The Birth of Blue Satan (6 page)

“Are you quite all right? I could fetch a doctor.”

He gave a quick laugh. “Now you sound like my groom.”

At her quizzical look, he explained, “I meant that quite kindly, I assure you. My groom, Thomas Barnes, has taken good care of me since I was a babe in leading strings, which makes him inclined to assert the privilege of a nurse. I have just had to discourage him from hovering over me in the most discountenancing way.”

“I see.” In spite of these words, she studied him cautiously as if worrying out a puzzle. “Was there some reason, my lord, why your groom believed you should have a doctor called?”

“No, nothing—” But Gideon found he could not lie to Mrs. Kean, not with those intelligent eyes of hers fixed upon his face. “That is to say, I did have an altercation earlier this evening, which is one of the reasons I was late. A fellow assaulted me in the street, but I only took a scratch.”

Her eyes flickered. “An assault, my lord?”

He chuckled and tried to shrug, but his arm had begun to ache miserably, and the room seemed to turn before his eyes. He could hardly conceal his pain. “Yes, but it is no matter now. Tell me something about yourself, Mrs. Kean. We have talked about me long enough.”

“I shall tell you about myself if you like,” she said slowly, “but only if you promise that you will alert me the instant you wish me to stop. The look of your brow makes me think you are taking a fever.”

“Does it?” Gideon reached up and felt the dampness on his forehead. When he moved the arm from his side, he felt a sudden chill. “Very well, I promise to let you know. But you made a promise to divert me, and I am determined to hold you to it.”

“If you insist, but I must warn you. My life is so far from fascinating, you would do better to let me tell you a fairy tale.”

“That would be cheating.”

“Would it? Oh, dear. As you like, then . . . .”

She seemed at a loss where to begin. In spite of the stabbing pain in his arm and an uncontrollable shiver, Gideon felt a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. It was refreshing to find a woman who was not too eager to talk to no purpose. Mrs. Kean had a restful way about her. If he had wanted a respite while waiting for Isabella’s return, he could have found no better companion.

He knew something of her story. Mrs. Mayfield had taken her in after the death of her father, a country parson with no fortune to dower her with. Her only brother, a wastrel, had been too poor to offer her a home. On learning this from Mrs. Mayfield herself, Gideon had been relieved to discover this much kindness in his future mother-in-law, especially in light of her other children, living with their brother in the country and yet to be established. But he had squirmed at the tactless way in which she had imparted the news. He had applauded her generous intention to take Mrs. Kean to Court, but lately he had found her treatment of her niece to be less than kind.

The young lady’s dress was not remotely as lovely as Isabella’s, being unrelievedly dull and of a sober cut not likely to attract a suitor. Gideon supposed Mrs. Kean might have inherited a serious turn of mind from her father, a juring clergyman, which made her choose such a gown when she might have worn something more complimentary to her colouring. As it was, that mustard yellow was unbecoming, although the dress fitted her slim figure well. It would be a shame if Mrs. Kean, who was a good, deserving girl, had not a taste in clothes to help her attract admirers.

But none of these thoughts did he allow to show, and soon he forgot them himself in their conversation.

“You come from the north, as I recall. Do you never miss it?” he asked.

“The wuthering of the wind, the treeless moors, and the blinding snow, my lord? You must think me mad.” She gave a shudder. “I have far too much love of a warm fire.”

“You prefer a milder climate, then? If so, you must come into Kent. You can always count on the warmest winds at Rotherham Abbey. What think you, Mrs. Kean? Will I be successful if I try to prevail upon Mrs. Isabella and her mother to bring you into Kent?”

As he spoke Isabella’s name, Gideon let his gaze seek her on the ballroom floor. She was dancing still with Kirkland, her infectious laughter lighting up the room. Gideon felt an instinctive pang when he noted how much her current smile resembled the one with which she always greeted him, as if it had no particular significance.

Of course, he reminded himself, that was one of the things he loved about her, her constant glow. From where else could such a smile come, if not from some deep fountain of goodness?

