Autumn Rain (18 page)

Nonetheless, he found himself inquiring hesitantly, "Er—Does Lady Kingsley return your regard?"

"If you are asking if there's anything havey-cavey between her and me, there ain't." Once again, the blue eyes met Lucien's, and this time they were almost sober. "But I know she loves me—cried when she found out I was going to war. Going to wait for me."

There was something earnest, something quite appealing about the boy, possibly the innocence Lucien had never had. When he remained silent, Charley thought to add, "She ain't the sort as would cuckold the old man, you understand. Got character. And for all that he'd make her like the rest of 'em, she don't want to be like that."

Lucien thought of her as he'd last seen her—her bright hair straggling where she'd missed some of it with her pins, her bonnet tied slightly askance, her straight back as she'd sailed out his door—and he felt a twinge of conscience once more.

Sally Jersey is right—you cannot be brought to careabout anything, can you?
Once again, her words seemed to echo in his ears, stinging him with their truth.
I have never betrayed my marriage vows... I am not bought at all...
She'd offered him nothing—nothing at all-when she'd asked his aid, not for herself but for the boy. It would not have required much effort on his part, but he'd rebuffed her. Now, facing young Kingsley across the seat, he felt almost sorry for it.

The carriage rolled to a halt, and a coachman promptly hopped down to open the door. "The Pulteney, my lord."

Charles reached unsteadily for the pull-strap, then sprawled back. "Sorry—had too much—gone to m'head."

Cursing inwardly, Lucien helped him lean toward the door, advising the coachey to catch him. Then, jumping down after the boy, he thrust a shoulder beneath his arm, supporting him.

"Deuced good of you—," Charley mumbled. As Lucien dragged him through the elegant lobby, the boy drew attention to them by rousing, calling out, "It's Longford—going to be a dragoon like him! Come back a hero like Longford—come back a—" The earl's free hand covered his mouth, stifling his ramblings.

"Get someone to help him, will you?" he growled at the nearest liveried attendant. When the fellow moved forward, Lucien shoved Charles Kingsley into his arms, then palmed a coin into his hand. "Put him to bed."

He turned to leave, ignoring the stares of the curious as the boy called after him, "Be like you one day, you know—dragoon just like Longford!"

"Going back to one of the clubs, yer lordship?" Lucien's coachman asked politely.

"No."

"But ye ain't supped, have ye?"

"No. I'm not hungry."

Lucien swung back up into his carriage and leaned back against the squabs. He wasn't going to sup—he was going home to bury himself in his cups. As the carriage bowled down the street, he reflected resentfully that he'd managed to survive nearly thirty years without help from anyone. When one only counted on oneself, one was seldom disappointed—it was when a fool embroiled himself in the lives of others that he suffered. If he'd learned naught else from his father, that had been a lesson well-learned.

And yet when he got home, after he poured himself a rather large glass of brandy, he sat staring for a time into the empty brazier. Outside, it had begun to rain, and the sound of wind and water against the windowpanes reminded him of the night he'd first met her. She'd been a little chit then, her face nearly as white as her nightgown. Briefly, he wondered if his life would have been any different if Ashton's ploy had worked, if she'd come to him instead of Kingsley. But she wouldn't have, for there was Diana—and even then he was beyond caring, beyond acting out of honor.

It wasn't until after his third glass that he rose to move to his desk. And, whether from drink or some other weakness, he sat down to write a single line to her.

"I'll do what I can for the boy."

He left it unsigned, telling himself she would know from whence it came, and he'd not cause her any more difficulty with the old man. When done, he glanced up to the blank space above the cold fireplace, the place where Jack's portrait had once hung. Despite fresh paint, the sooty outline of the frame could still be discerned.

"You think me a fool, Papa—don't you?" he said, his voice harsh. "Damn you, Jack—damn you! It isn't the war that takes my soul—it's you!"

He knew not how long or how much he'd drunk, but after he finally managed to stumble up to his bed, he lay there in his rumpled clothes, remembering first Elinor Kingsley's plea, then the boy's almost fawning admiration, and somehow it amused him to know that he was not entirely immune to flattery, that somewhere deep within him, perhaps he could be moved to care. With that drink-induced, maudlin notion, he turned over to cradle his head against his pillow. His last rational thought was that he was going to pay for the brandy on the morrow.

