Once Upon a Wager (17 page)

Alec welcomed the distraction of that comment. Did the woman not know England was at war with the French? Who gave a damn what their empress was wearing?

“All the more reason for us to find another style, Aunt Sophia,” Annabelle replied, even as she cast a quick covetous glance at the offending gloves. He supposed they did have a certain panache.

“If only the men would be done with it,” Lady Marchmain complained. “Everyone knows French-made gloves are the finest to be had. Not to mention that we've suffered the loss of their gowns and their wines. I think I miss the wines most of all.”

“These wars have stretched on interminably,” his mother added. “Will we ever be at peace again, Alec?”

“Wellington is doing his best,” he replied. “I am certain victory will be ours in the end.” Even though the cost would be terrible. It was already terrible.

“I shouldn't doubt it, my dear,” Mother said. “Not when men like you have been fighting for us.” She turned toward Annabelle and her aunt. “Alec has a commendation from the great general himself. I know the army would love to have him back, but I say that he has done enough.”

“I bet you were dashing in your uniform, Lord Dorset,” Lady Marchmain said with a sly smile. “I wouldn't doubt it if the French ladies fought their men for you.”

This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have—most especially with Annabelle's aunt—so instead of answering her directly, he made a great show of peering into the adjacent shop's window. “What a smashing set of gloves. I don't believe I've seen the like.”

The two older ladies hurried to stand beside them. “How clever! I love the way the crystals along each cuff catch the sunlight,” Lady Marchmain exclaimed. “Let's take a peek inside, Annabelle. Those will be beautiful with your opera gown.”

“You go ahead, Aunt Sophia. You and Lady Dorset know what will be best. I'll wait out here and keep Lord Dorset company.” After casting a quick look at each other, the two ladies agreed, and rushed in to meet the eager shopkeeper who'd spied them through the window. “It was kind of you to join us,” Annabelle said. “This can hardly be what you'd planned for your afternoon.”

Alec smiled at her sympathetic expression. “All the same, I am happy to escort you.”

“I think you're more happy to have foiled a stylistic assault by the Empress Josephine.”

“That is merely an added bonus.”

“If you'd not been forced to join us—though it was for the good of king and country, mind you—what would you have done today?”

“Spent more time spent on my account books, I suppose. We finished shearing the sheep at Arbury Hall a few weeks ago, and I've been reviewing reports about how the wool is faring at market.”

“I remember wanting one of them for my pillow when I was little. They were always so fluffy this time of year.”

“The problem was that you wouldn't make do with their wool. You wanted a live sheep bleating around your bedchamber.”

“I can see now that it wouldn't have worked out particularly well. You were wise to deny me.”

“I've always had your best interests at heart, Annabelle.”

Her smile suddenly dimmed, like the sun hiding its brilliance behind a cloud. Because he'd forgotten, for just a moment, the doubt still between them, and the separate lives they were destined to lead. He cleared his throat. “I would also have spent more time on the bill that I've been working on. I'm hoping to have it presented before the House of Lords.”

“The one Miss Fitzsimmons spoke about in the park?”

Dear Lord. He hadn't seen Jane since that carriage ride on Rotten Row. Surely, she'd expected that he would call. “The very same.”

“It is very important to you, isn't it?” She looked up at him expectantly.

Was she pretending polite interest? Few people liked to be reminded of the hardships others faced. “Something must be done to help the men and their families,” he said. “They've not had a wage increase since the colonies' revolt, yet prices have hardly remained stable, and the soldiers are serving longer now, with little relief. With wars on both the Peninsula and in America, our forces are stretched too thin.”

“I can't imagine the stress of fighting each day, never knowing when your enemy will appear.”

“Or if the next day will be your last. For many soldiers I knew, it was.”

“You're proposing this measure because they can no longer fight for themselves.”

His eyes searched hers. Of course, she understood. She was no stranger to pain, or suffering, or death.

“I'm sorry for their loss,” she said quietly. “But I am happy that you've come home.”

