Rakehell's Widow Read online

  “Nonsense, it’s very selfish of me, for that way I’m certain to be in the thick of it.” Octavia smiled. “I trust that you and Jillian are coming to my little affair on the King’s birthday?”

  “Little affair?” Alabeth laughed. “Since when has your grand ball been a little affair? It’s a national institution from which it’s a positive disgrace to be excluded. And, yes, we are definitely accepting the invitation.”

  “Good, because I’ve made the coup of the Season,” beamed Octavia, exuding triumph. “I’ve even beaten Carlton House to it.”

  “To what?”

  “Why, Count Adam Zaleski, of course.”

  “The gentleman who plays the pianoforte?”

  “That is to understate his brilliance, for I’m told that he’s a joy, a wizard, a positive genius—added to which he’s said to be the most handsome creature imaginable. And he’s playing first at my ball.”

  “That is indeed a coup.”

  “I’m very pleased with myself, for it required some very subtle skullduggery on my part, to say nothing of bribing his valet to put my communication before his master first.”

  “You don’t change, do you?”

  “I sincerely hope not.”

  “You are fortunate that Seaham can afford your extravagances.”

  Octavia sniffed. “Seaham has little choice in the matter, for if he kicked up about it, I’d make no end of noise about his Cyprians.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “He deserves it, for he forsook the marriage bed within months of the wedding. Not that I minded, for, to be sure, he is a clumsy fellow—as his Cyprians would tell him if they didn’t admire his purse so greatly. Actually, I wrong his latest amour by calling her a Cyprian, for although she is indeed an impure, she is an aristocratic one.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Lady Adelina Carver.”

  “The Earl of Canby’s daughter?”

  Octavia sniffed again. “The morals of a she-cat, just like her mother. Well, an actress as Countess of Canby, what else can one expect of the offspring of such a union? She’s flitted from lover to lover like a bee seeking honey, and the latest noble name on the list happens to be Seaham’s. Not that he’d stand a chance with her if the one she really wants would come up trumps. She’s only interested in Harry Ponsonby, you know, and has been for over a year now, but although he visits her frequently, she can’t get him to the altar.”

  “And so Seaham’s guilty conscience supports your extravagant entertaining?”

  “It does indeed, and serve him right. Although, I must confess that recently I may have gone a little far, even for me.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, I have arranged a boating party on the lake at Stoneleigh Park, and one simply cannot go to anyone else but Gunter’s for the luncheon hampers, but my dear, they are two hundred guineas each this year. I’ve ordered one hundred and fifty, naturally, but I don’t think Seaham will be very amused, especially when there is also the cost of the champagne, transporting the golden barge, decorating the island for the feast, hiring the orchestra—to say nothing of the costumes and so on for Charles Allister’s masque—”

  Alabeth could almost sympathize with the Duke. “Oh, Octavia….”

  “I know, but really, if one is going to do something, one must do it well, mustn’t one?”

  “It seems one must.”

  “And when dear Charles told me about his masque, I simply had to include it.”

  “What is it, an improving tract for spendthrift wives?”

  “Hardly, my dear, for Charles Allister has more money than sense, and he is extravagant by nature.”

  “And how is he?”

  “Flourishing, but still too nice for the wretches of London society, and that’s a fact. Truly, he’s a catch for some enterprising wench, for he’s a darling.” Octavia paused. “I agree with your dear Father, Charles Allister is perfect for Jillian.”

  “I don’t know that I’d wish Jillian, in her present mood, on Old Nick himself, let alone poor Charles.”

  “Hmm, well, she’ll come around in the end, you see if she doesn’t. Anyway, I simply must go, for I’ve a hundred and one things to do before luncheon.”

  “Are you starting a new fashion for calling at breakfast time?”

  “There aren’t enough hours in the day, Alabeth, so I’m simply being sensible. Oh, by the way, you and Jillian simply must come to the British Museum. I’ve managed to get a special dispensation for the party to include ladies—for, as you know, we are normally excluded—but provided the party is fifteen in total, then we ladies are included. Is that not excellent? You will come, won’t you?”

