Rakehell's Widow (23 page)

“Aren’t you going to tell me what he said?”

“I would prefer not to. I’m sorry, Jillian, but it really is
for the best.”

“Have you done this partly because of Charles
Allister?”

Alabeth looked up swiftly, a little puzzled. “Why ever
do you say that?”

“I thought perhaps Charles had spoken to you.”

“I haven’t seen him. Why would he speak to me?”

“Because he’s jealous of the Count.”

“Charles loves you, Jillian.”

“I think him more dull than ever and I certainly do not
love him.”

“I thought you were getting on well.”

“I was trying very hard, but I know that I will never love
him. He behaves odiously where the Count is concerned and is most disagreeable.”

“I see. Well, I haven’t sent the Count away because of Charles, I assure you.”

Jillian was a little restless as she went to the window to
look out. “I don’t think I shall take luncheon today.”

“You must eat.”

“I’m not particularly hungry, and anyway I will be plied
with tea and cakes at Miss Mariner’s.”

“Are you calling upon her?”

“Didn’t I say?” Jillian turned smiling. “Yes, this after
noon. Do you mind?”

“No, of course I don’t.”

“I think I’ll do some more practicing.”

“You’ll wear the pianoforte out.”

“The Count says that the more you play, the more the
pianoforte lives.”

“That does sound like something he would say.”

Jillian went out and a few minutes later Alabeth heard her playing. She chose a piece she had learned during the past week from the Count. It was a Polish love song, full
of poignancy and dark fire, but Alabeth did not really
notice, for she was preoccupied with her own thoughts.

Before the grand regatta at Ranelagh Gardens, they had one other important engagement: a masquerade at Minsterworth House, the Piccadilly residence of the Earl and
Countess of Minsterworth. The Countess was known to be
miffed at being upstaged by nearly every other hostess of
note when it came to engaging Count Zaleski to play for
her guests, but he was still the lion of the Season and much
feted, so the Countess took a little solace from this. She
decided to make up for having come a little too late on the
scene by providing exquisite decorations and a positive ocean of champagne. The lights of Minsterworth House could be seen from a considerable distance and the crush of elegant carriages and chairs in Piccadilly threatened to
bring that thoroughfare to a complete standstill.

Alabeth went reluctantly to the masquerade, for her spirits were very low indeed as rumor made it more and
more clear that the liaison between Piers and Adelina was
serious. It was now being said that London’s first
courtesan was to make a match of it with London’s first
Corinthian, and Adelina seemed to be going out of her way
to make certain the rumors proliferated.

In order to conceal completely how unhappy she really
was, Alabeth chose to wear yellow for the masquerade, wishing to appear lighthearted and carefree and knowing
that yellow helped a great deal to give this effect. Safe
behind her mask, she forced herself to enter thoroughly
into the spirit of things, dancing every dance and generally
exuding an air of jaunty happiness which defied anyone to
wonder if the opposite was perhaps closer to the truth. The
pain she felt at the cool, barely perceptible acknowledg
ment she received from Piers was concealed completely by
the dazzling smile she bestowed upon a gentleman who at
that moment asked her if she would partner him for the
ländler
. Not by so much as a flicker did she reveal the hurt
she endured throughout the evening, for she kept
reminding herself of how she appeared to others in her
sunshine yellow, the flowers in her red hair and the pearls
at her throat—she
looked
radiant, and that was the role
she acted to perfection from the moment she entered Min
sterworth House until the moment she left it again before
dawn. No one, least of all Piers Castleton, knew that Lady
Alabeth Manvers was weeping inside.

Jillian, on the other hand, was as happy as she appeared.
She wore old-rose silk and had begged Alabeth’s rubies to go with it. Her hair glittered with tiny diamonds, and her eyes, behind her little black mask, shone with excitement. Indeed, she seemed infused with so much
joie de vivre
that Alabeth was almost concerned, for such sparkle coupled
with a noticeable lack of appetite suggested that Lady
Jillian Carstairs was most definitely in love—but that
could not be so, for there did not seem to be any one particular
beau
upon whom she bestowed her favor. Poor Charles was most definitely not the recipient of any favor, for with him Jillian was once again cool and offhand, not
quite having reverted to her former aversion for him, but
almost. It was a little sad, for Alabeth would have sworn at
one time that Jillian had indeed begun to like him a great
deal more. Alabeth smiled a little wryly, as it had
obviously been an illusion, born of Jillian’s ability to be as
consummate an actress as her elder sister was now showing
herself to be.

Charles was inconsolable, refusing Octavia’s efforts to
make him smile and declining any thought of dancing. He sat on a sofa, watching Jillian as she smiled and danced,
and his misery was almost palpable as she leaned a little
closer to one particularly handsome young Hussar officer.

Alabeth had complete sympathy with how he was
feeling, for was she not enduring the same? Each time
Piers smiled down into Adelina’s eyes, each time his hand touched hers, everything which passed between them, cut through Alabeth like a knife. But she laughed, and smiled,
and danced gaily through the evening and into the early
hours of the night, and the tears did not gleam in her eyes
once.

In spite of the fact that the Count had played a great
number of times before what amounted to the same
audience, the moment of his appearance was still greeted with great delight, everyone moving forward in order to secure as advantageous a place as possible for the recital.
Alabeth held back, not having any wish at all to be close to
him, but Jillian managed to secure a place directly by the
pianoforte, thus ensuring a further lowering of Charles Allister’s already sunken spirits.

