Azalea (14 page)

"My dear Azalea," she exclaimed, "let me
present your uncle, Lord Kayce. I collect that you did not make his
acquaintance last night, though he was in attendance, were you not,
sir?"

"I was indeed, my lady," Lord Kayce returned
in an affectedly nasal tone as he bowed in Azalea's direction.
"There was such a flock about my young niece, however, that I
forbore to intrude the presence of a stodgy old man like myself on
her obvious enjoyment." A pleasant smile accompanied this remark,
and Azalea felt her shock at his identity giving way to surprise at
his manner.

Lord Kayce was thin, slightly over middle
height, and possessed an expressive, if not a handsome,
countenance. He was dressed in the absolute height of elegance,
with a froth of rich, cream-coloured lace at his throat and wrists
setting off the deep green of his embroidered waistcoat and
matching jacket. His hair, which he wore tied back with a green
ribbon in an old-fashioned style, had apparently been the same deep
auburn as his niece's in his youth, though now it was heavily
threaded with grey. Azalea couldn't help thinking that this was
what her father might have looked like had he still been alive. The
thought warred with her misgivings.

"I wish you had approached me, my lord.
Surely you don't think me such a pleasure seeker that I would
regret time spent with my nearest kinsman!" she said, the warmth in
her tone not entirely feigned.

"You reassure me, my dear," he replied. "But
please, no more 'my lording.' As you remind me, we are the only
members left of the Clayton family, so it must be Uncle Simon." He
was all affability, apparently eager to welcome her both to England
and into his life. He certainly did not resemble the calculating,
ruthless mercenary her grandfather had led her to expect.

"Of course. And you must call me Azalea."
She wished she had the courage to ask him outright what he meant to
do about her share of her father's estate. Could Grandfather have
been mistaken about him?

As they chatted of America and of Azalea's
impressions of London for a few minutes, Azalea found herself
unwillingly drawn to her new-found kinsman, although his effeminate
way of speaking and gesturing with his hands reminded her of Lord
Chilton. Her uncle was not a member of the dandy set, however —one
had only to look at his clothing, which was far more subdued than
Lord Chilton's, to ascertain that.

Though distracting, the affectedness of his
manner along with his self-deprecating air only served to make him
appear that much more harmless. The unworthy thought occurred to
Azalea that this might be the reason for its cultivation.

"I really must be going, but I do trust we
shall see each other often, my dear child," said Kayce, rising
smoothly after a glance at his pocket watch. "Perhaps, once the
Season is under way in the spring, we can collaborate on a comeout
ball for our young relative," he suggested lightly to Lady
Beauforth as he took his leave.

"Of course, if you would care to, my lord,"
she answered, simpering as fulsomely as Marilyn did with the
younger gentlemen.

"We'll discuss it at some future date," he
assured her. "Oh, and I pray you will allow me to send round a
token of my affection, my dear," he said to Azalea. With another
warm smile for his niece, he bowed smoothly and departed.

Before he was out of the room, Azalea's
gallants returned to their various assaults on her heart, and she
was soon laughing at their outrageous flattery. Her enjoyment of
the moment was only marred by the absence of one particular
gentleman, but she refused to dwell on it just then.

"Well,
my dear, I would say that your social position is assured now
that Lord Kayce has decided to recognize you," Lady Beauforth said
as the last of their callers departed. "He is incredibly wealthy,
as well as influential among the ton. With his patronage and, of
course, my own, which is not inconsequential, I assure you, you are
sure to take next Season. We'll have you married to a lord or I
miss my guess!"

"But why should he not recognize me, Cousin
Alice?" asked Azalea choosing to ignore Lady Beauforth's
increasingly frequent references to finding her a husband. "The
family connection cannot be doubted, so would he not look foolish
to ignore it?"

"Foolish? Kayce?" Lady Beauforth was plainly
shocked. "Nothing of the sort, my dear! It is scarcely possible for
a man of his standing to look foolish, whatever the circumstances.
Had he decided to ignore the connection, you would have stood in
grave danger of being cut on the mere notion that he must have some
reason for not acknowledging you. I am very happy for you that it
will not come to that! "

"But why should he do such
a thing?" Azalea persisted suspiciously.
"
He
seemed
a most pleasant man. I
concluded from his manner that he became aware of my presence in
London only last night, else he would have called
sooner."

