Gayle Buck (24 page)

Lady Basinberry closed the pattern book. “I shall go down with you and hover about the door. If it appears too terribly uncomfortable, I shall be available for you.”

Michele caught up Lady Basinberry’s withered hand and held it for a moment against her cheek. She was constantly astonished by how close she had become with the proud elderly woman since her engagement to Lord Randol. “Thank you, dear lady,” she said quietly. She rose from her seat, and after a swift glance at herself in the cheval glass, she turned to leave the sitting room. Lady Basinberry accompanied her down the stairs. In the entry hall Lady Basinberry paused beside the footman and quietly requested that he remain close beside her.

Michele opened the drawing-room door. She went in, closing the door, but remained standing with her hand still on the knob.

Sir Lionel turned quickly from the window. He did not approach her, but instead studied her face from across the room. What he saw made his lips tighten. He turned again to stare out the window. “So you know at last,” he said.

Michele came further into the room. She stopped and placed her hands on the back of a chair. “Why did you do it, Lionel?”

Sir Lionel was silent for such a long time that Michele began to think he was not going to answer her. At last he said, “I hardly recognized Lord Randol when I stumbled over him in the hospital tent. His face was laid open to the bone. It appeared as though his entire right side was but a mass of bloody tissue and broken bone. He was nearly mad with pain. I truly thought he would die.”

He turned away from the window to regard Michele’s whitening face. There was a plea for understanding in his clear blue eyes. “Later, when I saw you, so strained and white but wanting to know any news, I could not bear the thought of you going to him and seeing him in such a ghastly state. It was unthinkable. I thought he would die. So I told you that he had.”

Michele’s fingers tightened painfully on the wooden chair back. She said slowly, “Did you not know ... did you not realize that I would not have cared? I would have gone even though I knew he was to die in my arms!”

Sir Lionel stepped quickly toward her. “Michele! It was to spare you that anguish that I lied. Don’t you see? I loved you too well to stand by while you stepped into a nightmare.”

“That should have been my choice, Lionel,” Michele said quietly. She drew breath and plunged into what was for her the most difficult part. “After I had turned down your proposal, I was so shaken by the depth of your disappointment that I wrote a letter to you.”

Sir Lionel’s hands bunched into fists. “You pitied me! I! Who loved you more than my own life.”

“Or your honor, Lionel?”

He stared at her, taken aback. Then he threw back his head to laugh uproariously. When he looked at her again, his eyes glittered. “Aye, my honor! In very truth, I traded it for revenge. Can you even begin to fathom my feelings upon receiving that scrap of paper? Such noble sentiments, such understanding words! But laced throughout was the unmistakable odor of pity. I think I went a little mad. I tore off my name from the top and I took that letter to his lordship. He had not had the decency to die after all, you see. I gave him to understand that you knew of his wounds but you could not bear the thought of seeing him like that, half-crippled and almost certainly blinded in one eye. He read the letter and he, too, gathered the overwhelming scent of pity. It gave me a sense of fierce satisfaction that I had not misconstrued your words.”

At some point in his recital Michele had pressed the back of one hand to her lips against the sick feeling that rose within her. Now she dropped her hand and stared at him, appalled. “
Mon
Dieu.
How could you leave him like that?” she whispered.

Sir Lionel flushed. “Leave him to wallow in tortured thoughts, do you mean? Those same thoughts were mine, Michele! In my madness I chose not to bear the pain of them alone.” He sighed as he scraped a hand across his face. “When I saw you here, that first day in the park, all the old ghosts that I thought laid to rest forever rose to haunt me once more. I discovered to my devastation that I still loved you.” He came toward her. “Michele, I cannot help myself. You are more beautiful than ever. Your eyes, your mouth ... The thought of holding you in my arms taunts me day and night.” He reached out for her.

“Do not touch me!” Michele said sharply, taking a step backward. She was trembling in every limb. “How can you claim to love me? You betrayed me, Lionel. You tried to destroy all that I held most dear. Once—yes, once—I cared for you. I cared for you as my dearest of friends. But I do not think that I ever truly knew you. I realize that now.” Her throaty voice was even lower than before. “And I do not wish to know you.”

