CHAPTER SIX
HER RETURN TO Lilles House was not as bad as Callie had expected. Her brother did not speak again of the incident that had set this whole thing in motion, and she, too, was happy to talk about other things. And since Sinclair had kindly and cleverly hidden from the duchess that she had not slept in her room the night before, she did not have to endure a long lecture from her grandmother.
The duchess was somewhat surprised to hear that they had called upon Lady Haughston so early, and even more so when she was told of Francesca’s invitation to Callie to stay with her. She protested that she could not imagine why Callie would prefer to stay in London in the dull months before the Season began rather than return to Marcastle. But her argument was merely perfunctory, and Callie was sure that she had seen a glimpse of relief in the duchess’s face. By the end of the day, her grandmother was musing about going on to Bath to visit her friends for the next few months, instead of returning to Marcastle with Rochford.
It was easy enough to supervise the packing, as Callie would take essentially what she had brought, along with the addition of some clothes that were here at their town house. There were a few things that she decided to have shipped from home, as her brother had predicted, so she had to write out a list for him to give the housekeeper at Marcastle. But it took only a little time and effort, and she was able to take leave of her grandmother and brother that evening and go to Francesca’s.
Sinclair accompanied her, as she had known he would, but he did not stay long, merely greeting Francesca, bidding Callie farewell, and taking Francesca’s butler aside for a brief talk that seemed to leave both of them well-satisfied.
Callie and Francesca spent the rest of the evening ensconced in Francesca’s comfortable little sitting room, discussing their plans for the upcoming visit. The first order of business, they agreed, was to shop for clothes. After all, one could scarcely begin the Season in frocks from last year, and if one was starting the Season early, then it only stood to reason that one must have one’s clothes early.
Thus, they set out the very first morning of Callie’s stay for Bruton and Conduit Streets, home to the finest milliners and modistes, not returning until late that afternoon, both of them tired and chilled by the damp cold of the day, but thoroughly satisfied.
“I think we have visited every milliner in this city,” Callie commented with a sigh, gratefully taking the cup of tea that Francesca’s efficient butler had brought within moments after their return.
“If we have not, we soon will,” Francesca promised. “I still have not found exactly what I want for summer afternoons. But I thought we did very nicely with the dresses.”
“Yes, though I do wish I could wear something besides white,” Callie grumbled. “I would so love a green ball gown—or even one of palest pink.”
Francesca laughed. “Just be glad that white looks fetching on you, with that glorious black hair and strawberries-and-cream skin. Think of how awful it is for us blondes. We look positively insipid.”
Callie smiled at the other woman. “I am quite sure that you never faded away in any dress. Everyone knows that you have been the reigning beauty of London since your presentation.”
“Thank you, my dear, that is lovely to hear, although I am sure it is not true. Anyway, I thought that the blue accents on the satin ball gown quite made up for its being white.”
“You are right.” Callie thought of the sketch she had chosen for the gleaming white satin—an overskirt looped up over a froth of white tulle ruffles, each high point of the drapery anchored with a baby blue rosette, with a blue satin sash around the high waist, and blue ribbons bordering the cap sleeves of the bodice. “And the lace and seed pearls on the other ball gown are lovely, too. Besides, I should never complain about anything when I am shopping with you. It is ever so much nicer than going with my grandmother. She always insists on raising the necklines.”
“Oh, dear.” Francesca made a moue of distress. “Will I be in trouble with the duchess now? I did not think any of the gowns were immodestly low.”
“They were not,” Callie assured her. “Everyone, even the youngest girl making her first Season, shows more of their bosom than Grandmother allows me. I cannot imagine why. In her time, they wore much more daring necklines. But even she will not dare to say anything about a dress that you approved. She has always told me that you have the best sense of style of anyone in the ton.”
“That is a compliment to treasure. Everyone knows the Duchess of Rochford is the epitome of elegance.”
The two women spent a few more minutes happily going over their fashion coups, enjoying the bargains in ribbons, buttons, trims and shawls from Grafton’s almost as much as the pelisses and dresses from the finest modistes. Fenton had brought in a tray of small cakes and sandwiches along with the tea, and they hungrily downed them as they talked, washing everything down with sweet milky tea.
Finally, reaching the end of the repast as well as of their recounting of their purchases, Francesca set her teacup down and said, “Now, if you are tired and do not wish to, you must tell me, but I had thought that we might begin our little project this evening by going to the theater.”
“Oh, no, I am quite revived,” Callie assured her, her dark eyes brightening with interest. “That sounds delightful.”