"Yes, he did say that,
didn't he?" Lady Beauforth looked thoughtful. "Normally,
absolutely
nothing
goes on in London of which Lord Kayce is unaware. I'd have
expected him to know of your presence the day of your arrival, or
the day after at the very latest. Perhaps he has merely been
deciding what to do. Your success last night may have clinched the
matter for him. If you are going to take, he will certainly want
some of the credit, and would not wish to look foolish by ignoring
his niece when she becomes a Toast next spring," she concluded,
blithely unaware, as always, that she had contradicted
herself.

Azalea was accustomed to Cousin Alice's
confusing speeches and had learned by now not to take her every
utterance at face value. It could not be denied, however, that Lady
Beauforth was nearly as well-informed as she claimed Lord Kayce
was. Thus, Azalea could not lightly dismiss everything she had
said, especially given her grandfather's warnings. But could her
uncle—or anyone —really be capable of such duplicity?

Perhaps so. She recalled a time when her
cousins had encountered on the street two ladies they apparently
despised, judging by previous conversations. To watch that meeting,
one would have thought it a reunion of the dearest of friends.

The English, she reminded herself, were not
nearly so open as Americans, so it might be possible that her uncle
would conceal any dislike of herself that he might feel. She would
go slowly with him, and make more of an effort to discover his true
feelings. After all, she could hardly judge his character
accurately on the basis of a single fifteen-minute interview.

* * *

"Secure that line!"
bellowed the captain, his black hair dripping
with sea water. "Furl the main topsail!"

"This looks like a bad blow." Christian's
father sounded concerned.

Suddenly, flowers were everywhere. Apple
blossoms. Daisies. A soft breeze was blowing. What was everyone
worried about? he wondered.

"My God, Chris!" His father's face was
white. The sky behind him had gone from blue to leaden, an odd,
yellowish grey.

"Man overboard!" shouted the captain, red
hair and beard now whipping in the gale. Chris turned to see a
crate of chickens wash over the rail, then another. The
brown-and-white birds squawked in terror, their feathers flying,
then they were gone.

"That was a close one!" His father's voice
again.

Christian awoke with a start, sweat beading
his brow. The bed linens were damp around him.

"Damn," he muttered. It had been so many
months since he'd last had that nightmare, he had begun to hope he
was finally free of it.

Still shaken, he rose to light the oil lamp
on the desk, determined this time to write it down while it was
fresh in his mind. Before he could dip his pen, however, it was
gone— again. All that remained was a vague memory of wind and
waves, and his father's voice. It always happened like this.
Somehow, he was certain that if he could just remember it long
enough to commit it to paper, the dreams would cease plaguing him.
But he never could.

Fiercely, he scoured his memory, but all
that came to him were more recent recollections. Port cities in the
tropics, nights of celebration so decadent they made the amusements
offered in London seem like nursery games by comparison. Quickly,
he thrust the distasteful memories from his mind.

That was before, he told himself. When he
hadn't known any better. He was not like that now, and would never
be again. Now he was head of the Morely family, sixth Earl of
Glaedon. No one must ever know how he'd stained the proud name he
bore. He would forget it himself. He must.

Christian pulled out some papers he had
brought with him from Glaedon Oaks and read through them until his
eyes began to grow heavy. The day was well advanced when he finally
awoke again.

Feeling remarkably refreshed, he rang for
his valet. He had been remiss since his return to Town. It was time
he paid a social call at Lady Beauforth's. He was, after all,
betrothed to her daughter. It was not Marilyn's face, however, that
arose before him as he tied his cravat. Humming cheerfully for a
reason he refused to examine, he picked up his hat and gloves and
strode purposefully into the chill December afternoon.

