Chapter 11
April 2, 1814
“Oh, God, let me alone,” Grey mumbled into his pillow as a blinding shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom of his bedchamber. Dimly, as he lay face down on the great Gothic bed, it occurred to him that he had forgotten to close the bed’s curtains the night before. Hardly surprising, since he didn’t remember going to bed, but in a tiny corner of his mind a stubborn voice whispered that Speed wouldn’t have forgotten. How good Speed had been when Grey had arrived home in his cups. The very soul of restraint. Not a word of reproach had ever passed his lips, and he looked after St. James in such a way that the entire ordeal became almost bearable. Later, perhaps, the manservant might impart an oblique observation regarding the wisdom of men who knew their limits, but such remarks were made with the utmost tact. Speed never belabored a point.
“I’m frightfully sorry, my lord.” It was Dimbleby, standing at the window, holding the drapery edge like a pickpocket caught in the act. “I thought that perhaps a bit of light might rouse you... gradually.”
“Why in the bloody hell must I be roused at all?” growled Grey. He peered at the butler through narrowed eyes. “What’s the time?”
“Half past ten, my lord. I wouldn’t have disturbed you but there is a fellow below stairs who insists that he’s here to interview for the position of your manservant. I’d’ve simply turned him away if not for his family connections.” Dimbleby took tiny, halting steps toward the bed as he spoke. “He says his name is Jasper Speed, son of none other than our very own Clive. The younger Mr. Speed assures me that his father arranged for this interview, and that you agreed.”
Grey felt as if his head were in a vise. “Give him a mug of ale and a mutton chop and bid him wait.”
“I should be happy to oblige, my lord, but the young man has already been here nearly three hours. He has consumed a full breakfast—and the mug of ale and mutton chop you suggest.”
He had no more strength to argue. If the caller were anyone but Speed’s son, he’d simply have pleaded illness and sent him away. “Give me a moment to wash and put something on. You may bring young Speed to me in a quarter hour, Dimbleby, and warn him that I shan’t be particularly well turned out.”
“Yes, my lord.” The aged butler wore a crooked smile of relief. “I’ll send a kitchen maid up with coffee and—”
“Nothing else, Dimbleby.” Tentatively Grey sat up with a groan and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “The mere notion of food repulses me at the moment.”
“Naturally, my lord.” The old man nodded with grave understanding and backed out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. Once in the passageway, he leaned against the wall and gave vent to a long-suffering sigh. “As if we didn’t have enough to contend with, now his lordship has become an out-and-out rakehell,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll be fit for bedlam if this goes on!”
* * *
“So, you’re Jasper Speed,” Grey said, observing the young man with hooded eyes. Clad only in a forest green silk dressing gown, he lounged on a wing chair, his bare legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “Do sit down.”
Jasper Speed took the chair opposite his potential employer and pretended as if nothing were amiss. However, although his expression was pleasantly implacable, he was, in truth, quite shocked. His father had told him that the viscount had been something of a libertine, but he was, after all, an officer in His Majesty’s Navy and recently returned from the continent. He had rather expected to meet a handsomely dressed nobleman with military bearing. Certainly he had never imagined that Viscount Altburne would interview him in his bedchamber, half-naked and looking positively dissolute. His silver-flecked hair was tousled, he was unshaven, and the smudges under his eyes contrasted sharply with his pale skin. Speed repressed a sigh of distaste. Did he really want to be in tire employ of such a man?
“You’ll pardon me, I hope, for not rising, but I have a devil of a headache,” Grey said in a voice that was edged with boredom. “I had a rather late night.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Would you care for coffee?” He gestured toward the silver pot on the low table between them.
“No, I don’t care for coffee, my lord. Thank you.”
“Ah, yes, I gather that you ate and drank your fill below-stairs.”
Without much interest, Grey raised his eyes and took a good look at the son of his beloved Speed. The young man was short like his father, but the resemblance ended there, for Jasper was stocky and strong, his snub-nosed face reddened by sun and wind. His most distinctive feature, however, was the surprising flame-orange color of his curly hair. Grey thought idly that he had never seen a less likely candidate for the position of valet.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I wasn’t aware that we had an appointment, and to be honest, even if I had been aware, it probably wouldn’t have mattered on a morning like this.” Grey drank from his own cup, then added, “I’m afraid I’m not feeling quite the thing today.”
