Ravished by the Rake (23 page)

Gregory made himself scarce while Alistair dressed, although the silence that was presumably him holding his breath while the neckcloth was being tied was almost as distracting as chatter would have been.

He reappeared with a box in his hands. ‘Mr Barstow said I was to be sure to put these into your hands, my lord. He says to say they have been in the silver safe under his lock and key since his late lordship died.’

‘Did he, indeed?’ It sounded as though the butler had taken his mistress’s measure and that his loyalties lay with the new marquis, not with her. Alistair opened the box and found tie pins, fobs and one old, heavy signet. He had never seen it off his father’s hand before. It slid on to his with a cold rightness, the almost black stone heavy on a hand unused to rings. But it made a point: he was Iwerne now.

Just in case Imogen missed it, he lifted out the heavy gold watch with its chain and fobs and put it in his waistcoat pocket, arranged the chain across to the buttonhole, then took a modern piece, a fine amber-topped pin, and set it in his neckcloth.

‘Goes with your eyes, my lord,’ Gregory said chattily as he locked the box and was thus spared Alistair’s frown. ‘There’s an amber brocade waistcoat in the clothes press, that would suit you, too.’ He offered Alistair the key. ‘His late lordship used to put it on his watch chain.’

There was a certain sardonic amusement in contemplating what his father would say if he saw him in his
clothes and jewellery. ‘Dead men’s shoes,’ he said under his breath as he tried on the evening slippers and found they fitted.

There was a choked snort from Gregory, who looked appalled at his own reaction. Alistair raised an eyebrow at him and went down to deal with Imogen with a grim smile on his face.

‘I
am so glad you’ve cheered up, Alistair,’ Imogen said as he strolled into the drawing room.

‘Are you?’ It was hardly a witty rejoinder, but it was better than
Go and get some clothes on!,
which was his immediate reaction to the sight of Imogen’s gown. She might be in deep mourning, but his stepmother was interpreting that solely by the unrelieved black that she wore. The gown was cut so low that Alistair suspected close examination would reveal the edge of the aureole of her nipples, not that he had any intention of getting near enough to verify that. ‘My new valet keeps me in a constant ripple of amusement,’ he added, straight-faced, and saw her pretty brow wrinkle for a second. Imogen had never had much of a sense of humour.

‘Dinner is served, my lord,’ Barstow announced and Alistair offered Imogen his arm, walked her briskly to the foot of the table, saw her seated and retreated to the head, a considerable distance away.

‘We must have some leaves removed, this is too long,’ Imogen said to the butler.

‘I prefer it this length.’ Barstow bowed and retreated to the sideboard while the footmen began to serve soup. ‘The dining room in the Dower House is more compact, as I recall,’ Alistair added. ‘You will be able to have a smaller table there, Stepmama.’

‘I am not at all convinced that will be convenient.’

‘The dining room or the table?’

‘The Dower House,’ she snapped, her colour high, all traces of wheedling quite vanished.

‘Then you must tell me in what ways it is lacking and we will remedy them. You will not wish to be coming up to London, of course, not at this stage of your mourning, but do not hesitate to let me know when you would like me to obtain a town house for you next year.’

‘Not come to London? However shall I dress?’

‘Decently, I trust,’ Alistair said with an edge to his voice. ‘Send for a modiste, send to town for fabrics. I will not be ungenerous with your allowance.’

‘My—’ Imogen stared at him.

‘But of course,’ he added, ‘if you are able to carry the cost of travel to London and accommodation while you are there—for I fear Iwerne House will be undergoing extensive works—I can only assume you require no allowance from me.’

‘You … I … I must obey you or be a pauper, is that it?’

The complete lack of expression on the faces of Barstow and the footmen gave Alistair the clue that scenes of this sort were not unknown in the household.

‘You have only to do what your natural good taste
and the dictates of society tell you,’ he added soothingly, ‘and all will be well.’

‘In that house!’

‘Indeed.’

Imogen sulked for the rest of the meal, treating Alistair to an exhibition of frigid disdain that would have amused him if he were not so tired. As soon as the dessert, which she merely picked at, was removed, she got to her feet.

‘Goodnight, ma’am,’ Alistair said, rising. ‘I will see you at breakfast, perhaps?’

‘I doubt it, I rarely rise before noon.’ She swept out, quivering with affronted dignity.