He resisted the terrible urge to run his fingers along her cheek, as if the mere fact of touching her would make the hurt of what he'd seen and done go away. But he had lost the right to reach out to her. He'd never really had it, and he was tired of wounds that scarred over but never healed.

Just then, Lady Marchmain and his mother reappeared, eager to show off what they claimed was the most stylish set of gloves ever found on either side of the Continent. Annabelle laughed over their girlish enthusiasm.

He regretted he'd ever hurt her. He didn't like to think of the pain that he'd inflicted on others. If anything, during the war, he would have gone mad if he pondered it. It had been a brutal and violent existence, where the value of a human life was only considered once it was lost.

Was it the same way with friendship? Did you miss it most after you'd cast it aside? He would do almost anything to reclaim the easy camaraderie he and Annabelle once shared, but he worried that friendship would never be enough. When he dreamed of her at night, it was not as a friend.

• • •

There was a small garden behind Marchmain House, hidden from neighboring homes by a high stone wall covered with dark-green ivy. It was filled with spring flowers—peonies and bearded iris, blooming azaleas and fragrant roses—all tucked into beds that fanned out from a small marble fountain at the center of the garden. Secluded in one corner, set in the shade of an ornamental tree, was a carved marble bench, and Annabelle had a habit of coming here in the early morning hours, when the household was just coming to life, and Cook had baked the first of her sweet rolls for the day.

In the still quiet of this morning, wrapped in a soft blue kerseymere shawl over a pink morning dress, she watched as a handful of butterflies danced among the flowers. She couldn't see butterflies without thinking of her father. She wished with a sudden desperation that he was here.

She and Aunt Sophia had received a letter from Mrs. Chessher yesterday, who'd said their plans were well under way for traveling here in two weeks' time. Cousin Estrella and Augustus would come in the Laytons' only carriage, while Father would arrive a day later with Dr. Chessher and his wife, who would then travel on to Dover. Mrs. Chessher had worked miracles if she'd convinced Father to travel here during the height of the spawning season, when the butterflies and moths were just emerging from their cocoons to take flight for the first time.

But he had promised to come for her ball. Perhaps this trip to the city would show Father what he was missing in the wider world. It had certainly done as much for her. She marveled at the new path in her life, even as she tried to understand the feelings she had for Alec Carstairs.

Over the past several days, she and Alec had often been together. He'd twice taken her to Gunter's for their marvelous ices; she adored the tart lemon flavor in particular. They'd gone riding with Aunt Sophia in Hyde Park, where he'd introduced them to a number of his friends and acquaintances. And he'd followed through on his promise to teach her the waltz.

During the lonely early days of her recovery, before her heart had turned against him, she'd sometimes pretended she was in his arms again, the sole focus of his attention. The reality of it, though, had left her breathless. While Aunt Sophia kept tune for them on a pianoforte, playing with surprising skill, Alec had walked her through the dance, his hand warm against the flat of her back. Even though she'd made several missteps at the start, he'd been patient and encouraging, like the man she'd spun fantasies about long ago.

They had danced, circling each other and spinning about the room so smoothly, she'd fought the urge to laugh out loud with delight. Instead, she'd smiled while looking into his eyes, feeling affection well up within her like bubbles in champagne.

For a moment in that music room, she'd been eighteen again, an innocent, with little knowledge of suffering or betrayal. It was easy to forget he had once abandoned her.

In the quiet of the garden, though, she only had her thoughts and feelings to confront. She wondered if the time had come, if not to forget, then to forgive. She'd let anger keep her mired in the past for too long. At the time of the accident, Alec had been just a few years older than she was now, and she still felt the need to run from problems she couldn't solve and experiences that might hurt her. Perhaps he'd left Nuneaton with every intention of returning, once the scandal of the accident had died down. With each passing day, though, that would have become more difficult, as distance pulled their lives apart, and hurt dug a cavernous divide.

Her life was cracked into two distinct pieces, the before of the accident and the after. She fervently hoped she could build a bridge between the two, so that some of the good from before could find a place in the present.

