Chapter 9
April 1, 1814
“Ah! I see you’re back,” the Earl of Hartford said mildly as he stood to greet his son. “Do come in, dear boy.”
Torn between a familiar twinge of disappointment and the stirrings of amusement, Grey was surprised to feel himself smile easily. His lordship, having been informed by the butler that his long-lost elder son was in the vestibule, had done no more than lay aside the Gazette and inform the rather stunned-looking Dimbleby that he might bring the viscount up to the library. Now, as Grey crossed the softly hued Aubusson carpet, his father regarded him with polite interest.
“You’re looking extremely fit, sir,” Grey said by way of greeting. As he shook his father’s hand, he thought how well the elder man wore his seventy years. Hartford was always impeccably turned out in the finest and most subtle of taste. His tall, lean figure never seemed to change, though his hair had gone completely white and his ice blue eyes appeared to be even more piercing under the snowy tufts of his brows. Grey decided now that perhaps this was one of his parent’s positive attributes: he was reassuringly predictable. And most predictable of all was his impassivity.
Hartford believed that it was bad form to show emotion. He had once remarked to his son that while there must be occasions to warrant such displays, he had yet to encounter one. He had weathered the birth of three children, the death of his wife delivering their daughter when Grey was ten, and more recently the loss of his second son, David, in the battle of Salamanca. If none of these had caused him openly to shed a tear, why should the return of his heir from rumored death be an exception?
“I look well?” Hartford repeated, as if trying to make sense of his son’s remark. “Why should I be otherwise?” He glanced up as two maids came in with tea and cakes. “Ah, just the thing. Can you stay for tea, my boy?”
“Father, I’ve come home,” Grey said, with labored patience. Why had he allowed himself to hope that the earl might show some sign of affection or relief or even simple pleasure when he presented himself after a two-year absence?
“So I surmised, but I thought you might have other matters to attend to.” Hartford sipped his tea, then inquired, “The war is over, I gather?”
“Nearly so, sir. I’ve been in prison at Mont St. Michel this past year. I escaped and found a way back to England, thinking that, perhaps, I might be allowed to take leave. Matters seem so nearly resolved on the continent that I felt the Allied forces could doubtless manage without me.” His tone was dry and laced with irony, a match to his father’s spare conversational style.
“Prison, hmm? So that’s where you’ve been. No doubt that was unpleasant, but certainly preferable to David’s fate.” Hartford glanced longingly toward his Gazette, but forced himself to chat a few minutes longer. “I’ll own that you don’t look well, dear boy. But then, you’re getting older. I tend to forget that you’re...”
“Thirty-six,” Grey supplied.
“Hmm. Yes, of course. Well, you look as if you could do with a good meal and a good bed.”
“Father, where is Francesca?” Grey asked abruptly, ready at last to hear what he sensed was bad news.
The earl drew his mouth into a tight line and appeared perilously near visible annoyance. “How very tedious. I’d hoped that you had already been told. You know, Grey, I never did care for that girl—”
“I need not remind you that I only married her at your behest, Father,” Grey put in firmly. “I was tired of being badgered to marry and sire an heir, and tired of being chased by the mothers of every girl in England. Francesca was beautiful, and eminently suitable, you said. For my part, I was simply glad to have it settled so that I might devote myself to the war with Bonaparte.”
“I’ll not deny that there were many practical advantages to that marriage, nor that I encouraged it,” Hartford replied in chill tones. “The competence Carsbury settled upon his daughter discharged debts that were a threat to our fortune, and that affected you, my boy. No one coerced you to agree, however.” He gave his son a shrewd glance, thinking of the passion he had seen in Grey’s eyes before his wedding to the hot-blooded Francesca Carsbury Burke. The young woman’s first marriage to a corporal in the King’s Own Third Dragoons had been short-lived, thanks to the war, and she had emerged from mourning one year later wearing a restless, knowing expression that had roused the interest of every healthy male she’d encountered. “You had an odd kick in your gallop that spring, my boy,” Hartford continued. “I never did know whether it was boredom with your mistress or an urge to cause a stir among the ton that sent you to the altar; I certainly didn’t ascribe your compliance to any desire to please me.”
Grey nearly laughed aloud, longing to declare his belief that the earl had spared little energy worrying about his son’s motives or state of mind. Instead he remarked cynically, “It was an interesting wedding night.”
