Diamonds & Deceit (6 page)

The duke was an excellent dancer. Rose realized this in a second, with relief. She had had dancing lessons all through the spring, but with so little practice during the season she had forgotten most of what she had learned.

Yet there was an awkward silence. Rose was beginning to feel a little abashed. She had expected the usual well-bred yawns about the weather, Cowes, and Goodwood. Either that, or—with the duke’s reputation—an actual assault on her honor. Neither of these were forthcoming, and she was beginning to feel a little embarrassed for dancing with him out of pure bravado. Not such a fierce lion after all, she thought. Her thoughts drifted, as usual, to the unseen people in the room. The footmen standing silently at the doors, uncomplaining about their aching feet, the hidden army of lady’s maids in the cloakrooms, waiting to dart into action should a lace petal fall from a hem. And for every lady, a maid waiting up, yawning, till her mistress deigned to come home; for every gentleman a valet doing the same. The queue of chauffeurs smoking outside. And then the cleaning, the dusting, the polishing, the—

“What are you thinking?” the duke said. His eyes were fixed on her face, sober and curious.

It was so unexpected. Not in half a season had she ever been asked that question. Before she had an instant to think she had answered, readily, “I was thinking those mirrors must be the very devil to clean.”

She heard her own words with the most mortified shock. Color rushed into her face and she felt dizzy with horror. The duke burst out laughing. How could she have said that? How could she have exposed herself so horribly?

“B-but it’s true!” she gabbled, hardly knowing what she was saying, simply feeling that she had to defend herself. “Look at that old man leaning against them. They pick up fingerprints like you wouldn’t believe and some poor girl will be up all night scrubbing them.”

He was still laughing. Heads turned as they passed to swing around at the top of the room, and the music swept them away again. Rose felt tears of embarrassment and anger start to her eyes. How dare he laugh? So many people’s hard work had gone into creating this ball. Now she didn’t care what he thought of her. She jerked her hands away from him; he misstepped and nearly tripped them into the path of the next couple. Rose tried to push him away but he held her wrists, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Have you any idea how much our supper cost?” she snapped. “And how much a housemaid earns? And how—”

“Some idea, yes.” His green eyes were dancing. But he was
really
laughing. Not sneering. “You’re quite right, of course, this entire event is ridiculous.”

Rose felt as if her weapons had been tweaked out of her hands. “But…” she began. “I—” There really wasn’t anything to do except agree with him.

He went on, with relish, “It’s utterly decadent, entirely foolish, silly, destructive, idiotic, charmless—”

“Not charmless,” she objected, with a small smile. “Did you not see Lady Gertrude’s Brussels lace gloves? I’ve been informed that they add enough charm to the room to make up even for my appearance.”

“Vapid, vicious—”

“No, no, not vicious.” She shook her head at him solemnly, glancing around at the glittering crowds. “It’s
fun
.”

“In its way.” His gaze skimmed the room. “But I sometimes wonder how long it can all go on.”

“I think till four o’clock in the morning at least,” Rose said unhappily. She caught his eye and they both started laughing again. “That’s not what you meant, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said, steering her away from a nearby couple. “And you’re right, it is fun. At least, it is now.” He smiled down at Rose and, to her horror, she felt herself blush. “And I’m sorry for my melancholy outlook,” he continued. “I shouldn’t be casting a pall over the season.”

“I forgot, your father died,” Rose said. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said formally. They danced on in silence. Rose winced. How could she have put her foot in it so badly?

“At least he died in his bed,” he added a second later. “He must be the first Huntleigh in centuries not to have been killed in battle. Bannockburn, Edgehill, Waterloo…” He grinned. “It’s a sad sort of life, brought up with faces much like your own glooming down at you from dusty portraits, seeming to say,
Your turn next
. It’s hard to escape your past.”

Rose was silent. It was a shock to hear her own thoughts put into words.

He glanced down at her uncertainly.

“I—I’m being poetical, I’m afraid.” He was
apologizing
. He thought she disapproved of him! “At least that’s what Laurence always used to accuse me of. A great sin in his eyes.”

“You know Lord Fintan well?” Rose glanced around, but she could see Ada and her fiancé nowhere.

“We were in the same year at Eton.”

“Are you really rivals?”

“Oh, hardly. Laurence was always interested in politics, and I have no desire to go into the House.” He smiled. “We have never really cared about the same things.”

“Well, I like poetry,” she said firmly.

He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. But still, I shouldn’t let my ancestry weigh on my spirits. After all, they had to die some way or other. Strawberry leaves are not the fruit of immortality, no matter what the Countess of Westlake thinks.”

It took Rose a moment to realize he was joking, and then she laughed aloud. Heads turned. Rose quickly covered her mouth. She could see the countess glaring at her from the crowd.

