Rakehell's Widow Page 5

  Mrs. Bourne was plump, cheerful, and blissfully unaware of the new dishes which were beginning to appear at fashionable dinner parties. Smoothing her crisp white apron, she bobbed a curtsy, her large mobcap wobbling on her frizzy gray hair. “You sent for me, madam?”

  “I did indeed. I wish to discuss the menu for the dinner party next Thursday.”

  “Yes, madam. There will be twelve guests, will there not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I know exactly how much beef to order for that—”

  “Ah. Well, I’m afraid that I do not have beef in mind, Mrs. Bourne.”

  The cook looked quite astounded. “Not have beef? But the Earl always has beef.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Bourne, but I do not wish to.”

  The cook sniffed, straightening a little suspiciously. “Mutton? Pork, perhaps?”

  “Turkey—”

  “Oh, yes, madam.” The cook looked positively relieved.

  “—in a cream celery sauce,” went on Alabeth. “And while I realize that my father always requested swede with his dinner, Mrs. Bourne, I would prefer never to taste that particular vegetable again, so please exclude it!”

  The cook’s face had fallen. “No swede? And the turkey served in French sauce?” She was horrified.

  “I do not believe the sauce is French, but I do know that it is very good with turkey and that I wish to serve it next Thursday. I wish the meal to begin with purée of artichokes and to end with meringues à la crème.”

  Mrs. Bourne looked quite faint. “Not oxtail soup and fruit tart?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I realize that my father likes certain dishes which he always expects to see set before him, but that is not my way.”

  “My roast beef is the finest in England.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is, Mrs. Bourne. I just wish to try something else.”

  “Well, I don’t know—” The cook’s lips were pressed a little crossly together and her bosom expanded as she took a deep breath.

  “The dishes are not too difficult for you, are they?” Alabeth asked lightly, knowing that such a slur on the cook’s skills would provoke the required response.

  “Too difficult? Too difficult? I should say they are not! I am quite able to produce the menu you require, madam.”

  “Oh, good, I’m so glad.” Alabeth smiled. “And I know that my guests will be most appreciative and will wish they too had such an excellent cook.”

  Mrs. Bourne was a little mollified. “Well, if these newfangled things are what you really want—”

  “They are, Mrs. Bourne.”

  There was a slight sniff. “Very well, madam, I will attend to your wishes.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bourne.”

  When the cook had gone, Alabeth heaved a sigh of relief, for although Mrs. Bourne was extremely set in her ways and could easily have been offended, she was really too much of a treasure to risk losing. As it was, Alabeth had had her way and the cook was now determined to prove that she could produce dishes as fine as anything at Carlton House, although she had gone away muttering darkly about folk having Frenchified notions which had no place in English kitchens, even if there was peace now!

  Alabeth smiled, going to the window to look out over the garden, where the wooden seat beneath the mulberry tree looked so inviting in the morning sun. She had been intending to write to the Wallborough’s steward, as Jillian had already gone out to shop in Oxford Street, but suddenly the thought of remaining inside was not at all inviting. Picking up the novel she had begun reading the night before, she left the house to enjoy an hour or so peacefully reading in the garden.

  She wore a cream muslin gown, its bodice drawn in by dainty tasseled strings, and its hem dragged across the newly cut lawn. Her sapphire-blue spencer was left unbuttoned to reveal the gown’s delicate pin tucks and the pearl droplet brooch she liked so much. Her hair was pinned loosely so that the single large ringlet was once again falling down over her shoulder.

  The sun sparkled on the lily pond and she could see the fish darting between the flat leaves floating on the surface. The daffodils and tulips smelled good and it was almost possible to forget that she was in London. She settled herself comfortably, removed the book marker, and began to read.

  How many minutes had passed she didn’t know, but she was suddenly roused from the book by the recognized sound of Sanderson’s tread on the path. She glanced up and saw immediately that the butler looked very disconcerted. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Sir Piers Castleton has called, my lady.”