* * *

Azalea and her cousins were just sitting
down to tea when Smythe entered stiffly, announcing, "Mr. Plummer,"
in his formal, slightly bored tone. Jonathan strolled in nearly on
his heels, encompassing the three ladies with his engaging smile
and offering a vivid contrast to the starchy butler.

"So good to see you again, Lady Beauforth,
Miss Beauforth, Azalea. I trust I'm not intruding? I had planned to
come this morning, but I'm afraid I didn't feel quite the thing.
Fully recovered now, though, I assure you." He sat next to Marilyn
and helped himself to three buttered scones in proof of his
words.

"Of course you're not intruding, dear boy,"
gushed Lady Beauforth as her daughter nodded in agreement. "We're
delighted to see you again! As you are such an old friend of
Azalea's you must regard us as family and drop in whenever the
fancy strikes you."

Jonathan merely nodded, his mouth too full
to allow any audible reply.

"How is Lord Holte?" Lady Beauforth
continued, without regard to her guest's inability to answer. "I
don't remember if you said whether you were staying with him in
Town or have your own lodgings, as you young gentlemen so often do
these days."

With the assistance of a judicious sip of
tea, Jonathan managed to swallow. "Grandfather is still in Essex at
present, so I am perforce in lodgings. I plan to join him at
Bitters for Christmas and try to persuade him to accompany me back
to Town in the spring, as this will be my last Season for some time
to come."

"Do you go abroad, then, sir?" asked
Marilyn. Azalea thought she detected a trace of disappointment in
her cousin's voice.

"Not precisely, Miss Beauforth. I return to
my home in Virginia next summer. Father is not as young as he once
was, and he has been hinting in his letters that he could use my
help, particularly at harvest time. Filial duty, or guilt, if you
will, is finally getting the better of me."

"How very responsible of you!" exclaimed
Marilyn warmly. "Dear Azalea has been telling me a bit about
America, and I'm certain you must have even more exciting stories
to tell of life there," she added, to Azalea's surprise. "What is
it you will be helping your father to harvest?"

"Apples, mostly," replied Jonathan, then
proceeded to describe his father's orchards and the surrounding
countryside in some detail.

Azalea took little part in the discussion,
content to watch with some amusement the conversation between her
cousin and her erstwhile best friend. Marilyn leaned toward him,
asking question after question, appearing genuinely fascinated by
the topic. In fact, she was so absorbed in the conversation that
she scarcely flirted at all.

Without her assumed airs, she appeared even
more attractive than usual, Azalea thought. Her fine blue eyes
sparkled, and as she leaned forward she displayed an eagerness that
seemed genuine rather than contrived.

Azalea did not mind Marilyn's monopolization
of her old friend —on the contrary, she was delighted. For all of
Jonathan's outrageous compliments the night before, Azalea knew he
would never see her as more than a little sister grown up. And at
least one of her problems would be closer to a solution if Marilyn
were to form an attachment for Jonathan, in lieu of Lord
Glaedon.

As if on cue, Smythe entered the parlour to
announce his lordship. Marilyn looked up with a brilliant smile,
her affections obviously not yet engaged to the point of whistling
an earl and his fortune down the wind.

Azalea felt her heart beat faster as she
stole a glimpse at him, looking handsome as ever in a rust-coloured
coat and fawn buckskins, then quickly turned her attention back to
her plate.

"My lord, how good of you to call," Lady
Beauforth exclaimed delightedly. "Pray take a seat while I ring for
a fresh pot of tea." After only the briefest hesitation, Lord
Glaedon seated himself in the remaining empty chair, which happened
to be next to Azalea.

"How do you do, my lord," she murmured, not
quite meeting his eyes. She was remembering their rather heated
"discussion" last night and was suddenly embarrassed. How forward
he must think her! And then there was that hint she had thrown out
about his deceitfulness, perhaps undeserved.

Or perhaps not. She stiffened her spine and
raised her head to attend to the conversation.

Marilyn was enthusiastically recounting one
of the anecdotes Jonathan had just shared, apparently forgetting
for the moment the Earl's dislike of America and its inhabitants.
He did not seem especially put out, however, listening with polite
interest as she concluded and Jonathan took up the story where she
bad left off.