Edith Layton (18 page)

“I know Wilson. Hello, Lawrence,” Wycoff said, extending his hand. The younger man took it tentatively, and dropped it as quickly before bowing and letting himself out of the room.

“So. You’ve decided to come home at last,” his father said, settling back in his chair. “When will you be off again?”

“Tired of me already? That’s a new record, I believe.”

His father made an irritable gesture. “No nonsense, if you please. I’m delighted you’ve come back and only wondered how long a respite it would be.”

“I’ve a notion to stay, if I can, this time.”

“
If you can?
Nonsense. You can do whatever you like.”

“Can I?” Wycoff mused. “I wonder. You see, Father, I’ve a notion to settle down. I mean to say, remarry, and settle down.”

His father frowned, then huffed in exasperation. “All right, let me hear it. What mad start are you about this time? A courtesan with airs? A woman with a past long as your arm? Another example of the wanton riff and raff of society? I tell you, sir, if that’s the case, kindly spare me details of your coming wedded bliss. There are places you can go where it would be acceptable—Greece, Switzerland, follow Byron and that lot to Italy, why don’t you? But I tell you right now, not here.”

Wycoff’s mouth twisted. “My reputation is held against me even here?”

“Your reputation’s a thing best not spoken of here,” his father said angrily. He hesitated, seeing his son’s face, and added, “Why else would you come to me to announce your wedding plans, eh?”

“Indeed, why else? Perhaps because I’m well aware of my reputation and want to mend it? And know I’ll need your cooperation?”

His father checked, and studied him. “She’s a girl of good birth then?” he asked hopefully.

“She’s not a girl, and her birth is good, though
not as spectacular as Harriet’s. She’s the daughter of a squire, not an earl.”

“You could do better,” his father said, rising from his chair in agitation. “You could have anyone. The past is done, the name is good, and the fortune
is
spectacular. I know how you’ve added to it. Wilson and I were discussing it only the other day. Your travels weren’t all for gaiety, you’ve done well with your investments.”

Wycoff inclined his head in recognition of a compliment. “I can’t do better though. She’s better than I deserve.”

“Overripe, exotic, and experienced?” his father sneered. “Or young and pretending to be virginal? Your choice in females is varied as it is famous. Or should I say infamous? I suppose you’ve got her with child?”

“I’ve got her with nothing, but I wish to have her, yes,” Wycoff said, his words clipped. “She’s a widow, but neither overripe nor experienced at anything but working to keep her family together. She married an ambitious sprout who left naval service to find his fortune in America. He found death instead, and left her with a child to raise by herself, alone in a foreign land. She did it, and well. She’s lovely, yes. But she doesn’t trade on it. That’s not what I lo—like about her. What that is, is hard to say.”

He hesitated, unused to confiding in his father. “Say then, a certain affinity, a sympathy. A content and an elation I always feel in her presence, and have
never felt with any other woman. I find I’m happy with her. And lonely without her.
Lonely
?” His eyebrow went up; he seemed surprised by what he’d said. “How maudlin, quite unlike me, you’ll agree. Enough,” he went on quickly. “Suffice it to say, I want to marry her. She won’t have me. She doesn’t trust me,” he said on a crooked smile, “for some strange reason.”

His father took another turn around his desk. “You fouled your name, that’s why! I found you a wife of title and fortune, and you made yourself a byword for infidelity.”

“My wife didn’t want me for more than the name and children I gave her,” Wycoff said through stiff lips. “You know that.”

“But there’s ways a man can go about these things,” his father said in exasperation, “ways to be discreet, to be civilized, not flouting convention by throwing your liaisons in everyone’s faces.”

“As you did with Wilson’s mama?” Wycoff asked.

His father’s eyes flew wide.

“Of course, I know,” Wycoff said wearily, passing a hand over his eyes. “And I’m sorry he can’t be my full brother, at that. Because he’s a likely lad, although it’s deplorable that he looks more like his mother than you,” he joked on a smile that faded when he saw his father’s expression. “You took him in hand early and trained him up well. Yes, that was well done. You were lucky. You and his mother enjoyed many good years together. I’ve no bastards
that I know of. That’s what comes of consorting with the riff and raff of society, Father. At least those women know what they’re about. Unlike provincial widowed seamstresses, who only know about love.”

The earl sat, heavily. “I never thought…I never guessed. Is that why you didn’t honor your marriage vows?”