  She closed the book with a snap. “I am not at home.”

  “Oh, yes you are, Alabeth,” Piers himself said, strolling casually along the path, his silver-handled cane swinging between his gloved fingers. He was dressed quite perfectly, like this Corinthian he was, in a close-fitting corbeau-colored coat and nankeen breeches. The tassels of his Hessian boots swung from side to side as he walked, and the diamond pin in his white cambric cravat flashed in the sunlight as he paused before her, removing his hat and bowing. “Good morning, Alabeth.”

  “I have no wish to speak to you, sir.”

  “How unfortunate, for I have every intention of speaking with you.”

  “Leave immediately or I will have you thrown out.”

  His gray eyes swept lazily over her and then swung to Sanderson, who looked faint with horror at the thought of being asked to lay hands upon such a gentleman. Piers smiled and then looked at her again. “I think not, Alabeth, especially as I do not intend to take up a great deal of your precious time.”

  Her cheeks were hot as she felt forced to give way, nodding to Sanderson that he was dismissed. Clasping her hands in her lap, she looked coldly at Piers. “Well?”

  Still smiling, he rested one boot on the seat beside her, leaning forward to look down into her angry eyes. “How very lovely you look, as pretty as a picture in your blue gown, surrounded by spring flowers.”

  “Please come to the point, sir.”

  “Are you always as stormy as this, Alabeth?”

  “Lady Alabeth.”

  His eyebrow was raised. “So formal? I recall a time when I was Piers to you.”

  “Those times are long since gone, sir.”

  “So it seems. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. Am I to take it that your conduct yesterday in Hyde Park was a sample of how you mean to go on?”

  “It is, for I certainly do not think you merit anything more.”

  “Then shame on you, Alabeth Manvers, for your bad manners verged on the vulgar.”

  Quivering with anger, she rose from the seat. “Don’t presume to comment upon my conduct, sirrah,” she breathed furiously.

  “I will comment as I see fit, madam, for you appear to believe that you may behave as you wish. Well you may not, as I am here to inform you. It was inexcusable yesterday to have issued a dinner invitation to Charles Allister and to have excluded me so pointedly. As a lady of quality, of rank, and fashion, you should have known better, Alabeth. Correctly you should have waited, written the invitation to him and had it delivered, thus avoided the embarrassment of what actually happened. I did not think it would ever fall to me to have to point out the errors of your way, but it has—and here I am.”

  “How dare you! How dare you come here and insult me!”

  “On the contrary, madam, I came here because you insulted me. I have no intention at all of being subjected to such a dismal display of pettiness again.”

  She hardly trusted herself to speak. “Please leave,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “Not until I have a guarantee that from now on the summer will proceed with a little more decorum from you.”

  “I will not give you any such guarantee.”

  “Very well, then I must issue a warning to you.”

  “A warning?”

  “That I shall not meekly accept whatever affront you see fit to toss at me.”

  “I conduc
t myself in the only way possible, given what has happened in the past.”

  He searched her face for a moment. “You may give thanks that you are a woman, Alabeth, for I would not endure such churlishness from a man.”

  “It is hardly churlishness.”

  “Oh, but it is, and I think you know it.”

  She looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze. “Please leave,” she said again.

  “You still refuse to moderate your behavior toward me in public?”

  “I do,” she replied, feeling very hot and uncomfortable before his steady eyes.

  “Oh, how challenging you are, Alabeth,” he said softly, “and I was never a man to refuse a challenge. Consider the gauntlet picked up and be on your guard from now on, for I no longer promise to turn the other cheek to your insults.”

  “What you do is immaterial to me.”

  “Is that really so?” He smiled a little. “I think not; I think it matters very much to you what I do and where I am.”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  “No, Alabeth. I just know you very well indeed.”

  “You may have known me once, sir. That is certainly no longer the case.” She turned away sharply. “I have asked you to leave.”

