The Phantom Lover (19 page)

That Nell might be mourning for the poor, crippled Earl she'd left behind in Cornwall occurred to nobody but Amelia. Amelia had seen the two of them together often enough to suspect that Nell had been profoundly moved by the Earl's plight. If Nell had not assured her that her feelings for Harry were not those of a lover but a sister, Amelia would have been quite troubled by Nell's wistfulness. But she completely accepted Nell's tale that Harry was in love with the girl to whom he'd been betrothed so many years ago, Edwina Manning, and that Nell had only a sisterly concern for his welfare.

Nell, however, had had plenty of time to realize the truth. She'd been charmed by Harry since his first appearance as ghost. And when he'd kissed her on the Cornish cliff, with the waves pounding below them and the rain pelting them in icy unconcern, she knew that the moment had had a significance for her which was beyond that of any kiss she'd known before—or, she guessed, any she might know in the future. Throughout the long trip back to London, her anger at what she called Harry's cowardice kept her from seeing what that kiss had actually signified. But after many restless, unhappy nights, she admitted to herself that she loved him. She recognized the feeling as irrevocable, overpowering and hopeless.

Nell wanted only to return to Cornwall, to throw herself into his arms and to convince him that, to her, he was more of a man with one leg than all the others in the world with two. In other circumstances, she would have told him so long since. She knew she could convince him, because it was true. The two of them would be together in blissful companionship instead of living in this miserable separateness. But circumstances had conspired against her. They had made him fall in love with Edwina Manning. And because he had implacably decreed his own isolation, they were
all
doomed to unhappiness.

London was rather thin of society in the wintry months, and January of 1810 did not offer many diversions. Nell attended one dinner at Sybil's insistence, and she found herself listening to the conversation as Harry might, had he been there. She was appalled at the triviality of the talk at the table. For most of the evening, the talk centered about Frederick, the Duke of York, and his mistress, Mrs. Clark, who was rumored to be up to her pretty neck in the illegal sale of military commissions. When the talk temporarily veered to the war itself, the only comments made were to disparage Lord Wellington's lack of activity on the Peninsula. Nell could easily imagine what would be Harry's chagrin at these remarks—he had often spoken to her of his high regard for the man he still referred to as Sir Arthur Wellesley. He'd explained to her often that Sir Arthur—or rather, Wellington—was wisely training his troops, building up a first-class medical corps and waiting for the proper moment to make his move.

Later, conversation turned to the French blockade, which had eased in recent months but which threatened soon to affect their lives again. The loud complaints made by the elegantly gowned ladies and the well-fed gentlemen about extortionate prices for laces and liquors, left Nell wondering uncomfortably if Harry might have been right after all in rejecting London society.

Nell's one other venture into the social whirl also failed to drive Harry from her thoughts. Lady Holcombe held a dress ball in honor of her husband's birthday, and almost every member of the Quality (and several who were not) who had remained in town during the winter months had been invited. Nell, who had been coaxed by her godmother to buy a new gown for the occasion, had determined to put Harry out of her mind and to conduct herself with the vivacious gaiety which had distinguished her behavior in the past. She would laugh and dance and flirt until she was able to convince herself that she was happy again.

The ball was a dreadful squeeze. When the Thorne party arrived, the stairway leading up to the Holcombe's drawing rooms and ballroom was crammed with people pushing their way up to the receiving line. How would Harry have managed in such a crush? Nell found herself wondering. She moved slowly up the stairs, finding every moment distasteful. When she at last was seated beside her aunt, trying to recover her breath from the effort of the stairway, she looked up to find that Sir Nigel Lewis was approaching with a triumphant smile lighting his face. He would not accept her awkward refusal to stand up with him, and rather than engage in senseless argumentation, she endured an interminable and embarrassing dance with him. The elaborate figures of the dance did not permit much conversation between them, but from his arrogant smirk and a few of his remarks, she deduced that Sybil had hinted to him that her return from Cornwall might indicate a willingness on her part to resume their betrothal. Before she could phrase a denial of something hinted at rather than stated, Nigel laughed confidently. “Of course you needn't say anything at all yet,” he said smugly, “for a resumpton of our relationship must be well considered by
all
parties.”