  “I can’t say the idea bowls me over.”

  “My dear, the only reason I wish to go is so that I can look superior and remark that I cannot imagine why gentlemen seek to exclude us from such dull places. They are so insufferable, Alabeth, treating us as if we are inferior, and I simply cannot resist poking their snouts for them at every opportunity.”

  Alabeth smiled. “Oh, if that’s the case, then I shall definitely come and assist you in your heinous activities.”

  “That’s better, I was beginning to despair of you.” Octavia got up, but then her smiled faded. “I am glad you’ve come back into the fold, Alabeth, for it wasn’t right for you to immure yourself in Charterleigh like that.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No?” Octavia’s brown eyes were shrewd. “Tell me honestly, would you have undone a single thing had you your time all over again?”

  Alabeth looked at her in surprise. “No. Why?”

  “Oh, it’s just that— Well, I did wonder if—” She smiled in embarrassment. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Please tell me.”

  “I just wondered if you were quite as happy as you made out— I mean, Robert seemed the perfect husband for a long time, but he was returning to his bad old ways, wasn’t he? He was spending more and more time at gaming hells, and he came very close to another duel before the one in which he died.”

  Alabeth looked away. “It wasn’t his fault, Octavia, the fault was Sir Piers Castleton’s.”

  “Oh.” Octavia straightened. “You do know that Piers is in Town, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s on everyone’s list, my own included. You’re bound to see him.”

  “I know.”

  “I shall be very honest with you, my dear,” Octavia said gently, “I thought you had made a dreadful mistake when you married Robert, for although he was so handsome and charming, there was something in his character, a flaw which would have emerged sooner or later whether Piers Castleton had been there or not. Robert earned his reputation as a rakehell, Alabeth, and he did so without any help from anyone.”

  “He was reformed,” replied Alabeth staunchly. “He had changed his ways and would have remained like that had it not been for Piers.”

  “A leopard don’t change his spots, my dear.”

  “Are you defending Piers?”

  “No, I’m not defending anyone, except perhaps you, although you can’t see it. Piers is no angel and I’ve never pretended that he was.”

  “He provoked that duel with the Russian.”

  “I don’t deny it, but I think you’ll find that there was a lot more to that duel than met the eye, certainly more than the paltry disagreement over cards which brought Robert so determinedly to his death.”

  Alabeth stared at her. “Why have you never spoken like this before?”

  “Because since Robert’s death you have remained at Charterleigh and I have seen you only there, wearing black and grieving for him as if there would never be an end to the heartbreak, I could not speak ill of him, not under those circumstances.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I feel I must speak out, for I cannot hold my tongue anymore. He wasn’t right for you, my dear, as you would have found out quite miserably, had he not died when he did. Robe
rt was the perfect lover, Alabeth, but he was no husband; his cloth was cut all wrong for that.” Octavia smiled gently. “Am I in dreadful hot water with you now?”

  Alabeth could not help returning the smile, for it was impossible to be really angry with Octavia. “You know that you are not.”

  Octavia kissed her on the cheeks again, enveloping her in a cloud of Yardley’s lavender water. “I am so relieved to hear you say that.”

  “And to prove it I will tell you that you are still invited to my first dinner party next week and that I shall still suffer you sitting next to me.”

  Octavia grinned. “That, my dear, was a bucket of cold water.” Her taffeta skirts rustled as she went to the door, which Sanderson hurried to open for her. “Oh, by the way, Alabeth….”

  “Yes?”

  “See that Charles Allister is on your list. We must pair him off with Jillian!”

  Alabeth laughed and Octavia went on out, but as the outer door closed, the smile faded a little from Alabeth’s face. A flaw in Robert’s character which would have emerged sooner or later, whether Piers Castleton had been there or not? No, Octavia was wrong, the flaw had emerged because Piers had been there….

