Rakehell's Widow (11 page)

“Good evening, Alabeth.” Piers Castleton lounged in one of the chairs watching her, his cravat undone and his
long legs stretched out before him. His glance swept slowly
over her, coming to rest on her face as she stood in the full
moonlight, the rubies glowing against her white throat.

He smiled at her silence. “How sad it is that so intelli
gent a woman should allow something as imaginary and in
consequential as a ghost to cloud her otherwise excellent
judgment.”

Refusing to be drawn and determined to avoid speaking
to him, she turned back to the window and tried to open it.

“The window is locked—that, at least, is not
imaginary,” he said, getting to his feet. “Although in your
present frame of mind you no doubt believe the key is there
simply because there is a lock—just as you believe that Robert’s memory is sweet simply because he had a charm
ing smile.”

“I don’t wish to speak to you, sir,” she said icily, “least
of all about Robert.”

“Really? How strange, for I could have sworn that it
was because of Robert that you are trying to flee out into
the night.”

She flushed. “It is none of your concern why I do any
thing.”

“I have chosen to make it my concern—for the moment,
at least. Believe me, I do have your best interest at heart,
although you are determined to believe to the contrary.”

Pressing her lips angrily together, she said nothing more,
hurrying back across the room to leave. His voice halted her. “The handsome, winning ghost you trod a measure
with a moment since was no ghost; it was very much a
flesh-and-blood Polish aristocrat with your seduction on his mind. Imagine what you will about Robert, Alabeth, but be under no illusion about Zaleski, for it could prove your undoing. He is no laggard in the pursuit of the fair sex, his reputation in that direction has more than preceded him, and the brief contact you’ve already had with
him should be proof enough that I do not speak lightly.”

“Are you presuming to offer me advice?” she demanded, her voice quivering.

“Yes, I rather believe I am.”

“Well, spare yourself, for your advice is neither sought
nor welcome.”

“Nonetheless, you appear to be in need of it, madam.”

“How dare you—”

“You are at risk, Alabeth, because you have made yourself vulnerable to Robert’s memory. Be sensible. Zaleski is no figment of your imagination, and he is certainly not the
reincarnation of the somewhat rosy notion you have of
your late lord.”

“You speak of illusions, sirrah, so let me tell you that I
am under none where you are concerned, for you are
everything that is odious and treacherous.”

“Believe what you will,” he said, turning away, “for I
have said my piece. Perhaps I should have spared myself
the trouble of being concerned about you after all.”

“Being
concerned
about me….?” Her fury at this
presumption threatened to get the better of her, but with a
great effort she overcame the urge to go to him and strike
him. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked from the
room, leaving the door open behind her so that he could
hear her light, angry steps on the marble floor.

As she hurried away, however, her anger became even
more bitter, for while he had been so kindly offering her advice on her conduct, she had not once had the wit to
point out his indiscretions with Jillian. Once again she had
allowed him to get the better of her, and she had left him with the last word.

Jillian had not taken at all kindly to Alabeth’s strictures
concerning her conduct at the ball, nor had she been
pleased at not being able to even meet the Count, whereas
Alabeth had been sought out by him and had not used the
opportunity to mention her sister’s great desire to be his
pupil. The uneasy truce which had existed between the Earl
of Wallborough’s daughters faded away, with Jillian
flouncing to her room on their return from Seaham House,
announcing that she would not be accompanying Alabeth
either to the private viewing at the Royal Academy or to the British Museum.

Alabeth had retired to her own bed feeling very ragged, and her fitful sleep had been disturbed by dreams in which
she danced with the Count again—or was it with Robert? And was it Piers Castleton’s indistinct figure she could see
in the shadows? All in all, she awoke the following morning with a headache and feeling as exhausted as if she had
not slept at all. She was certainly not in the mood to
inspect the paintings at the Royal Academy, or to show any great enthusiasm about the contents of the British Museum, and her mood became positively sour when she was greeted with the news that Jillian was standing by her
attitude of the previous night and was remaining in her room, pleading a purely invented headache.

Taking her breakfast alone in the morning room,
Alabeth glanced at some fragments of torn card in the
hearth, and when she went to retrieve them, she knew that
Jillian’s headache had not prevented her from coming
down early to deliberately choose this particular invitation
as proof of her defiance. The invitation was to a select dinner party thrown by Lady Dexter, and Jillian’s sole
reason for tearing it up was that Charles Allister was to be
the only other unattached guest and would most certainly
have been paired off with Jillian, to whom the invitation
had been addressed. Lady Dexter was Charles’ kinswoman
and had obviously been approached by him, with the in
tention of being placed next to Jillian, but that young lady
had no intention whatsoever of giving even an inch in her
attitude toward him—hence the furiously torn pieces of gold-edged card scattered in the hearth.

Alabeth pursed her lips crossly. Jillian was being
odiously difficult, but there was little to gain for the
moment in remonstrating with her as she was in too much
of a pet. Perhaps it would be much wiser to let her fume in her room all day with just her own bad company; maybe
that would prove a salutary experience and be a sovereign
remedy for this latest fit of the tantrums. With a deep
breath, Alabeth went to prepare to go out.