“I must learn to laugh more discreetly,” she said when she had recovered herself.

“No, please don’t.” His eyes shone as he looked at her. “We don’t hear much laughter during the season. Not real laughter. Yours makes me feel—” He broke off, frowning. “I don’t have a very good reputation, you know,” he said gloomily.

Rose laughed again. It was impossible not to like him. He was such an odd mixture—droll and melancholy by turns. “You have a
terrible
reputation,” she replied. “But no one seems to mind.”

His mouth twitched again. “The Duke of Huntleigh is much in demand.” He smiled. “But I sense not by you.”

“Not in the least,” she said firmly. It was best to establish that at once, she thought. She wouldn’t give him any excuse to say she had flirted with him.

“I don’t blame you.” They were moving toward the crowd as the music slowed. “The Duke of Huntleigh is a dull chap.”

He steered her forward. She was a little dizzy, and he steadied her, holding her close for an instant.

“Alexander Ross, though,” he said, warm and soft in her ear. “I flatter myself you might get to like
him
.”

Rose felt herself flush and could not stop the smile that warmed her face. She wasn’t sure if it was his words or the fact that his lips were so close to her ear. She felt the soft pressure of his body against hers. She had a wild, insane desire to sink into his arms. But instead she stepped away from him, breathing fast. Everyone was looking at them, she realized. He was still holding her hand, even though the music had begun again. And she wasn’t letting go of his. She wasn’t quite sure why.

She glanced toward the French windows. Before them stood Ada and Laurence. It seemed they had just entered. Laurence was frowning, a look on his face as if he had tasted something sour. Ada’s expression was tense and anxious. They stood close together but apart, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

“Aren’t we engaged for this dance, Alexander?” A voice disturbed Rose, and she turned to see Charlotte smiling as she raised her dance card. “I nearly forgot, I was so busy admiring that wonderful portrait in the corner. The Italians have such a gift for character.”

The duke started and released Rose’s hand. “We are.” He bowed over Charlotte’s.

Rose could only step back and watch as Charlotte, still talking enthusiastically about art, sailed away with the duke and was lost on the dance floor.

“Here.” Sebastian Templeton leaned forward to speak through the sliding window as Jackson drove the De Dion–Bouton toward the stone gates of Palesbury Castle Gaol. Jackson obliged by drawing the car to a halt.

Sebastian tried not to look up at the high stone wall as he got out. Visitors from abroad who didn’t know what this place was admired the picturesque ivy that grew up the walls. But he knew what it was. A prison.

“Wait for me in the village,” he told Jackson.

As he walked toward the stone arch and the great wooden gates, he found himself shuddering. He did not want to see Oliver in here. He wanted this all to be a dream, for none of it to have happened—

“Mr. Templeton, sir!”

Sebastian started. The man who was in front of him—he must have been lurking in the shadows—had a coarse, familiar face, an insolent gaze. His collar was dirty and his coat out of style. He touched his hat briefly and smirked at Sebastian. “
The Daily Truth
, sir. Have your thoughts? Comments on the terrible tragedy, awful crime, depravity of modern society—”

“No,” Sebastian said roughly. He pushed the journalist aside and hammered on the wooden door.

“No comments? Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Good of you to trouble to look in on your valet. What does your countess mother think of it?”

The man looked him up and down, and Sebastian hammered again. He felt as if he were being crawled over by insects. At last, the window opened, and the turnkey looked out. Sebastian stepped back at the smell of his breath.

“Gerrout of here, you!” the turnkey bawled. Sebastian realized he was talking to the journalist. The man backed away but didn’t leave, like a stray dog. Sebastian heard metal clanking and rattling, and the door creaked open. Sebastian hurried inside. He shivered in the cold damp air that met him.

“So sorry for the nuisance.” The turnkey was an obsequious little man with rotten teeth and a beer belly. He ushered Sebastian along, the keys at his waist dangling and clanking like some kind of medieval torture instrument. “The prisoner’s down here. Very good of you to take so much trouble over him. I’ve told him he should be grateful—”

“Here?” Sebastian strode ahead, down the stone passage. If one more person told him how good he was being he would scream. “It’s very cold,” he murmured.

“It is a gaol, sir. Can’t have the felons getting off easy.” The turnkey chuckled.

Doors creaked open, slammed shut. The metal bones of the keys jangled like witches’ teeth. Sebastian had a strange feeling that he was heading deeper into a cave, into one of those old pagan burial sites, with long tunnels leading down deep into cold barrows where steel rusted and bones mouldered. He shuddered.

To either side were bars, and behind some of them were men. Some were silent, others muttered or shouted to themselves.

