Rakehell's Widow (18 page)

Her mood was light, for she had had a very lazy day after rising very late indeed, and she had spent some hours on the seat beneath the mulberry tree in the garden, enjoy
ing the peace and pondering the events of recent weeks.
She felt satisfied that she had dealt correctly with the
problem of Piers Castleton, having made her opinion of
him quite clear and having at the same time carried out her
duties as chaperone to the best of her ability. As far as the Count was concerned, well, she could not help feeling rather flattered at receiving such ardent attention from the
man who was adored by nearly every woman in London.
How could any woman not be pleased at being pursued by
such a man? She was not fool enough to think his
intentions were honorable, nor was she really under any
illusion about herself, for she knew in her heart that a great
deal of his attraction as far as she was concerned was
because he reminded her so very much of Robert. Had she
been another Adelina, or even an Octavia, then perhaps she would have given in to his advances, but she was not like them and had no intention whatsoever of capitulating. He might be thinking in terms of conquering her, but she was most certainly only thinking in terms of a mild flirtation. At least, that was the firm intention, but when one was alone with him in the moonlight, it was far more
difficult to stick to one’s intentions.

Her footman escorted her to the door and remained out
side as she was admitted. The door closed behind her, shut
ting out the summer evening so that the stillness of the house seemed to fold over her. Some of her aunt’s lapdogs pattered over the tiled floor to greet her, snuffling around her hem and wagging their tails in the hope that she would
scoop them up, but there was no time to do any such thing,
for she was shown immediately up to her aunt’s rather intimidating bedchamber.

Not a single window was open, Aunt Silchester being of
the firm belief that fresh air was bad for one’s constitution, bringing as it did a variety of ill humors to beset one’s
stamina. The room was hung with drab damask and the
drapes around the heavy, old-fashioned bed were a similar
dull color. The evening sunlight was muted by the heavy
lace at the windows and the overall impression was rather
stifling. Aunt Silchester reposed on a mound of pillows,
her wispy white hair almost entirely hidden beneath an
enormous day bonnet. A pair of owlish spectacles rested on the end of her pointed nose and there was a look of
extreme superiority on her face. Being the Earl of Wall
borough’s sister, there was a great deal of Carstairs about
her, but her expression and manner were pure Silchester, into which vain and pompous family she had married, and
she now considered herself to be much more grand than
she actually was. However, in the Earl’s absence she was undoubtedly the most senior member of the family and, as
such, was to be treated with all due respect, her many
failings being ignored as if they did not exist.

Her lips twisted a little sourly as Alabeth was shown in.
“You’ve taken your time, missy.”

“Forgive me, Aunt Silchester,” replied Alabeth, placing a dutiful kiss on the older woman’s wrinkled cheek.

“Hm. Well, you’re looking healthy enough, although I
cannot say I approve of your having discarded mourning
after only two years, even for a fellow like Manvers. Three
years is the accepted time in the Silchester family.”

Alabeth sat down. “I trust you are feeling a little better
now.”

“If I am, it’s no thanks to those cursed quacks. They’ve
dosed me up with physic, bled me, purged me, advised the
waters at Bath, concocted all manner of foul medicaments,
and I’m increasingly convinced that had they left me alone
I would have recovered in good time to do my duty by your
sister. I certainly do not know that I am in agreement with
Wallborough that you are equipped for the task,
Alabeth.”

“I am doing my best,” replied Alabeth sweetly, doing
her best indeed to remain calm before such insults.

“Hm. I think Jillian is looking particularly pretty. She’ll
make a good catch, and no mistake.”

“Yes.”

“And I am told that Charles Allister is very smitten.”

“He is.”

“Hm. Well, in the absence of a suitable scion of the
house of Silchester, no doubt an Allister will have to do.”

She spoke as if the Silchesters were princes of the blood,
thought Alabeth, still smiling sweetly. “Charles is a considerable match, Aunt Silchester, and Jillian could do a lot
worse than snap him up.”

“Well, no one could do worse than you did, missy, and
that’s a fact.”

“No doubt.”

“I still cannot understand how you could take a wastrel
like Manvers as your husband, Alabeth, charming as he may have been. In my day one didn’t
marry
handsome
rogues; one married dull fellows like the Duke of Treguard
and then took the likes of Manvers as lovers. That was a
far more acceptable way of going about it, but you had to turn your back on a match with a Duke and run away with
the fellow whose reputation left a great deal to be desired. I
nearly washed my hands of you, for the notoriety you
attached to the family name was quite odious.”

Alabeth said nothing to all this, for she had heard it
countless times before and had learned that the best way of
dealing with it was not to rise to the bait.

Aunt Silchester sniffed. “Hm. Well, you must under
stand that I cannot but be alarmed that you have charge of your sister’s first Season, for you cannot run your own life to any satisfaction and therefore cannot be expected to run
hers either. It is most unfortunate that your sister must
embark upon her career in society with the undoubted mill
stone of your past around her neck.”

“I hardly think that it is that bad, Aunt.”

“Hm. Well, I think it is, for your conduct recently has hardly inspired confidence.”

“My conduct?”

“You are supposed to be setting Jillian an example, but
what sort of example is it when you think nothing of
walking alone at night with a Russian music-master.”

“He’s not Russian, he’s Polish,” replied Alabeth with great forbearance. “And he certainly isn’t a music-master, he’s a very great musician. Besides, we walked in the
gardens at Carlton House and there were a number of
other ladies and gentlemen doing the same.”