“And then you returned almost immediately to your ship, leaving me to share this house with the new Lady Altburne.” The earl’s gaze wandered as he reached out with a thin hand to touch the Gazette. Sniffing, he added, “I couldn’t like her.”
“Father, our apartment is quite separate from yours. I highly doubt that you had occasion to encounter Francesca with any regularity.” Grey’s eyes were steely as he leaned forward and said, “Now, kindly tell me the whereabouts of my wife.”
“Have you heard nothing at all?”
“A rumor,” he allowed. “I would appreciate facts in its stead.”
“Well, your bride has flown,” Hartford said placidly, with a wave of his hand. “Run away, you know.”
“Father, I would be obliged if you would simply lay the thing bare for me! I’m in no humor for struggling to elicit each scrap of information.”
“Unfortunately, dear boy, I am in possession of relatively few facts. One day, a few months after you returned to sea, your wife disappeared. Left a letter that claimed she had no marriage and couldn’t bear such a life any longer. Something about a premonition that you’d be killed in any event, so what was the point? Such a lot of nonsense.” The earl opened a golden snuffbox and gracefully took a pinch before continuing. “Since you’re keen on hearing everything, I’ll add that rumors were flying at the time that Francesca had run away with a lover, but I’ve no idea whether there was any truth in that.”
“Do you not?” Grey queried coolly. “And have you no news of her whereabouts?”
His father stared thoughtfully into space for a moment as if searching his memory. “I do believe that I heard she’d somehow gotten herself to America. Michael Angelo Taylor mentioned to me when we last met at Brook’s that she had written a letter to her father that took six months to arrive. I wouldn’t rely on Taylor’s word, however.” Hartford brought the folded journal back into his lap and let his eyes roam over the printed columns. “No doubt you’re fatigued, dear boy. The servants will be delighted to fuss over you.”
Taking his cue, Grey stood. He had a thousand questions more to ask, but it was evident that the earl had already exceeded his time limit for filial conversations.
“I’ll be dining out, Father.”
Hartford nodded absently, not looking up. “Fine, fine.”
* * *
Grey was aware of an almost overpowering sense of unreality as he stood in the bedchamber inhabited by his bride for so short a time. He found new holland covers on the furniture, but the soft gold walls and gold, green, and cream carpet were poignantly familiar. Drawing the cover from the testered Hepplewhite bed, he stared at the rich mustard brocade counterpane and pictured Francesca lying across it, her auburn hair spread out to frame a pale face with slanting, thick-lashed green eyes and a luscious red mouth. Her legs had been long, pale and smooth as alabaster, and her breasts—
Grey gave himself a mental shake. It was true that his bride had been a tigress in bed, and in those days he had been satisfied with the match if only for the most carnal reasons. Now, however, as dusk cast a pall over the bedchamber, the entire affair seemed a rather unsavory dream. It was difficult to remember exactly how it had all come about. In part, he blamed his fondness for spirits during the weeks of his leave in England that spring of 1812. Drink had dulled his judgment. Then there was his boredom with Alycia, just as the earl had suspected. His longtime mistress had been over-preoccupied with a desire to have him buy her a house, gowns, jewels, and assorted other treasures during his brief stay in London. Francesca had sparked the sort of lust he hadn’t known for a long time, and he now remembered having some notion of getting her with child to leave an heir behind in the event of his death.
Thank God there had been no child, Grey reflected as he wandered into the dressing rooms and that connected his wife’s bedchamber to his own. Four-year-old suits of clothing hung neatly in his dressing room, and it was as if they belonged to a dead man. It was obvious that he’d need to pay a visit to his tailor on the morrow. Where, Grey wondered, was Clive Speed? His devoted valet of nearly two dozen years was an authority on all matters of male style, taste, and breeding. He had taught his master to shave and to tie a cravat that would rival any of Brummell’s; Grey would have gladly taken Speed with him into war had it not been for the man’s advancing years.
Somehow, even though he’d sent no word of his impending arrival to Hartford House, he had rather expected the valet to be waiting beside his shaving stand with a fresh neckcloth. Perhaps, Grey thought, he was taking a turn in the park. There doubtless had not been a great deal to occupy the proud manservant during his employer’s two-year absence.
