Rakehell's Widow (15 page)

Like Almack’s, His Royal Highness had not come up to
scratch as far as Jillian was concerned, for although he was
handsome and charming, he was also exceedingly fat and
not at all her notion of how the first Prince of Europe
should look. Behind her fan, she informed Alabeth that he
was most unwise to wear such tight-fitting pantaloons, and that to have a coat which fitted him like a glove was surely
the very last thing a gentleman of his proportions should
be doing. Alabeth was thankful when they were well and truly out of royal earshot, for Jillian’s stage whisper would have done justice to Drury Lane.

The ballroom was immense and illuminated by myriads of candles. There was a great deal of noise, both from the
orchestra and from the hundreds of guests, and Alabeth
soon perceived a number of French voices, proof positive that half Paris was in London and half London in Paris. A
sea of ostrich plumes waved beneath the chandeliers,
jewels flashed, orders gleamed on black velvet, and the
French guests of honor were arrayed on scarlet and
gold sofas, looking as grand as the Bourbons they had
striven to overthrow so bloodily.

As Alabeth and Jillian neared the sofas, they saw quite suddenly that one of the English gentlemen speaking with the French Ambassador was Piers Castleton. Like most of
the gentlemen present, he wore black velvet, and he looked
relaxed and graceful, conversing easily in French. At that moment, as if he sensed their presence, he turned, but his glance was only vaguely interested as he gave them an unsmiling bow.

Jillian uneasily returned the bow with a curtsy, Alabeth
matched his coolness by merely inclining her head and then walking on. There, it was done, the dreaded moment was
over and she had conducted herself with style, but her
pulse was racing and all she could think of was the way he
had pulled her close and kissed her. She held her head
high, pushing the memory from her mind. She wouldn’t let
it bother her, she
wouldn’t!

He passed from their sight as they mingled with the throng of people, searching for Octavia and the party they were to join. Charles Allister was also of the party, and his delight at being greeted so pleasantly by Jillian was quite
touching. Encouraged, he remained close by her side from
that moment on, making his displeasure quite plain to
every gentleman who made so bold as to ask her to dance,
but it wasn’t until the subject of the Count came up in conversation that his smile most definitely faded.

“The fellow may play the pianoforte perfectly, but he
plays cards
im
perfectly,” he declared, glancing almost
defiantly at Jillian, who had been once again praising the Count’s many virtues.

Octavia was appalled. “Oh, surely you are mistaken!”

“I’m convinced he was palming cards, but I could not
catch him at it. If I do, I’ll—”

Octavia tapped his arm reprovingly with her fan. “By
your own admission you didn’t catch him doing anything,
so until you do, you had better keep a still tongue in your
head, sir, for it isn’t done to call another gentleman a
sharp unless you have proof. Come now, Charles, it isn’t
like you to be so hotheaded.”

“I don’t care for the fellow.”

“That much is obvious,” Octavia replied, glancing at
Jillian. “And I believe we know why.”

Jillian flushed a little and fidgeted with her fan. Charles continued to look stormy, quite unable to be placid where the Count, whom he obviously regarded as a rival, was
concerned.

Alabeth smiled at him. “I do believe I hear a cotillion
being announced, Charles, and I am sure Jillian would be
delighted to dance with you.”

He smiled then. “Am I being a bear?”

“You are.”

“Forgive me, I shall endeavor to improve. Lady Jillian, will you honor me with this dance?”

She accepted his hand and they went to join the other dancers on the floor. Octavia sat back thoughtfully. “I
detect a definite improvement in her of late, Alabeth. Has
she come around at last?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And is she viewing Charles with favor?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Hmm. Well, we must hope. Now, then, I’ve been
meaning to ask you about the arrangements for her ball.
I’ve been thinking that it would be good to….” Octavia
launched into her extravagant notions for Jillian’s great
day, and Alabeth listened, hardly having to add a single
word, because it was obvious that Octavia had it all settled
in her mind and the ball was as good as arranged.

The dance ended and Jillian and Charles returned to the sofa, which Octavia had deliberately chosen as it was a
considerable vantage point from which to survey the whole
room. Octavia’s fan was raised now to conceal her lips and she leaned conspiratorially toward Alabeth. “Have you seen
our fashionable impure?”

“Who?”

“Why, Lady Adelina Carver, of course, over there,
slightly to the side of the orchestra. In virginal white from head to toe.” This last was said with considerable acidity.

Adelina’s full-bosomed figure was quite easy to pick
out, for she was very tall and wore immense plumes, which
made her even taller. There was too much rouge on her
lips, her gown revealed too much bosom, and it was so
flimsy that when she moved it was quite possible to see her
long legs.

Octavia sniffed. “She’s given Seaham his marching
orders once and for all and he’s totally devastated, foolish fellow. How he couldn’t see that he was but one of many,
I’ll never know, but then men ever were fools in that direc
tion, weren’t they? She arrived very early on and attached herself to Harry Ponsonby—he’s over the other side of the
room, the one in Guards uniform by that column, d’you
see him?”

Alabeth nodded, glancing at the slender young officer with his soft brown eyes and winning smile.

“Well,” went on Octavia with relish, “they stayed to
gether for a little while, she clinging to him like a vine, but
then they had a tiff and he walked off, nose in the air, and he’s refused to glance at her ever since. She’s done every
thing to catch his attention, but he’s not having any of it,
and now she looks fit to burst into tears at any moment—
and serve her right.”

“How very sympathetic you are.”

“She’s had a veritable string of lovers and has been dis
gracefully indiscreet with all of them, Seaham included. It would be bad enough had she been a married woman, but
she is not and so her sins are all the greater.”

