My Sweet Folly (31 page)

“Yes.”

“And what do you believe, Mr. Cambourne?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

She smiled. “You are honest.”

“It’s not much to show for the years I spent.”

She gave a snort. “I am surrounded by gentlemen who are very certain of all that they know. You are refreshing. Tell me more of what you learned from these
guuruus.
Can they work magic and charm snakes, as we hear?”

“Yes,” he said.

She laughed. “Ah, now you cozen me.”

“You may call them parlor tricks, if you like.”

She nodded skeptically. “It is not real magic?’’

“My lady, that is another thing I cannot say for certain. I’ve seen things—and learned things—that are not to be explained by any reasonable means.”

“No, I will not have it. Come back some other day and bamboozle me with parlor tricks. And bring the ferret lady with you. Dear Mrs. Hamilton.” She turned, the black plume on her cap bobbing as she beckoned to another visitor.

Robert bowed at his dismissal. He walked to the door of the drawing room, still turning his blinding new idea over and over in his mind.

It could not be true. Too crazy, to suppose that there was some likeness between his own mental state and the Prince Regent’s. The old king was insane, had suffered spells of dementia for decades—what would be more reasonable than that his son should have inherited the same natural affliction? What more absurd than to suppose it could be—might be—induced by the same means Robert’s mind had been deranged?

The only rational defense he could summon for such a suspicion was that there were far more people with obvious motivation to wish the Prince to appear insane than there were to make Robert seem so. Hardly a convincing justification.

He shook his head, standing on the pedestrian pavement outside Melbourne House. Robert’s frustration with his inability to do or learn anything was affecting his common sense. He could see plots and enemies everywhere—even in that young rebellious gentleman from Lady Melbourne’s drawing room who still lingered, leaning upon a lamppost across the street.

As Robert turned to walk along the pavement, the young man pushed upright and began to walk the same way. Robert took the length of the street at an easy pace. When he paused at the busy crossing, sweeping boys crowded up to him. He tossed a coin to one of them. Glancing up, he saw the young man pause. They looked directly at one another between the passing carriages and pedestrians.

The other man turned in the opposite direction and disappeared into the passing flow. And Robert thought he was either still insane or in grave danger of his life. He was not quite certain which he fancied.

THIRTEEN

Folie pulled the blue kashmir shawl about her, huddling over a steaming tisane in the drawing room at Cambourne House. Toot curled in her lap, tucked into a sapphire fold. She had dug the shawl out from the bottom of a trunk—on the few occasions when she felt a little ill, it was the only one she could bear to have about her—soft as goosedown; light and warm round her aching shoulders.

She was not concerned that her ailment would last more than a disagreeable evening. She was never sick or feverish. When all about her were lowered by the influenza, Folie had never succumbed to more than a few hours of the headache and shivers. Still, she would be glad to have it behind her.

There was at least one benefit—she was not obliged to attend the opera with Colonel Cox’s party. She had sent Melinda and the girls off with Lady Dingley, attended by a rather recalcitrant Lander, who seemed lately to take his duty as a guard dog as something more irrationally holy than ever. Faced with a division of his territory, he had been most disturbed, going so far as to suggest to Folie that the whole household should remain home. But Folie had dismissed that, dreading the prospect of Melinda’s attentive endeavors to nurse her. She liked to keep to herself when she felt indisposed; Melinda was well-meaning but unable to comprehend any disposition but her own, which fancied tender petting and constant care.

Sitting with her hot drink and Lord Byron’s scandalous new poem, Folie was happy enough. The tisane—or the poem—did her so much good that she was startled out of a nap by the knock at the drawing room door.

“Sir Howard Dingley has arrived, ma’am,” one of the footmen said apologetically. “He means to see Lady Dingley, he said. Shall I have him wait downstairs?”

“Oh!” Folie sat up, trying to gather her thoughts, dizzy from a dream of Childe Harold weeping while trying to find Toot amid the confusion of an Indian bazaar. “No. No, of course not. Ask him if he will come up and sit by the fire. I do not think he need worry about contagion.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Folie straightened herself, tucking her hair back under her cap. Sir Howard entered, still in his hat and coat. He bowed, his cheeks very pink beneath the leathery skin. He took an extra step as he straightened—Folie realized that he was a little affected by strong drink.

She was not accustomed to dealing with gentlemen in their cups, but she invited him to sit down across the room, warning him with a smile that he would not wish to venture too close to her.

“I should not suppose any female would wish me to venture too close,” he said, sitting down heavily and tossing his hat to the floor.

Folie did not know quite what to make of that—her mind was none too sharp at the moment. She wished now that she had not bid him join her, but she had not been thinking clearly. “I am sorry that Lady Dingley and the girls are not at home. We had no idea to expect you tonight, I’m afraid.”

“No,” he said with a glum look. “Of course not.”
 

They sat for a long moment.

“Have you come direct from Dingley Court?” she asked. “Have you had supper?”
 

“No, I—” He stopped abruptly.

“Shall I ring for something? I’m sure there is a cold chicken.”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Hamilton—”

A thought swam into her dulled mind. Sir Howard standing in the street with a weeping girl. Folie pulled the shawl about her and sat up very straight.