Nell reddened in fury. “There is nothing at all to be considered—” she sputtered, but a movement of the dance separated them, and when they came together again, Nigel spoke of other things. Nell decided to let the matter drop. She had no intention of resuming any sort of relationship with Sir Nigel, but if he chose to delude himself, she didn't care.

It was only a little later, while she was dancing with a shy young man who seemed much younger than she but who was obviously smitten with her, that she recognized Edwina Manning on the dance floor. Since Nell's partner (content to gaze at her wordlessly) did not require her undivided attention, she was able to study Miss Manning covertly but thoroughly. The lady was taller than most of the other women on the floor, and the poise of her bearing and the regal carriage of her head gave her the elegance of a princess. Her smoky hair was drawn back from an oval face into a smooth knot at the back of her head, but one thick curl had been permitted to hang loosely and enticingly over her shoulder. Her eyes were a startling blue and seemed to give the impression of great feeling and sensitivity. She wore an azure satin ball gown which was cut low over her graceful, milk-white shoulders. Nell was not at all surprised to note the great number of admiring glances cast at her by the men who passed her by. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room.

When the throng of guests were making their way to the supper tables, Nell sought out her godmother. “Tell me, Sybil,” she whispered, “have you heard anything about Edwina Manning? Is she betrothed, or about to be?”

Sybil studied Nell curiously. “Why do you want to know?”

“No particular reason,” Nell said, trying to appear offhand. “Only idle curiosity. She is so beautiful that it is hard to credit her prolonged resistance to matrimony. One would imagine that some dashing gentleman would have carried her off long since.”

“Well, you needn't make her sound decrepit. She's been out for a few seasons, but she can't be much above twenty-two or three. It's said that she feels herself bound to Henry, although it is almost two years since she's seen him. The Mannings were always excessively proper. The poor girl will probably not be permitted to accept any offer until Henry has been declared legally dead. I wonder what she'd say if she discovered that her betrothed was hiding away from her in Cornwall.”

Nell wondered the very same thing. How long could one expect a lovely young lady to languish in unmarried loneliness waiting for a lover who failed to appear? Nell watched Miss Manning for the rest of the evening. Edwina favored every gentleman who approached her with a warm, detached politeness. She was the very model of a woman whose hand had been given to an absent suitor. Nell felt a grudging admiration for her. Whatever else Edwina Manning might be, she was certainly steadfast.

She did not think it possible, but Nell's spirits were even further depressed by the evening of the ball. She realized at last why Harry was still attached to Miss Manning. The lady was indeed beautiful, in face and in manner. There was an air of polished perfection about her. No wonder Harry was reluctant to face her with what he regarded as a terrible and permanent flaw.

A cold and rainy January became a freezing, snowy February. Nell retired more and more into herself. She rejected all Sybil's urgings to pay calls, to venture out to the shops and bazaars, or to engage in any of the other pastimes in which her godmother indulged. She sometimes joined her on excursions to the lending library, but more often she spent her days in her room or with Amelia, quietly sipping tea but speaking very little.

One afternoon, when Nell was reading quietly on the window-seat in her bedroom, looking up periodically to stare out at the thickly falling snow, Gwinnys came in hurriedly, carrying a Venetian-red velvet dress over her arm. “Mind you'd best dress up a bit tonight, Miss Nell,” she advised, laying the dress carefully across the bed.

“The red velvet?” Nell asked in surprise. “Whatever for?”

“The whole fam'ly's dinin'
in
this night,” Gwinnys explained. “Wi' the snow so heavy an' all, Lady Sybil ain't goin' off to the Petershams' and even Lord Charles stays in. Lady Amelia says to tell 'ee that everyone's havin' dinner right here at home.”