  Chapter 6

  Jillian emerged from her room in time for a light luncheon of wine and wafers, but it was soon obvious that her morning of seclusion had left her in a stormy mood, for she was determined not to show enthusiasm for anything at all. Alabeth tried to behave as if the previous day had not happened, hoping that this gesture of peace would be received in the manner with which it was offered, but all fell on stony ground. A discussion about which invitations to accept and which names to place on various lists was conducted in a stilted manner which made the whole conversation impossible, and Alabeth gave up long before any mention was made of what arrangements Jillian would like for her own ball. The only time a flicker of interest entered Jillian’s blue eyes was at the mention of Octavia’s ball and the fact that Count Adam Zaleski would play there for the first time in England.

  In desperation Alabeth decided to order the landau for an afternoon drive in Hyde Park, and so at the appointed hour of four the two sisters drove out to join the fashionable throng parading there. It was a beautiful day, perfect late-spring weather, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers and young leaves. The sun shone down from a clear blue sky and there was a lighthearted atmosphere in the capital as England set about enjoying this first peacetime summer for many years, but in the Earl of Wallborough’s elegant carriage the atmosphere was anything but lighthearted.

  Jillian wasn’t smiling, although even Alabeth could tell that she was finding it an effort to remain so sulky. Really she was being very tiresome and difficult, determined to keep the feud simmering at all costs. She looked quite enchanting in her fresh white muslin gown and rose pelisse, the front edges of which were perfectly frilled, and her face was framed by a straw country bonnet tied on with a gauze scarf. Her golden curls were fluffy and there was something quite captivating about her, as the admiring glances of a number of young gentlemen gave proof. For Alabeth’s benefit, Jillian kept her eyes lowered, but she could not help glancing up coquettishly now and then, being a natural flirt and unable to resist practicing her wiles on every personable man to catch her eye.

  Alabeth felt quite low-spirited, although she managed to hide the fact behind a smiling exterior, for nothing would have let her reveal to Jillian how much the atmosphere was reaching her. She attracted her fair share of attention, for she looked very fetching in a lemon lawn gown, an embroidered mustard spencer, and a yellow chip hat, her hair dressed so that a heavy red ringlet tumbled down over one shoulder. A pagoda parasol twirled behind her, its silken fringe trembling to the motion of the carriage.

  “I say! Alabeth!” A man was hailing her.

  She turned toward the sound, and her face broke into a warm smile as she saw Charles Allister and a companion riding swiftly toward the landau, but her smile faltered as they came closer and she saw that the companion was Sir Piers Castleton.

  Charles was a pale, slender young man, his looks more those of a poet than of a man of action, and he smiled shyly as he reined in, removing his hat. “I was calling you for some time. I began to think you were cutting me.”

  “As if I would do that. How are you, Charles?”

  “In the pink.” His hazel eyes moved to Jillian, the admiration plain. “It’s Lady Jillian, is it not?”

  Jillian’s glance was haughty, but it changed abruptly as Piers reined in next to him. The hauteur melted from her eyes and her lips parted—Alabeth could not tell whether it was with alarm or excitement—and she sat forward, her fingers toying nervously with the strings of her reticule. “Good afternoon, Sir Piers, how good it is to see you again.”

  Piers nodded. “Good afternoon, Lady Jillian. Chatsworth, was it not?”

  She flushed a little. “How flattering that you should remember.”

  “It would be impossible to forget so lovely a face.”

  Charles continued to stare at Jillian, almost as if he had never before set eyes on such a vision of loveliness, but his admiration went unrewarded, for Jillian all but ignored him. When Alabeth struggled to effect an introduction, Jillian’s acknowledgment was cursory, barely within the bounds of good manners.

  Piers looked at Alabeth, his gray eyes almost lazy. “Good afternoon, Lady Alabeth.”

  “Sir.” Her back was stiff and straight and she did not look at him. This was dreadful, her first excursion from the house and straightaway she encountered this man.

  Charles cleared his throat, obviously a little out by Jillian’s lack of interest. “When did you arrive in Town, Alabeth? I called yesterday, but you had not arrived and Lady Jillian was, regrettably, out calling upon Lady Silchester.”

