The Worldly Widow (36 page)

Until that moment, she had no real thought of publishing the diaries. In point of fact, it had wanted only Dalmar
'
s capitulation and she would have surrendered them without a murmur. In her opinion, to allow the Earl to begin by setting such a precedent was sheer folly. It was the principle of the thing which had made her dig in her heels. Now everything was changed.

In her mind
'
s eye she examined everything she knew about Dalmar, beginning with their first encounter at the Palais Royal. She wondered if, even then, it had been in his mind to take the diaries from her. Perhaps he had been prevented by the wounds he
'
d suffered in the riot. Her thoughts drifted to his more recent courtship, and she squirmed in mortification.

How could she have been so blind to his real object? To Dalmar, the diaries were paramount. And she had a shrewd idea of why this was so.
He
was the scapegrace Monique Dupres referred to only as "Sir Spider,
"
that devil-may-care Don Juan who changed ladybirds as often as he changed cravats. In all probability, "Sir Spider
"
was a nickname he
'
d picked up at school. It was his own skin he was trying to save by suppressing the diaries. Though she herself had not at first recognized him, she was certain that his nickname would instantly betray him to his contemporaries. He would be a laughing stock, and he would not suffer such a fate without doing everything in his power to avert it. He
'
d proved that already by his conduct on the night of his ball. He
'
d switched cartoons, and she was the one who had ended up an object of ridicule.

"Oh Annabelle, how could you give your heart to such a man?
"
she wailed aloud to the four walls of her chamber.

When first she had met "Sir Spider
"
in the pages of the diaries, she
'
d thought him an attractive, chivalrous scamp for a lecher. How differently she viewed his past indiscretions now that she had penetrated the mystery of his identity. And he was the man she was promised to marry!

"I wouldn
'
t marry you if you were the last man on earth,
"
she said to the silence, and impotently beat her fists against the feather bolster on her bed. After a bout of weeping, it occurred to her that Dalmar never had any intention of going through with the wedding once he had the diaries. This shocking piece of deduction was, perversely, more enraging than the thought that she would be forced to accept him as her husband.

"Oh, where were you when I needed you?
"
she railed passionately, now addressing herself to her conscience. "Hussy! Betrayer! Sloth! You could have prevented my going to that den of iniquity in Kensington. For shame to put it into my head that I was compelled out of charity to give myself to the man.
"
After a moment
'
s reflection, she said in a more subdued tone, "Oh, he
'
s an agent of the devil, that one. I see what it was now. We were both taken in. First he lulled you to sleep, and then he seduced me. How else are we to explain our fall from grace?
"
Evidently Annabelle
'
s conscience said something in reply, for after a moment she hung her head and gave up trying to apportion blame for the fate which had overtaken her.

It was hours before Annabelle could think of the Earl with anything like equanimity. She
'
d been humbled once before when she
'
d learned of her husband
'
s perfidy. She was humbled again, but not for the world would she wear her heart on her sleeve. She spent the hours before she finally dropped off to sleep rehearsing in her mind exactly how she would depress the pretensions of the man who thought he had got the better of her.

A
week later, in the British embassy in Paris, Mr. James Somerset,
attaché
to the ambassador, smoothed the pages of two letters he had received that morning by diplomatic pouch. One was from Lord Dalmar and addressed to himself. The
other was from Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn and was addressed to Monique Dupres.

A frown clouded his brow. He picked up Dalmar
'
s letter and carefully scrutinized it for the third time since it had been put into his hand. According to
the Earl, though he did not hav
e the diaries in his possession, he was perfectly sure that it was only a matter of days before Mrs. Jocelyn would be persuaded to hand them over. He discounted Somerset
'
s suspicion that there might be some sinister party interested in the diaries for nothing of any moment had occurred since he had been on their trail. The letter ended, "Wish me happy, James. The lady and I are to be wed in December. I am the happiest man in the world. Ransome sends his regards.
"

Mrs. Jocelyn
'
s letter, dated the day after the Earl
'
s, was of a different temper. Somerset digested it for long moments. The name "Dalmar
"
occurred frequently, and in anything but flattering terms. It was very clear that something sinister was afoot, and that Mrs. Jocelyn held Dalmar to be responsible.

Somerset rose from his desk and went to the door to call his secretary.