“I should be delighted to accompany Isabella to your house, my lord,” Mrs. Kean said so quietly he almost did not hear her.

Gideon turned to find that she was observing him closely. The pity he saw in her eyes gave him a jolt.

“Mrs. Kean,” he said, “you will not be offended, I hope, if I confess to you my aspirations.”

“My lord.” Her smile gently teased him. “You will not be offended, I hope, if I tell you I have guessed them long ago.”

Gideon found himself relaxing again at the evidence of her humour. “Have I been so awkward as that?”

“Not awkward—no.” Her haste to reassure him on this point made him worry all the more.

Gideon studied her face and noted her unease with a sinking heart. “Have I a serious rival, then, or would you rather not say?”

“I should rather not say, but since you desire it, I will do my best to put the case in the fairest way I can. My lord—” she regarded him solemnly before taking a deep breath— “I can only say that both my aunt and cousin look upon your suit with great favour. But you must realize that Isabella has more attention than any dozen girls could ever hope to have. And, because of that attention, I do not think she is always in a position to know her own heart.”

Gideon felt a frown crease his brow. He did his best to erase it, but he was feeling sick. The wound on his arm was aching more and more with every minute. Fever had begun to blur his eyes, and Mrs. Kean’s words had struck at his worst fears.

He would have thanked her all the same. He took her remarks for a careful warning that he must do his best to secure Isabella’s hand with all haste. But, just then, a shrill cry interrupted them.

“Hester!”

Mrs. Mayfield’s vicious note shocked him.

“I have been looking for you this past quarter hour and more! And where you had gone to, nobody could tell me. I need you this instant to fetch my pink shawl from the carriage. The air has grown quite chilly in here, and I swear I shall catch my death of cold before supper.”

Gideon stood abruptly. A wave of dizziness seized him, but he tried to ignore the stabbing pains in his arm that had caused it. Catching his balance, he gave Mrs. Mayfield a stiff bow. If he needed any proof that Mrs. Mayfield regarded him as her daughter’s property, her offence at his attention to Mrs. Kean had given it. He supposed he should feel delighted, but he could never wish to see a girl as decent as Mrs. Kean treated so unfairly.

“Pray allow me, madam, to find a page to fetch your shawl. Mrs. Kean has been kind enough to sit with me.” He might have added that she had done so while he waited to dance with her cousin, but such a comment would only serve to diminish Mrs. Kean and his pleasure in her company.

Gideon saw that his politeness had done nothing to take the edge off Mrs. Mayfield’s offence. The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes—nor did it include her niece.

“La, my lord! How can you think I would ever ask your lordship to bother yourself over a trifle like this?” Turning to her niece, she said with a false cheer that failed to conceal her displeasure, “Be a good girl, Hester, and run along to the carriage.”

Gideon watched Hester’s face as she curtsied to him, accepting her aunt’s command with no sign of resentment. None of the annoyance he had felt seemed to have bothered her, which was good, he told himself, since she undoubtedly would have to put up with Mrs. Mayfield’s whimsical humours until she married. For her sake, Gideon hoped it would not be long.      

Here stood Ill Nature like an ancient maid,

Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed;

With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and noons,

Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons.

There Affectation, with a sickly mien,

Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,

Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,

      Faints into airs, and languishes with pride

This day, black Omens threat the brightest Fair

That e’er deserved a watchful spirit’s care;

Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight;

But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night.

Methinks already I your tears survey,

Already hear the horrid things they say,

Already see you a degraded toast,

And all your honour in a whisper lost!

How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?

‘Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!

CHAPTER 3

Hester did her best to keep her composure until she passed from the crowded room. She would not wish St. Mars to see how embarrassed she had been by her aunt’s churlish mood.
As if Isabella suffered any competition from a parson’s drab daughter!
she thought, hiding her flaming cheeks from the people she passed, and hoping the cool of the night would tame the flush that heated them.