CHAPTER 16

She came down to luncheon to discover her opened letter on her plate. From the end of the table, Arthur watched her sourly. She looked up, surprised. It was obvious that he was vexed with her.

"I have no intention of franking that, I'm afraid."

"But why? Surely you cannot object to my sister."

"I have no patience with children still in the schoolroom," he told her coldly. "And I'd as lief not remind any of the connection."

For a moment, she could only stare, then she felt anger. "Arthur, my family has held property under patent longer than yours. Papa's title—"

"Oh—I have no objection to the breeding, my dear-it's the parent himself I fault."

"It's the same!"

"Not at all. Thomas Ashton is a wastrel—a waster of his substance—and I tire of his hanging on my sleeve. It's enough that I said I would give him the allowance he chooses to waste in the hells."

"Arthur, you said I could bring Charlotte out! You promised!"

"Lower your voice, Elinor."

"But you said—"

"The girl's still in the schoolroom," he repeated. "And I said I should not object to assisting her in making a good marriage—perhaps next year. Your mother can take her to Bath for the short season." He looked up at her, and there was no mistaking the displeasure in his eyes. "Sit down that I may eat."

She felt ready to cry. "Arthur, now that Charley is gone, I shall have no one."

"Apparently you have no need of anyone else to get yourself into a scrape, my dear." He began carving a slab of cold tongue, slicing it thinly. "It's enough that I had to send Charles away."

"Charley and I did nothing! A trip to Vauxhall to see the fireworks—to sit under the stars—to buy food from the stalls—it was all, Arthur—all! It was utterly harmless! We did not even go near the Dark Walk! And as for Almack's—"

"I was not speaking of Charles alone, my dear."

"The market was—"

"Nor the market."

She sank into her chair, temporarily dispirited, for she knew whatever maggot he'd gotten in his brain, he would keep it. And she was at a loss as to the source of his manner. "I know not what you have been told, my lord, but I can only think it was a lie. I can think of nothing—"

"How long have you been seeing Longford?" he asked abruptly.

"Longford! But I haven't—I—" She stopped, wondering who could have told, who could have spied on her. Her chin came up almost defiantly. "I collect you are referring to yesterday, and if you wished to know of that, you had but to ask."

"The reason is immaterial—it's outside of enough that you were seen."

"I walked there to ask that he look after Charley."

"A likely tale!" he snorted. "Longford would not put himself out for anyone. He could not even be brought to his father's bedside in the end."

"Well, he could not be said to be very pleasant," she conceded. "But I did not know that when I went." Trying to control her shaking hands, she reached for the bread rack. "He turned me away."

His eyes narrowed, he regarded her shrewdly. "A likely tale," he said sarcastically. "No—I did not bring you to town to disgrace me, Elinor."

"And I have not. Arthur—I have not!" She wet her dry lips with her tongue, trying again. "Please—I'd have Charlotte. She'll not vex you, I promise!" But even as she spoke, she knew he did not mean to let her have any company beyond his. She felt a sense of defeat. "Indeed, but she'll give you no cause—Arthur, she is a quiet, biddable girl!"

"You will lower your voice when you speak to me."

"Then you will not accuse me of baseness, my lord."

"I may accuse you of anything I wish, my dear—you would forget what I have given you. I have made you the envy of every female in London."

"I should rather be poor, I think," she muttered bitterly.

"You would not like the life." He pressed his fingers together and continued to stare at her. "But you are like Charles, are you not? I have made it too easy for you."

"Easy?" Her voice rose incredulously.
"Easy?
Do you think I like this life you have given me?"

"I'll not have your name bandied about like a common whore's."

Somehow she knew he was getting to the heart of the matter, and she was perplexed. "What? Arthur, I have not the least notion—"

He favored her with an impatient frown. "There was a great deal of excitement at White's last night, I am told. In the guise of friendship, Lord Sefton stopped by rather late to report of it." He waited for her to react to that and was disappointed. "I understand Townsend placed a bet that he would have you when Longford was through."