“Good. I shall send a note round to Sir Lucien. One can always count on him as an escort,” Francesca said, getting up and suiting her action to her words by sitting down at the small desk beside the window and beginning to scribble a note to her friend. “I thought it would give us a chance to do a spot of reconnoitering. See just what bachelors out there are worth meeting. And, of course, we need to decide exactly what requirements we are looking for in a husband for you.”
“I am not choosy, really,” Callie told her. “He does not have to be wealthy or come from the highest of families. My grandmother is always telling me that I am distressingly egalitarian.” She sighed. “Though I suppose a certain amount of wealth and name are necessary to make sure he is not marrying me for my money and family.”
“And looks?”
“Are not that important, either, although it would be nice if he were not terrible to look at. He need not be handsome—but I like a strong face. And intelligent eyes.” The image of gray eyes under straight dark brows came unbidden to her mind. She had never realized, Callie thought, until she met him, but the Earl of Bromwell’s face was precisely the sort of masculine visage that drew her. But, of course, she reminded herself, she was not foolish enough to choose a spouse on the basis of looks.
“He must be easy to talk to,” Callie told Francesca firmly. “And have a sense of humor. I could not abide a husband who was always serious. Nor do I want a scholar. So many of Rochford’s friends bore me to tears, the way they go on and on about history and such.” She cast the other woman a sheepish glance and chuckled. “I must sound quite shallow.”
“Not at all. I am sure Rochford’s scholarly friends would have the same effect on me.” Francesca blew on the note to hasten the drying of the ink, then folded and sealed it.
“But I don’t want a dullard, either,” Callie pointed out. “I mean, Rochford is not boring until he gets around one of those men with whom he corresponds. Scientists and historians and such. But I would not want someone who did not know how to make a clever rejoinder or could not understand what Sinclair is talking about, either.” She paused. “Oh, dear, I am beginning to think that I have a great many more requirements than I thought.”
“And well you should. You are, dear girl, a prize in the marriage mart. It should require a special man to win you. Besides, it makes it far easier to winnow through the prospects. Why, simply refusing dullards will cross out a large number of the men of the ton.”
“You are wicked,” Callie told her, laughing.
“Merely truthful,” Francesca responded as she rose from her desk and went to pull the bell cord to summon a servant. “There, I have invited Sir Lucien to dine with us before the theater.”
Even though Sir Lucien was her dear friend and most faithful escort, Francesca knew that it was always best to insure his company with a supper invitation. A confirmed bachelor and a man of impeccable style and taste, Sir Lucien’s pockets were usually to let—due partly to the small size of his income and even more to the fact that he spent the major portion of that income on his clothes and the small but fashionably located rooms he let. Therefore, he was accustomed to dining out frequently, using his primary assets of good looks and good taste to maintain a steady supply of invitations from a number of hostesses.
The invitation sent, the two women went upstairs to prepare for the evening ahead. After all, the purpose of an evening at the theater was not the play, but the opportunity to see and be seen, and one needed to look one’s best just as much as one would at a party.
A short nap with a cool lavender-soaked rag across her eyes was enough to refresh Callie and return her to her usual looks. She followed it with a bath, then dressed with the help of her maid, Belinda, choosing her favorite white evening dress, piped around the bottom of the overskirt and along the neckline with white braid. She wished that she could wear the dark green morocco slippers she had ordered just this afternoon, but, of course, they would not be finished for another few days, so she had to settle for a pair of brocade slippers. Her only jewelry was a single short strand of pearls with matching earrings. An elegant fan and long gloves would complete the outfit.
She sat down in front of her vanity, and her maid swept her hair up in a knot at the crown of her head, letting it fall down from the knot in several long curls, carefully formed with Callie’s brush. In the front, around Callie’s face, she allowed the shorter hair to frame her features in natural soft curls. Belinda had, Callie knew, been inspired to make her best effort on the hairdo because of the presence of Francesca’s maid, Maisie, who was reputed to be an artist with hair. Callie thanked her, smiling, then went downstairs to join Francesca.
She found Sir Lucien sitting with her hostess, talking while they enjoyed a glass of sherry before supper. Sir Lucien sprang to his feet when Callie entered the room and executed a graceful bow.
“Lady Calandra! You can imagine my pleasure at being allowed to escort two such lovely ladies to the theater. The gods have indeed smiled upon me.”
“Sir Lucien.” Callie smiled at the man fondly.