“It’s this one, sir.” The turnkey stopped. It was dark and Sebastian hesitated. He could see no one in the cell.

“No need for you to go farther, sir, if it takes you funny,” the turnkey said. “It’s not a place a gentleman would feel comfortable in.”

Sebastian screwed up his courage and strode forward to the bars.

“Oliver?” he said.

For a moment he still could see no one in the shadows, and then his eyes grew used to the gloom and he saw Oliver standing in the center of the cell, arms folded. He looked the same, his dark eyes, his proud face, the hair Sebastian longed to run his fingers through. The only changes were a growth of stubble and the prison clothes that looked like a joke. Sebastian could not stop the smile that flooded over his face. He ran to the bars and Oliver did the same. Sebastian remembered himself enough to turn and say to the turnkey. “You may leave us now.”

The man bowed and retreated. Sebastian moved closer to the bars, glad now of the darkness that covered them. His fingers and Oliver’s clutched each other through the bars. They did not speak until the turnkey’s footsteps had faded away completely and the only sound was the mice scrabbling inside the walls.

“How are you? How is it?” Sebastian whispered. His mouth was dry.

“I’ve known worse.” Oliver smiled, but Sebastian saw the glint of pain in his eyes, and something else—fear.

“You must let me give myself up.”

“We’ve been through all this. I forbid it entirely. You have much more to lose than I do.”

“Yes, but I can’t stand by and watch you go to court on my account!”

“It’ll never come to that,” Oliver said confidently. “The barrister will sort it all out—by the way, it was good of you to engage him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t have done less.” Sebastian tightened his grip on Oliver’s fingers. “What else can I do for you? Your family—they must want to know where you are.”

“Never mind my family.”

“But they must be frantic. I can get them here. I’ll send Jackson to pick them up.”

“Please, leave it.”

“It doesn’t matter about the cost. I’ll pawn my cuff links—”

“I
have
no family!” Oliver almost shouted. His voice rang from the bars. Sebastian was shocked by the fury in it. The scrabbling of mice paused for an instant, then went on again. Oliver’s voice softened. “Just you.”

Sebastian looked into his eyes. They drew close together, and their lips touched through the bars. Sebastian closed his eyes, aching with the need to pull Oliver closer, remembering a summer lake, cold wine, a time of happiness and freedom before all this insanity had entered his life, a time that felt like a thousand years ago. A single act of violence could be the touchpaper that blew up the ground you stood on.

He heard footsteps approaching and pulled back. Oliver did the same. He backed away into the center of the cell.

“You’d better go,” he said. His face was shadowed, but his voice told Sebastian everything he needed to know.

Sebastian pulled his gloves from his pocket and adjusted his hat before turning to the door just as it opened.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brompton,” he said, recognizing the barrister he had retained for Oliver.

“Mr. Templeton!” The barrister’s jowly face wore an expression of startled displeasure. “I hadn’t expected to see you here, sir.”

Sebastian didn’t reply immediately. Instead he placed a hand on the man’s arm. “You must tell me if there is anything I can do, anything that you might need to make the case go well,” he said in a low voice.

“Of course. Of course.” Brompton still sounded troubled. He turned to follow Sebastian as he tried to walk on.

“I feel I must say something, sir. It’s best for you not to come here.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

“There are newspaper men outside. It’s become something of a cause célèbre in the gossip papers. You being so concerned about your valet…well, it’s admirable of course, but it can lead to tittle-tattle.” He avoided meeting Sebastian’s gaze.

“Tittle-tattle.” Sebastian gave a slight, mirthless laugh. “Well, if that’s the worst the world can do, let them do it. Oliver’s suffering is a lot worse than mine, and I will not cease to do what I can to lessen it.”

He turned away before Brompton could reply and followed the turnkey up to the main gates. He hardly noticed the passage this time. He was seething with fury inside, at the world and its prying eyes, at himself and his impotence. Why the hell, he thought, can’t everyone just leave other people alone?

He found Jackson and the car in front of Moss Booksellers. The window was filled with a display of a new novel by someone called R. J. Peak. Jackson was reading a copy himself—
A Duke for Daisy
the cover said—and seemed entirely engrossed in it. He jumped when Sebastian tapped his shoulder.

“Sorry, sir!”

“Somerton, please.” Sebastian got into the car and settled back into the luxurious leather seats. As they drove away he sat suddenly forward. His brother, Michael, had just come out of the bookseller’s, with a package wrapped in brown paper. Odd, he had never thought of the pup as a reader. His mother couldn’t even get Michael to return to Eton. Maybe he had picked up the habit to impress some young lady. But Sebastian’s thoughts quickly returned to Oliver and the storm of troubles headed their way.