"What?
Townsend?" She nearly choked. "When Longford was through—? Arthur, I can assure you it's no such thing! The earl rebuffed me—that is"—she amended hastily—"he refused to help Charles. All I wanted was for him to keep Charley safe, Arthur!"

"Sefton is neither deaf nor given to invention, Elinor.

"This is preposterous! And I care not who wagered on it—it's not true!"

"You have made me a laughingstock!" he snapped. "And I'll not stand for it!"

Her color rose in her cheeks, and her own anger made her reckless. "No more so than when you wed me, I should think," she bit off precisely. "And what of Sally Jersey? Or Lady Oxford? Or the Melbourne woman? It would seem infidelity is the fashion, so I cannot think any would refine overmuch on it."

"Then it's the truth."

"Of course it is not! I am sure Lord Longford, having taken me in dislike, would most certainly deny it. And as for Lord Townsend—well, I cannot account for his malice. Indeed, but I thought him a friend."

"He has run tame here for weeks," he reminded her.

"Because he is fashionable! Because he amused me a little—but certainly for nothing more. You did not discourage Lord Townsend, Arthur!"

"I warned you about Longford, Elinor! Make me appear the fool and I shall take you back to Stoneleigh," he threatened.

"I would that you did!"

"When I discovered you, you were but a pretty, striking chit," he told her, lowering his voice. "I made you a beauty—an Incomparable. And that's the thanks I get for it. I am surrounded by vipers—vipers I have nurtured at this very table!"

"You wanted men to admire me—you said so yourself!" She rose and moved to stand over him. "Look at me, Arthur! Do you not know that I would rather be plain? That I would have the pox if it would mark me and free me from this?"

"Lady Jersey, sir!" the footman announced.

"Tell her to leave her card," Elinor muttered. "No doubt she has come to ferret out the gossip."

But Arthur shook his head. "It's early, but I'd not send her away. Sit down and try to recall that you are a lady," he advised her. When she did not move, he hissed, "For God's sake, sit!"

"Kingsley! Elinor dearest!" The countess swept into the room, her scarf trailing over her walking dress. "I came as soon as I heard!"

"Heard what?" Elinor asked without enthusiasm.

"About that dreadful wager, my dear." Sally turned to the old man. "Never say you have not been apprised?"

"Sefton told me," he answered.

"Well, I do not believe there is an excessive amount of damage, for it's off the books, in any event." Her gaze flitted to Elinor, and for a moment, she could not contain her interest. "Longford, my dear? I
told
you he was dangerous. But I must admit it was rather generous of him to see it removed."

For once, Arthur came to Elinor's defense. "Lady Jersey, I do not refine on it at all, I assure you. The earl is scarce the sort to appeal to a sensible female."

Sally fixed him with a glance that indicated he must be daft. "Nonsense," she declared flatly. "But that is quite beside the point. We must see that the matter is met headlong, that there is nothing to it. I have sent quite a peal to Bellamy, I'm afraid. I cannot think what he was about! And but two days after I sponsored dear Elinor at Almack's."

"It's very kind of you, Lady Jersey, but—"

The countess turned on her. "Kindness has naught to do with it, my dear! It was I as recommended you to the patronesses, after all. Lud, but what a smirk I shall expect from Mrs. Drummond-Burrell—"

"I collect you think she can recover," Arthur cut in, interrupting her rattling.

"Of course! She is not the first wayward wife, after all," she declared in understatement. "The unforgiveable is not the deed, but a lack of discretion, and certainly that must be laid upon Bell's head rather than hers. And since Longford forced it from the books, we must all brazen the matter through."

"Lady Jersey, there is naught between Lord Longford and myself," Elinor protested. "Indeed, I cannot say I even like the man."

"Of course not, my dear," Sally responded, indicating clearly that she did not believe her. "Though I cannot say he is noted for that sort of association—not since Diana. No, Longford has consoled himself rather more with the likes of those Wilson women."

"Viscount Townsend, my lord!"

"Here?" Elinor choked. "How dare he?"

"What the deuce—?" Arthur frowned.

"I asked—no, I
commanded
him to come," the countess said. "He began it—he can very well scotch it."

The usually impeccably tailored, always perfectly groomed viscount entered the room almost sheepishly. And on this day, his blond hair looked as though it had been combed with his hands, while his coat appeared to have been slept in.