Sir Lucien was urbane, witty and handsome, the perfect escort—and, Callie suspected, more interested in one’s frock than in the woman inside it. Of course, no one would speak of such things before a young unmarried girl, but it had not taken Callie long to sense that Sir Lucien’s flirtation and flatteries were more an enjoyable game to him than anything that contained real feeling. While he had a great appreciation of beauty in any form, whether it was a face or figure or the cut of one’s dress, she had never witnessed in him the flash of heat that flared in some men’s eyes when they looked at her. Lord Bromwell, for instance—there had been an intensity to his gaze, a palpable warmth that emanated from his body when he drew her close to kiss her.
“I am so glad you came,” Callie told Sir Lucien, firmly putting aside her wayward thoughts of Lord Bromwell. “Although I fear our gain must be some other poor hostess’s loss.”
Sir Lucien gave a graceful shrug. “I was planning to attend Mrs. Doddington’s musicale this evening, and I can only thank you for saving me from that. The woman always has excellent refreshments—poor Lethingham’s been trying to steal her cook from under her nose for years. But her taste in music is execrable. And she always insists on her daughters contributing a set, which is more than one should have to bear, really.”
He kept up this sort of light, entertaining chatter through much of dinner; it was, after all, one of the reasons why he never lacked for invitations—he could keep any dinner or party from becoming utterly dull. For Callie, fresh from the very quiet months at Marcastle, it was a welcome and informative reintroduction to London society. Sir Lucien knew the latest gossip about everyone and everything that happened in the beau monde—what gentleman was on the verge of having to flee the country to avoid debtors’ prison, what lady’s newest offspring was said to look remarkably unlike her husband, and which scion of what noble house was rumored to have challenged someone to a duel over a hand of cards.
He did not question Callie’s early return to the city. To Sir Lucien’s way of thinking, any sane person would leap at the chance to trade any bucolic estate, no matter how grand, for a stay in London. But later, when they had settled into their box in the theater, and Callie and Francesca had begun to discuss the possibilities around them in the audience, Sir Lucien became curious.
He leaned forward to look Callie full in the face and said, “My dear girl, unless my ears deceive me, you seem to be—is it possible—vetting the gentlemen here as marriage material?”
Callie blushed a little, but Francesca replied flippantly, “But of course, Lucien—what else do the ladies of London do? Every Season is another market.”
“But Lady Calandra?” He raised a brow. “Can it be that you have decided to break the hearts of half of London and settle down in the married state?”
“I doubt it would be that tragic an event,” Callie countered, smiling a little. “But, yes, I am considering it.”
“Do you have a lucky man in mind? Or is this Season to be an open tournament for your hand?”
“Lucien…” Francesca said warningly. “I do hope you are not planning to cast that news about. We shall have every adventurer in the city on our doorstep.”
“My dear Francesca!” The man placed his hand over his heart, assuming an appalled expression. “How can you say so? Of course I will not say the slightest word, if you and Lady Calandra do not wish it. Besides…” A mischievous grin played about his lips. “It will be far too much fun to watch it all play out.” He turned, raising the lorgnette that hung by a black silk ribbon from his lapel and making a survey of the audience. “Let us see, who are you considering? Bertram Westin? He is a devilishly handsome sort, but I have heard that he is far too fond of the cards.”
“No, I have never really liked the man,” Callie replied, casting a look around. She had been doing so as unobtrusively as possible since they arrived. She hoped it did not appear as if she was looking for someone in particular, though she was honest enough to admit to herself that she would not be displeased to see that Lord Bromwell was attending the play.
Not, of course, that she was considering him as a prospect for marriage. Still, she had not been able to get the man out of her mind for the past few days, and she could not keep from surveying the crowd now and again, just to see if he had entered the theater.
“There are Lord and Lady Farrington,” Francesca said, raising her fan to speak behind it. “The third box from the stage across from us. Their oldest son will inherit a fortune.” She frowned. “Though one rarely sees him about. I wonder why.”
“Shy, I hear,” Sir Lucien supplied the answer. “It is said that he prefers, um, relationships of a more, shall we say, commercial nature? ’Tis easier than facing a line of young ladies, you see.”
“Oh, dear,” Francesca said. “Well, I suppose we shall have to cross him off the list.”
“What about Sir Alastair Surton?” Sir Lucien asked, his glasses stopping on a man in the audience below them.
Callie let out a groan. “He is forever going on about his horses and his dogs. I like riding as much as anyone, but I would like some of my conversation to be about something else.”
“True,” Lucien agreed. “He is rather dull. I fear the selection is small until the Season starts.”
“We are simply making a preliminary survey. A reconnaissance. Is that not what you call it?”
“Not I. Not much of a military sort, myself,” Sir Lucien remarked.
Francesca reached out to give his arm a playful tap with her fan.