“If you’ll pardon me for saying so, my lord, that is quite apparent.” Jasper decided to indulge his fondness for speaking his mind, rather hoping that the viscount would take offense and send him away.
“Indeed?” Grey’s brows rose slightly as he felt a flicker of interest. For some unknown reason, he knew an urge to be candid. “The fact is, Mr. Speed, that my homecoming, my return to my life here in London, has not been the happy occasion that I had anticipated. In truth, most of the circumstances of my past are now severely altered. I feel a bit... lost.”
“As do I, my lord.” Jasper was moved by Grey’s honesty, and suddenly he saw beyond the dissipated, cynical rake seated on the chair across from him. This man, for all his gifts and rank and advantages, needed him. “Don’t know if my father told you or not, but I lost my wife not long ago. Polly died in childbirth, and my baby boy a day later.” Only the slight thickening of his voice betrayed his pain. “I found that I couldn’t stay on alone on our farm, and that’s why I’ve come to London and taken up my father’s work. It’s a new life I’m seeking, and I know all about being lost.”
Grey felt a twinge of shame for his own self-pity. “Then, perhaps we’re well suited, hmm?” he said softly. “I’ve no idea what the future holds for me. I don’t even know if I’ll stay in this house. If you don’t mind that sort of uncertainty, I’d be pleased if you would accept the position of my valet.”
Soberly Jasper replied, “I’d be honored to accept, my lord. I know I have a great deal to learn, but I shall do my utmost to fill the void left by my father.”
I must be mad, Grey thought, trading the best valet in London for a young, green farmer. Aloud, he said, “Would you mind if I call you Speed, as I did your father? It would be vaguely comforting to have at least that much continuity in my life.”
“I would be honored, my lord.” Jasper Speed stood and took command of the situation. “You’ll be wanting a bath now, and a shave. I’ll see to it immediately, my lord. The day is wasting away before us!”
* * *
The Earl of Hartford was standing in the middle of the long, elegant drawing room staring at a painting on the red damask-covered wall. He may have noticed the entrance of his son, but a long minute passed before the old man favored Grey with a portion of his attention.
“Oh, there you are,” he said absently. “Just having a look at this painting I’ve purchased. Frosty Morning, it’s called. This young fellow Turner is all the rage, you know, but I have my doubts.”
Grey walked over and stood a polite distance from his father, noticing as he did so that this room, which had seemed so grand in his youth, was beginning to look a trifle shabby. In truth, he had begun to have the same uneasy feeling about much of Hartford House.
Although his opinion of the painting had not been solicited, the conversation seemed to require a response. Grey copied his father’s pose, laying a finger against his cheek as they stood side by side, staring. The rural scene was deceptively simple: a barren brown landscape featuring a couple of horses, a wagon, and drably clad farmers. A few leafless tree branches stood out crookedly against a luminous, golden-peach dawn sky, and in the foreground the dark earth sparkled with hoarfrost. “I find it quite stunning, sir. Turner has an absolute genius for light. Look at that sky! And a gift for details like that frost on the ground.” He paused. “However, it might look better in the library. This room is rather overpowering.”
The earl snorted. “I’d’ve preferred Turner’s Battle of Trafalgar, but Palmerston got that one.”
Grey could sense that his father was about to make an excuse and leave, but he spoke first. “Could you spare me a few minutes of your time, sir?”
“Are you in trouble?” Hartford asked as they seated themselves on the ancient Jacobean-style chairs near the arched window overlooking Grosvenor Square. “I perceive that you were out most of last night. You haven’t gambled away Briar Hill, I hope? What a bother it would be to get it back.”
“No, Father, I’m in no trouble.” Grey smiled slightly in an effort to diffuse the tightness in his chest. “Is it so terribly annoying to have me at home again?”
The earl arched one white brow and said mildly, “My dear boy, I trust I should not betray such an emotion even if I felt it.”
Grey’s smile reached his eyes. “No, I trust not.”