Wycoff laughed, honestly. “No, never, and believe me when I tell you your infidelity is self-explanatory and almost laudatory. No—that’s cruel and doesn’t respect anyone. Forgive me. I didn’t honor my marriage when it was made clear to me it was not being honored. I’ll say no more. Except that I wish to be a paragon of honor with this woman, and she quite naturally doesn’t believe me. A woman of good sense, you’ll agree? Enough wordplay. I came here today to ask you if you’d be so kind as to lend yourself to a charade?”

“A charade?”

“Yes, I want to know if you can pretend—to our family, and to polite society—that you believe me to be reformed, and so worthy of entrée anywhere?”

The earl was still for a long moment. He gazed at his son, and Wycoff could swear it wasn’t age that made his eyes so watery. “If you have come to ask me that,” his father said, “then you’ve answered your own question.”

S
ukey will be here,” Lucy told Jamie nervously. “You’re not to leave these rooms. They’ll send up anything you want. If you need me, send a message to the theater.”

“Mama,” Jamie said patiently, “you told me already. I’ll be fine. You look beautiful, you know.”

“Do I?” Lucy asked, diverted. “No, I mean—don’t I just?” she laughed as she swirled in place. “Look at this gown! I never wore the like even when I was young.”

“You’re young yet, ma’am,” Sukey said, watching her new mistress preen.

“Younger than I’ll be tomorrow, maybe,” Lucy said a little sadly, her spirits falling. “I’ll do tonight, though. Yes, I think I will.”

Her hair was drawn up, yellow roses threaded
into it. A long ringlet rested at her neck near where her one good ornament, a tiny golden locket, lay. She’d bitten her lips in worry as Sukey had arranged her hair, but now they looked rosy and pretty, even to herself. The mashed cucumber poultice Sukey swore by seemed to have made her freckles fade a jot. But who’d notice such defects as freckles when a woman dressed like this! Her long-sleeved gown was golden silk with a green gauze overskirt. It fitted her body as closely as the sleeves clung to her arms, and was saved from being vulgar by the overskirt, but only by inches. The neckline was low, just centimeters from being too much so. Or so Madame Celeste insisted. Lucy carried a matching fan, green silk slippers showed under her skirts, and she had a patterned shawl to wear over all.

She was wildly excited, and not just because of her fine feathers. She’d been young once, and privileged, but had only gone to the theater in London a few times. She’d met Francis soon after she’d come here—and he’d carried her away from all that. It had seemed romantic then. It seemed tragic now. She’d been so young and had missed so much of her youth…

Soon, her brother-in-law would send for her and she’d be gone from the glittering scene again, perhaps forever this time. But tonight was for laughter. Lucy eagerly anticipated seeing Gilly Ryder and her husband again. She looked forward to pretending to be young again. Not just for herself. She couldn’t help wondering if Wycoff might be at the theater to
see her in her glory; she was hoping she’d see him one more time, too.

“Goodnight,” she said gaily when a footman came to the door to say that her carriage was waiting. “Be good. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

Home?
she thought as she went down the stair. But this was only a hotel in the heart of London, not her home. Her step faltered as she wondered just where her home was, after all.

“It’s so kind of you to invite me,” Lucy told the Ryders as she sat in their carriage, their coachman waiting in line in front of the theater. “I haven’t done anything exciting in so long.”

“Apart from traveling all the way to America and then back again?” Damon Ryder asked.

“That was necessity, both ways,” Lucy said soberly. “This is excitement.”

Gilly Ryder put her small gloved hand over Lucy’s. “I understand necessity. Now, for the excitement. The play should be a good one. It has many murders and much swordplay,” she added seriously. “You look so wonderfully well, at the interval we’ll parade you for society and let them guess who our beautiful, mysterious guest may be.”

“You’ll have to parade some other woman,” Lucy said. “I’m dressed up tonight, but I know exactly what I am—no longer in my first youth, and well on the way to my second childhood. No, please—I don’t say it for compliments. I’m a realist.”

“With very poor vision,” Damon commented, and made them all laugh.

The gentlemen standing at the entrance to the theater had excellent vision, apart from those who raised their quizzing glasses to see better when Lucy stepped out of the coach. They were probably looking at the ethereally lovely Gilly, Lucy thought. But she felt a frisson of excitement when she realized that some were actually looking at her.

The box the Ryders took her to was high on the side of the theater. Once there, Lucy could sit and stare right back at all the gentlemen staring up at them. It seemed to be what everyone in the theater was doing.

“The show before the show is sometimes better than what’s on stage,” Gilly laughed.

And so it was, Lucy thought. It was almost as though every member of the audience was also in costume and playing a part. The ladies were dressed as elegantly as the gentlemen they were with. The women who weren’t ladies were dressed up even more. If Lucy had trouble telling the difference, Gilly was only to happy to help.