“You know, Lady Calandra,” Sir Lucien said dryly. “You need not look far to find the perfect spouse. He is sitting right here in this box.”
“You are putting yourself forth as a candidate?” Francesca asked, raising a brow skeptically. “Everyone knows you are a confirmed bachelor.”
“Perhaps I simply have not had the right incentive,” Sir Lucien protested, the twinkle in his eyes belying his words. “You must admit, ladies, that it would be difficult to find a more agreeable or entertaining man than myself. I am a marvelous dancer.”
“That is true,” Callie admitted, smiling.
“And who is better at talking to all one’s old boring female relatives?”
“No one,” Francesca agreed.
“And,” he added triumphantly, “you would always have someone to advise you on your ball gowns.”
“What more could one ask?” Callie said.
“The only problem is that you would have to get married, Lucien,” Francesca pointed out.
“That is a drawback,” he conceded, then offered Callie a brilliant smile. “But in the case of one as beautiful as Lady Calandra, it would surely be worth the sacrifice.”
Callie laughed. “Careful, Sir Lucien. Someday someone is going to take you up on one of your jests, and then what will you do?”
He cast a laughing sideways glance at her as he murmured, “There is always a trip to the Continent.”
A smile still lingering on her lips, Callie turned to glance out over the audience again. Her eye was caught by movement as the door to one of the boxes opened and two men entered it, casually chatting. One of them was the Earl of Bromwell.
Callie’s heart began to pound, and she quickly glanced away. She kept her face turned firmly from the box, letting some time pass before she made another slow survey of the house.
It was, indeed, her Cavalier of the other night, dressed more sedately in black jacket and breeches, a blindingly white shirtfront and cravat showing between the lapels of his jacket. He had taken off his greatcoat and now sat in one of the chairs, the other man beside him. His arm was on the ledge of the box before him, and he was half turned toward his companion. She could not see his expression. But she remembered well enough how he looked—the smile that started with a crinkling around his eyes and spread to his lips, the gray of his eyes that changed to silver or the dark color of a storm cloud depending on the emotion that touched his face.
Callie turned toward her friends. “Who are those gentlemen in the box to our right—almost in the center of the theater? One has dark hair, and the other is lighter, almost blond.”
Francesca turned to scan the audience. “The box beside Lady Whittington and her daughter?”
Callie turned to check, and this time she found Lord Bromwell and his companion looking straight at her box. Color rushed into her cheeks. The earl smiled faintly and nodded to her.
“Yes,” Callie said in a constrained voice and quickly looked back down at her hands.
“Do you know him?” Francesca asked, astonished.
“Not exactly. I—he was at Lady Pencully’s party.”
“Who wasn’t?” Sir Lucien asked rhetorically as he, too, swiveled his head to gaze at the two men. “I do not recognize the dark one, but the other is Archibald Tilford.” He glanced back at Callie. “He is not anyone for you to consider. Pleasant chap, but he lives on a stipend from his cousin—wait.” Sir Lucien paused, frowning a little, and turned back to look once again at the other box. “Yes, that just might be his cousin. The Earl of Bromwell. If it is, he would definitely be a contender. I have met him only once, a few years back. Yes, that could be he.”
“The Earl of Bromwell…” Francesca said consideringly. “I don’t think—oh.” She stiffened slightly. “Do you mean the brother of Lady Swithington?”
Sir Lucien nodded. “He is rarely in London. He went north to his estate in Yorkshire when he inherited—oh, a good ten years ago. Not long after I left Oxford. The old earl’s pockets were pretty much to let when he died, but they say the son has recovered their fortune. Better than that, actually. I hear the man is positively wallowing in money now.”
“How did he make all this money?” Callie asked.
Sir Lucien gave her a droll look. “My dear, I haven’t the faintest idea. But I do know that the family does not like to discuss it. The whiff of trade, you see.”
“I cannot imagine why people feel they need to hide the fact that one makes money. Sinclair always says that he sees no reason why gentility should have to include poverty.”
“For some, I fear, gentility is one’s only asset,” Sir Lucien replied.
“Alas, not a very marketable one,” Francesca added wryly.
Francesca continued to study the man in the other box. He and his companion were no longer looking in their direction but were once again chatting. From time to time the earl glanced down at the playbill in his hand.
Finally Francesca said in a careful voice, “Do you wish to add him to your list of prospects?”
Callie shrugged, doing her best to look unconcerned, as if her stomach had not turned somersaults when he looked over at her. “I—the other night at the party he seemed…pleasant.”