For several seconds there was silence. Sir Lionel slowly drew himself up. His eyes, hard and bright, did not waver from Michele’s face. Then without a word or a backward glance he strode out of the drawing room.

Michele heard the outer door slam. Her inner tension snapped and her cheeks were suddenly washed with tears. She sat down abruptly in a chair.

Lady Basinberry saw Sir Lionel stride angrily out of the drawing room and from the house. She immediately entered the drawing room. At sight other niece’s bowed figure, she paused. Then she went up to lay a gentle hand on Michele’s shoulder. “My dear.” Her hand was caught in a painful grip and Michele turned toward her. Lady Basinberry put her arms about her niece. “It is over, my dear. It is over at last.”

In the days following, Michele was haunted by the dread that Sir Lionel would again approach her. But as the days slipped past and there was no sign of the gentleman, she was gradually able to put him out of her mind. She was aided to this happy state by Lord Randol’s constant company, and when Mr. Davenport mentioned that the promised excursion to a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens was to take place at last, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to request of Lord Randol that he act as her escort.

His lordship raised his brow. “My dear lady, a masquerade? I would have considered us both far too jaded for such entertainment,” he said teasingly.

“I shall take leave to inform you, my lord, that I am not in the least
jaded,”
Michele said with some spirit. “On the contrary, I discover an enthusiasm in myself for such frivolity. However, if you do not wish it, then I must find for myself another escort.”

Lord Randol raised her hand to his lips, but instead of saluting her fingers, he turned her hand over and kissed her sensitive palm. He smiled when he felt her shiver. “I shall not disappoint you in any way, mademoiselle.”

Michele’s face grew warm. “You are a perfect beast, Anthony,” she exclaimed, pulling away her hand. She knew that Lady Basinberry watched them from across the drawing room. “You have put me out of countenance. I wish that you had never come to call today.”

“But then you could not have begged my indulgence.”

“Your indulgence?” Michele started to give him a much-needed set-down, but she could not withstand his laughing eyes. Instead she put out her hand to him. “Anthony, how very much I missed you.”

“You shall never have to miss me again, my girl,” he said, still smiling, but he spoke with a somber undercurrent to his voice. He clasped her hand in his, and thus they sat, quite intimately situated on the settee despite the others in the room.

“Isn’t it perfectly marvelous?” Lydia sighed, touched by the romantic picture.

Lady Basinberry sniffed. “I hope never to see you display such open manners, Lydia. It is quite disgraceful.” But she smiled a little as she spoke. At a thought, her smile turned a shade malicious. “Pray enlighten me, Lydia. Whom has your father approved as your escort to Vauxhall?”

Lydia turned bright red, but she answered her aunt with composure. “Papa has agreed to allow Captain Hughes to join us, Aunt Beatrice.” She stared as her aunt began to laugh. “You already knew! How infamous of you to tease me, aunt!”

“It is my wicked nature. I do not apologize for it. Age does give one certain licenses, you see,” Lady Basinberry said complacently.

The masquerade night at Vauxhall Gardens was more expensive than ordinary nights, and Mr. Davenport grumbled about the foolishness of youth. But once the party had crossed the river and stepped into the gardens, even he had to admit that it was a pretty sight. A thousand lamps illuminated the gardens so that the walkways appeared lit with enchanted fire.

The company wandered down the long avenues of trees, admiring the fountains, the cascades, and a fine statue of Mr. Handel. Strains of music drifted from the orchestra pavilion. “It is all simply too marvelous for words,” Lydia exclaimed ecstatically, her eyes showing bright in the slits other mask.

“Perhaps, my dear. But I for one should like to take refreshment. I am not used to all this walking about, Edwin, pray find our supper box,” Lady Basinberry said. She had not deigned to wear a mask, but held one mounted on a stick. Now she used the mask in the manner of a fan and waved it gently before her face.

“Of course, Beatrice.” Mr. Davenport led the way to a small supper box set in a leafy arbor and politely seated his sister. Lord Randol and Captain Hughes performed the same office for the younger ladies, and the party settled down to arrack punch, powdered beef, custards, and a fine syllabub laced with wine. It was a lovely summer evening and the warm air was caressing. More than once it was remarked how pleasant the gardens were that evening.