“It was still a far from shining example to set your
sister.”

Alabeth lapsed into silence, for no matter how much she might protest, she knew that on this occasion her aunt was right; there had been moments in the Prince of Wales’
summerhouse which had been far from innocent and
which would indeed have been considered reprehensible for a chaperone! Not that Aunt Silchester knew that, she
was simply condemning everything from habit as she
always did.

“Alabeth, I thoroughly disapprove of such goings-on, and I trust that I shall not hear anything else to cause me
concern.”

“No, Aunt Silchester.” Alabeth gazed out through a
crack in the curtains. The sun was beginning to set now, the sky was turning crimson and gold, and the shadows
were lengthening.

“If I do hear anything,” her aunt went on relentlessly, “I shall not hesitate to write to your father informing him
of the situation.”

Alabeth’s glance was stony, but she held her tongue, for
there was little point in allowing herself to be drawn by this
disagreeable old woman who had little else to do with her
time but meddle and cause trouble.

Aunt Silchester made herself a little more comfortable in the bed. “Now, then, I am feeling a little sleepy, having not long taken my elixir. The next time you manage to find the time to call upon me, missy, see that you do so at a time
when I have not just taken my medication and when there will be more opportunity for polite conversation. You may
kiss me.” She presented her cheek.

Alabeth rose and obeyed, and a moment later was
thankfully escaping from the room where the atmosphere
was as suffocating as the so-called polite conversation.

But as she descended the staircase toward the breath
lessly still hall, someone rapped at the door with a cane and
the footman hurried to open it. She froze as Piers Castleton was admitted. He removed his hat and gloves and handed them to the footman. “I believe that Lady Sil
chester wished to see me about the sale of an estate in Northumberland—” He broke off, seeing the slight move
ment on the stairs, and his eyes became noticeably cooler
as he saw her. “Good evening, Lady Alabeth.”

“Sir.” She could not have clipped the word more had
she tried.

He waved the footman away. “Do not inform Lady Sil
chester that I am here just yet.”

“No, Sir Piers.” The footman cast a nervous glance at
Alabeth and then hurried discreetly away, not wishing to
become involved in any dispute.

Piers folded his arms, looking coldly at her. “I am glad
to have encountered you here, madam, for it saves me the
undoubted trouble of calling upon you.”

“We have nothing to say to each other,” she replied,
continuing down the stairs and trying to walk past him to
the front door, but he caught her arm and jerked her
furiously around to face him.

“We have a great deal to say to each other, madam,
whether you like it or not.”

“Unhand me!”

He glanced beyond her at a door which stood slightly
ajar, and he thrust her toward it, pushing her into the
room beyond and then closing the door as he turned to
face her. It was the morning room, well away from the sun now, and it smelled of spirit, the windows having been cleaned not long before. Like the rest of the house, it was gloomy and still, almost airless, in fact, and with the door closed as it now was, she felt cut off from the rest of the
world.

He stood there, looking at her, his sage-green coat
almost gray in the poor light. His eyes were bright with anger. “I told you that I would not grant you any more
chances, Alabeth, and I meant what I said. Your conduct
at Carlton House was most certainly the last straw, for
your wild accusations did not go unheard, a fact which I
cannot tolerate. I have always behaved with great patience
and with all honor toward you, madam, but for more than two years now I have endured your inexplicable venom.
The time has come for those home truths to be brought out
into the open, where I now begin to think they should have
been all along.”

“I must ask you to release me from this room immed
iately,” she said, a little shaken by the controlled force of his anger.

“I will release you when I am good and ready.”

“You have no right to detain me against my will.”

“I have every right when you continually call my honor
into question.”

“You have no honor.”

“Have a care, madam,” he breathed, his eyes flashing,
“have a care.”

“I despise you,” she whispered, backing away a little,
“for you are indeed without honor. You have behaved des
picably, both now and in the past, and I do not detract one
word I have said to you. You, Sir Piers Castleton, are
beneath contempt.”

Slowly he came toward her, halting so close that his Hessian brushed against the pink muslin of her gown. “Oh, how you take refuge in your sex, Alabeth, for no man would dare to speak to me as you have just done.
Time and time again you insult me, knowing full well that
if I retaliate, then I would indeed earn a reputation which
is beneath contempt.”

“If I were a man, I would still say it!”

“Would you? I think not.”

“How can you stand there pretending to be a noble innocent when all the time you have conducted yourself most culpably.”

“What am I guilty of?” he inquired softly. “For I swear that I have done nothing and I defy you to prove other
wise.”

“You attempted most foully to seduce my sister.”

“Did I, indeed? Well, I suggest you ask her if that is the
case.”

“There is no need to ask her, for I already know. You seem remarkably able to forget those letters, sir.”

“Ah, yes, the letters. I have never written to your sister, madam, and I never intend to. However, I am perfectly
prepared to believe that
she
wrote to me. My experience of
your sister’s somewhat romantic, fluff-headed character leads me to believe that she is quite capable of putting pen
to paper and composing a letter couched in terms of an
affection which did not exist. I’d lay odds that that letter
was never intended to be sent and that she was mortified when it was found. Knowing her as I now do, madam, I
believe it to be perfectly in keeping that she would brazen it
out rather than suffer the humiliation of admitting the
letter to be a fabrication.”

Alabeth stared at him, for there was a definite ring of truth about what he said, and it certainly would explain Jillian’s huge anxiety about whether the letter had been mentioned.