Lady Sarah's Redemption (33 page)

“Good Lord—”

Bowing, Roland turned to leave then checked himself. “My apologies,
Fleming. That was discourteous. Nevertheless, I would ask to resume the subject
of Lady Sarah’s nuptials when tonight’s entertainment has finished. Excuse me,
Lady Ponsonby is signalling, for I’ve the duty of introducing tonight’s guest
of honour.” His gaze caught and held Sarah’s. Impulsively, he clasped her hand.

“Lady Sarah, my protégé, Miss Queenie Featherlove is performing a
work, composed by me, in your honour.” He hesitated and there was urgency in
his tone as he added, “Listen closely, for it is my sincerest desire that her words
find their way to your heart.”

Before James could respond with justified outrage, he put out a hand
to his worthy competitor.

“Captain Fleming,” he said, “though I deplore your politics as you
do mine, we do share a common interest: Lady Sarah’s happiness. As one man of
honour to another, may I be allowed a final opportunity to determine the lady’s
feelings with regard to myself?” He sent Sarah a heartfelt look. “At the
conclusion of tonight’s entertainment that will no longer seem so outrageous a
request.”

James responded with brittle pride. “I assure you, Lady Sarah’s
happiness is paramount. I doubt you can convince me you are the better man,
Hawthorne. But if you can convince Lady Sarah—”

A hush fell upon the audience as Roland strode onto the dais. Then a
surprised murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Good Lord!” breathed James.

“Heavens! I don’t believe—” gasped a woman near Sarah.

Sarah couldn’t help but silently agree. Queenie Featherlove was
eye-catching, there was no doubt about that. Despite the costly accoutrements,
including a spectacular string of pearls Sarah reckoned cost more than the
diamonds worn by the duchess to her right, she made no secret of her trade. The
way she thrust her bosom forward as she adjusted her plunging neckline, the turquoise
feathers of her headdress swaying wildly, made no secret of her pride in it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Featherlove crooned in a throaty but
carrying tone, her arms sweeping wide to embrace the audience, “it is my
pleasure tonight to sing for you a song composed especially to honour a dear
friend of mine—” She twisted her head as if searching for someone. When
her gaze alighted upon Sir Richard she gave a dazzling smile.

“Sir Richard, you were not leaving, I trust? My song is for
you
.”

Caught like a rabbit in a shaft of light, Sir Richard appeared to
deliberate. His route to the open double doors was cut off as the interested
crowd closed in.

A prostitute performing publicly in honour of a baronet? It was
unprecedented. Not least cause for curiosity verging on scandal was the fact
that Roland Hawthorne, an MP known for his radical egalitarianism, was
promoting the woman and the entertainment.

Caro made her way to the piano, Sarah joining her to turn the pages.
Like the rest of the crowd that evening, they gasped as Miss Featherlove named
the personage she honoured. Then they smiled at one another.

 
“Better than swords?”
whispered Sarah.

Caro nodded as she sank onto the stool and struck the first chord.
“Better than swords,” she concurred, softly.

Miss Featherlove inclined her head in response to the musical
introduction before launching into her song in a fine, strong contralto, her
peacock feathers trembling with emotion.

Dickie Byrd sat in an old
fir tree,

Gloating over his spoils,
he rubbed his hands with glee,

Laugh, Dickie Byrd, laugh,
there’s plenty more money.

There was appreciable movement in the audience as people strained
their necks to search out the hapless Sir Richard. From her elevated position
to one side of the dais, Sarah could just see him, a lone figure scrutinized by
the crowd. His hooded eyes roamed over Miss Featherlove before apparently
seeking Roland, and his thin lips curled in a snarl as he ran a finger around
his neck to loosen his cravat.

Dickie Byrd promised an
equal half to me,

“To feather your nest,” he
said tenderly.

Laugh, Queenie, love,
laugh,

Together we’ll have so much
money.

Sarah turned the pages, giving Caro’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as
she glanced around the room. Some people appeared mesmerized, others distinctly
uncomfortable. She guessed there were more than a few gentlemen who had sampled
the charms of the inimitable Miss Featherlove.

The meaning of the song was quite clear and Sir Richard, publicly
unmasked for his duplicity, was powerless to refute her musical allegations.

Miss Featherlove’s massive bulk swayed in time to the tune, her
loving glance never once leaving Sir Richard’s pallid countenance.

Dickie Byrd said: “Use your
charm,” Queenie,

Ferret out those secrets,
enticingly,

Then we can laugh, yes we
can laugh, over all that money.

He was powerless, thought Sarah with a thrill. Just as she had been
powerless as his captive. Roland had engineered this situation to liberate her
and to grant herself and Caro the satisfaction of seeing their tormentor
publicly humiliated. Her heart swelled with pride.

The Duke of Lomar snuggled
up to me,

Lord Basil Swain and Harry
Stokes said: “my dear Queenie,

How you’d laugh, love,

How you’d laugh,

If you knew how we made our
money.”

The murmurs grew and the three men named in Queenie’s song, young
blades well known for winning and losing fortunes upon the turn of a card,
wiped their sweating brows and fingered their collective stocks as if they
needed more air.

No one, however, looked as uncomfortable as Sir Richard whose
compressed lips and narrowed eyes, as he fixed them upon Roland, made no secret
of his loathing.

Sarah was glad of the protection her position on the dais afforded
her.

Across the crowd her eyes locked with Roland’s. Her heart turned a
clumsy, lurching somersault before nestling cosily into position. A look of
understanding passed between them. Though she was enjoying every minute of
this, anticipation clawed at her. Soon Roland could declare himself, publicly.

Miss Featherlove raised her voice to be heard above the din,
snatches of song plunging others into the mire of scandal.