At the door downstairs, she was checked by a footman who inquired whether he might perform her a service. Hester had enough sense not to insist upon searching for Mrs. Mayfield’s carriage herself. With the crush of vehicles awaiting their owners outside, she might spend an hour dragging her skirts through the mud and the cold air while she tried to discover the right one. Not that she supposed Mrs. Mayfield had any need for the garment, but neither could her aunt now pretend she did not, having expressed herself so strongly in front of St. Mars. There was humor in that thought, at least, which made Hester feel a bit better while she waited for the footman’s return.

She stood to one side of the hall, her back against the wall, where she could observe the arrivals and departures of Lord Eppington’s guests. The number of goings and comings had greatly fallen off this close to the supper hour, so that the noisy arrival of a gentleman, dressed in a riding costume rather than the finery required for a ball, his tall boots splattered with mud, could hardly escape her notice. The man’s Puritan-style clothing and grim expression gave her the unhappy feeling that he had come to deliver bad news.

Just then, the footman returned with Mrs. Mayfield’s shawl. Hester was obliged to take her eyes off the newcomer in order to thank the servant for his help. By the time she turned again, the gentleman had moved up the stairs in the direction of the ballroom, leaving a stream of murmurs in his wake. His sober clothes alone would have caused remark, to which his solemn expression could only add.

With a sense of impending calamity, Hester followed him back upstairs, through the hallway and into the ballroom.

She trailed him to within feet of her aunt. He stopped and bowed before my Lord St. Mars.

St. Mars, his colour heightened since Hester had left—perhaps by the fact that he was enjoying Isabella’s company at last—noticed the gentleman and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He seemed to recognize him at once, although Hester could not hear what passed between them until she stepped closer. When she did, she felt her breath die in her throat.

“My lord,” the gentleman said, “I regret to inform you that your father, Lord Hawkhurst, has been murdered.”

“Murdered?” Gideon raised a hand to his forehead, gone suddenly chill as the blood drained from his face. A sense of unreality had been slowly spreading through him as the dancers pranced and Isabella toyed with her fan, refusing to hear his entreaties. But now the room transformed itself into a whirligig of faces. Lord Eppington’s guests disappeared in a revolving cloud of noses, wigs, and eyes.

Someone grasped him by the arm, and an intense pain shot through him. He tried to muffle his cry, but the unexpectedness of  the pang made him jerk to protect his stabbing wound.

“My lord!” Sir Joshua Tate, the justice of the peace who had brought him the news, stared down at a smear of blood on his hand.

A gasp tore through the room. Isabella shrieked. His arm—his wound had bled. It must have been oozing through his bandages and had alarmed her.

“It’s nothing,” he said. But his tongue would not obey his commands, and his speech sounded slurred even to his own ears. He tried to speak more clearly. “Mustn’t be frightened, Isabella.”

“My lord, you should sit down.” Mrs. Kean’s calm voice came as if from far away. “You have suffered a grave shock.”

A shock?
Oh, yes, Tate had come to tell him—something that had upset him. His father—his father couldn’t be dead.

Gideon wished the humming that filled his head would cease, so he could make sense of it all, but the noise only increased.

“You said my father has been murdered?”

“Yes, my lord.” There was an odd note in Sir Joshua’s voice. “He was killed by a man who was himself injured in the attack.”

It made no sense to Gideon that Sir Joshua should be the one to inform him of his father’s death. Lord Hawkhurst had detested this man and his Puritanical ways.

“What brings you here? What attack?”

“My lord—” that quieter, gentler voice urged him to calm— “my Lord St. Mars, you must be seated. You are weak.”

From another direction Mrs. Mayfield’s harsher tones sliced through. “Come away from there, Hester. Isabella can tend to my Lord St. Mars—Lord Hawkhurst, I should say.”

Gideon ignored the murmuring voices about him, the worried glances and the shuffling feet. This was all too confusing, though he thought he heard a whispered protest from Isabella among her mother’s forceful remarks. Of Mrs. Kean’s calm tones, he heard nothing more.