“Mrs. Hamilton, I must confess something—”

“Please do not!” she said. “I’m sure you must be famished.” She stood up. Toot made a wild leap, disappearing underneath the sofa.

“No. I need nothing to eat.” He reached over and poured himself a glass from a decanter of brandy on the side table. Folie realized for the first time that the tray and single glass was set out there every night, though no one ever drank from it. She resumed her seat, folding her hands under the shawl.

He sat there staring into the crystal glass, half slumped in the chair, looking worn and sad.

“I hope all is well at home,” she said.

“Oh, aye, well enough.” He turned the glass in his hands. The firelight winked off the crystal. “Do you go out every night?”

“Oh, yes,” Folie said. “We are gay to dissipation, as Miss Jane puts it.”

He took a drink and stood up. “I suppose she is all in raptures, being here in London!” he said bitterly.

“Jane? Well, I suppose—”

“My wife!” He swung across the room, taking a stance before the fire. “My dear wife.”

“Oh. Yes, I...I would say that she enjoys it very much.”

He chuckled, glaring into the coals. “I would never bring her to town,” he said thickly. “How she has detested me for it.”

Folie was silent. If she had not seen him on the street corner, she might have felt some sympathy.

“She has no sense!” he muttered, almost to himself. “What, was I to bring her here and let her fall in love with some fine buck oozing polished manners? She is a fool for a fashionable dandy. She has no sense!”

“I beg your pardon,” Folie said, nettled. “But I don’t think that is at all true!”

He leaned on the mantel, looking at her over his shoulder. “No? Certainly she has told me often enough that I have no refinement. No elegance, no graces.” He made a mocking lilt with his fingers.

“I don’t think that signifies that she would fall in love with a man of fashion!”

“No? She warned me of it herself. That I could not trust her here.”

Folie shook her head, bewildered at this image of Lady Dingley, so at odds with what Folie knew of her. “I think I had better ring for another tisane.”

“To my face!” he said, as if Folie were arguing with him. “Not to trust her!”

She eyed him dubiously as he poured another brandy. “I cannot imagine that Lady Dingley said any such thing. I’m sure you misunderstood her. I’ve not had an opportunity to thank you for providing us with such excellent horses. We have ridden in the park several times.”

He shook his head with a dismissive gesture. “It’s nothing. My pleasure. Did she try the little long-tailed gray?”

“No...no, Lady Dingley does not ride with us.”

He made a disgruntled sound. “Of course not.”

“But the younger girls have ridden the gray,” she added. “They seem to like him very much.”

With a dejected shrug, he sat down again. “A beautiful animal,” he said. “I wish—I had meant—” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “But what the devil is the use?”

“Perhaps you might have stayed with us a day or two,” Folie murmured. “Lady Dingley seems to be a rather timid rider.”

“Ha.” He lifted his eyes from the floor. “She made it clear enough that I am not welcome.”

For an instant, their glances met and held, as they had in that moment of discovery on the street corner. He flushed deeply and looked away.

“You don’t understand,” he said in a harsh tone. “What is a man to do? You don’t know what it’s like.”

Folie said nothing. She braided the fringe of the shawl between her fingers.

“I do love her,” he said.

“Yes,” Folie murmured.

“She wants no more children.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Who can blame her? But I—” He made an anguished sound. “Oh God, look what’s happened. Look what has happened. I never meant it this way.” Brandy sloshed out of the glass onto his fingers. He stared down at them.

Folie bit her lip.
 
“Perhaps you have had a little too much to drink.”

“Not enough.” He closed his eyes with a pained laugh. “Not nearly enough.”

“Please have something to eat. You would not wish Lady Dingley and the girls to come home and discover you in this state.”

He looked intensely at Folie. “I believe she is dead,” he whispered.

“Dead?” Folie was beginning to become a little frightened of him.

“The girl. The one you saw.”
 

She gazed at him wordlessly.

“That was the first time I ever did it—I swear, the first time.” He swallowed the whole glass of brandy. “God.”

“You have not killed her!” Folie gasped.

“No! For God’s sake—” He blew air between his teeth. “I am not that much a monster. No, she was the first—my first—the first time—” He shook his head violently. “My God, I regret it. It was nothing, a passing moment. But I did not want Isabelle to find out. I couldn’t bear for her to know. And then the girl followed me to London—” He shut his eyes. “My God, I regret it, I regret it. When I looked up and saw you in that carriage!”

“Of course I have said nothing,” Folie murmured stiffly.

He looked at her, a strange, long stare. A strand of his graying hair fell across his forehead. “God forgive me,” he muttered.

“I don’t believe Lady Dingley saw you.”

He rubbed his hand across his face. “I don’t know what to do.”

Folie’s head was aching. She pulled the shawl tight about her. These visitations by irrational gentlemen were wearing. “I am afraid I cannot advise you,” she said. “Beyond suggesting that some cold meat and coffee might make things seem brighter. A little snack will often do so.”

“No.” Suddenly he reached down and collected his hat. “I was a fool to come here. A great, stupid, criminal fool. I must go.”

Before Folie could gather herself to rise, he had walked to the door. “Wait,” she said. “Where are you staying? If Lady Dingley should wish to communicate with you?”