Rakehell's Widow Read online

  She smiled. “Now you mention it, I have heard of him.”

  “Well, the signing of the peace treaty has resulted in him deciding to honor London with his presence, giving recitals and so on. He is also intending to give tuition to certain favored pupils. Your sister wishes to be one of that select band; she wishes it so much that I believe she will agree to be in your charge.”

  “She must admire this Zaleski person,” remarked Alabeth dryly.

  “She does, and rightly so, for he is acknowledged to be the greatest exponent of the pianoforte in the world, and I am told he justly deserves his reputation. Beth, that business with Captain Francis is over now and should be forgotten. I believe I can guarantee Jillian’s agreement—and so all I need is yours. Please, Beth, do what I beg of you.”

  Something in his tone warned her that he was still uneasy, and sure enough, when she looked at him, he could not meet her gaze. “Father, is there anything you’re not telling me?”

  “Not telling you? Why ever do you ask that?”

  “Because I know you very well.”

  “There isn’t anything.” He met her gaze then, but she knew he was finding it difficult. There was something else, but he was determined not to divulge it, and she could hardly pursue the point without virtually accusing him of lying.

  Outside, another nimble of thunder wandered across the heavens, closer now, for the flash of lightning which followed came almost simultaneously, glinting on the suits of armor standing around the great hall.

  “Will you do it, Beth?”

  Reluctantly she nodded. “Very well.”

  He looked relieved. “Thank you, my dear. I don’t think you’ll ever know how grateful I am to you.” He turned to pick up his hat and gloves from a nearby table. “And now, I must return to Town—”

  “You aren’t staying the night?”

  “I’ve very little time to set all my affairs in order. I’ll see that the Berkeley Square house is in readiness and that my solicitors are aware of what plans have been made. By the way….”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let’s beat about the bush, for we both know that the whole purpose of bringing a young lady out is to find a suitable husband for her. I believe that your own experience will make you an excellent judge of who is and who is not suitable for your sister.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that, unfortunately, we all learn from our mistakes.”

  Her chin came up at that. “My marriage to Robert was not a mistake.”

  “Forgive me, my dear, but I believe it was. The fact that by some miracle you and Robert were happy together does not make one iota of difference. He was everything that was unsuitable. Maybe you managed because your character is different, a little stronger, but Jillian would be entirely unable to cope with a gentlemen like Robert, and I believe you know it. She is impressionable and impetuous, given entirely to romantic daydreamings, and she would be at the mercy of a charming rogue like Manvers. Forgive me, my dear, for I don’t wish to sound hard or thoughtless, for I know how much he meant to you, but I beg you to understand how I fear those like him when I consider how Jillian will react to them. The gentlemen she will encounter this coming Season will fall into two categories—they will be either suitable or unsuitable. Those like Sir Charles Allister, the son of my dearest friend, are entirely suitable, for there is nothing I would like more than to see him allied with Jillian. Those like Sir Piers Castleton, who is in some ways as notorious as Robert was, for he too has been involved in unsavory duels, are most definitely unsuitable.”

  She smiled a little. “But unfortunately it is the likes of Piers Castleton who have the charm and engaging manners.”

  “I believe it was ever thus,” he agreed, sighing heavily at the injustices of life.

  “You may rely on me to do everything as you would wish it and to always have Jillian’s best interests at heart.”

  He kissed her fondly on the cheek. “Forgive me for my past stubbornness, my dear, but you were a very precious kitten to me.”

  * * *

  She stood beneath the stone porch watching his carriage drive away through the storm. Thunder ranged over the dark skies again and the wind soughed through the trees of the park, tearing blossoms from the nearby cherry orchards. She could hear the crash of the English Channel on the shore some distance away, and the lanterns swung so wildly on their chains that they cast eerie shadows over the fierce stone griffins guarding the entrance to the house. She was filled with misgivings about the wisdom of her decision, and filled with an uneasy suspicion that there was something her father had not told her—the real cause of his determination to bring Jillian out that year and no other.