After the dinner was done with, Captain Hughes said, “I think that another turn about the gardens is in order to work off that splendid meal. Would anyone care to join me?”

“Oh, yes!” Lydia said at once. Recalling herself, she turned quickly to her father. “That is, if you have no objection. Papa.”

Before Mr. Davenport could form a reply, Michele said, “I, too, would like to see the gardens again. I shall accompany you and Captain Hughes, Lydia.” She smiled at Lord Randol. “My lord, I hope that I may prevail upon you to offer me escort.”

Lord Randol bowed his acquiescence. “I will be honored to do so, mademoiselle.”

Mr. Davenport smiled fondly at the younger set. Since his niece had become engaged to Lord Randol, he had become completely reconciled to Lydia’s
tendre
for Captain Hughes. “Certainly you should walk about again. It is a very pretty night. However, I think that Lady Basinberry and I shall stay here to enjoy the fine music and to watch the promenaders.’’

“Indeed I shall,” Lady Basinberry said. “I am too old to match such energy. Besides, I am feeling decidedly sleepy from the punch.”

The two couples left the supper box, laughing. Their concealing dominoes and masks made them anonymous among the other promenaders and lent a spice of excitement to their outing.

Captain Hughes kept to a measured pace so that he and Lydia quickly fell behind their companions. He stopped before an unlit walkway and Lydia looked up at him inquiringly. He grinned down at her, the flash of his white teeth rakish beneath his mask. “Here is the Dark Walk, my fair lady. Do you dare to enter it with me?”

“Oh!” Lydia eyed the opening of the darkened walkway, from which could be heard giggling squeals and laughter. Feeling herself blush, she nodded. “Let’s go!”

With a flourish Captain Hughes led his beloved into the infamous Dark Walk, where young ladies venturing alone could be certain of being accosted by impudent young gentlemen. When the leafy dark closed about them, their steps slowed and finally stopped. Lydia turned into her chosen gentleman’s arms with a soft sigh. He lowered his head and Lydia closed her eyes in anticipation of his kiss.

Instead, she heard him give a peculiar grunt. His arms slid away and he fell against her. She staggered under his weight and pushed at his chest. “Bernard!” He dropped sprawling to the ground, his eyes rolled up in his white face. Lydia screamed.

Over Captain Hughes’s body stood a dark figure holding a thick branch in gloved hands. The hulking apparition laughed softly. It turned its masked face toward Lydia. Recognizing her peril, Lydia whirled. But she had not gone two steps before strong hands clutched her. She fought frantically as a peculiar-smelling cloth was pressed over her mouth and nose. Instinctively she tried not to breathe, but she could not escape the sweetish odor. The blood pounded in her head. Her last conscious thought was one of despair.

Lydia’s head lolled limply as her captor swung her unconscious body into his arms. Without a thought for the man moaning and stirring feebly on the ground behind him, he said, “Now we are for Gretna.” He strode swiftly down the walk. The dark swallowed him and his burden.

Chapter Twenty-three

Michele and Lord Randol made a circuit of Vauxhall Gardens before turning their leisurely steps back toward the Davenport supper box. The disappearance of their companions somewhere along the way had not surprised them, nor had they been displeased. The privacy gave them an opportunity to speak as freely as they wished, and if they lingered more than once in the shadows to snatch a sweet kiss, none who passed were able to recognize those who indulged in such shameless exhibitions. Indeed, there were few who actually cared. It was tacitly understood that masquerade nights allowed licenses that were not otherwise tolerated.

Michele and Lord Randol were in sight of the supper box when a dominoed figure staggered into their path. The gentleman clutched the back of his head. He had lost his mask, and in the lamplight his chalk-white face was easily recognized.

“Good God! It’s Hughes!” exclaimed Lord Randol. He leapt forward to catch the other man, whose knees had begun to buckle, and carried him safely to the ground. Supporting the wounded man in his arms, Lord Randol said urgently, “Hughes! What has happened?”

Quickly Michele knelt beside him. She pulled down Captain Hughes’s hand and saw the dark blood staining his fingers and palm. She sucked in her breath. Her gaze shifted swiftly to his head to discover the seeping wound that matted the hair about it. She pulled out her handkerchief, squared it, and pressed it to the wound. “Where is Lydia?” she demanded sharply.