She looked over at Francesca. There was something in the other woman’s eyes, an expression of—she was not sure what. Uneasiness, perhaps? Francesca glanced at Sir Lucien, then down at her hands.
“What?” Callie asked, straightening. “Do you know aught about this man? Is there some black spot in his past?”
“No. Indeed, I do not know him at all,” Francesca assured her, shifting a little in her seat.
Callie narrowed her eyes, studying her, and Francesca went on, “I know his sister…slightly.”
“You know something bad about her?”
“I—truly, I do not know her well,” Francesca said. “I—she has lived for the past few years in Wales, I believe, at the estate of her aging husband. I have heard, however, that he has recently departed this world, and she is a widow. No doubt, she will now return to London to find another wealthy husband.”
Callie recognized a distinct trace of venom in Francesca’s voice, and she wondered at the cause of it. It was unlike Francesca to display even that much ugly emotion. She was normally one to turn aside a barb when someone else made it, or to couch her own remarks, even disparaging ones, in a light and witty way. But, clearly, she did not like the earl’s sister. Callie would have liked to pursue the matter, but, just as clearly, it was not a topic that Francesca wished to discuss.
“Ah, look, the play is about to start,” Francesca said, turning toward the stage with an air of relief.
Callie settled down to watch the play, as well, telling herself that she would delve into the subject of the earl’s sister later, during the intermission, when Sir Lucien would doubtless leave to get them all refreshments.
The play was not a particularly exciting one, and Callie had trouble keeping her mind on the stage. She was aware of an urge to glance over at the earl’s box, but she would not allow herself to do so. It would not do to let him see that she had an interest in him. But she could not keep her mind from going where it would, and her thoughts kept turning to the man.
Why had her brother objected to him? Francesca and Sir Lucien, two of the mainstays of the ton, had not even recognized him, and they were much more likely than Sinclair to know all the gossip. The earl could not be a well-known rake, which had been Callie’s fear after the way Sinclair had reacted to his being with her on the terrace. If the earl was a man who was in the habit of seducing maidens, Callie was certain that Sir Lucien would know that fact, even if by some stretch of the imagination Francesca did not. Callie was also sure that Sir Lucien would have, at the very least, found a delicate way of warning her away from the man.
So, if there was no scandal attached to his name, why did Sinclair dislike him? He must know Lord Bromwell. But, according to Sir Lucien, the earl spent his time in Yorkshire on his estates, so Callie had no idea how Sinclair would even be acquainted with him. The duke had no land in Yorkshire that Callie knew of; certainly she had never gone there with him.
Perhaps at some time Sinclair had done some sort of business with the man. Sinclair, unlike most noblemen, not only paid active attention to the welfare of his many lands, he also was wont to invest his money—as well as Callie’s own, smaller, fortune. She supposed that Sinclair could have thought that the earl had done something ethically wrong in his business. Callie was certain that Sinclair would not dislike the man simply because he was involved in making money, even though many of the aristocracy did consider such a thing crass.
Or, Callie thought, perhaps Sinclair had merely reacted to the situation. He had been anxious about her welfare; he had been looking for her. And when he had found her alone on the terrace with a man, perhaps it had alarmed him so much that he simply assumed the man must be a scoundrel, even though he did not know him.
That, she thought, seemed the likeliest thing. If Sinclair had leaped to such a conclusion, that meant that when time passed and he looked back on the situation, he would probably realize that he had acted hastily and without any real knowledge. And Sinclair, being the fair sort he was, would admit that he had been wrong to judge the other man so quickly and on such little evidence. If he could be made to see that he was wrong, Sinclair would always admit it and apologize. Surely that would be the case with the Earl of Bromwell.
On the other hand, Callie could not forget that Sinclair had called the other man by name. And that meant, of course, that he did know him, even if Francesca and Sir Lucien did not. It had seemed to her that the earl had recognized Sinclair, as well.
She was still worrying over the problem when the lights of the theater came back up, and the audience began to rustle and move about. Sir Lucien volunteered to go out into the lobby and bring back glasses of ratafia for the two women. As soon as he left, Callie turned toward Francesca, determined to steer the conversation back to Bromwell’s sister, but Francesca had scarcely gotten past a few generalities about the play when there was a knock upon their door.
Callie suppressed her irritation as Francesca called out a polite invitation to enter. It was in general the custom to pay calls back and forth among the boxes at the play or opera. Callie had been hoping to get in a few words with Francesca before visitors began to arrive, but obviously that was not to be the case.
Like Francesca, she turned toward the door with a welcoming smile. It opened to reveal the blond man whom Sir Lucien had identified as Mr. Tilford. Next to him stood the Earl of Bromwell.