No matter how much more of Sir Richard’s villainy was revealed in
this little ditty, Miss Featherlove’s performance promised a scandal of such
proportions he would never be received in respectable society, again.

Roland’s focus shifted and Sarah’s gaze darted back to Sir Richard.
She half expected to see him bolt through the French doors which opened onto
the terrace.

He was half way there already.

Then he hesitated. She saw him square his shoulders before he turned
towards Miss Featherlove. In half a dozen strides he was up the stairs and onto
the dais.

The songstress faltered only briefly as he approached her with angry
deliberation. Sarah turned another page of music while Caro continued playing
without a false note.

Only when Sir Richard put his hands to Miss Featherlove’s throat did
she falter. Caro stopped playing. The dowager to Sarah’s right gasped.

“Release Miss Featherlove.” Roland spoke quietly, but his voice
reverberated in the sudden silence.

“I’d rather handle a snake,” Sir Richard ground out, “but perhaps
you forget, Hawthorne, that the necklace belongs to me.”

With a cry, Queenie gripped the pearls as Sir Richard fumbled with
the clasp.

A low excited hum rippled through the crowd.

“Legally, my late wife’s property is my property,” observed Roland,
as he crossed the dais towards them. “You should have thought of that before
you bestowed such a handsome gift upon Venetia.”

Sir Richard’s face contorted with rage. Roughly, he jerked Queenie
within the circle of his arm. “I was exiled because of debts incurred procuring
Venetia that … tribute to my
enduring
admiration.”

“You did more than admire her,” said Roland, calmly. “You became her
slave in the process. Do not blame me for that.” Glancing between the audience
and his adversary, he indicated the door with a flourish. “I think it’s time to
leave, Sir Richard.”

Sir Richard’s hands dropped from Queenie’s throat. She took an
unsteady step backwards.

“Pistols or swords, Hawthorne.” Very deliberately the baronet flung
down one black glove. It landed with a dull thud upon the stage at Roland’s
feet.

Sarah’s heart lurched wildly and her knees went weak. No man of
honour would refuse a challenge. Yet this was lunacy. And wasn’t it what Roland
had been striving to avoid?

To her surprise Roland smiled pityingly at Sir Richard.

“My point has already been proved. Why would I take up arms now that
the whole world knows you for the villain you are?” Looking past Sir Richard,
Roland found Sarah. In a moment he was at her side. She felt his comforting
warmth through the thin fabric of her bead-encrusted muslin evening gown.
Longing rippled through her but she fought the urge to sag against him. Let him
deal with Sir Richard first.

“So you are a coward then, Hawthorne?” Sir Richard taunted. “Venetia
said as much. How many times were you cuckolded?”

Fighting her indignation, Sarah pushed Caro back down onto her seat.

“My late wife’s memory is not under discussion.” Roland refused to
be drawn.

It was clear Sir Richard’s frustration was growing at the infertile
ground upon which his taunts were falling. Yet Sarah was conscious of Roland’s tenseness
as he called on those reserves of restraint which had served him so well.

She was equally conscious of Caro’s efforts to restrain herself and
prayed the girl did not burst out with something inappropriate. Caro had grown
in maturity but she was like a wound-up spring when her emotions were engaged.

Queenie, now standing half way between Roland and Sir Richard,
fingered the pearls nervously. Hardly surprising, observed Sarah, in view of
the way Sir Richard was eyeing them. Balefully. As if he would pounce any
moment and rip them from around her neck.

The baronet scratched the side of his large, Roman nose. “Here’s the
bargain, Hawthorne. Return my necklace and I’ll not mention the … er …
compromising situation in which I found myself with your
dear
friend, the most delectable Lady Sarah in a certain house of
ill repute.”

Dear Lord, was she going to succumb to a fainting fit at the most
inappropriate time of her life? Sarah closed her eyes as she swayed. She
wondered how many in the audience would attribute the hot blush that crept up
from her neckline as the stain of guilt. Not that it mattered, it would merely
endorse what was already accepted as the truth.

Then she felt the wool of Roland’s coat against her forearm and the
surreptitious squeeze of her hand.

He was giving her strength and courage, just as she had given him
the same that night at the Hollingsworths. She stifled a sob as he left her to
return to Queenie.

“Miss Featherlove, I hope you’ll forgive such an ungentlemanly act,”
he apologized, as his hands went to the nape of her neck to unclasp her
necklace.

No
. Sarah didn’t quite say it. She was shocked, horrified.
It didn’t matter
, she wanted to say to
him. He must not cave in, publicly, on her account.

She saw Sir Richard’s triumphant sneer as Roland held the pearl
necklace like a delicate, sparkling spider’s web, suspended between his hands.

But the victorious scorn was replaced with confusion, then
frustrated outrage as Roland resumed his place at Sarah’s side. Only it was not
Sarah he addressed, but a
 
blushing
Caro.

“This belonged to your mother and is, by rights, yours now. Its
history is not a happy one but its destiny is yours to decide.”

Caro rose, slowly. Unable to speak, she stared, first at her father,
then at the assembled guests. A movement from Sir Richard made her turn her
head.

Admiringly, Sarah watched as Caro stood her ground for he looked in
that moment as if he would wrest the necklace from her grasp if she dared take
it.

Caro put out a tentative hand to touch the pearls then recoiled, as
if stung. “No, Papa! I don’t want them!”

Roland nodded.

“Sir Richard.” He smiled as Sir Richard stepped forwards as if he
expected Roland to relinquish them to him, after all.

“Perhaps, Sir Richard, you wish Lady Sarah to have the pearls as a
token of atonement. It was, after all, on your orders that she was detained at
the address to which she was directed” - he waited for the excited murmur this
inevitably created before continuing - “used as a pawn for vengeance against
myself.”