Nell and Amelia had grown accustomed to dining alone at the long table of the Thorne House dining room, for Charles spent every evening at one or another of his clubs, and Lady Sybil managed to wangle an invitation to one social affair or another almost every evening, even in the off-season. The two ladies who were left behind did not mind the peace and comfort of their simple dinners, for they were quite content with each other's company. But Nell understood the message Amelia had sent. The fact that Charles and Sybil would be dining with them did make the evening seem a bit festive. Although she overrode Gwinnys's choice of evening attire, she agreed to the mauve silk, and Gwinnys was satisfied.

The dining room did indeed have a festive air. A great fire blazed in the hearth and three branches of candles lit the table. Lord Charles, however, was not in a festive mood. He could not bear to miss even one night of cards. He sat at his place at the head of the table sulking and drinking too much wine. Sybil, too, was sulky and petulant. She had not bothered to dress but sat glumly at her place wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair carelessly tousled and unkempt. She complained that the sauce the cook had prepared for the fish was too bland, the ragout too peppery, and the roast too rare. And to make matters worse, Beckwith was serving them in his shirtsleeves. Nothing he did infuriated her more than his carelessness in matters of his attire. But knowing that a scolding would not have any effect on him except to heighten his glee at causing her displeasure, she gritted her teeth and said nothing.

By the time they had been served the second course, Nell found herself wishing the meal were over. Any attempt of Amelia's or her own to open up avenues of conversation was met with a grunt or a monosyllable from either Sybil or Charles. Sybil's complaints spoiled the others' enjoyment of what was really an excellent dinner. The wind howled mournfully outside the windows, and the fire and the candles seemed to burn less brightly. The family dinner was proving to be a deplorably dismal experience.

Into this dreary atmosphere, a timid maidservant entered, tiptoed to the coatless Beckwith and whispered something into his ear. The butler raised his eyebrows in surprise and hurried out of the room. “What is it, girl?” Lord Charles asked the little maid.

“'Tis a caller, m'lord,” the girl said with a curtsy.

“A caller? In this weather?” Sybil exclaimed in surprise, her hand flying to her disordered hair.

“At this hour? Ridiculous! I wonder who—?” Charles scratched his head in puzzled annoyance.

He was not kept wondering for long. A few moments later, Beckwith reentered, flinging open both the large doors dramatically. His eyes were shining excitedly, and his mouth was stretched into a gleeful grin. Sybil was started to see that he'd gotten into his coat and looked quite unexceptional. Taking a deep breath, the butler held his head high and announced in a voice of unaccustomed formality, “Ladies, Lord Charles, I have the honor to announce the arrival of his lordship,
the Earl of Thornbury
!”

Chapter Thirteen

F
OR A FROZEN
moment no one moved. Lord Charles' wineglass fell from his fingers and broke on the floor, but no one paid the least attention. They were all preoccupied with their own reactions to the shocking news. Lady Sybil was excruciatingly aware of her inappropriate costume and slovenly appearance, and she alternately paled and reddened as her fingers fumbled nervously with her hair. Charles, whose mental processes were always rather sluggish (except when he'd drunk too much wine, and they were positively slow), merely gaped stupidly at the door while his brain attempted to ascertain the significance of Beckwith's announcement. There was a glad cry from Amelia, her eyes eager for the first glimpse of her dear nephew in his premier appearance as the new Earl. As for Nell, she could not account for her emotions. No sooner had Beckwith made his announcement when she'd felt the blood drain from her face and congeal somewhere in her chest. But whether this strange constriction inside her signified joy, surprise or terror, she could not tell.

Every eye was fixed on the doorway, but when the gentleman made his appearance on the threshold, he seemed a complete stranger. Even to Nell, who had seen him most recently and most closely, he was scarcely recognizable. The man in the doorway was an elegantly dressed, imposing Corinthian. His modish, many-caped greatcoat was so splendidly stylish that even the snowflakes melting on the shoulders in no way detracted from its magnificence. His hair was flatteringly cut in the popular “Brutus,” and he carried a tall, curly-brimmed beaver in one gloved hand. He leaned casually on the cane held in the other hand and surveyed them all with amused, imperturbable aplomb. “Good evening,” he greeted them affably. “I regret that the snow delayed my arrival long enough to cause this interruption of your dinner.”