“Have you plans? I gather that you won’t be returning to the continent. The on-dit is that the Bourbons will be back in power by summer, and I shouldn’t wonder that you’ve had enough of military life.”
“Actually, sir, I haven’t thought much beyond some of the more immediate matters on my agenda. I want to see my horse. It’s been two years since I’ve ridden Anton, and I thought that this afternoon I would—”
His lordship cleared his throat. “I do wish that Dimbleby had relieved me of a few of these unpleasant announcements. This is not a role I relish.” Hartford turned to examine Turner’s painting then and said, “Your wife sold Anton. I had no part in it, nor did I know until a fortnight later.”
“What?” Grey went pale with fury. “Why the devil did she do a bloody thing like that?”
His father yawned. “Must we have another scene? I believe that she took a dislike to the horse, but it doubtless had more to do with the price she got. You’d really have to ask her yourself, my boy. In any event, the deed is done, and I do have an engagement at two o’clock, so—”
“I have only one or two questions more. I shan’t keep you above ten minutes.” Grey sat forward. Only the silver glint in his eyes betrayed the anger he was feeling. “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to come to you about this, Father, but it seems I have no choice. Mother’s jewels are no longer in Francesca’s jewel box. I’ve asked Dimbleby and Speed, but they know nothing. Is there a chance that you put them away?”
“My dear boy, why would I do such a thing?” the earl replied, apparently untroubled by the implications of Grey’s words.
“I didn’t think that you had,” his son admitted dryly, “but I had to ask. I cannot tell you how furious it makes me to think that she has disappeared with the jewels that have been in our family for generations and that must be passed down to the next Countess of Hartford! Somehow I must contrive to recover them.”
“A noble plan,” the earl remarked. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”
Grey cut in swiftly. “Have you news of my ship, Father, or has that been sold as well?”
“No, not at all,” Hartford said, with a thin smile. “Why would you think so? I saw the Wild Rover myself just last week, and I can assure you that it has been well cared for in your absence. Your friend, that hideous fellow Fedbusk, has been looking after it for you. I cannot fault him there.”
“She’s seaworthy then?”
“Apparently. Are you planning a sea voyage?” Hartford asked, a hopeful note creeping into his voice.
“I doubt it, but I’ve promised to help someone get to America, and the Wild Rover may be the only way to do it. I’ll go and have a look at her now and consider my options.”
“Then don’t let me keep you, my boy.” The earl stood up, visibly relieved. “You mustn’t waste another minute here on my account.”
Grey laughed in spite of himself as they walked toward the library door. “How thoughtful you are, Father...”
* * *
“I gave the driver the address. It’s rather a distance,” Gib said as he sat down opposite Grey in the carriage and folded his long legs into the most comfortable position possible. “I say, old fellow, you’re looking much better! Those evening clothes are devilishly flattering.”
They bumped over the cobbles as the light, four-wheeled post chaise gained speed. “Are they?” Grey said, relaxing against the soft leather upholstery. He glanced down at his white stockings, black knee breeches, black cutaway coat, and the starched perfection of his cravat. “They’re looser than they were two years ago. I’ll have to pay Weston a visit and order an entire new wardrobe. What a bore!”
Gib shook his head emphatically. “The weight will return in no time now that you’re home, and until then, the ladies will be crowding round you, old chap. Byron has made pale, brooding men all the rage. You’ll be a tremendous hit, I can promise you.”
“You’re too kind,” Grey said with pointed irony.
Undaunted, his friend pressed on. “Now, tell me what’s been happening. Have you any news more encouraging than yesterday’s?”
“Not particularly. I have a new valet. It’s Speed’s son, Jasper, who until very recently was a farmer. He knows very little about his new trade, but he makes up for it by ordering me about.”
“Well,” Gib said brightly. “That sounds... amusing!”
Grey cocked a dubious brow at him. “Indeed. I also spoke with my father again and learned that my erstwhile wife sold Anton.”
This drew a look of horror from his friend. “Old man, I am sorry! What a beastly thing to do! Anton was a veritable prince among horses.”
“It’s no use flying into a rage over something that is long past fixing, but it is more fuel for the fire I’m building at the feet of Francesca’s memory.” Grey’s expression darkened further. “Also, Father knows nothing about Mother’s jewels, so it’s certain that Francesca has them. If I knew where she could be found...”