“Oh, Octavia—”

“Alabeth, I am set upon this. There are rules which
should be observed, and Adelina Carver observes none of
them. There is no discretion whatsoever and I find that quite unacceptable. This business with Ponsonby may
possibly be a little different, for I do believe the chit
actually loves him, but she will receive scant sympathy
from society because of her atrocious conduct in the past.”

“I feel rather sorry for her,” Alabeth said, “for it is
quite obvious that she is very unhappy.” She looked across
the room at the sad eyes of the woman who had more than
earned her reputation.

“
Sorry
for her? How could you, Alabeth!” Octavia
looked a little taken aback and a little cross, and she was
visibly relieved when at that moment dinner was
announced. She turned to Jillian and Charles. “I wonder
what Prinny’s chefs have concocted for our jaded palates?
Come along,
mes enfants
, let us go and see.” Ushering
them before her, she bustled away, obviously not well
pleased with Alabeth for even remotely defending Adelina
Carver.

Alabeth remained where she was for a moment, thinking
how unlike Octavia it was to be so cold and hard. It could
only be that Seaham’s infidelities over the years had hurt her far more than she had ever admitted. At last Alabeth
joined the crowds moving in the direction of the great conservatory, where the dinner was to be served, and all
around her she could hear as many French voices as
English. She wondered wryly what her father would have
made of this gathering of Bonapartists in the London
palace of the Prince of Wales.

The immense Gothic conservatory was perhaps Carlton House’s crowning glory. Designed like a cathedral, it had a nave and two aisles, and in daytime was very airy and light
because of its glazed tracery ceiling, but now it was lighted
artificially and the shadows beyond the light were curving
and elegant. Lanterns had been placed on the outside to illuminate the stained-glass windows with their heraldic
arms of the sovereigns of England, the Princes of Wales,
and the Electoral Princes of the House of Brunswick. Inside, innumerable colored lights had been placed in
niches and there were hexagonal lanterns suspended from
the points of the arches.

A table two hundred feet long and covered with snowy-
white cloths had been laid out; it was so long that it
extended the length of the conservatory and into the house
itself. In front of the raised seats where the Prince and his guests of honor would sit there was a silver fountain sur
rounded by perfume-burning vases, and from it flowed a stream of water which passed along a little canal raised
about six inches above the cloths. The banks of this stream
were decorated with green moss and flowers and there were
silver and gold fish darting in the water. The murmur of
the water was soothing, a welcome relief after the noise of
the ballroom.

The Prince led the way, obviously gratified at the admir
ation the dining arrangements were receiving from all
sides, and when everyone was seated, it was toward the dais that every eye was inexorably drawn by the succession
of blazing candelabra. There the Prince sat in splendor, his
large figure standing out against a background of crimson
velvet on which was embroidered a golden crown and the
initials OR.

Alabeth found the place marked with her name on a
little card, and a footman drew the chair out for her. As
she sat down, she saw Octavia making mental notes con
cerning the decorations. Their eyes met for a moment and Octavia gave her a rueful smile, unable to remain in a miff
with her for very long.

Glancing around, Alabeth saw Piers entering the conservatory, and on his arm was Adelina Carver, smiling very brightly indeed as she kept her eyes averted from
Harry Ponsonby, who was accompanied by a daring
French lady whose gown was even more revealing and
shameless than Adelina’s. Piers leaned toward her, whis
pering something in her ear, and Adelina’s tinkling
laughter rang out audibly. Harry scowled as they passed him, Adelina not even seeming to notice his presence.

Piers was very attentive indeed, drawing out Adelina’s
chair for her himself and then deliberately replacing the
card placed next to her with his own. Only once in those
moments did Adelina glance at Harry, whose back was
firmly turned toward her, and for a second Alabeth
thought she saw the former unhappiness on her face, but then it had gone as Piers murmured something to her,
smiling as he raised her gloved hand to his lips. She smiled too, her eyes very warm, and after that Alabeth did not see
her look once in Harry’s direction. Alabeth lowered her
eyes to the little fish in the canal. Maybe Octavia had been
right to condemn Adelina after all, for she appeared to
have moved on to her next lover with quite bewildering
swiftness and ease.

Course followed course as the feast began, a procession
of tureens, silver domes, plates, and dishes, and all the while the iced champagne flowed as freely as the water
from the fountain. By the time the fruit was served at the
end, Alabeth was simply not able to do justice to the
peaches, grapes, and pineapples served so exquisitely on a bed of leaves. She had been determined to put Piers Castle
ton from her mind, noting with relief that not once during
the feast did he glance at Jillian or Jillian at him. Indeed,
Jillian seemed quite engrossed in whatever it was that Charles Allister was talking about—amateur theatricals, no doubt, if his animated expression was anything to go
by. Well, thought Alabeth, at least one good thing had
come out of the disagreeable visit to Piers Castleton, for he
had obviously decided to abide by her wishes. She looked
at him again, remembering the semblance of righteous
anger with which he had denied her accusations; and yet all
the time he knew he had exchanged intimate letters with
Jillian, he had met her secretly, and he had been conduct
ing an affair which had more than justified Alabeth’s request that he refrain from any further contact. How
odious he was, and yet as she looked at him now, she still
could not help thinking how handsome and charming he
was. He was looking at Adelina, his lips teasing with that particular half-smile of his, and his gray eyes were cares
sing her warmly. How accomplished a lover he was, with
what ease and skill did he set about seducing Adelina.
Alabeth turned her head away, her glance falling on the
silver dish of fruit nestling among the fresh green leaves.
Incongruously she remembered a mellow September evening at Charterleigh, when she had strolled in the
orchard with Piers and he had picked an apple for her. Never had an apple tasted so good.