  The carriage vanished from sight beyond the windblown rhododendrons, and holding her shawl closely around her shoulders, she went back into the house, her steps taking her inevitably up to the long gallery where Robert’s portrait held pride of place. Lighting a candle from one of the wall brackets, she approached the great door of the gallery, and it creaked loudly as she opened it.

  The portrait seemed to spring to life in the candlelight, and his lazy blue eyes laughed at her again. For a breathless moment she even imagined she heard his low, teasing voice, but there was only the silence of the house and the raging of the storm outside. The candle flickered over his face. How handsome he had been with his graceful figure and curly fair hair, he was at once effortlessly elegant and nonchalantly casual, and it was typical of him that his irrepressible humor should come through even in such a formal portrait.

  Tears shone in her green eyes as she traced the outline of his lips with her fingertip. How enchanted their first meeting had been. He had made her cast caution to the winds, made her want to flout convention, do anything just to be with him. It had not mattered that he was said to be such a wicked rakehell; she knew only that he was loving and gentle, witty and charming, that his eyes could court her with a glance and his kiss melt her very soul.

  These two years without him had been the longest of her life. Each morning she had awakened alone, reaching instinctively to touch him, but the warm memories had fled when her searching fingers had found the bed cold and empty— But he would have been with her still had it not been for that needless, senseless duel, a duel which could so easily have been avoided had it not been for the presence of Sir Piers Castleton.

  For a moment her emotions threatened to overwhelm her and she turned sharply away from the portrait, the shadows leaping all around as the candle guttered. She felt as if Piers’ mocking gray eyes were watching her from somewhere beyond the edge of the light, and the anger which only he could arouse stirred darkly in her heart until she halted suddenly, lowering her gaze to the swaying flame. This would not do, for what point was there in it? Robert was gone forever, and reminding herself of Piers Castleton’s guilt would not bring him back again. It was 1802 now and tonight she had accepted a responsibility which would sweep her back into the gaiety of London society, back into that life which she had once loved so much. She must try to forget the past and begin again.

  Determined not to look back at the portrait, she walked along the gallery, but as she reached the doorway, she could not help turning, just to take one last, lingering look. She could not stem the yearning which ached through her still. He had gone, and it was Piers Castleton who was to blame.

  Chapter 3

  A week later than planned, Alabeth at last set off for London, her maroon traveling carriage taking the narrow coast road through Oakingham to the main London-to-Dover highway. She chose this route, which was not the most direct, because she loved the wild scenery and knew it would be some time before she saw it again. Inland, the Kent countryside was undulating, a region of hop-growing and cherry orchards, but here on the coast itself there were tidal creeks with low islands where there were thousands of seabirds, and there were miles of flat green marsh inhabited only by sheep and cattle. It was perhaps a rather desolate landscape, but to her it was very speci
al indeed, for it was part of her life with Robert. How many times had she ridden or driven along this quiet track with him? Too many to remember, perhaps, and yet remember them she did, for each one was so precious….

  The team’s hooves clattered pleasantly on the dusty road as she gazed out at the mouth of the Thames estuary where the water glittered and sparkled in the early May sun. A Royal Navy frigate was beating seaward, her sails very white against the jade-green waves and her gunports closed now after being eight years in readiness.

  Alabeth’s gloved hands were clasped neatly in her lap and her reticule rested on the velvet seat beside her. She wore a brown hat adorned with golden tassels, a neat spencer of the same brown, and a white spotted muslin gown, its hem trimmed with several rows of chestnut satin ribbon. She gazed out the window, her feelings mixed. She had tried to convince herself that returning to London society would be a sovereign remedy after the despondency of the past two years, but now that the moment was upon her, she was once again filled with trepidation.

