Rakehell's Widow (9 page)

At the Wallborough house in Berkeley Square things
were a great deal quieter, neither Alabeth nor Jillian
having any other engagements before the ball. Alabeth had
kept a wary eye on Jillian, but nothing untoward had occurred and there had, mercifully, been no other en
counters with Piers Castleton. Jillian had conducted
herself with reasonable decorum, although her manner toward poor Charles Allister was still cool and offhand.
Only one thing caused Alabeth some alarm, and that was
the receipt of a brief note from the steward at Wall
borough, informing her that he would come up to London
at the first opportunity as he had something to communi
cate to her which he would prefer not to set down on
paper. This served to confirm to Alabeth that she had been
right to be suspicious, and it made her very guarded where
Jillian’s movements were concerned, that young lady
frequently complaining that she doubted if anyone else in Town was being subjected to such rigorous rules and regulations. Alabeth knew she was being a little too strict
and tried very hard to relax, but it was really very difficult when she found herself thinking time and time again of the
Captain Francis affair and how Jillian had deliberately thwarted the basic rules of behavior in order to be with him. Jillian seemed to be behaving herself, however,
obviously determined not to provoke Alabeth into refusing to go to the ball and thus preclude any chance of seeing the
great Zaleski play.

The Count’s arrival in Town had been greeted with a
great flurry of excitement among the ladies, reports reach
ing Alabeth of his incredible good looks and charming manners. He was declared to be quite irresistible and was the object of much adoration, it being the ambition of a large number of ladies to secure him as a lover. Alabeth
listened to all this a little skeptically, finding it hard to
believe that any one man could be quite so devastating, but
she did wonder about him, remembering Piers Castleton’s
enigmatic warning.

The hour was approaching when they were due to leave
for Seaham House, and Alabeth was waiting in the
drawing room for Jillian. She stood by the window, gazing out over the twilit square where the leaves on the plane
trees were almost motionless in the calm of the summer
evening. She wore a silver muslin gown picked out with
tiny flowers embroidered in black, and a large, soft ostrich plume curled down from her jeweled hair. Black beads
shimmered on her elegant shawl and there were rubies at
her throat and in her ears. Her only other adornment was
her wedding ring, worn outside her elbow-length white gloves. She was conscious of a feeling of nervous anticipa
tion, for although she had attended many functions, this was the first one where practically all the
ton
would be present. It was also Jillian’s first London ball, the first
occasion at which she would be properly on display, to be
commented upon, gauged, assessed….

She turned as she heard Jillian’s light steps approaching,
and then she was there, a vision in peach, her silver slippers
peeping out beneath her hem and a beautiful pearl-studded comb drawing her soft, curly hair behind one ear. Her excitement was infectious, for her lips were parted just a little and her blue eyes were lustrous, and shining as she twirled, all antagonism forgotten for a moment as she dis
played her gown for her sister to admire. “How do I
look?”

“Exquisite.”

“Truly?”

Alabeth smiled. “Truly. You will set them all at sixes
and sevens.”

Jillian almost hugged herself with delight, but then she
seemed to remember that she was at odds with Alabeth,
and her smile faded. Her voice became more sedate and
her glance was more cool. “Shall we go, then?”

Alabeth could not help but be conscious of the chill which pushed the warmth aside, but she affected not to
notice. “Yes, of course, I believe I hear the landau
outside.”

The hoods of the carriage were down on such a warm, still evening, and they sat side by side, Jillian becoming
more and more nervous and excited as they neared Seaham
House. There were carriages converging on that one
address from all directions, and the evening was noisy with
the sound of hooves and wheels. Seaham House itself was ablaze with lights, every window brilliant and not a single
curtain drawn. Countless colored lanterns decorated the
elegant facade and the steps beneath the portico were
strewn with moss and flowers, placed with care to look as
if they grew there. Garlands of greenery were draped
around the Corinthian columns, and servants carrying
flambeaux hurried out to greet each carriage as it arrived.

The landau joined the long queue, for it was taking some time for each vehicle to be escorted to the foot of the steps, the guests to alight, and the carriage to move on to make
room for the next one. Jillian did not notice at all, and it
was some time before Alabeth noticed, but fate had placed
them directly behind Piers Castleton’s barouche. She
watched the servants, flambeaux smoking and fluttering as they escorted the barouche the final yards to the house. The carriage door was flung open and Piers alighted.

He was very correct in black velvet, pausing for a
moment to adjust the white frill protruding from his cuff before turning to accept his gloves from a footman. His
white shirt and stiff cravat looked very startling in the half-
light, and his disheveled hair gave just the right hint of
nonchalance to an otherwise formal appearance. Alabeth
watched him, silently acknowledging that whatever her opinion of him, she could not deny that he was incredibly
handsome—but then, that was one thing she had never
denied.

He passed on into the house, from which the strains of music emerged into the open air, and then the flambeaux were bobbing beside the Wallborough landau and Jillian
was almost on the edge of her seat as she stared at the mag
nificent decorations covering the front of Seaham House.

Inside, the decorations were no less magnificent, for
Octavia had certainly made free with the Duke’s purse. In
the flower-strewn vestibule each lady was presented with a
tiny wrist bouquet of exotic flowers, obviously picked
from the hothouses at Stoneleigh Park, and there were
fountains playing endlessly into artificial pools where the
flashing forms of gold and silver fish could be seen.
Octavia had surpassed herself, more than earning her rep
utation as London’s premier hostess, for one doubted that
Devonshire House or Melbourne House could have come
up to this lavish display.