“As a matter of fact...” Gib cleared his throat uneasily. “I have reservations about telling you this, St. James, for fear you’ll do something quite mad, but on the other hand, I do feel bound, as your friend—”
“Speak, Gib!” Grey commanded, a muscle flexing in his jaw.
“I discussed the situation of your... uh, wife with my own father today, and he told me that he heard a rumor that she’s in America, in the city of Philadelphia. As you might imagine, Francesca has been short of funds from time to time since she ran away, and has been forced to contact her father. Of course Carsbury isn’t known for keeping his own counsel. Still, it is only a rumor, and may have been muddled in the retelling. Remember, too, that even if it is true, she may very well have moved on by this time.” The burning, faraway look in his friend’s eyes brought Gib to the brink of panic. “For God’s sake, old chap, you must be realistic! To dash off to America with no more than this would be pure foolishness. My advice is to wait until you have more definite knowledge of her whereabouts. Proceed with caution for once in your life. After all, you’re getting older, and—”
Looking bored, Grey held up his hand. “My dear Gib, you’re running on like a dowager. I take your point.”
“All right, I’ll say nothing more about it... for the moment.” He sat back against the seat and tried to relax, watching shadows from the post chaise’s flickering lamps play across the chiseled face of his friend. At length he spoke again, in a gentler tone. “Do you know, old fellow, I realized later last night that I neglected to offer condolences on the death of your brother. It’s been so long since David was lost, I suppose I forgot that I hadn’t seen you since. I am sorry. It’s been a bloody war.”
Grey’s thoughts were far away, but he tried to bring them back. “To be honest, I don’t believe I’ve quite taken it in myself.”
“One has a tendency to pretend that the person who has died is simply away, in cases like this. That he’ll be coming home later on,” Gib said carefully.
“Yes. Quite.” Grey nodded, sighing. He had no desire to delve into his feelings about David’s death—or his life, for that matter.
As the post chaise drew up before a large, brightly lit house on Russell Square, Gib asked, “How is your father dealing with his loss?”
“I’ve no idea, really.” As a footman opened the door and he climbed out of the post chaise, Grey glanced back over his shoulder and added, “The subject of David hasn’t come up.”
* * *
“It’s simply dazzling,” Natalya said sincerely. “There is no other word to describe it.”
“How kind you are, Miss Beauvisage. We are very fortunate to have you among us in London,” replied the tall, elegant Mrs. Lynchford. She was the hostess of this fabulous rout and at least thirty years younger than the host, who was apparently a duke since everyone addressed him as “Your Grace.” Natalya had met many people in the half hour since she, Adrienne, Venetia, and Mrs. Sykes had arrived at this mansion in Russell Square, but very few of them appeared to be married... at least to each other. Now, a woman wearing a feathered headdress and a virtually transparent muslin gown was waving to Mrs. Lynchford.
“I must speak to dear Fanny Smithfield,” Mrs. Lynchford said, smiling. “You’ll excuse me? Have some champagne, my dear. It will put you at ease.”
She plucked a crystal goblet of golden liquid from a passing tray and gave it to Natalya before disappearing into the crowd. Natalya sighed, then decided to follow her hostess’s advice and sipped the champagne. She would have been grateful if something as simple as a beverage could put her at ease. She peered intently into the mass of guests, searching for Adrienne.
Natalya had been in many beautiful homes in her lifetime, but none had been quite as dazzling as this one, just as she had said to Mrs. Lynchford. However, several other adjectives came to mind as well, gaudy, ostentatious, and decadent among them. Apparently the entire third floor of the duke’s home had given over to this ballroom, which boasted an ornate domed ceiling covered with paintings of cherubs and dreamy-looking women in various states of undress. Mrs. Sykes had pronounced it “very romantic; quite divine!” The ceiling and its supporting pillars were further ornamented with tiered chandeliers fringed in gold and carved scrolls, fruit, urns, and other gilded decorations. The chairs that ranged along the walls were gilded as well, and there were more paintings than Natalya had ever seen. The nearest one featured a centaur carrying off a naked woman.