  She had received a hurried note from her father, informing her that Jillian had come around to the whole idea, but there had been no communication from Jillian herself, no olive branch to offer some hope that the coming months would be pleasant and carefree. Reading between the lines of the Earl’s letter, Alabeth had guessed that Jillian had not been easy to convince, in spite of the imminent presence in Town of Count Adam Zaleski, and now Alabeth found herself wishing more and more that she had refused to have anything to do with her sister’s first Season. With a sigh she stared out the window. The tide was beginning to come in over the saltings, the water gleaming among the reeds and mud flats. In summer this place would be bright with golden samphire, but she would not see it; she would be enduring months in London which she feared were going to be odious in the extreme, and not the new beginning she had so vainly hoped they would be.

  The carriage neared Oakingham with its ancient medieval gateway. In times gone by, the town had been a thriving port, but now it stood several hundred yards from the sea because the marsh had filled the natural harbor, leaving only the winding channel of the River Keble to link the once-busy quay with the open water. Only small fishing boats could negotiate the river, but in nearby creeks were to be found the swift smuggling vessels which made Oakingham so notorious still. The former Prime Minister, Mr. Pitt, and his government had done much to stamp out the trade in contraband, but here in Oakingham it flourished, its citizens as determined to defy the law as the revenue men were determined to enforce it. But today, with the sun shining brightly over the blossoms in the orchards and the flowers in the gardens behind the weatherboarded houses, it was hard to imagine the little town as anything but law-abiding.

  Wheels rattling and harness jingling, the carriage passed beneath the stone gateway and began the climb up the narrow street, passing tidy shops and inns, crossing a quiet, leafy square overlooked by the church, and then soon leaving the little town behind as the road turned inland to join the busy highway linking the capital with the important channel port of Dover.

  On the main road the coach came up to a smarter pace, the team stepping high as they trotted along. A mail coach flew by, posthorn blaring and dust flying as it strove to keep to its strict schedule. Alabeth settled back. She was well on her way now and there was no turning back.

  The carriage had not proceeded very much farther when suddenly it swerved violently and she heard the coachman shouting angrily. The team whinnied and she had to clutch at the seat to save herself from falling as the carriage lurched to a sudden standstill, the coachman shouting again and this time being answered by another, equally angry, voice from a little farther along the road.

  Alabeth lowered the glass to see what had happened. Ahead there was another carriage, a very elegant drag lacquered in olive-green and drawn by the most perfectly matched grays she had ever seen, and from its position she could see that it had been about to overtake a carrier’s wagon and that her own coachman had obviously misjudged its distance and speed and had almost collided with it. She glanced at the crest on the olive-green door, but even as a gasp of dismayed recognition escaped her lips, the door opened and a gentleman alighted, pausing in the road to toy with his frilled cuffs as he glanced up with some annoyance at his gesticulating coachman, who was brandishing his fist and hurling obscenities at Alabeth’s coachman. Alabeth heard nothing, saw nothing, except that the gentleman was only too well known to her, and that his name was Sir Piers Castleton.

  His tall hat was tipped back on his head and he wore a charcoal-gray coat which fitted his excellent figure to perfection, its high stand-fall collar emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders. His Florentine waistcoat was pale blue and his beige breeches clung revealingly to his slender hips. A sapphire pin shone in the folds of his neckcloth, spurs glittered on his top boots, and all in all he looked very much a gentleman of rank and fashion. He had changed little since last she had seen him, except perhaps that he was a little more bronzed, and was still darkly handsome with his tangle of almost-black curls and his clear, penetrating gray eyes. His eyes always caught the attention the most, for there was a light in them which warned that he was not a man to be trifled with—as a certain unfortunate Russian diplomat had once found out. The Russian’s death in the ensuing duel had caused uproar in government circles; the Czar had been most put out at the death of one of his favorites, and Piers had been forced to quit the country for a time until the awkwardness could be smoothed over, for Piers was as much a favorite with the Prince of Wales as the Russian had been with the Czar. Would to God it had never been smoothed over, she thought, watching him, for then he would never have come back to England, never have entered Robert’s life, and never have destroyed her world.

