Red Rose (2 page)

“That child is crying,” Sylvia said, pointing at an emaciated little ragamuffin who was rubbing both fists against his eyes. “Oh, do you think I should call Ben to stop and give the boy some pennies?”

“I think not,” Rosalind decided. “There are so many others, Sylvie.” She looked, troubled, into her cousin’s tearstained face and lowered her eyes to the hands in her lap until Sylvia began exclaiming with more cheerfulness at the buildings and conveyances of a more fashionable part of London. She gazed with every bit as much curiosity as the other girl at the imposing mansion in Grosvenor Square at which Ben the coachman, slowed the carriage.

“This be her,” Ben was saying to the gawking footman, who had to be prodded in the ribs before he remembered that it was his duty to jump down from the box and knock on the large oak front door facing onto the cobbled courtyard.

***

Even in the middle of the afternoon there were two games in progress in the card room at Watier’s Club. Both groups of players were silently intent upon their hands. The few spectators were hushed too, all of them standing around the table that was farthest from the windows. Here young Darnley was in too deep. Everyone knew that the comfortable competence left him by his father a mere two years ago had been all but dissipated on reckless living. If he did not cut his losses soon, some of them felt, he would be living in dun territory before the summer was over.

The young lord sat forward, his manner careless and relaxed. The only key to his true state of mind was his flushed cheeks and his eyes, which darted constantly from his own hand to the cards held by his companions, as if he could divine what they held if he only looked often enough.

The object of Darnley’s most penetrating glances was the man opposite. He sat with a look of cool boredom, one well-manicured hand holding his cards, the other toying with the crystal glass on the table, which held an inch of brandy still. His eyes never once strayed from his cards, not even to glance at the pile of bank notes and vouchers that lay neatly stacked before him.

Finally he laid down his cards and spread them so that all could see. Only then did he lift ice-blue eyes to the young man across the table. But his face was expressionless. All three of his fellow players threw their own cards onto the table, two of them with a resigned shrug, Darnley with an involuntary exclamation of annoyance.

“Luck ith with you today, Raymore,” he said casually. “Mutht leave now. Appointment to dwive Lady Awabella Matthewth in the park. Muthn’t be late. Will call tomorrow to pay my debt, dear fellow.”

The sixth Earl of Raymore looked steadily and cynically at Darnley. “I shall be at home over the luncheon hour,” he said, “though, of course, you may always see my secretary if I am not at home. Sheldon’s door is always open.”

Darnley bowed stiffly and left the room with his head held high. The onlookers drifted away, some of them to the other table, where the play was still in progress, others to another room.

“Not entirely fair, Edward, to rub it in quite like that,” the player to Raymore’s left said quietly. “You know very well that Darnley will not call on you tomorrow. He don’t have the blunt.”

“Then he should admit as much, Henry,” Raymore said with a careless shrug as he tapped the vouchers and bank notes into a neater pile before him. “He should have asked for more time.”

“Come now,” Sir Henry Martel replied with an uneasy laugh, “you must allow a man some way to save his dignity. It takes some courage to admit to having played beyond one’s means, especially in this club. Have a heart, man.”

Raymore regarded his friend coolly. “If he chooses to gamble when he has not the means, he should be man enough to take his losses,” he said. “I have no sympathy. Do not try to make a bleeding heart of me, Henry.”

His friend laughed outright. “I should know better than to try, should I not,” he said, “with you, who have no mercy and compassion on any man, least of all yourself? Why have we been friends these ten years, Edward? I am sure I cannot fathom the reason.”

“Originally it was because I never competed with you for all the prettiest girls,” Raymore answered dryly, “and later it was habit, I suppose, though perhaps you think that my title has added something to your consequence in the last year?” There was a suggestion of a smile about his mouth.

Sir Henry clapped his friend on the back and rose to his feet. “You have penetrated my darkest secret,” he said with a hearty laugh. “And, indeed, my friend, I owe you lifelong devotion for having introduced me to Elise when you did not wish to partner her yourself for a dance. Come, let me buy you a drink before I go home. I must not linger long. Elise has only two weeks to go before her time and becomes nervous if I am from home too long. Though what she expects me to do if I am there when the pain begins, I have no idea. Perhaps it will be a comfort to her to know that I will be downstairs in the drawing room wearing a path in the carpet.” He laughed again.