Alistair stayed on his feet, poured himself a glass of port and carried it to the other door. ‘Barstow, send Gregory to me in my chamber, if you please. I will take breakfast at eight.’

The footman bustled about, turning down the bed, shaking out a long silk robe, trimming the candle wicks as Alistair shed coat and neckcloth. ‘Is there anything else, my lord? Goodnight then, my lord, your nightgown is on the bed.’

Alistair gave him a minute, then got up and turned the key in the lock, walked through to the dressing room and locked the outer door there, too. He sat for a while at the desk, savouring his port and making lists, one eye on the clock. As it struck midnight there was a light scratching on one panel, repeated when he made no move to open it. After a moment the handle turned. Silence, then he heard the handle in the dressing room rattle.

It was as well he had taken precautions. Perhaps, he thought, his smile thin, he should find himself a chaperon. Once he had thought he would die for that woman. What nonsense love was.

‘We must call at the Castle,’ Lady Wycombe said, two days after Dita’s return, when the family had finally stopped talking. ‘We should not be neglectful in welcoming Lord Iwerne formally to the neighbourhood again—and, of course, we must thank him once more for all he has done for us.’ She smiled fondly at Dita.

‘Must we, Mama?’ Evaline wrinkled her nose. ‘Lord Iwerne, by all means, but her
ladyship …’

‘Is she so very unpleasant?’ Dita asked, curious. ‘I met her, of course, now and again. She is beautiful.’

‘And empty-headed and spiteful,’ her sister retorted.

‘Evaline! Oh dear. Yes, well, she is not a female I would wish my daughters to associate with, if I am to be honest,’ Lady Wycombe admitted. ‘As you are both grown up now and none of the men are here, I will not disguise the fact that I fear her morals are not all they should be either, even when the late marquis was alive.’

‘Really? Surely he was not a man to stand for that sort of thing?’

‘Sauce for the goose, my dear,’ her mother said with startling frankness. ‘Once it became clear she was barren, they appear to have agreed to find their pleasures where they chose. It was obvious the lack of children was not his fault, for, although Alistair’s mother died before
she could have more babies, there are enough bastards of his in the area to crew a brig.’

‘Mama!’ Dita said on a gasp of shocked laughter.

‘While Alistair is in residence we must show every courtesy.’ Lady Wycombe smiled. ‘And, Evaline, lend Dita your new emerald-green afternoon gown and the villager hat with the velvet ribbons, I’ll not have Imogen Lyndon sneering at how my daughters dress. Oh, yes, and the pearls.’

Elegantly gowned, and with Evaline in a delightful rose-pink ensemble beside her, Dita regarded her mother fondly as the carriage rattled over the drawbridge to the outer gatehouse of the castle. Her frankness and lack of prudery had made Mama easy to confide in during the aftermath of her ruinous elopement when her father was still coldly angry with her. She had assured her mother that she had not slept with Stephen, and that had tempered her father’s ire somewhat, but even so, he had taken longer than her mother to come to terms with her foolishness.

Now she looked forward to seeing Mama deal with the widow. And she ached to see Alistair again, even though it was certain to be difficult. They had not been apart for three months, she realised—now two days seemed an eternity. Whatever else lay between them, she could not forget that she loved him. That emotion was not the product of the shock of the shipwreck, she knew that for certain now. She loved him, in spite of everything.

Lady Wycombe asked for his lordship, not her ladyship, when Barstow opened the door to them, an
interesting breach of etiquette. His lordship was At Home and would be with them directly, the butler informed them as he ushered them through to the drawing room.

When Alistair came in Dita found she could not take her eyes off him as he shook hands with her mother. The space of those two days seemed to have sharpened her focus. He looked fine-drawn and there was a pallor under his eyes that spoke of late nights and worry; in the darkly formal clothes, he looked older, too. They must be his father’s, she realised, and wondered if he minded very much having that intimate connection to a man from whom he had been estranged.

‘Lady Perdita.’ He took her hand and she looked into his eyes. Was he happy? Was he looking after himself? Was her expression betraying how much she needed him? There was something in his face that warned her that he had not forgotten, or changed his mind. He was going to do something to force a marriage, whatever she had to say about it.

‘Lord Iwerne. Have you settled in yet? I expect, like me, you are having to borrow everything from slippers to combs.’