  She felt quite numb with the shock of seeing him, for she had believed him far away in Europe somewhere, but then, as if he sensed the close scrutiny, he turned suddenly to look straight at her, recognizing her immediately even though she drew sharply back. She was thrown into total confusion, her poise completely shaken, but she struggled to be mistress of herself and presented a collected appearance when at last she heard his steps approaching and the door was thrown open.

  “Lady Alabeth.” He inclined his head. His voice was just as she remembered, softly spoken but firm, and always with that hint of mockery she loathed so much.

  “Sir.”

  “Am I to glean from your cool manner that your attitude has not mellowed these past two years?”

  “You are.”

  “Dear me, how tiresome, for I understand that you are honoring society with your presence again this year.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I trust that either our paths do not cross again or that you are able to mend your manners sufficiently to behave with some decorum when next they do.”

  Her cheeks flamed. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

  “I daresay the talent to be rude comes as easily to me as it does to you,” he replied, his glance wandering over her. “You are as lovely as ever, madam. It is a pity that your character does not match your appearance.”

  “And you are as vile as ever, sir,” she breathed, quivering with anger, “deserving nothing but my contempt.”

  His smile was cool, a light passing through his gray eyes. “Indeed? How very determined you are to hate me, almost too determined, I fancy.”

  “I loathe you sufficiently to tell you that had I known you would be in England after all, I would not have undertaken to come to Town.”

  “You have the perfidious French to thank for my change of plans, for it is obvious to me that they mean this peace to be temporary, and I have no wish to be trapped in some far place when Bonaparte makes his next empire-building move. I shall of a certainty be in Town over the coming months, madam, and if the fact bothers you to that extent, perhaps you should order your coachman to turn back to Charterleigh immediately—that is, if the dolt can manage such a complicated basic maneuver.”

 
She flushed at the implication that her man was completely at fault. “I believe your own fellow needs a lesson or two, sir, for it is but a simple matter to glance behind and see if anyone else has had the temerity to use the King’s high road. As to my returning to Charterleigh, let me tell you that nothing would make me change my plans to suit you, sir.”

  “A change of your attitude would suit me, madam. Your plans matter not one jot.”

  “My attitude toward you will never change!”

  “Then I can only believe that you glory in your misguidedness,” he replied, closing the door on her and turning to walk back to his own carriage.

  She was so angry that she could hardly speak, gesturing to her coachman to proceed and then drawing up the glass with a snap. She kept her eyes averted as she passed Piers, but she was aware of the derisive way he doffed his hat.

  She knew that she had handled the unexpected meeting very badly; she had allowed her emotions to interfere with etiquette and had thus failed abysmally to get the better of him. She had never been able to get the better of him, she reflected, for he always so thoroughly ruffled her feathers that her poise crumbled into nothing, leaving her feeling gauche and uneasy.

  Suddenly the prospect of London seemed more awful than ever, for not only would she have to contend with Jillian’s resentment, she would know that every time she left the house, every function she attended, every drive she took, she ran the certain risk of encountering Sir Piers Castleton. She had told her father that Piers had not crossed her mind, but that was not true, for he had crossed her mind a great deal, because she could not forget him or ignore his existence.

  * * *

  Piers stood in the roadway, watching her carriage drive away. How very lovely she was, as lovely as a rose, and covered with as many damned thorns! She was obviously quite set upon blaming him for Robert’s fall from grace, and that was tedious enough, but to be faced with the certainty of those thorns throughout the coming Season was intolerable. Piers Castleton was not a man to endure the disagreeable for very long, and Alabeth was obviously determined to be as disagreeable as possible. Well, she would regret it if she persisted, he thought, tugging his hat forward on his unruly hair and climbing back into his carriage. He lounged back on the seat, a pensive smile touching his lips as he thought of the haughty redheaded lady in the maroon traveling carriage. He would give her a little time, but if she showed no signs of changing her tune, then perhaps he would have to forget he was a gentleman, and point out to the lady the error of her ways!