Chapter Four
Eleanor had dressed as carefully as she ever had, her maids watching her with puzzlement on both their faces. Usually she barely cared. Normally if she went out it was only with much chagrin that she suffered even an hour of the business of ‘getting ready’.
Today she had spent most of the afternoon changing her mind from this dress to that one, from a formal hair style to a far less structured one. Even her shoes had been swapped from one pair to the next.
And now with only a few moments before she needed to go downstairs and join her brother and sister-in-law she was still unsure. Was the gold of her gown a little gaudy? Did her hair, set into up-pulled ringlets, look contrived? Was the diamond choker at her throat too much of a statement for a woman of her age?
She looked away from her reflection and breathed in deeply. No more. No other changes. She was exhausted by her uncertainty.
Jacob smiled as he saw her descending the staircase.
‘I have not seen you look quite as beautiful for a very long time, Ellie.’
Rose beside him looked as pleased as her brother did. ‘It is going to be so lovely to have you with us at Frederick and Georgiana’s, Eleanor. I wish you were with us more often in London.’ Her sister-in-law was in blue tonight and her fairness made her look like an angel. Every time Eleanor saw Rose she could understand exactly what her brother had seen in her as a choice of wife. She was kind and quiet, a woman who did not push herself forward, but waited for others to come to her.
With a laugh Eleanor took the offered hand and felt immeasurably more confident, an emotion she would need if she were to be any help to Nicholas Bartlett.
‘Nick has gone on already,’ Jacob said. ‘Frederick had a set of clothes that he needed to see if he fitted and he wanted Nicholas to meet Georgiana before this evening’s function.’
‘I am sure the Viscount will look well in anything he chooses. From all the accounts I have heard from my maid this morning as I was dressing he is a most handsome man.’
Rose’s statement was firm and Eleanor glanced at her. She herself had not seen Nicholas Bartlett in the house all day as he had left in the mid-morning for the Challengers. She hoped he had found a barber at least to shave off his beard.
Her nerves started to make her worried again. If people were rude or worse to him she could not quite think what she would do. Her brother would hardly tolerate such behaviour, of course, but still there was a difference between being accepted for who you were and being gossiped about behind raised fans and turned heads.
‘I hope Lord Bromley will enjoy himself,’ she finally said and left it at that.
It was only a short ride from Chelsea to St James’s Square and the rain and wind had held off enough to allow them a quiet passage into the house. After the death of her brother and father the family had been largely in mourning so it felt good to be able to go out again. The Challenger soirée would have a lot of people who were known to them attending, but it was not as formal as some of the grander balls.
Frederick and Georgiana Challenger were there to greet them after their cloaks, hats and gloves were seen to. Eleanor was, as always, struck anew at just how fine they looked together as they welcomed the newcomers.
‘Oliver was unable to make it tonight, Jake, because Cecilia is not very well. Nick is inside, but the doctor wanted his hand up in a sling so we had to rearrange his shirt and jacket somewhat.’
Another problem, Eleanor thought. A further way to draw attention to his differences. She suddenly wished she had stayed home.
The large downstairs salon of the Challenger town house was completely decked out in yellow, the colour lightening the space and making it seem even bigger. Numerous people milled around the room in groups and at one end an orchestra was tuning up with a Christmas song, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. Eleanor had always liked the melody.
‘I thought Frederick said this was to be a small gathering,’ Rose remarked. ‘It seems half the ton is here tonight.’
Eleanor looked around trying to find the figure of Nicholas Bartlett. At six foot two his height should have had him standing a good head above many of the others, but she could not see him.
Perhaps he had cried off and left?
‘There is Nicholas. Over by the pillars.’ Her brother’s voice penetrated her reveries as he pushed through the crowd and once the crush thinned a little she saw the Viscount surrounded by women and men all hanging on to his every word.
Her first true sight of him took her breath away. He looked completely different from yesterday. Menacing, dangerously beautiful, the boy she had known fashioned into the man before her, the harder lines of his face without the full beard suiting him in a way she had not comprehended before.
He was all in black, save for the snowy cravat at his neck, folded simply. His hair was pulled into a severe queue and she could see the sheen of dark brown picked out under the chandeliers above them.
His left hand was fastened into a sling of linen, the small vulnerability suiting him in a way she had not thought would be possible—a warrior who had been into battle and returned triumphant. She could see in his velvet eyes an apartness that left him unmatched. Every man near him looked soft, tame and pliable. Untouched by danger and hardship.
Their party had to squeeze into the space about him and Eleanor noticed the frowns of those women who had hoped for a closer acquaintance as they were ousted back.
‘You have cleaned up well, Nick. I hardly recognise you in the man we saw yesterday.’ Jacob sounded relieved. ‘I would like to introduce you to Rose, my wife. You did not meet her this morning before you left.’