“A married man keeps his eyes on his lady,” Gilly said, pointing out some examples with her fan. “A buck looking for sport ogles every female. A fribble looking for gossip looks at everyone. See? There’s Lord DeWitt, he’s thinks he’s one of the dandy set, but he’s only a fop. But see how he’s watching Lady March? Huh. He wouldn’t know what to do with her if he got her, and he wouldn’t
want her on a bet. But she’s here with Fleming, not her husband, so DeWitt can’t keep his eyes off her.”

But Lucy was looking for one man, and not finding him took some of the shine from the night. She didn’t want to ask the sharp-eyed Gilly if she saw him, or even if they were acquainted. That would open a Pandora’s box, letting out too many questions she didn’t care to answer. Lucy was glad when the curtain went up and she had a newer fiction to indulge herself in. It was a good play, she hadn’t seen better in years. She was sorry when the interval came and reality flooded back.

“Now,” Gilly said, “We stroll and set everyone talking.”

“And envying me,” Damon added, offering them each an arm.

The corridors were crowded as market day; theatergoers drifted down the long staircase to the lobby, and soon came up again. Damon looked down at his wife, a question in his eyes.

“I think we can skip the promenade on the stairs,” Gilly told him. “They’re only looking to be noticed and trying to see everyone else,” she told Lucy. “It’s a waste of energy.”

Sudden alarm leapt to her husband’s eyes.

“No, don’t worry. I’m feeling fine, I just don’t see the need to exercise,” Gilly said. “They can see Lucy just as well from here.” Seeing Lucy’s confusion, she lowered her voice. “I’m anticipating! We’ll have a babe by the new year. Isn’t that wonderful? I’m strong as an ox, even the doctor agreed. But
everyone thinks I’m so
fragile
. Even them as should know better,” she told her husband in a parody of a slum accent, grinning up at him.

Lucy smiled wistfully. This was what a marriage should be, she thought sadly. Francis had flattered and fussed over her when they’d courted. He’d been kind after they’d married. But there’d never been this constant meeting of eyes and silent conversation going on between them, as she saw with the Ryders. The Ameses had that sort of communion, but she’d thought it took years to achieve. Now she knew better, and felt a little worse.

“I’d like an ice,” Gilly declared. “Damon, could you fetch us some?”

“I will, but I’d like it better if you sat down,” he said.

“Well, but I won’t leave Lucy alone here,” Gilly said indignantly, “and it’s not fair to have her miss all this.”

Her husband looked around. “There. The very thing. Is it all right with you, your highness, if I get a gallant gentleman to stand with Lucy for the rest of the interval?”

“It’s not necessary,” Lucy protested. “I’m perfectly happy going back to my seat, I—” But Damon had already walked off.

“Don’t argue,” Gilly said, “It’s more fun this way, you’ll see.”

“But really,” Lucy said, “I—” Then she couldn’t say a word. Damon had returned with a tall, immaculately dressed gentleman. A man who was looking
down at her with an easy smile on his lips, and dark hunger deep in his eyes.

“Lord Wycoff, here’s our friend, Mrs. Stone,” Damon said. “Lucy, here is Lord Wycoff, an old friend of ours,” he went on, not seeming to notice how Lucy was frozen in place, in shock. “I’ll take Gilly back. Wycoff, see Mrs. Stone safely back to us in time for her to see the farce, if you’d be so kind.”

“My pleasure,” Wycoff said with a smile, “I assure you.” He bowed. “Good evening, Lucy,” he said as the Ryders left her standing amazed, still staring up at him. “You look very lovely. But also as though you think the farce is already here.”

“…This was planned?” Lucy managed to ask.

He nodded. “I said I’d never deceive you, that’s why I won’t try. Yes. They’re old friends.”

Lucy put a hand to her forehead. “
Gilly
!” she breathed, remembering where she’d heard the name before. “Of course! I didn’t make the connection. I should have remembered. I suppose I did, but I thought it was only coincidence. Nothing is coincidence with you, though, is it?”

“Not if I can help it,” he admitted. “Can we stroll to that corner, do you think? There are things I have to say. And God knows I don’t dare speak to you alone. Which explains this baroque maneuvering. We can, however, be alone in the crowd.” He guided her to a spot by the wall where they could see the crowds going by, but it was hard for anyone to stop at their side.

“So they aren’t my brother-in-law’s friends?”
Lucy asked, “He didn’t ask them to invite me to tea?”