He nodded and smiled. ‘Yes—it feels very strange, does it not? Lady Evaline.’ His eyebrows rose a trifle as he turned to her sister and Dita felt a sudden, quite shocking, pang of jealousy. Evaline looked lovely, and sweet, and the perfect image of the kind of young lady Alistair had been talking of marrying. The sort of young lady he
ought
to be marrying. ‘May I say that you have grown up quite considerably since I last saw you? And very charmingly, too.’

Evaline blushed and lowered her lashes, but she did not simper or stammer. ‘You are very kind, Lord Iwerne, but as it is eight years, I think a little change is to be expected.’

Alistair laughed and they settled around the tea table as the footmen brought in the urn and china. ‘Before we say anything else, I must thank you for everything that you have done for my daughter,’ her mother said with her usual directness. ‘I know now that if was not for your courage and endurance Dita would have drowned—or met a horrible death if that dog had bitten her. My husband will be calling, of course, but I felt I had to say what I feel as a mother: I will never forget and if there is ever anything the family can do for you, you have only to ask.’

Alistair was silent, looking down at his clasped hands on the table. Dita saw the unfamiliar ring on his signet finger and how he rubbed it, absently, as though it helped him think.

After a moment he said, ‘If I have been able to be of service to Lady Perdita, it is an honour. You should know, ma’am, that your daughter is a lady of courage and integrity. Great courage,’ he added. ‘She put herself at risk to save a child.’ The silence grew uncomfortable. Evaline gave a little sob, Lady Wycombe cleared her throat. ‘And talent,’ Alistair added. ‘Did you realise that Lady Perdita is a novelist?’

‘Really?’ Her sister turned, wide-eyed. ‘You have written a book?’

‘It is at the bottom of the sea, I fear,’ Dita said. ‘Although that is probably the best place for it.’

‘Never say that!’ Alistair began to tell the story of
Adventures of Angelica
and soon had Evaline and Lady Wycombe in a ripple of laughter while Dita buried her face in her hands and implored him to spare her.

‘It sounds
wonderful,’
Evaline declared as the door opened and a lady walked it. She was quite, quite lovely, Dita thought, staring at her for a startled moment before she recognised her,
and
her mood. The marchioness was furiously angry.

‘My dear Lady Wycombe!’ She advanced with hands outstretched, a charming smile on her lips, ice in the big blue eyes. ‘I am so sorry! My fool of a butler announced you to Alistair and not, as he should, to me. Really …’ she turned her gaze on Alistair ‘… the man is incompetent—you must dismiss him.’

‘You are labouring under a misapprehension, Lady Iwerne,’ Lady Wycombe said. ‘I asked for Lord Iwerne. We have come to welcome him home and to thank him for everything he has done for Perdita.’

‘I see. I quite long to hear all about these adventures. Will you walk with me in the garden, Lady Perdita? I am certain your mother and sister will not want to listen to the tale all over again.’

It was the last thing Dita wanted to do. She opened her mouth to invent a twisted ankle and was suddenly seized by curiosity. This self-centred female most certainly did not want to hear about her, so what
did
she want? ‘I would love to see the gardens, Lady Iwerne,’ she said, getting up. Her skirts brushed Alistair’s knees as she passed and he looked up and frowned at her. So he did not want her walking alone with his youthful stepmother. That was interesting.

‘I am glad you have come home,’ Imogen began, the moment they were on the terrace. ‘I so need a female friend of my own age to confide in.’ She was a couple of years Dita’s senior, but she was not going to correct her—this was too intriguing.

‘How flattering,’ she murmured, ‘but I will be going up to town very soon with my parents and sister.’

‘You will?’ The prettily arched eyebrows rose. ‘But—forgive me—I thought you were no longer in society … after the elopement.’

‘That little affair?’ Dita laughed. ‘I am used to dealing with gossip; I will not regard it. And besides, I am not husband-hunting.’

‘Oh? Perhaps that is wise, under the circumstances. But I am quite cast down, for I shall be so lonely, shut away in the Dower House.’

She made it sound like a prison. Dita was vividly reminded of
Adventures of Angelica
—how well Lady Iwerne would fit into such a melodrama. ‘Shut away? Surely not. You are two months into your mourning; the first year will soon go. And besides, there is this lovely park, the gardens …’