Rose looked tiny compared to the Viscount, his darkness contrasting, too, against her light hair and eyes. Eleanor watched as Nicholas Bartlett brought up her sister-in-law’s hand and kissed the back of it, his gallantry reminiscent of the younger man who had left them all those years before. A slide of anger turned inside Eleanor as he acknowledged her with a mere tip of his head and yet he made a space at his side and she came to stand there, making very sure that she did not touch him.
‘I hope you slept well last night, Lady Eleanor.’ He said this to her as Rose and Jacob were busy in conversation with an older lord they knew well. An allusion to their late-night meeting, she supposed. Unexpectedly she coloured and hated herself for doing so.
‘I did, thank you.’ In truth, she had gained about three hours’ sleep and it probably showed in the darkness under her eyes. He, on the other hand, looked as if he had slept like a baby.
‘Frederick said there would be dancing later in the evening. Might I petition you to save one for me?’
‘I am rather out of practice, my lord.’ She could not keep the surprise from her tone.
‘And you think I wouldn’t be?’
‘I do not know. I have no idea of what sort of life you lived in the Americas.’
At that he sobered.
As the crowd about them jostled slightly Mr Alfred Dromorne and his daughter broke in on their conversation.
‘Bromley. It has been a long time. May I introduce my daughter to you. She is recently out in society. Susan, this is Viscount Bromley.’
Nicholas Bartlett inclined his head at the beautiful girl standing next to her father, though his eyes were far less readable than they had been a second ago. It was as if a shutter had been placed over any true expression and the fingers she could see that were visible in the sling had curled in tension.
The vibrant red head smiled in the way only the very young and very beautiful know how to. All coquetry and cunning. Eleanor felt instantly older and a lot more dowdy than she had even a second before.
‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Dromorne.’
‘And I you, my lord.’ She brought her fan up and twirled it a few times, the art of flirtation both complex and simple in its execution.
‘You will be going home to Bromworth Manor, no doubt, now that you are back. You might notice some changes to the place.’
Her father had taken up the conversation and his statement produced a flicker of genuine interest in Lord Bromley’s visage. Eleanor saw the eagerness even as he sought to hide it.
‘In what ways do you mean?
‘Your uncle has the run of the estate these days and he has made certain to stamp his authority on to the place. Last time I was there I rather thought that those still serving him were not entirely happy.’
‘Large estates have their problems,’ Nicholas replied, giving the distinct impression that he did not wish to discuss such personal matters with a stranger. Eleanor noticed, too, that the pulse at his throat had quickened markedly.
‘You promised Lord Craybourne that you would be back to talk with him and I see he is free now, Lord Bromley. Perhaps this would be a good time.’
‘It would.’ With a slight bow to the Dromornes he allowed Eleanor to lead the way across the floor, though once they were out of sight she felt his hand on her arm stopping her.
She turned and saw right into his tortured soul, the lack of reserve astonishing.
‘Are you ill, my lord?’
He looked away and swallowed hard. She had the distinct impression that should she leave him here in the middle of the crowded floor he might very well simply fall over.
Knowing the Challengers’ town house as well as she did, she gestured to a room off to one side, glad when he followed her and the door shut behind them.
‘I think you should sit down, Lord Bromley.’
He did that, immediately, and closed his eyes.
‘I have been alone for a very long time. It takes some getting used to, this crush of people.’
‘It was not like this in the Americas?’
‘I kept away from others there.’
His words to her brother in the library last night came back. ‘It is dangerous, Jake. If anything were to happen to you and your family...’
He was trapped in his life as surely as she was.
‘You think you might cause those around you harm? Even here in England?’
At that he opened his eyes and leant back. ‘I know so.’
‘Is it your uncle? Is it his doing?’
‘He has the motivation, but...’
‘You think it is another?’
* * *
For the first time in a long while Nicholas felt his intuition kick in fervently. Eleanor Huntingdon made him alive again in a way no one else did. He barely knew her, but there was something between them that felt right and strong.
‘I have many other enemies. Some I probably don’t even remember.’
‘That sounds dangerous. To not have recall of people who might hurt you, I mean. Is Dromorne one of those enemies?’
‘Perhaps. He is a friend of my uncle, Mr Aaron Bartlett, who now sets himself up in Bromworth Manor with the intention of taking both my title and inheritance.’
‘Why would he introduce his daughter to you, then? He looked as if he wished for you to take the acquaintance with his offspring a lot further.’
‘To hedge his bets, perhaps. A pound on my uncle and another on me. The Bromley assets are substantial.’
‘A gambling man? No true morality in him?’
‘I remember that I owe Dromorne money. No doubt he will be calling upon it as soon as he can.’