The Earl of Raymore rose to his feet and followed his friend across the room. He kept his voice low in deference to the serious game that had now attracted several spectators at the table close to the windows.

“I’m damned if I would ever do so much for any woman,” he said. “Why get so excited when they are performing the only function for which they are of any use?”

“I say, Edward,” Sir Henry said rather sharply as he seated himself in a deep leather chair in a lounge that adjoined the card room, “coming a trifle offensive, my boy. Anyway, you seem to find at least one other use for the fair sex, or was that your maiden aunt you were driving in the park yesterday afternoon?”

“I was talking about wives,” his friend replied. “Mistresses, of course, have a different function. And I admit that it can be quite pleasurable if the female will just keep her infernal mouth shut.”

“The delectable one in the park did not?” Sir Henry asked, grinning.

“We discussed bonnets for all of one hour,” Raymore said, raising one eyebrow in his friend’s direction. “Pardon me, we exchanged views on parasols for perhaps ten minutes of that time. To relieve the monotony, you see. Her elocution lessons slipped once or twice, too. Pure cockney beneath the veneer, Henry.”

Sir Henry laughed. “But good in bed, Edward?” 

“Mm, quite a shapely armful,” the earl agreed. “But one cannot quite wipe out memories of the featherbrain attached to the body, except perhaps at moments of the deepest involvement. There is a delicious little redheaded beauty at Covent Garden. New this week, I believe. Probably not under anyone’s protection yet.” 

“But soon will be, I assume,” Sir Henry commented. “When are your wards arriving, Edward?”

His companion took a long drink of his brandy before replying. “Probably today, if they left yesterday as I directed,” he said.

“And you are not there to greet them?”

“Good God, no. Inheriting the title and the property hardly makes up for being saddled with two female wards.” Raymore shuddered.

“Why bring them to London if their existence is so distasteful to you?” Sir Henry asked.

His friend raised haughty eyebrows. “Is the reason not glaringly obvious?” he asked. “This is the marriage market of the nation, Henry, and this the height of the buying and selling season.”

Sir Henry looked at him with interest. “You have no intention of getting to know them, Edward? One of them is your cousin, is she not?”

“Daughter of the fifth earl,” Raymore replied. “They are females, Henry, of marriageable age. Doubtless they have their heads full of nothing except finding husbands. I intend to oblige them.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” There was an undertone of sarcasm in Sir Henry’s voice.

“I shall have to look them over first,” Raymore replied with an arctic smile. “They both have dowries large enough to add to their attractions. But the better-looking they are, the higher we can aim. Either way I shall be done with the obligation before the Season ends.”

Sir Henry Martel drained his glass. “Yet if you were selling some of your cattle, my friend,” he said, “you would take a year or more if necessary to ensure that you had found a suitable buyer.”

The earl shrugged. “But then girls are not horses,” he said.

His friend rose to his feet, shaking his head. “I must be going,” he said. “Coming my way, Edward?”

“No,” Raymore replied. “I shall stay here to dine. Good day to you, Henry.”

The Earl of Raymore summoned a waiter and ordered another brandy. He waved carelessly to a group of acquaintances across the room, who were engaged in a lively discussion, but made no move to join them. He allowed his mind to dwell on the topic that had been depressing him for days. For how long would his home and his peace of mind be invaded by a pack of females? Cousin Hetty had arrived two days before, accompanied by three pesky little poodles. Fortunately, she was a reasonably sensible woman, though she did like to talk rather more than was necessary and in a somewhat strident voice. However, her presence was absolutely necessary while his two wards were in residence with him.