A few gowns and personal possessions remained in Francesca’s dressing room. Grey had an odd feeling when he touched the gossamer-thin muslins and rich silks, remembering how the fabrics had clung to her body. They had lived together as man and wife for less than two months, yet Francesca was burned indelibly into his memory. Out of bed she had been difficult to deal with, although never boring, and their lusty encounters between the sheets had had a combative edge. Once or twice, when they had coupled in daylight, Grey had glimpsed a light in her eyes that had seemed calculating. At the time he had dismissed his vague sense of unease, but now the memory gave him a chill. Today, with the war nearly over and his life spared, he was glad to be rid of Francesca and their marriage. It had been an impetuous, foolish business, the sort of thing that occurred all too frequently in time of war. He knew that his pride should be bruised, but he thanked God that his wife had been shallow enough to run away in search of excitement rather than wait for him out of stubbornness or greed.
She’d given up quite a lot, he had to admit. Francesca’s father and her first husband had been wealthy, so his own modest fortune was not of great importance. However, he knew that she had been impressed by her new title, the history of their ancestral estates, their position in society, and the heirlooms that passed to her as his wife. It must have pained her to leave behind his mother’s jewels, which she had worn constantly in the weeks after their wedding. Grey knew that Francesca had dreamed of the day when the earl would die, passing on his title to Grey, and she would be Countess of Hartford.
Just to set his mind at ease, Grey found his own key to the secret drawer in Francesca’s satinwood dressing table. Inserting it in the tiny golden lock, he slid open the drawer and withdrew the carved mahogany box that had always held the jewelry belonging to his mother and, more lately, his wife. They were exquisite pieces, many of which had been in the family for more than two hundred years, and it had always made Grey feel a bit odd to see Francesca wearing them. Somehow, he sensed that his mother would not have approved.
Assuming that the jewels would be inside the box, he opened the lid. His heart froze. All that lay against the velvet interior was Francesca’s wedding ring, along with the pearl-and-emerald choker he had given her as a marriage gift.
Speed had doubtless put the other pieces away for safekeeping, he decided immediately. He pulled the bell cord and waited restlessly for Dimbleby, who had been pacing in the passageway in anticipation of his lordship’s request for a bath or a hot meal. The old man appeared in moments.
“How may I serve you, my lord?”
“Where is Speed? Has he gone out for the afternoon?”
“No, my lord. Were you not aware that he had taken another position?”
“What?” Grey stared in disbelief. “Are you roasting me, Dimbleby?”
The butler was mortified. “Of course not, my lord! I would never do such a thing! Mr. Speed was never himself after you went away, sir. Quite at a loss, he was. Then he was offered an excellent position as valet to Lord Faircastle, and although the decision was difficult, he had to go for his own peace of mind. There was no telling how long the war would go on, or what the outcome would be.”
Grey was visibly shaken. What a fool he had been to expect his world here to stand still until his return! But to lose Clive Speed was almost more than he could bear. Had he not made it plain to his manservant how deeply he valued him? Then, remembering the fog he had operated in during his wedding leave, he felt a wave of self-loathing. Speed had been more than a perfect valet; he’d also been father, companion, and confidant. From the time of the countess’s death, he had been Grey’s anchor, discreetly guiding him through adolescence and into manhood. How would he manage without him?
“Faircastle, you said?” he murmured, looking pained.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well, I cannot fault him. Faircastle is head of his own household, so it was a step up for Speed, hmm?”
“Might I venture the opinion that Mr. Speed was motivated more by the fact that Lord Faircastle is present, my lord? He needed to be occupied.”
It occurred then to Grey that Clive Speed might be lured back to his former employer if a heartfelt plea was made. “Dimbleby, I would like a hot bath. I’m going out.” His thoughts bounced back and forth between the challenge to recover his manservant and his desire for the company of Alycia Hamlyn, the mistress he had cast aside so heartlessly on the occasion of his marriage. After settling matters with Speed, he would go to the tenderhearted, loyal Alycia, and beg her pardon. Fortunately the evening was young.
“Yes, my lord. I’ll have a bath for you straightaway. And I shall send someone to see to your clothing.”
“Thank you.” Grey started to turn away, then remembered to ask, “Dimbleby, you don’t happen to know if Speed or my father put Lady Altburne’s jewelry away for safekeeping after she... uh, departed?”