Wearing an unbuttoned red spencer over a white muslin
gown, she set off a little later to meet Octavia at the Royal
Academy. On her head she wore a little hat with an
upturned brim and a jaunty plume, and her pagoda
parasol twirled busily behind her, for she was determined
to put Jillian’s spoiled behavior from her thoughts. She
was equally determined not to think at all about Piers Castleton, or the Count, or anything else which might disturb her equilibrium.

The Royal Academy was uninteresting. Try as she
would, she could not enthuse about the array of paintings suspended from every conceivable inch of the walls, and
she knew that she was not being exactly sparkling company
for Octavia. The much-vaunted visit to the British
Museum, housed at Montague House in Great Russell Street, was hardly less inspiring in spite of the undoubted
cock of the snook the presence of ladies gave to those
hallowed rooms. They were led through chambers filled
with stuffed birds and animals, many of which, to Ala
beth’s rather jaundiced eye, appeared to be in an advanced
state of decay, and through more rooms containing the arms, dress, and ornaments of savages, a collection of
minerals, antiquities from Herculaneum and Pompeii, and even more from Egypt. There was a curious slab of dark
porphyry from Rosetta, marked out in three languages,
including the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt, which did
interest her a great deal, but apart from that she found the
whole visit decidedly flat.

Octavia took exquisite delight in exacting full revenge
for the fact that ladies were excluded, thus almost certainly
ensuring that the exclusion continued for some consider
able time to come, if the affronted expressions of the
various gentlemen who overheard her pointed remarks were anything to go by. Normally Alabeth would have
entered more into the spirit of things, but today somehow she just could not; her mood was too low and she did not seem to have the resilience to shrug it off. Perhaps it was
having to contend with Jillian, or maybe it was the un
settling effect of having met the Count the previous even
ing. It could even have been the result of having had yet
another disagreeable meeting with Piers Castleton, who
had the uncanny knack of completely destroying her poise.
Whatever it was, it made her poor company, and Octavia
was not altogether displeased when the time came to
depart.

Alabeth felt a little guilty for having undoubtedly been a damper on the proceedings, and as the landau set off along
Oxford Street on its way back to Berkeley Square, she
suddenly decided that perhaps it would be better if she
took a drive in Hyde Park first, as the fresh air would
probably do her a great deal of good and might put her in a
better frame of mind to deal with Jillian.

Hyde Park, as usual, was crowded, but she was indeed
beginning to feel a little better as the landau passed
beneath the dappled shade of the trees and the slight breeze
played with the fringe of her parasol. A moment later, however, the lighter mood was shattered when she hap
pened to glance across the grass and saw Jillian riding
alone with Piers Castleton.

Alabeth could not believe her eyes, for it was very bad
form of Jillian to plead indisposition in order to escape previous engagements, and then to be so foolish as to
display the truth to the whole of fashionable society by riding in so public a place as Hyde Park. And to make
matters worse, she was behaving with a great deal of
intimacy toward Piers, leaning toward him, smiling up into
his eyes, and even being so bold as to reach across and
momentarily rest her hand on his. Even as Alabeth stared
in unbelieving dismay, the two horses were reined in and
Piers dismounted. Jillian seemed to be pointing down to one of the leathers of her sidesaddle, and Alabeth was
appalled to see how she flicked her riding habit aside to
afford him an excellent view of her neat little ankles. And all under the guise of pretending the leather needed atten
tion.

Alabeth was speechless, quite unable to credit that
anyone, even Jillian, could be that indiscreet. Even Lady Adelina Carver would have shrunk from quite such an exhibition, and to do Piers a little justice, he was obviously a little taken aback and seemed reluctant to comply with
Jillian’s request. All eyes were surely riveted on the curious
little scene, thought Alabeth, feeling almost haunted at the
awful apparition of her sister’s tattered character being
merrily savaged by every tongue in every drawing room
across London. It was the final straw; Alabeth could
brook no more nonsense from Jillian, and as the landau carried her inexorably on her way across the park, she determined that the time had come for a final confronta
tion—one from which Lady Jillian Carstairs would not
recover in a hurry. And as for Piers Castleton…. Well, maybe the time had come for the error of
his
ways to be pointed out to him. He was so free with his advice and comments, so sure that he was without fault, that it would undoubtedly come as a great shock to find that there was someone who could justifiably criticize
him
.

Bristling with anger, she ordered the coachman to return
to Berkeley Square, and her fury bubbled still more when
she was told by Sanderson that Lady Jillian had gone to
visit Mrs. Haverstock, an old friend of the family who had
just arrived in Town. Mrs. Haverstock, indeed! The minx
had deliberately fibbed in order to steal out and keep an
assignation with a rogue who should have known a great
deal better.

Her fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of her
chair as she sat waiting in the drawing room for Jillian to return. An hour passed before she heard the hooves clat
tering outside, and she rose to see Jillian dismounting and
handing the reins to the waiting groom. Holding her cum
bersome riding skirt, she hurried into the house, to be told
by Sanderson that Lady Alabeth awaited her in the
drawing room.

With an air of complete innocence, not untinged with a
certain gleam of triumph, Jillian entered the drawing
room, removing her gloves and placing them on a table,
together with her riding crop. Her smile was cool, her mien
haughty. “You wish to see me?”

“I trust you found Mrs. Haverstock in excellent
health?”

“Oh, yes. She vowed she was delighted to see me as simply everyone appeared to have gone to the Royal Academy. I stayed with her for a considerable time.”

“Indeed? You’ve come straight from her house, have
you?”