“No. They aren’t. They know him, but are hardly friends. He didn’t ask them. I did, because it’s a big city to be alone in. And because I wanted to see you again.”

“Then they’re no better than panders?” Lucy said bitterly, “After how kind I thought they were, they were only acting on your behalf?”

“Hush. Don’t blame them. They’re ministers of goodwill. Damon would have my head if I caused you distress, as Gilly would—and she could, I promise you. But I told them you needed friends, and that you wouldn’t want to feel indebted to me. Mostly, though, I told them we have to talk.”

Her eyes searched his. “About what? The same things we talked about on the ship? You know that can’t be.”

“I know,” he said. “I accept that, for now. But there’s something you have to know before you write to your mama or meet up with Lord Hunt and his wife. The deuce!” he swore. He looked over her head and nodded to a gentleman so curtly the man hesitated, and then strolled on. When Wycoff looked back at Lucy, his expression was bland, but his eyes were troubled. “We couldn’t have you thanking Hunt for introducing you to the Ryders. Nor did I want you thanking your mama for her generosity. That would ruin the reason for it. She’d want to know who’d been so generous. You’d be distressed, even if you never found out. There was no
one else I could credit it to, and so…”

“
You?
” Lucy squeaked. “You paid for this?” She motioned to her gown, her fingers white-knuckled on her fan. “You? Not my mama?”

“Hush,” he said, moving so he stood in front of her, shielding her appalled expression from the crowd. “Yes. Me.”

“Well then,” she said furiously. “You can just take it all back right now!”

“Nothing would please me better,” he said, laughter in his voice, “but I think you’d be wiser to wait. Although the sight of you handing me your gown would thrill every male here, I doubt it’s a good idea. Lucy, listen. Calm yourself, think a moment.”

“I am thinking,” she said furiously. “And I’ll return this to you—along with everything else—the moment I get home.”

“Why?”

“
Why?
” she gasped, heard her voice too loud, and tried to hold her temper. “You know why,” she whispered furiously. “A woman doesn’t accept clothing from a man. Never!”

His voice was at its most urbane; he seemed almost amused. “My dear, this is not a gift to seduce you, or to ruin your reputation in any way. It’s to preserve it. I’ll never go where I’m not wanted. If you’re unwilling to believe I’d act like a gentleman, at least credit me with that much self-respect. Do you honestly think I’ll thrust myself upon you because of my providing you with a few frocks?”

Lucy wavered. “No,” she admitted, and then with a spurt of fire added, “I think you’d try to insinuate yourself, though.”

“Well, of course,” he said, smiling, “anything with a sin in it appeals to me. But think on, do you really believe that’s my goal? We both know how I feel about seduction for mere momentary pleasure—at least where you’re concerned.”

She lowered her gaze, her face heating. She was glad of her pretty fan now; it had a purpose.

“I’m after more,” he said.

“Exactly!” she said, flaring up, her fan beating like a hummingbird’s wings. “It’s a way to make me feel beholden.”

“Did you feel beholden to the Ameses? No, of course not. You were happy to be good to them as they were to you. What’s more, if I could win you that way you wouldn’t be Lucy, and I know it. Be realistic. It was a matter of making sure you were dealt with properly, as you deserve to be.” He held her gaze with his own steady one. “Could you and Jamie have stayed at the hotel by yourselves and been treated with respect?”

“Well, no, but—
Sukey too
?” she gasped.

“If that’s your maid’s name, yes. There are no strictures against accepting a servant’s services from a friend. If there are, I don’t want to hear them. She’s a gift of freedom for you. In fact, I could argue that she works against whatever vile plots you think I’m hatching. Her presence protects you, and means you don’t need me or any man as a companion in Lon
don. How far could you go without insult without her at your side? In the same spirit, could you have worn your own gowns to meet your brother-in-law and dealt with him confidently?”

Her fan slowed.

“I’ve met the man. I can’t claim to know him well, but I know the shallow standards of the society he keeps too well. You can always pay me back. Damn it, Lucy,” he said in a fierce whisper, “you can bundle up the lot of gowns and leave them in a box for me when you go back to America. Let me do a good deed, will you? No one has to know.”

“But I will.”

“And you can’t bear to think well of me? Is that it?”

“Its just that it’s not done,” she said, weakening.

“I don’t care, why should you?”

The sound of the crowd was getting louder. They were surging past in the opposite direction now, going back toward their seats. She hesitated. When he was here before her like this, so solid and certain, it was hard to argue. It
had
been kind of him. She wished with all her heart she didn’t have to accept his charity—if it wasn’t bribery. But she was a realist.