Kesseley approached. Their conversation stopped, fans shot up like walls. When they passed through the tall double doors and into the ballroom, a hush rippled through the room in a concentric circle around her.

“What has happened?” Lady Kesseley cried.

Lady Winslow and the princess broke through the crowd and rushed forward. Lady Sara glided across the glossy wood floor, a rustling flutter of white silk. But His and Her Grace reached Henrietta and Lady Kesseley first, having pushed past the line of yet-to-be-welcomed guests.

The duke made a slight, hurried bow, his eyes like sharp nails in his doughy face. “My dear Lady Kesseley, so wonderful to see you. There is an extraordinary rumor circulating this evening. Of course, it can’t be true. However, perhaps your companion would care to stay in the library—it would be more comfortable for her.”

“W-what?” Henrietta said, confused.

“I have heard no rumor,” Lady Kesseley said, a shrill edge to her voice.

The duke and duchess looked at each other, each wanting the other to speak.

Lady Winslow reached them, all the usual languidness gone from her voice. “I didn’t know until I got here just a few minutes before. I sent a footman to try to stop you. It seems a scurrilous caricature of Henrietta has been circulating in London this afternoon.”

Henrietta didn’t understand. What had she done? The only thing she could think of was that someone had seen her alone in the park with Mr. Elliot. “The embrace was innocent, I assure you.”

The duchess let out a shriek. Houghton gave his wife a squelching glance, and she covered her thin mouth with her hand.

“I believe you will find the library most accommodating,” the duke said and grabbed Henrietta’s arm so tightly it hurt and pulled her back onto the balcony. He motioned to a footman with his free hand. “See to Miss Watson’s comfort.”

“No!” Lady Kesseley cried, catching up to Henrietta. “Miss Watson is a well-mannered young lady. I beg you, you must let her stay and show everyone these rumors, whatever they may be, are unfounded.”

The duke’s fat cheeks turned crimson, not expecting opposition. He spoke in a fast, harsh whisper so that the guests crowding the ballroom door couldn’t hear. “Lady Kesseley, it has been alleged in the lewdest way that Miss Watson is your son’s mistress.”

“Make her leave, Papa!” Lady Sara wailed.

The guests crowded at the ballroom entrance, like buzzards waiting in trees.

Henrietta felt dizzy, hot perspiration moistened her skin. “No, it’s not true,” she said faintly.

“Of course it’s not.” The duke kept his grip on her arm. He dragged her toward the shadows of the mansion’s left wing, hidden behind four tall Grecian columns. “But given the forthcoming union—”

“Henrietta!” Kesseley’s rich timbre echoed through the hall. Those on the stairs gave way to him as he took the grand staircase two steps at a time, water dripping from his hat and coat. He raced across the balcony. The duke pulled Henrietta to his chest, like a shield.

Kesseley stopped short and glared at Houghton. He held out his hand to Henrietta. “Miss Watson, come away.”

“But we are supposed to be engaged!” Lady Sara cried.

“Quiet, Sara.” The duke’s voice was smooth and controlled. “Kesseley, I think we need to discuss this calmly. I’m sure it was all just a malicious rumor. I’m just trying to protect the gel.”

Kesseley’s eyes flickered over the scene—Henrietta could see the thoughts speeding through his mind as fast as lightning flashes. “Come away, Miss Watson,” he whispered again.

She could scarce see, but she felt the stares of everyone heating her skin. The duke shoved his protruding belly into her back.

“No, don’t do this,” she said. “You’re marrying Lady Sara.”

“I never—”

“Let’s not lose our tempers and put anyone’s reputation in danger,” Houghton warned.

Henrietta twisted her neck to look up at the duke and pleaded in a whisper. “Please let me go home. Please.” She couldn’t let her presence wreck Kesseley’s engagement evening.

“For God sakes, man!” Kesseley cried.

The duke didn’t bend. He dragged Henrietta along the balcony, farther from the curious guests. “We’re just going to the library to talk, then we’ll all go back to the ballroom with Miss Watson beside us,” he said in a low authoritative voice. “Tomorrow no one will care about this caricature or whatever it is. They’ll just wonder if they’re invited to the wedding. We can all have what we want if we just play the cards right.”

“I will not allow you to
play
Miss Watson’s reputation,” Kesseley spat.

“No, Lord Kesseley, you played her reputation. I’m merely offering to salvage it,” Houghton replied.

“No, please,” Henrietta begged. “You can make the engagement announcement. I don’t care if I’m ruined. I want to go home.”

The duke tightened his grasp on her arm. “Don’t be foolish, Miss Watson.”

From across the room, a low menacing male voice cut through the tense air. “I think the lady asked you to let her go,” it said.

On the far side of the balcony, among the columns, a man waited in the shadows.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” the duke demanded.

The man stepped forward. The light from a candle sconce fell at a slant across his face. Mr. Elliot’s wild white hair was slicked back in an old-fashioned queue. His beard was gone, revealing a hard cleft chin and two soaring cheekbones. A pale white scar sliced down his left cheek. His eyes glowed like those of a coiled cobra from the stories he had told her of India. Houghton’s cool controlled demeanor vanished. His voice boomed like thunder. “Lord Damien! What the hell are you doing here?”

“What I wasn’t strong enough to do two decades ago. I’m saving a lady.”

Henrietta’s eyes shot to Lady Kesseley. The color drained from the lady’s face, and she started to sway, her eyes rolling up in their sockets.

“Kesseley, your mother!” Henrietta screamed.

Too late. Lady Kesseley’s body crumpled. Her head made a sickening thud as it struck the marble floor.

“Mama!” Kesseley cried and fell to his knees. He frantically rubbed her temples with his thumbs. Her eyes fluttered. She reached up and weakly took his arm. “Tommie,” she whispered. Kesseley pulled her onto his lap.

“I’ve got you, Mama.”

Tears ran from her eyes. “Why did he come back?”

Mr. Elliot—Lord Damien, whoever he was—backed away, all his chivalry gone, his face contorted with a mixture of panic, fear and helplessness. His eyes sought Henrietta, pleading for something. What? Was she supposed to save him now?

She jerked against the duke. His fingers easily gave way. She looked at Lady Kesseley buried in her son’s arms weeping, then at Mr. Elliot. “You’re Lord Damien? The horrid rake? The inspiration for Lord Blackraven?”

The man in question bowed his head. A rumble of excited whispers resounded in the great hall.

Henrietta felt the little faith she had fleeing away. Nothing made sense. She reached for her mother’s pendant, feeling only skin and bone. “I’m so tired.”

Kesseley’s head jerked up. Their eyes met. She saw her name form on his lips, those lips that could be both gentle and rough, capable of entrancing her or slicing her heart.

She had come here tonight to let him go. It was the only way she could think to love him now.

Release him. Let it all flow away.

“I’m so sorry, Kesseley. I ruined everything for you again. Take care of your mother. I can no longer be her companion. I’m sorry,” she whispered, turned and ran.

“No!” he shouted to her back.