"Ah, Fraser,
"
he said as a sober young man in black frock coat entered moments later. "If you would be so kind, there are a couple of letters I wish to dictate.
"

Mr. Fraser immediately seated himself at a table to the right of Somerset
'
s desk. He selected a pencil from a small rosewood box and adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Only then did he look to his superior.

"To the Earl of Dalmar, etc. etc., etc.,
"
began Somerset. "Dear David, I couldn
'
t be happier with your news. Naturally I expect an invitation to the wedding.
"

"That
'
s all, sir?
"

"I trust you to amplify it appropriately. Fraser, how are you at forgery, by the by?
"

"I beg your pardon?
"

"Forgery. You know, copying another person
'
s handwriting?
"

Fraser eyed his superior askance.

"You did go to Eton, did you not?
"
asked Somerset, his brows lifting.

"I did, sir, but…"

"Good. In my experience, Etonians are always the best forgers. I
'
m glad to see that some things don
'
t change. At my age, you know—oh, well, never mind that now. Where was I? Oh yes. 'To Mrs. Annabelle Jocelyn
'
—you
'
ll find the address here. And make this flowery, and in French, if you please. The author of this letter is a female.
"

Somerset appeared to draw inspiration from the ceiling. Finally he said, "Oh, you know the background. Something to the effect that there are no other copies of the diaries and that Mrs. Jocelyn should proceed to reproduce them from memory. Oh, add, 'Thank you for the warning,
'
or words to that effect.
"
The pencil continued to scratch on the paper for some time after Somerset had finished speaking. "What address shall I write?
"
asked Fraser.

"The same.
"

"The Palais Royal?
"

"Yes, that
'
s the one.
"

"Do you wish me to include a copy of this forged letter to Lord Dalmar?
"

Somerset fell into a brown study.

"Sir?
"
prodded Fraser after a prolonged silence.

The
attaché
seemed to come to a decision. "Let
'
s play it by ear, shall we? Who
'
s to say who, if anyone, is the villain of this piece? Trust to my experience, Fraser. In our business, it
'
s better not to let the left hand know what the right hand is doing. That being t
he case…"

"Yes sir?
"

"What? Oh
…
just send the letters, just send the letters.
"

Chapter Fourteen

R
osedale, the country seat of the Jocelyn family for four generations, was ideally situated between the inland county town of Lewes and the fashionable coastal spa of Brighton, and only a six-hour drive from London in fine weather. Though the manor itself was Elizabethan, the first Baron Jocelyn had brought it into the eighteenth century by giving the exterior a Palladian facing. Succeeding Jocelyns, finding themselves in more straitened circumstances through the second baron
'
s predilection for gambling, thought themselves lucky just to hang onto the place. It was Sir Charles, the present baron, who had brought money into the family. At the age of thirty, he had formed a judicious alliance with Henrietta Routledge, heiress to Samuel Routledge the shipping magnate.

Sir Charles never questioned why he, an impecunious baron, should have captured the hand of such a well-dowered lady. To him, the reasons for the match were self-evident. He was, by birth and breeding, a member of the upper ten thousand. Through the first Baron Jocelyn came the hereditary and honorary post of Master of the King
'
s Wardrobe. Besides a small pension, this gave him an entree into Court circles. The Routledges were nouveau riche and of the merchant class. Their mon
ey in itself could not buy an
introduction into the upper reaches of polite society. Only through marriage could Samuel Routledge
'
s ambitions for his
daughter be realized.

In point of fact, at nineteen, Henrietta Routledge could have
taken her pick of half a dozen impoverished titles, and far more exalted than a mere baronetcy. Before her marriage, Henrietta, or "Harry,
"
as she was then known, was a vivacious slip of a girl, with impish dark eyes and finely chiseled features. An only child and inclined to be spoiled by her father, she was of a headstrong bent, but this failing was tempered by a wealth of good sense and a loyal, affectionate nature. Though she was highly sought after, she was not flattered, sensible of the fact that it was her substantial dowry more than her person which lured her admirers. She enjoyed their attentions, but she was in no hurry to marry.

From the moment she set eyes on the handsome Sir Charles, however, she fell head over heels in love. Her father was scandalized, not merely because his only child was turning her nose up at the heir to a dukedom, but because he could not see how a high-spirited lass like his bonny Harry could ever be content with a dull stick-in-the-mud like Sir Charles Jocelyn, for all his good looks and fine breeding. In the end, her father had relented. Henrietta was the apple of his eye. He had never been able to gainsay her once her heart was set on anything.