Count Zaleski looked as refined and elegant as ever
when he took his seat at the pianoforte, and there was no
sign now of the ugly fury which had twisted his face when he had last spoken to Alabeth. He wove his breathless spell
over his audience, his genius effortless and his mastery complete, and on his face was a look of melancholy which
went perfectly with the sad music he played, creating
havoc in the tender hearts of the ladies who gazed so adoringly at him. Alabeth was immune to him now; she
felt nothing but dislike as she watched him, and only once did his glance stray toward her, lingering malevolently for
a moment before moving on. A smile played around his
lips as he looked instead at Jillian, whose rapt expression was so admiring.

Charles had managed to find a place fairly close to
Jillian and had attempted to persuade her to leave her
prominent place and sit with him, but she had refused with
a most definite toss of her golden curls. Now, however, she
could not help glancing at her unhappy suitor, her expres
sion taunting him that, no matter what
he
thought,
she
knew the Count to be an angel and much misunderstood.
Alabeth sighed, for it was evident that Jillian was not
prepared at any price to believe ill of the Count, whether it
was Charles telling her the Pole cheated at cards or Ala
beth herself telling her that he behaved dishonorably. To
Jillian, Count Adam Zaleski was the personification of romance and therefore everything about him was to be praised.

The Count’s magnificent music echoed poignantly over the glittering chamber, and Alabeth turned her head a little
to look at Piers as he stood by Adelina’s chair. He had
removed his mask and she was able to see his face quite clearly. His expression was thoughtful and a little cool as he watched the Count, and then, as if he sensed she was
watching him, he looked directly at her, the diamond pin
flashing in his neckcloth as he turned. His glance was distant and he neither smiled nor inclined his head before looking away again. The act was calculated and could not
be mistaken, and she felt as if he had publicly struck her.
She needed every last ounce of willpower not to bow her head and give in to the hot tears which were suddenly so close, but she trembled a little as she forced herself to look casually away from him, for all the world as if she neither
knew of the snub nor cared.

The music came to an end and Jillian was the first to rise
to her feet, clapping ecstatically, and Alabeth saw that it
was being remarked how much favor the Earl of Wall
borough’s younger daughter was showing to the hand
some Pole. Several raised fans were evidence that not only
was this being thought, it was being said too. Alabeth’s
heart sank. Oh, Jillian,
please
be a little more discreet and
a little more restrained….

Charles appeared at Alabeth’s side. “The fellow can do
no wrong, it seems,” he said bitterly.

“It would appear that you are right.”

“Why can’t she see him for what he is—a transparent blackguard!”

“Hush, Charles, for you may be overheard.”

“I swear that I don’t care if I am,” he declared, “for I
have endured too much tonight.”

“Please, Charles—” Alabeth was a little uneasy, for he was obviously much goaded.

In reply, he suddenly drew her hand through his arm and
began to walk resolutely toward the pianoforte, where Jillian was in animated conversation with the Count, who
was being flatteringly attentive toward his former pupil.

Alabeth was alarmed, but thought it better to perhaps go
along with him rather than make a scene by refusing. Besides, it was hardly likely that Charles would really
provoke anything untoward.

The Count watched their approach a little warily,
especially as he could tell that Alabeth was uncertain about
her escort. Jillian’s fan began to move more swiftly as she
too perceived the anger and determination in Charles’
eyes, and she looked nervously at Alabeth.

Charles bowed before the Count, flicking a lace-edged
handkerchief over a spotless black sleeve for a moment
before speaking. “You played well, sir, I congratulate
you.”

“Thank you.”

“It seems to be my lot today to heap praise upon the
efforts of Frenchmen.”

“With all due respect, sir, I am not a Frenchman.” The
Count’s blue eyes were very guarded now.

“No? Why, damn me if I hadn’t forgotten you were
Polish. Still, you’re as much a Frenchman as makes no difference now, eh?”

“As you wish, sir, I do not intend to make an issue of it.” This was said entirely for Jillian’s benefit and he was rewarded by the look of approval in her eyes.

“Issue?” replied Charles. “Why, no, sir, of course not,
for why would one wish to make an issue of so trivial a
matter? As I was saying, it seems to be my lot today to pay
compliments to Frenchmen.”

“And how is that?”

“I simply had to take myself along to that newspaper fellow, I forget his name for the moment, but he publishes
a most informative paper called
L’Ambigu
. Oh, yes, I
recall his name now—Peltier, Jean Peltier.” This last was
said loud enough to attract a little attention and a number of people looked swiftly at the small group by the piano
forte, as well they might look, for Jean Peltier was an
extreme supporter of the Bourbons and
L’Ambigu
fre
quently published outrageous criticisms of First Consul
Bonaparte. It had also seen fit recently to cast aspersions
upon the Count’s genius, questioning his talent and liken
ing the sounds he produced to that of a herd of cows
crossing a wooden bridge.

Alabeth held her breath with sharp dismay at this, and Jillian’s eyes widened with amazement that anyone could
deliberately set about provoking an argument which must
surely end in a challenge.

The Count stiffened with quivering anger. “Sir,” he breathed, “I think it vulgar and of extremely poor taste
that you should praise this man who spreads such calumny
about the First Consul and indeed about myself.”

“Calumny? Why, I thought he had put a sure finger on the pulse of truth, sir. Indeed, so exact and in accordance with my own views are his comments that I do not think I
could have put it better myself.” Charles’ handkerchief
continued to flick slowly.