The home of Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons in Mayfair

“
Miss Layton, Lord Dorset has told me any number of amusing stories about your childhood together,” Jane Fitzsimmons said with a tight smile as they waited for Aunt Sophia, Lady Elaine, and Alec to join them in the drawing room before the opera. And while others might think it an innocuous comment, Annabelle knew better. Jane was insinuating that she shared an affectionate familiarity with Alec. Did she consider her a rival for his attentions? That was a promising development.

“Indeed, we were often in each other's company, Miss Fitzsimmons,” she replied sweetly. “And often in trouble.” Annabelle would let her guess as to which sort.

“I'm sure it was nothing too damning. I've never known Lord Dorset to be anything less than the perfect gentleman. Wouldn't you agree?”

In other words, Alec had been neither affectionate nor familiar with Miss Fitzsimmons. Annabelle couldn't help but smile broadly.

“He would never dare to be otherwise in your company,” she said. “You have an enviable reputation for all that is proper.” She would not add boring, because it seemed unfair to judge the girl on such short acquaintance. Still, anyone who belonged to The Ladies' Auxiliary to Improve Manners and Morals had to be viewed with suspicion.

“How kind of you to say it,” Jane replied. “Lord Dorset has asked me to help introduce you to other like-minded ladies. And while I hesitate to say so, the ton will readily accept you once it's known that I approve of your company.”

Surely the girl could not be as pompous as she sounded? It would make for a long night at the opera if she were. She was very pretty, with bright brown eyes, lustrous hair, and elegant features, but her mouth was pinched, as if she'd swallowed something sour. Perhaps she simply felt unwell?

“Thank you for offering your guidance, then,” Annabelle said. “I am a bit nervous about meeting so many new people.”

“I'll not allow you to embarrass yourself, so have no fear. Please call me Jane, and I shall call you Annabelle. Should we seek out the others?”

Instead, the others took that moment to find them, crossing through the doorway in a companionable cluster. “It's unfortunate that Lord Fitzsimmons is unable to join us for this evening's performance,” Alec said, coming to a standstill beside them, “But I am lucky indeed to have such lovely ladies all to myself. I shall be the envy of every man at the opera.”

“Be on guard,” Jane said, grinning up at him. “Men will say the most shamelessly flattering things. Do not believe a word they say if you wish to preserve your modesty.”

“May I let you in on a small secret, Miss Fitzsimmons?” Aunt Sophia asked, her eyes dancing.

“But of course. I am eager to hear it.”

“Modesty is overrated.”

Annabelle giggled inappropriately. It was almost a snort, really, and decidedly unladylike. Alec was hiding a smile behind his gloved hand, but Jane was stiff with disapproval. “We should set out for the theater,” she said. “There's a chill in the air, and we don't want to be stranded in the carriage, battling the crowds.”

Crowds or no, the air in the drawing room had already turned frosty.

• • •

Annabelle sighed with delight as the famed opera singer Angelica Catalani hit the final notes of her aria, and the curtain of the King's Theatre in Haymarket descended. She had never been so entranced. According to her program, an intermission was scheduled between Acts III and IV to give the opera's patrons a chance to mingle, but she wanted nothing so much as to see the performance begin again.

Of course, she'd not understood a single word of Mozart's
Le Nozze di Figaro
. The entirety of it had been conducted in Italian, a language her beleaguered governesses had never even bothered to attempt. Somehow, though, the actors, with their voices and their expressions, communicated all that she needed to know.

As the gaslights were turned up, Annabelle gazed around the theater. It was a glorious space, with an enormous velvet curtain masking the set, and a painted ceiling with allegorical panels presiding high above. The pit seats lay in front of the stage, while five floors of private boxes ringed the theater like a horseshoe, separated by pairs of crimson silk partitions. The Dorset box offered one of the finest views.

“Jane,” she said, continuing to look about her. “Isn't this marvelous?” Miss Fitzsimmons, who was seated beside her, had been silent for most of the performance, no doubt transfixed. When she made no reply, however, Annabelle looked at her, and gave a cry of alarm.