Henrietta knew, when she married Sir Charles, that he was not in love with her. But she was young and believed that she could change the world. One gentleman
'
s heart did not seem too onerous a task. Blithely she set out to make herself over into the kind of woman she thought would make her husband happy. Within three years, her father scarcely recognized her. Gone were the high spirits and hoydenish manners. Henrietta was as decorous and lively as a wax dummy, and so he told her.

In twelve years of marriage, Henrietta had presented her husband with five sons. Sir Charles was a devoted father. Motherhood became Henrietta. But she was miserable. And at the age of one and thirty, she had come to see that only pain and disillusion could attend a match where the two parties loved unequally.

Not that Sir Charles was anything but a considerate husband. Before the birth of their fifth child, he had visited his wife
'
s bed dutifully once a week, and always on a Saturday night, mindful that on the following morning, the Sabbath, Henrietta could lie abed for an extra hour or two. His visits
never lasted more than ten
minutes, and after the birth of
their third son, he had offered to cut them out altogether. Only Henrietta
'
s desire for a daughter had constrained him to continue with the weekly visits. But after the birth of little Jonathon two years before, Henrietta herself had put an end to their married intimacy.

Sir Charles accepted his wife
'
s preference like the gentleman he was. Henrietta was a gently bred girl who had matured into a woman of some refinement. She had done her wifely duty. More could not be expected of her. He did not
consider himself a lusty man. N
either was he a monk. With due consideration, he installed a mistress at Brighton, not far distant from Rosedale. He did not love his mistress. In his whole life only one woman had ever captured his heart. She held it still—Annabelle, his brother
'
s widow.

Since he was the soul of discretion, it never occurred to him that anyone, least of all his wife, would be wise to his transgressions. He was mistaken. As is the way of wives, within a month of his setting up his mistress, Henrietta knew every particular about the lady and her husband
'
s visits to her. Mrs. Snow, the lady in question, was not so discreet as her protector. On the contrary, it amused her to flaunt her dubious position. As for Sir Charles
'
s infatuation for Annabelle, Henrietta had recognized it before Sir Charles was aware of it himself.

Annabelle saw and understood little of what was going on. Though she prided herself on being a shrewd judge of character, she readily accepted people as they represented themselves. Hints, innuendo, speaking looks and suchlike were generally beyond her. She herself rarely said one thing while meaning another. She expected the same transparency in others. For some time she had been aware of a change in her sister-in-law. Since the birth of her last baby, Henrietta had become shrewish and ready to quarrel at the drop of a hat. Postpartum fidgets, Henrietta called it. And Annabelle believed her. Nevertheless, in spite of a ready sympathy for her sister-in-law
'
s ailments, Annabelle had lost the taste for her company and would have rather been anywhere else but Rosedale.

The drive down was pleasant, but only because Dalmar was not a passenger in the coach. He and his brother acted as outriders. Annabelle had said not one word about the theft of the diaries which had taken place two nights before. Nor had the Earl, which had rather surprised her. She had expected him to gloat. But he
'
d taken one look at the fire in her eyes and the set jaw and had laughingly made himself scarce. She wondered what tack she should take and mulled the problem over in her mind as the miles sped by.

Apart from the perpetrators of the crime, only she, Bertie, and Lord Temple knew of the theft, and she
'
d sworn them to secrecy without knowing why. As far as the night watchman knew, the burglars had been disturbed before anything was taken. She didn
'
t doubt for a minute that Lord Dalmar was crowing over his triumph, deeming her beaten. He
'
d learn soon enough that Annabelle Jocelyn was not some negligible gadfly he could brush away with impunity. On the other hand, she had learned to her cost that she
'
d underestimated the Earl at every turn. It behooved her to proceed with caution. She had a vision of Lord Dalmar passing the window of some bookshop, halting in his tracks, and turning with a stunned expression to stare at a display of purple-bound volumes. "The Memoirs of Monique Dupres,
"
he would croak, and then faint dead away on the spot, knowing that she, Annabelle Jocelyn, had rolled him up, hook, line, and sinker.

Without thinking, she gave a crow of triumph.

"What
'
s so funny?
"
asked her companion, looking at Annabelle with frank curiosity.

Fortunately, at that moment the coach lurched, and the ladies had their hands full grabbing hold of the two excited children.