There was now a dark cloud of worry in Eleanor’s eyes as he told her this.
‘Could I give you some advice?’ He fashioned the words with care and was pleased when she nodded.
‘You should probably stay well away from me, Lady Eleanor. The man I used to be was not much, but this one is even more...’ Struggling for a word he gave up and left the implication hanging.
‘Perilous?’ Her smile surprised him as did the quick flare of anger. ‘That may very well be true, but you offered me a dance a few moments ago and I shall hold you to your promise. The quadrille is my favourite, Lord Bromley.’
He felt better even looking at her, the gold of her gown picking up the sky blue of her eyes. ‘I shall find you then when I hear the tune struck. And thank you.’ He gazed around the room.
‘My pleasure, but I think I must go now or the others will miss me.’
She had left before he could give her his response and the night dulled with her absence, but he needed the solitude, too, to recoup and recover. He hoped that there were not others here who would pounce on his memory. The medicines Jacob’s physician had given him for his arm were making him feel sick. Sick in body and in mind. This evening was a lot more tiring than he had thought it would be and he was only glad that Eleanor Huntingdon had recognised the desperation in him and found him sanctuary.
He tried in earnest to bring to mind the steps of the quadrille she had mentioned, hoping that he might manage it without tipping both of them over.
The face of his uncle also hovered above him, a man whom he had never liked. Looking back, Nick knew he should have heaved him out of his life when his majority was reached, but he had been too self-destructive to even bother, his days revolving around the fast London set, Vitium et Virtus and gambling.
A mistake, he thought now, looking back. He would see his man of business and his lawyer as soon as he could to find out where he stood with his inheritance. But a day or two away in the quiet English countryside might be just what he needed and the sooner he got rid of his father’s scheming younger brother from influencing any part of his future, the better.
* * *
The hours seemed to have flown by at this soirée of Frederick’s. Nicholas Bartlett had not come near her again, but she had watched him across the other side of the room, ensconced in a group of admirers both female and male.
He looked much recovered, she thought, and the fact that her brother and Frederick Challenger were there beside him probably had something to do with that.
Rose, next to her, saw where she was looking. ‘There is something about Lord Bromley that makes him fascinating, do you not think? He looks both vulnerable and dangerous, a man whose history sits upon him with weight.’
‘Did Jacob tell you of his time in the Americas?’
‘A little. He said the Viscount was always moving to the next place of work and that he had a hard life there. I think people here are watching to find the careless dissolute lord they used to know, for the young girls certainly have their eyes on him. But he does not seem to be rising to any expectation and that is what is causing a quandary. Who is he now seems to be the general question. Did you know him well before he left, Eleanor? Can you see similarities with who he is now?’
Eleanor ignored the first question and answered the second. ‘I think he was a lot less dangerous and more easily swayed perhaps.’
Nicholas Bartlett tipped his head as she said this and looked straight at her, across the distance of the room, across the music and the movement and the chatter and it was as if the tableau of everything faded. Only him. Only her. Only the memory of what had been. Her memory, but not his. She looked away and fidgeted with her reticule, hating the way her fingers shook as she reached for her fan.
‘Do you ever imagine yourself marrying again, Ellie?’ Rose’s voice was soft.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you are a beautiful woman with much to offer a man.’
‘No.’ The word burst from her very being, the truth of such emotion worrying. Because she did not. If she could not have Nicholas Bartlett to love her again as he had done before then she did not want anyone. Ever.
‘Secrets can be lonely things, Eleanor. If you wish to talk...’
Rose left it there as they both looked across to watch the orchestra tune up for their next round of songs and then the Viscount was right next to her, holding out his hand.
‘You promised me a dance, Lady Eleanor, and I have come to claim it.’
‘I think this one is a waltz, sir,’ she clarified, hearing the tell-tale three-beat music.
‘Good,’ he returned, ‘for I am sure I can remember those steps.’
‘And your injured hand?’ When she looked she saw he had taken off the sling in readiness, only the bandage left, a snowy white against the dark edge of the cuff of his jacket.
‘The doctor assured me that if needs be I could remove the sling without too much harm.’
He had not danced at all that evening and she could see the interest in those around them as he made his way to the floor with her in tow. Her brother was watching, as was Rose and myriad other faces from further afield.
‘One turn about the floor shall not drag you into the mire of who I am, I think. It should be safe.’
His fingers were at her side now, the other injured hand coming carefully on to hers. She could feel his breath in her hair as he counted in the steps and see up close the damage done to his face.
He did not try to hide it from her and she liked that, but the scar was substantial and recent, the reddened edges of it only just knitted.
‘The wife of the owner of the tavern I worked at sewed it up for me.’ He said this when he saw her observing him. ‘She was an accomplished seamstress so I was lucky.’