“No, my Lord. I haven’t a clue.”
A shadow passed over Grey’s face. “I feared as much.”
* * *
Edward Meadows, the sixth Marquis of Faircastle, lived in Faircastle House, which had been built by his grandfather on the west side of St. James Square in 1755. The fifth marquis had perished in a duel while his son was still at Oxford, and Edward remained uneasy in his title. He was eight years younger than Grey, so they had never been friends, but Grey remembered him hanging about at White’s and Brook’s soon after inheriting his earldom, and he’d seemed a genuine sort of fellow.
Standing outside as he waited for a response to his knock, Grey decided that he almost preferred Faircastle House to his own family residence. Its facade was plain, but there was a top-lit staircase in the center of the building around which, on the first floor, ran a circuit of magnificent reception rooms. He’d attended a memorable rout here soon after his wedding and had found the house to be richly colorful and warm. Hartford House, on the other hand, was a cool place. Its huge, high-ceilinged rooms were filled with priceless works of art that made Grey feel as if he lived in a museum. Briar Hill, the family estate in Hampshire, was a pleasantly different matter, but he’d spent little time there as an adult.
When Faircastle’s rather courtly butler admitted him into a splendid entry hall lit by a glittering chandelier, Grey began to sympathize with Clive Speed’s decision to defect.
“Lord Altburne, it’s a pleasure to see you safely returned from the continent,” the butler dared to remark. “I’m sorry to inform you that his lordship is not at home this evening.”
Relieved, Grey felt a fresh surge of confidence. Perhaps all had not been quite as he left it two years ago, but he would soon have matters restored to their proper order. “Actually, Forbes, I have not come to see Lord Faircastle. This may sound rather odd, but I’d hoped to have a word with Mr. Speed, his lordship’s manservant.”
“Ah, I see, my lord. Well...” Forbes paused, as if wondering how to proceed.
“I’ll be happy to go below stairs to meet with him.”
“Certainly not, my lord! Follow me, please.”
The butler took Grey to a small study near the back of the house, furnished him with a glass of champagne, and then excused himself. Grey stood near a cheery fire burning in a small, tiled fireplace and drank the champagne. Idly he surveyed his own appearance, knowing he’d earn a scold from Speed. His clothing might look impeccable to an unschooled eye, but the manservant would notice immediately that his buff pantaloons were not as snug as they ought to be, his cravat was not as fresh and crisp as new snow, and his blue coat was a trifle outdated. Grey might have turned ladies’ heads on St. James Square, but Speed was a genius for the fine points of dressing a gentleman.
The paneled door to the study opened, and Clive Speed entered, unannounced. He looked considerably older than Grey remembered him. Always small and wiry, he was now slightly bent, and the light dusting of gray hair atop his narrow head had disappeared completely. The gleam in his snapping brown eyes was unchanged, however, as was his habit of clearing his throat whenever he tried not to show emotion.
“When they told me it was you, my lord, I thought they were having me on,” he said softly.
Grey strode forward and shook the older man’s hand with feeling. He would have hugged him, but he knew that Speed would be horrified by such a breach of propriety. “Speed, how good it is to see you! I’ll confess that it was a terrible shock to find that you’d left Hartford House.”
“You shouldn’t have come here, my lord. You had only to send word and I would have been before you in a trice.” His sharp eyes wandered quickly over the form of his erstwhile master. “What did they do to you, my lord? How thin and pale you’ve grown, and—”
“I’ve probably tied my cravat improperly, hmm?” Grey interjected, with a grin. “I’ve been in one of Boney’s prisons, Speed, but that’s over now and I’m home. A few days of sun, good food, and sleep and I’ll be fine. Tell me about yourself. Am I really doomed to rattle through life without benefit of your guidance?”
Speed went to stand before the fireplace, staring at the dancing flames. “I’ve dreaded this day for a year, my lord. The only thing that frightened me more was the possibility that you might not come home to give me a dressing-down. You must know how fond I am of you. I’ve no right to say it, but there were moments when it felt as if we were father and son...”
“I felt it as well!” Grey answered, with feeling.