“Hello, beauty,” a low male voice murmured from behind her.
Natalya turned to discover a rather portly gentleman at least twice her age standing so near that she could have, had she been so inclined, counted the tiny spider veins blossoming on his cheeks and nose. “Have we met, sir?” she inquired politely.
“A thousand times.” He smiled then, bloodshot eyes crinkling. “In my dreams, beauty. A thousand times in my dreams.”
She noticed that his words were a trifle slurred, so that dreams became dreamsh. Because of the incredible crush of people, it was impossible for Natalya to offer an excuse and slip away from this old lecher, so she was forced to stall for time. “It’s exceedingly warm in here, don’t you think?”
“Only where you are, beauty,” the gentleman replied.
Nearby, another, younger man was watching the exchange between Natalya and her admirer. Sir Christian Laidlaw was an accomplished rake whose style was admired for its subtlety. He had seen Natalya enter with Mrs. Sykes and instantly fallen under her spell. He was certain that she was the most enchantingly glorious woman he had ever seen and immediately undertook to learn her name from the woman he assumed was her patroness. Even the conditions Mrs. Sykes placed on an introduction to Natalya did not daunt him. Now, after working his way through the crowd to stand near her, Laidlaw decided that she was even more beautiful than he’d originally surmised. She was a vision of springtime in peach muslin over ivory silk, a tantalizing suggestion of her breasts peeking above the bodice. The high-waisted gown skimmed the curves of her body, hinting at the delights hidden beneath rather than advertising all like so many of the other women present here tonight. Natalya wore no plumes or jewels in her hair; instead, she had woven sprays of tiny wildflowers through the cloud of burnished curls surrounding the Grecian knot atop her head. There were simple pearls in her cars and round her creamy throat. Laidlaw thought this a wise choice, for no amount of costly ornamentation could have competed with that utterly exquisite face.
Sir Christian meant to have her, but first he would have to get rid of Lord Pondsmarsh. As usual, the old fool was deep in his cups and lusting after a woman beyond his reach, not unlike most of the other men present. Nearly all of them had wives, as did Laidlaw and Pondsmarsh, but wives played little part in their lives beyond providing a veneer of respectability when the occasion demanded.
“Excuse me, my dear Pondsmarsh, are you well?” Laidlaw slipped past the couple nearest him to hover over the aging marquis. “You don’t look at all the thing. Perhaps you ought to take a spot of air.”
Natalya looked up gratefully as her admirer snuffled in surprise. “Well?” his lordship echoed. “Of course I’m well. Never felt better in my life.”
Laidlaw gave Natalya a knowing smile. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Beauvisage. I am Sir Christian Laidlaw, and I am honored to stand before so celebrated a lady. All of London desires to meet the lovely author of My Lady’s Heart.”
A delicate flush spread over Natalya’s cheeks. “You exaggerate shockingly, Sir Christian, but I am flattered,” she replied. “Perhaps you can help me. I must seek out my cousin; I did not mean to become separated from her. The crowd is so dense that I cannot penetrate by myself, but—”
Laidlaw waved a pale hand, dismissing such a notion. “You must not spoil your own evening with such worries, Miss Beauvisage. I met your cousin just a few moments ago, and I can assure you that she is safe in the care of Mrs. Sykes.”
This did not set Natalya’s mind at rest, but she refrained from comment. At least she had been rescued from Lord Pondsmarsh’s slurring attentions. And this Sir Christian Laidlaw—tall, slim, blond, and impeccably turned out—was not only attractive, but appeared to be reasonably sober. At his urging she accepted a fresh glass of champagne and drank it down.
“There, you see?” said Sir Christian, with a pleased smile. “Nothing like champagne to make one forget one’s cares, what? Have another.”
Trapped in the hot, decadent splendor, surrounded by high-pitched laughter and pinned beneath the hungry admiration of two noblemen, Natalya seemed to have little choice. Perhaps reality might be more tolerable if it were a trifle blurred. Holding out her hand, she accepted the glass from Sir Christian.
“You’re very kind,” she murmured.
“My dear,” Laidlaw replied, thinking that she looked absolutely succulent, “I can assure you that the pleasure is mine....”