  Jillian was still looking at Piers with that strange unease which Alabeth had detected so swiftly; she did not even seem to hear Charles speaking. Alabeth felt a little distracted herself, wondering what lay behind Jillian’s reaction and being more than a little dismayed at realizing that Jillian and Piers were acquainted. She smiled nervously at Charles. “I—er, I arrived yesterday evening. I knew you had called, for I found your card. You must come to dinner, I’m giving a party next Thursday—”

  “I’d be honored.” He smiled at her.

  Jillian spoke hurriedly. “Please come, too, Sir Piers.”

  Alabeth’s heart sank, for the last thing she wanted was Piers Castleton as her dinner guest, but she was saved from such embarrassment, for he declined the invitation. “I fear that I am otherwise engaged that evening, Lady Jillian.”

  “Oh. I—I did not think you were in England, Sir Piers. Were you not going to tour Europe?”

  “I believe this peace will be too transitory for any such undertaking to be wise.”

  Her large eyes searched his dark face for a moment before being lowered, still with that air of flusterment which caused Alabeth more and more unease as the moments passed. There was no mistaking the fact that Jillian was affected by Piers Castleton, no mistaking it at all, for she could not have made it more obvious had she shouted it aloud. Alabeth could not tell anything from Piers’ face, but everything about Jillian reminded her of the Captain Francis affair the previous summer; the same bubbling excitement, the same shining eyes, and the same general air of agitation. Alabeth’s heart sank lower and lower, for the dreadful possibility was that Jillian had transferred her affections to Piers.

  To her relief, at that moment another carriage approached from behind and was unable to pass, so she told her coachman to drive on and Charles and Piers rode off across the park, Jillian watching until they vanished from sight. Alabeth said nothing, for to have mentioned anything now would be to certainly provoke another disagreeable argument, but inwardly she was most disquieted by the whole incident. Jillian’s attitude suggested an interest which went beyond a single meeting at Chatsworth—but why had her father not mentioned the fact that Jillian was acquainted with Piers? Alab
eth stared blindly ahead, her mind racing. Could this be what the Earl was keeping from her? Could an undesirable liaison between Piers Castleton and Jillian have been the reason for the Earl’s determination to have Jillian brought out this year, the year when Piers was believed to be going to Europe? The more Alabeth thought of it, the more convinced she became that this was the case, and the more angry she became that her father had not seen fit to tell her. But perhaps she was mistaken, perhaps she had read far more into the whole incident than there actually was. She kept her voice light when she spoke. “I did not know you were acquainted with Sir Piers.”

  Jillian looked sharply at her. “I’m not. At least— I’ve met him once.”

  “At Chatsworth.”

  “Yes, there was an autumn ball there last year.”

  Alabeth said nothing more, but Jillian’s replies had not reassured her in any way. There was more to it than merely a meeting at a ball, and Alabeth knew she must find out—although asking Jillian directly was out of the question, for it would be regarded as unwarranted interference, only too similar in vein to the whole Francis business. But how could she find anything out? Her father was on his way to Madras, and communicating with him would take far too long. No, there must be another way. Alabeth’s eyes cleared suddenly. Of course, she would write secretly to her father’s trusted agent at Wallborough Castle, Mr. Bateman, who was not only the steward but also an old friend. If there was anything to know, then he would know it, and he could be persuaded to tell Alabeth, for whom he had always had a soft spot. Yes, she would write to Mr. Bateman and find out exactly what had gone on after that meeting at Chatsworth.

  Chapter 7

  The letter remained unwritten for the rest of that day, however, for Jillian was in the house and there was always the risk that she might see what was being written. The following morning she was to go shopping and Alabeth had every intention of writing then, but before she could do so, there was the somewhat ticklish matter of the menu for the dinner party to attend to.

  The Earl of Wallborough was a man of plain taste, liking good, old-fashioned English cooking, especially roast beef, and the cook, Mrs. Bourne, had never ventured into the realms of more exciting dishes. Alabeth was determined not to serve roast beef at her first dinner party in more than two years, but the difficulty was persuading Mrs. Bourne to a similar frame of mind. Alabeth waited in the morning room after breakfast, knowing that it would be no easy matter to achieve the cook’s willing cooperation.