He shuddered at the thought of being saddled with two hopeful debutantes for the rest of the Season. His cousin Sylvia had been eighteen at the time of her father’s death, the lawyer had told him. He had never met her and, in fact, had met his aunt and uncle only once or twice in his life. His father had never been close to his brother, the Earl of Raymore, and had rarely visited him. Would the child be pretty? Silly? Shy? And what about the other girl? The earl felt particularly annoyed about his position as her guardian. He had really just inherited her from his uncle. She was not even related to him; she was a niece of the dead countess. She was a few years older than Sylvia, the lawyer had told him vaguely. How many years older? Raymore hoped that she would not too certainly have joined the ranks of the old maids. He could find it very tricky to get her married off if she were too old. And then he would be stuck with her for life, forever moving the fading creature around from one home to another, wherever he happened not to be.

Raymore took a snuffbox from his pocket and gazed absently at the ruby-studded lid, his thumbnail against the catch, though he did not immediately open it. How he hated women. He wished to heaven that he never need have anything to do with any of them. He should have entered a monastery, he thought with cold humor. But then, of course, that would not have served his purpose. There was that base bodily craving that had to be satisfied—and satisfy it he did with the type of woman he most despised. He always chose his women with care, assuming almost without conscious thought that physical beauty might compensate for the fact that he despised both the woman who gave her favors for money or expensive baubles and himself who bought.

Raymore flicked open the lid of his snuffbox with a practiced thumb and placed a pinch of his favorite blend on the back of his right hand. He sniffed delicately, first through one nostril and then through the other. He soon felt more himself. But he could not force himself to move. He had told Cousin Hetty that he would return for dinner. They would await his arrival. Yet he had told Henry less than an hour before that he would dine at the club. Confound it, and he would, too. Let the girls wait to make his acquaintance. Perhaps he would have more stomach for the introductions in the light of day.

He placed one booted foot against a stool and gazed gloomily at the high gloss of the black leather. Women had always been the bane of his life. His own mother! He had vague memories of her. He believed that she must have given him much attention. The memories mostly involved her leaning over him with a gentle smile—whether to soothe away a headache, or to admire a daisy chain, or to bid him good night, he could not clearly recall. But he had loved her, trusted the permanence of her love. She had run away with the curate of a neighboring village when he was seven, leaving him behind. He had suffered cruelly from his sense of loss and rejection and from his father’s drunken rages.

And then there had been Rachel, his father’s second wife. She had been Edward’s governess for three years, and all the while had been sweet and attentive. She had seemed to devote herself entirely to the lonely child, and he had gradually allowed himself to love and to depend upon another human being again. He had felt deeply shocked, even betrayed, when he knew that she was to marry his father. How had she been able to get to know him when she spent all her time with the boy? But he had talked himself into accepting the marriage. After all, it would be infinitely better, more permanent, to have her as a mother than merely as a governess.

It was only six months after the wedding when Edward, exploring the upper hallway as he often did when playing imaginative games, opened the door to a room that he knew was not occupied by any of the servants, and found two people threshing around on the bed. They both turned alarmed faces at the sound of the opening door. The woman with her head on the pillow was Rachel. The man on top of her was his father’s head groom. There were no covers over them. They were both naked.

Edward had not understood what was happening, but he had rushed outside and hurtled his way into the closest clump of bushes, where he had vomited for several minutes. He knew after that that he had Rachel in his power. He had never used his advantage, though she had pleaded with him later that same day and watched him out of anxious eyes for weeks afterward. After that she had fawned on him, praised him in his father’s presence, bought him gifts. And he had gradually withdrawn more and more inside himself, refusing for the rest of his father’s life to so much as recognize her existence. She had married the groom one week after his father’s death, five days after Edward had dismissed the man from his service. He could still not understand why they had left that door unlocked.

"Your table is ready, my lord,” a waiter said with a discreet cough at Raymore’s elbow.

The earl indicated by raising his half-empty glass that he would adjourn to the dining room as soon as his drink was finished. He must have been a slow learner, he thought, a sneer marring his face, to have trusted another woman. But during his first full Season in London, fresh down from Oxford, he had fallen in love with Annette Longford—tiny, vivacious, pretty Annette. He had spent hours dreaming of her, and as many hours contriving meetings when they could converse with some privacy and perhaps touch each other. She was the sweetest, truest person he had ever known. When he gazed into her wide hazel eyes, he beheld perfect innocence.