"Caught me still at White's—haven't been home to change," he murmured apologetically, looking to Lady Jersey. "Trying to come about, you know." Casting a sidewise glance at Elinor, he reddened. "Hallo, Lady Kingsley. Your pardon for my appearance. Kingsley."

"You, sir, are an utter blackguard," Elinor told him with feeling.

Chagrined, he could see his anticipated conquest slipping beyond his grasp, and he sought to retrieve the situation.

"Dear lady, I assure yew—"

"Loose lips and full cups are the bane of civilized society," Sally declared spitefully. "I'm afraid they know, Bellamy, so there is no need to shilly-shally over the matter."

He flushed uncomfortably. "Foxed—only excuse for it—dashed disguised. Didn't mean—"

"Sir, were I younger, I should call you out for it," Arthur growled. "Half a mind to, anyway."

"And you should look the veriest cake at your age," Lady Jersey said. "No—it will not do at all. We must draw together, putting out that it was but a hum to embarrass Longford." Completely taking charge, she directed the viscount, "This afternoon, Bellamy, you will take both Lord and Lady Kingsley up—about five, shall we say? And do make it the open carriage."

Townsend's blond eyebrows lifted. "Even if it rains?"

"It's not a time for levity," Sally snapped. "And the three of you really ought to attend the opera together-no, no—it would be better if there were four—perhaps young Kingsley—"

"No," Arthur retorted curtly. "Charles is unavailable."

"Oh." For a moment, the woman was diverted, then she returned to the matter at hand. "But you must see and be seen, the more places the better, I should say. Perhaps Bell ought to bring a pretty female also," she mused, "and when it's noted there is no rancor—"

Her advice was slow to sink in for Bell, and when it did, he gave a start. "Five today? I've not been to bed! I shall look deuced nagged."

"Five," Sally repeated. "Everyone is there then."

But Arthur remained unconvinced. "Who's to say I shall not be pitied like Will Hamilton?" he protested. "He let Nelson flaunt Emma before the world, and afore God, I'll not stand for that!"

"No—no, of course not. I shall set it about—a little discreet gossip here and there—that it was a jest played upon Longford that got out of hand. After all, no matter what is said there must surely be some small bit of bad blood betwixt Bellamy and Lucien de Clare."

Elinor looked from one to the other of them as though they were mad. "Well, I have not the least intention of going so far as the corner with Lord Townsend—not after this!"

"Told you—in my cups." He smiled crookedly. "Would not have hurt you for the world, you know."

"You—you
wagered
on my reputation!" Turning to Arthur, she declared, "I should very much rather return to Stoneleigh, my lord. Your pardon, Lady Jersey." Without so much as a glance at the viscount, she walked from the room.

"I will trust you to reason with her," she heard Sally say. "But I must go—Emily Cowper and I are to meet at Gunther's, you know." There was a brief pause, then she added, "You must not dispute it when I set about a longstanding acquaintance between you and Townsend, you understand."

Beginning to see the possibility of salvaging the Season, the old man nodded. "And you may rest assured if Longford so much as shows his face, she will give him the cut direct." His eyes met Townsend's momentarily. "As for you, sir, I should rather take you up, for I have no wish to ride in your carriage. And I cannot help but feel it would be less obvious."

Bell sighed. "I shall try to be ready at five then."

It was not until after Lady Jersey and the viscount left that Arthur made his way upstairs to his wife's sitting room. "They are gone," he announced curtly.

"To perdition, I hope."

"You are behaving like a spoiled child."

"You have not given me the opportunity to be anything but a child, my lord," she responded coldly. "And I don't care if I go home in disgrace."

"Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand up."

Baffled, she did as he asked. "I don't see—"

"The dress—take it off."

Her hands went cold and her mouth went dry. "Arthur—"

"Now."

Reluctantly, she began working the buttons on her bodice, then turned her attention to the grosgrain band that criss-crossed beneath her breasts, loosening it. "What— what do you mean to do?" she asked nervously.

"Step out of it."

She did as he bade her, then in her zona and petticoat, she turned away to hide her embarrassment. He raised his cane and brought it down hard against her back. She flinched but managed to hold back tears. Again and again, it came down, striking her hips and buttocks.