‘Lucky...’ she echoed his word.
‘Not to die from it. Lucky to have escaped a second blow and still live.’
‘What happened to the man who did this to you?’
When he glanced at her and she saw the darkness in his eyes she knew exactly what had happened to his assailant.
A further difference. Another danger.
‘Scars can be hidden, too, Lord Bromley.’
The upturn of his mouth told her he had heard her whisper even when he did not answer.
‘And rest assured that in a room like this there will be people who have been hurt just as surely as you.’
‘But they have not the luck to dance with the most beautiful woman in the house.’
‘I think your eyesight must have suffered with your injury.’
‘Gold suits you.’
She was quiet.
‘So does silence.’
At that she laughed, because thus far since meeting him again she had voiced her opinion without reserve. He made her talk again. He made her take risks.
He was quickly catching on to the rhythm of the dance and manoeuvred her easily about the room despite the number of others on the floor. She could feel hardness in his body where before there had been softness. He smelt of lemon soap and cleanliness, the lack of any other perfume refreshing.
At five foot six she was quite tall for a woman. With him she felt almost tiny, her head fitting easily into the space beneath his chin. Breathing him in, she allowed him to lead her, closing her eyes for a second just to feel what she once had at the Bromley town house the night before his disappearance. The night Lucy was conceived.
She had sent Lucy away today, back to Millbrook, just so that as a mother she might understand the road she must now travel.
Towards him or away? The quick squeeze of his fingers against hers brought her eyes up to his own, an emotion there she could not interpret.
‘A lack of memory is a hard taskmaster,’ he whispered, ‘because sometimes I imagine...’ He stopped.
‘What? What do you imagine?’
‘That I have danced with you before.’
She looked away and hated the lump that had formed in the back of her throat.
The night lights of the city had glowed through the large sashed windows of his town house as he had taken her into his arms and danced her to his bed.
Please remember, she thought. Please remember and love me. Then Mr Dromorne’s face at the side of the floor came into view, watching with eyes that held no warmth whatsoever and as the music ran down into the final notes Nicholas escorted her back to her brother.
She did not see him again that evening, but knew he had gone into the card room because the whispers of his luck there began to float into the salon.
An hour later when Rose pleaded tiredness, Eleanor was more than grateful to accompany her home.
* * *
Nicholas sat with a whisky in his room and listened to the clock strike the hour of five. The fire in the grate was still ablaze for he had fed it for all the small hours of the early morning with the coal piled near the hearth in a shining copper holder.
Eleanor Huntingdon was asleep somewhere in the house and close. He wished they could talk again. He wished he could see her smile and hear her clever honest words.
He had paid off Dromorne with a good percentage of his takings so that was one creditor he no longer had to worry about. His skill at cards had risen directly with the practice he’d had in the Americas.
The basic strategy of the games had become like second nature to him, the running number of points holding little difficulty. He could count down a single deck to zero within ten seconds in order to know exactly where his edge lay.
A dubious talent and one that told others much about the life he had lived in the interim. He had seen Jacob and Frederick watching him with questions in their eyes. He was only glad that Jacob’s sister had retired early because this acquired skill was not attractive.
He would need to leave for Bromworth Manor soon. That thought had him swallowing more of his whisky and standing to look out of the window.
The orderliness of London was what had struck him first on his return. The neat lines of houses and the straight roads. The lights added to the illusion that the city went on for ever, stretching from east to west in a long and unbroken tableau. Virginia and Georgia and the Carolinas had been wild and lonely places. Sometimes he had walked between settlements for a week or more and seen no one.
Tonight he had panicked badly in that room of Frederick’s with almost a hundred people in it and Eleanor had noticed and helped him. If she had not been there he wondered what might have happened. If she had not led him to that secluded room, he had no faith in thinking he would have coped.
He did not trust himself any more to act accordingly, to function here, to blend in with the ton whilst he tried to understand just who it was here who meant him harm.
If it was his uncle then it would be easy to negate any danger, but Eleanor’s question had set his mind running in other directions.
‘You think it is another?’
His father’s brother might have the motivation to see him dead in England, but he doubted the man had the drive or the contacts to send someone after him to the Americas. If it was not him, then it would need to be an enemy with a good deal of money to spare and a large axe to grind. He could think of any number of past acquaintances who might have fitted that bill given his debauched behaviour as a young viscount of means.
His sins were returning to roost. If he could only remember his missing week, he thought, he might know the perpetrator, but not one drip of recall had come through the solid curtain of mist.
He needed to sleep to be focused on his journey later that day and yet he did not seek his bed. Rather he stood and watched the moon and the sky and the cold gleam of freshly falling snow on the roadway in front of the Westmoor town house, his isolation making him shiver.