“How can I explain what led me to leave my position? Perhaps, if you hadn’t gone off for so many years, I might be there still, yet there is more involved than the boredom I felt with nothing to occupy me until your return. I had years to think, and I began to realize that I was no longer as useful to you as I had been. I began to regard you as a—a beloved son who had grown up and no longer relied on me, or needed me, as you once had.” Speed paused to draw a pained breath. “I began to feel blue-deviled. Old. Useless.”
“Speed!” Grey exclaimed. “You are neither old nor useless. I have always depended upon you more than words can express and finding you gone was a worse shock than discovering I no longer have a wife!” He gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Let me say again that my regard for you, my lord, is beyond expression. But, quite simply, it began to dawn upon me that I had already taught you all that I knew, and you have had years to practice. You’re better at shaving yourself and tying your own neckcloths than I am, and that’s a fact.” Smiling philosophically, Speed rubbed a wizened hand over his bald head. “Then Lord Faircastle came to me, said he was marrying and in need of the best manservant available. He’d come to the earldom ill prepared, and he needed all the knowledge that you already have, my lord. I felt challenged again, and needed.” He cleared his throat again. “As it happens, I’m quite devoted to my Lady Faircastle. Perhaps I ought to tell you that she is—”
“Devil take Lady Faircastle,” Grey said sulkily. “No disrespect intended, of course, but one can’t help feeling a trifle dismal hearing about the happy household you are part of now. How can I blame you for choosing this over sitting about at Hartford House wondering if I’d make it back alive?”
“Now, now, my lord, don’t get yourself into a taking. It’s my opinion that you are upset about coming back to find that things had changed in your absence. None of us like change. I’ll tell you frankly that I was frightened to death about my new life here, but it’s all turned out for the best, I think. And, I daresay that a change of manservants will do you good as well. After your experience in France, I should imagine that you feel as if you’re beginning to live all over again.”
Grey saw that arguing would only make Speed feel more uneasy, so he managed a weak smile. “How unutterably tiresome it will be to spend my first days home interviewing valets. But I wish you well, old man, and want you to know that if you should ever need me...”
“May I echo those sentiments, my lord?” Speed clasped his former employer’s outstreched hand. “And, I may be able to put you in the way of a manservant. It so happens that my son, Jasper, has decided to leave farming and take up his father’s profession.”
This sounded ominous to Grey, but he assured Speed that he would be pleased to speak to his son. “I ought to be on my way, then, before Lord Faircastle returns and discovers that I invaded his home and attempted to steal back my valet.”
As they walked toward the library door, the old man was breathing easier. “My lord, I hope you’ll not take offense if I say that I was pleased when her ladyship ran away. She was never my idea of a bride for you...”
“So you mentioned, as I recall,” Grey said, with soft irony. “I should have listened to you. And that reminds me, there was something else I meant to ask you tonight.”
“I am at your disposal, my lord.”
“Speed, I know I can confide in you and depend upon your discretion. Today, when I opened my, uh... wife’s jewel box, I discovered that all the family heirlooms were gone. I had hoped that you might tell me you had put them away.”
Speed’s frown deepened the lines on either side of his mouth. “I fear, my lord, that I can give you no such reassurance. Who would have guessed that she could have been as brazen as that?”
“Only I could have guessed,” Grey said grimly, “and I chose to ignore the signs of character that she flaunted before me. Perhaps I deserve to be punished for my poor judgment, but I do not intend to deprive my entire line as a result of my folly.”
The manservant attempted to sound a more positive note. “Well, it’s all done with now, and you can get on with your life.”
“I mean to do that very thing, Speed.” He opened the door to the passageway, which was filled with golden candlelight. “I’m on my way to visit Miss Hamlyn in an effort to make amends to her for the shoddy way I treated her when I married Mrs. Burke. I must have lost my senses to have tossed her aside for that—”
“High-flying shrew?” a feminine voice supplied gently.
Grey froze, his eyes seeking the owner of the voice, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly he turned his head and saw Alycia Hamlyn standing a short distance away. Her rich dark hair was dressed simply, her blue eyes were bright, and her loose robe of celery green silk covered a belly swollen with child. Diamonds glinted at her throat, ears, and on her wedding finger.
Clive Speed forgot his place and rushed to the aid of the dazed-looking Grey. “My lord, may I present to you the Countess of Faircastle.”
“Hello, Grey,” Alycia said softy, extending her hand. “How very pleased you must be to be home.”