The Duke and Duchess waited at the foot of the great
marble steps leading down into the immense, glittering
ballroom, the Duke looking somewhat gloomy, for he was pining for the ample charms of Lady Adelina Carver, who
was causing him some anxiety because of her expressed
preference for Harry Ponsonby. The thought that perhaps
at this very moment she was languishing in Ponsonby’s
arms was making the Duke very tetchy indeed. He loathed having to do his duty at the best of times, but tonight was finding it more irksome than ever.

Beside him, Octavia was resplendent in a vivid jade-
green satin which was picked out with hundreds of tiny
sequins. Knowing full well her spouse’s despondent
thoughts, she felt no sympathy whatsoever, feeling that he merited none because of his frequent and open excursions outside the marriage bed.

The master of ceremonies, very imposing in the Seaham
livery of maroon and gold, stepped forward as Alabeth
and Jillian approached, and his cane rapped loudly on the
marble floor as he called out their names. A great many
faces were turned immediately in their direction, quizzing glasses were raised, and there were whispers behind fans, for the Earl of Wallborough’s beautiful daughters were the
object of considerable interest. Many remembered only
too well the scandal which had centered upon Alabeth six
years before, and now they wondered if Jillian was a
similar chip off the Wallborough block. But for every slightly unkind soul, there was another who welcomed them with genuine pleasure, for whatever Alabeth may have done in the past, she had still been a very popular
young lady, whose true friends would have forgiven her
almost anything, especially a romantic, if undesirable, match with a charming rake like Lord Manvers.

Alabeth began to descend the steps, Jillian following slightly behind, and Octavia came to meet them, smiling with delight. “My dears, you both look delectable, quite delectable. Is that not so, sir?” She nudged her morose husband.

“Eh? Oh, yes—yes, the evening goes very well.”

His wife frowned. “Do pay attention sir, for already
you have asked the Marquis of Fullsdon how his wife is,
and the world knows she has left him.”

Alabeth smothered a smile, for Octavia’s words con
jured up quite an entertaining picture. The Duke scowled,
muttering that Fullsdon was such a miserly wretch he was
surprised his very hounds hadn’t left him too. Octavia looked cross, but then forgot him as she linked arms with Alabeth and drew her aside. “I do not think a single soul has not accepted for tonight,” she said with ill-concealed
delight. “I could not be more pleased, truly I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad for you, Octavia, for you’ve worked very hard, and everything looks most exquisite.”

Octavia looked satisfied as she gazed across the crowded floor, which had been thoroughly sanded and decorated
with the stenciled shapes of stars and half-moons. Beneath
the dazzling chandeliers, jeweled ladies and velvet-clad
gentlemen moved to the sweet music of a cotillion, and at
the far end of the floor was the orchestra’s dais. To one
side stood the pianoforte which Count Adam Zaleski was
to play a little later.

Alabeth glanced at the pianoforte. “Has the Count
arrived yet?”

“Naturally, for I do not promise such tidbits and then
not produce them.”

“What is he like?”

Octavia hesitated. “He is very handsome,” she replied,
glancing very swiftly at Alabeth’s eyes and then away
again.

“And?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come, now, Octavia, I can tell that there is more than
just that.”

“Well, my dear, it’s—” Octavia broke off with some
relief as the master of ceremonies announced more guests.
“I simply must go now, Alabeth,” she said swiftly, her
satin skirts swishing as she hurried back to join the Duke.

Alabeth watched her curiously. There
was
something
strange about this Count Zaleski—but what could it be? She put the Count from her thoughts then as she glanced around looking for Jillian, only to see her surrounded by
an admiring group of young gentlemen, all eager to claim
her for a dance. It was obvious that she was set to be a
resounding success, for not only was she young and beautiful, she was also the daughter of the Earl of Wallborough
and therefore most definitely a catch.

Alabeth herself attracted a similar amount of attention, for she possessed the same assets, with the added bonus of being a widow owning the considerable Manvers fortune. For the next hour or so she enjoyed herself, dancing with a
succession of partners, receiving a great many compli
ments, and feeling very much the honey to all the bees.

She had forgotten Piers Castleton, but she remembered him very sharply indeed when, after a brief intermission,
the orchestra struck up again and she happened to glance
at the floor and see that he was Jillian’s partner. They
made a very handsome pair and Jillian danced so very well,
but the adoration on her face was only too apparent and
could not but be commented on. Alabeth was dismayed at
such an unguarded display, and she knew that already a
number of people had remarked it and were watching. Oh,
Jillian,
Jillian
, why can’t you be more discreet? Helplessly,
Alabeth watched, but if she could find fault with Jillian’s
conduct, she could certainly not say the same of Piers’, for
there was nothing untoward in his manner at all; he was
simply partnering Jillian in a dance. But what was he really
thinking? What was really in the glance of those dark,
inscrutable eyes?

The dance ended and Alabeth was about to hurry
toward her sister, when her attention was taken up with a
rather large, elderly, army officer, his scarlet dress uni
form bristling with medals and decorations. “Lady Ala
beth? D’you remember me? Fitzwilliam, General Sir John
Fitzwilliam.” He bowed.

She wanted to speak to Jillian, but etiquette demanded that she stop to speak with the General first. From the corner of her eye she saw Jillian and Piers strolling off the floor and entering the adjoining room, where refreshments
were being served. Smiling brightly at the General, she held
out her hand. “Of course I remember you, Sir John, you
are Robert’s great-uncle.”