Young Richard was in his element. Amy had never before been present during a Guy Fawkes celebration. Her dark eyes burned with excitement as he described the torchlight procession, the elaborate fireworks, the costumes, the mummers, and finally the huge bonfire, with its effigies of Guy Fawkes and Pope Pius IV, who was thought to have instigated the Gunpowder Plot.

"And we get to stay up past midnight,
"
Richard informed
her, his eyes glowing at the thought of the late hour.

"How is it that Lewes has such an elaborate celebration to mark the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot?
"
asked Bertie. "No other town goes to such extremes as far as I know.
"

"Oh, there have been bonfire nights at Lewes for hundreds of years,
"
answered Annabelle, "and long before Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the House of Lords. I think it
'
s a pagan festival which over time borrowed from this and that. No one knows for sure.
"

Having exhausted the topic of Guy Fawkes
'
Night, Richard soon introduced his second most favorite subject of conversation, and for the rest of the drive Annabelle suffered the dubious pleasure of hearing Lord Dalmar
'
s virtues, his preferences, his bons mots and his profound grasp of things (to a child
'
s way of thinking) extolled until she was sure such a paragon should be beatified and dispatched to heaven on the instant.

She
'
d been right about one thing: her sister-in-law went into high alt at her first glimpse of Amy. And no wonder, thought Annabelle. With her soulful dark eyes, so like her mother
'
s, her flashing dimples, and that cap of unruly blond curls, the child was a living temptation to be spoiled by any female who harbored a mite of mothering instinct. And Henrietta had been saddled with five boys.

It soon became evident that this was to be a more elaborate house party than was typical for Rosedale and at that time of the year. As her maid unpacked her bags in one of the upstairs front bedrooms, Annabelle heard the grind of carriage wheels on the driveway below and the slamming of carriage doors followed by the indistinct buzz of people talking and laughing.

Dressed in a becomingly simple slip of gold silk, her bare arms prudently covered by a paisley shawl, she descended the stairs and came face to face with Colonel Ransome. Though she had known that Dalmar had been given carte blanche to invite whomsoever he chose, he had never once mentioned that the colonel was to be one of his party. Annabelle smelled collusion. Her first instinct was to turn on her heel and race up the stairs to Bertie
'
s room and warn her friend of what was afoot. It was the trill of feminine laughter which arrested her in midstep.

Lady Diana, swathed from head to foot in black Russian sable, made a grand entrance, the center of a swarm of admirers, as was her wont. The footmen could not get near her. Ransome and John Falconer were at each elbow, removing the fur wraps from her shoulders. With a gurgle of laughter she threw her enormous muff in the air. Lord Dalmar made a dive for it and came nose to nose with Annabelle, the prize clutched to his chest like the spoils of war. He laughed self-consciously, a look of mingled alarm and sheer boyish devilry crossing his face in quick succession before he turned away.

"What
'
s
she
doing here?
"
Annabelle asked Henrietta out of the side of her mouth as her sister-in-law came forward to greet the coachload of new arrivals.

"Didn
'
t you invite her?
"
asked Henrietta, surprised at the question.

Annabelle
'
s lips pursed in a most unbecoming pout. She met Henrietta
'
s eyes with a blank stare.

Henrietta gave a low chuckle. "No, you
'
re not that crazy,
"
she said, and then added with a touch of malice that Annabelle was at a loss to explain. "You
'
re about to have a taste of your own medicine, Annabelle. I wonder how you will like it?
"

Before she could ask her sister-in-law to explain the mystifying remark, her eyes were drawn to the vision in blue velvet. Lady Diana, like a child at her first party, pirouetted before them, demanding recognition and acclaim. No one was tempted to laugh at the spectacle. It was as if everyone present recognized that what they were viewing was no mere mortal woman, but a work of art.

Vexed, Annabelle turned on her heel and made for the drawing-room, pulling her shawl more closely about her. She was sorry now that she
'
d chosen to wear the simple gold. Even dressed in a sack, Lady Diana could make every female present pale before her incomparable celestial beauty.
She looks as fragile as a snowflake, but I bet she
'
s as hard as nails,
thought Annabelle. She grew impatient with her uncharitable thoughts and put them firmly from her.

Two gentlemen were in the drawing room, Sir Charles and his father-in-law, Sam Routledge. She planted a kiss on her
brother-in-law
'
s cheek and murmured, "How are you, Charles?
"