  “So you have, but there is one thing more….”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you seen Zaleski yet?”

  Baffled by this sudden change of subject, she turned back to face him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Count Adam Zaleski, have you seen him yet?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I think you may be in for something of a shock, Alabeth.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t understand….”

  “You will, the moment you see him—at Octavia Seaham’s ball, I believe. I think you will wish you had remained in Charterleigh.”

  Her green eyes moved slowly over his face. “I wish that anyway, sir.”

  He smiled. “No doubt. Good day, Alabeth.”

  “Sir.”

  She watched him walk away, wondering what he had meant when he had talked of the Count. She was conscious that she was trembling still, and she sat down, automatically picking up her book, but the pages swam blindly before her and she closed it again, glancing back along the path where he had gone.

  The curiosity she had felt at his remarks about the Count faded into the background, and anger stirred again in her breast. Let him threaten what he would, she would not temper her conduct in the slightest, for he merited everything he received at her hands. Please let it not be that Jillian had formed an attachment for him, for that would be too dreadful to countenance. She lowered her eyes, angry with herself then, for not once during the time he had been with her had she thought of saying anything to him about Jillian. She should have done so; she should have informed him that she expected him to stay well away from her sister, over whom she had total charge.

  Suddenly she stood up again; she could no longer delay writing to Wallborough. As she entered the house, she called Sanderson.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “I wish to write a letter.”

  “I will bring the materials immediately, my lady.”

  She returned to the morning room, where it was still sunny, and a minute or so later the butler was setting out the paper, inkstand, and quills. Alone again, she sat at the table. How did one write discreetly that one suspected one’s father of not telling the entire truth and one’s sister of maybe conducting a clandestine affair with an unsuitable gentleman? Pensively she drew the quill through her fingers, gazing at the gleaming silver inkstand, and then at last she dipped the quill in the ink and began to write.

  Dear Mr. Bateman,

  Forgive me for writing such an unusual letter to you, and please understand that my only anxiety is to be careful in attending to my duties as my sister’s guardian. I know that I may safely communicate with you as you are an old and trusted friend. As you are no doubt aware, I have charge of my sister this summer, but I am troubled that there is something which I have not been told, something which most probably occurred while she was at Wallborough. I fear that a certain gentleman’s name may be involved, the same gentleman whose appearance at Charterleigh caused so much upset several years ago. I realize that I may be asking you to break my father’s confidence, but my position is rendered very difficult by not being in full possession of the facts. Please understand that my father will never hear of any reply you may give me. I will certainly destroy any communication, for I would not wish to jeopardize your situation in any way. Forgive me again for involving you in my predicament.

  I am, yours very sincerely,

  Alabeth Manvers

  She read the letter again, pondering the steward’s reaction when he received it. She could see him now, a comfortable, rather untidy man complete with a rather dilapidated gray-powdered wig and clay pipe, sitting back in his enormous high-backed chair in the kitchen at the home farm. He was indeed an old and trusted friend, and she knew in her heart that if he knew anything at all concerning Jillian, he would respond to this appeal.

  She folded the letter and then held the sealing wax to a candle flame. The thick wax dripped onto the paper and a moment later she was pressing her seal ring into the soft surface. There, it was done now—it would be taken by the letter carrier that very afternoon and would reach Derbyshire in a day or so. She hated going behind people’s backs in this way, but Jillian’s present attitude made any other course impossible, and after the business of Captain Francis, Alabeth knew she did not dare to take any chance where her hasty, romantically inclined sister was concerned.

  The grave misgivings she had felt that night at Charterleigh when she had at last given in to her father’s wishes returned to her now as she placed the letter in the silver dish in the vestibule. You should have refused, Alabeth Manvers, she told herself, you should have refused….

  Chapter 8

  Mrs. Bourne came up trumps for the dinner party, producing a meal which all the guests pronounced to be superb. For Alabeth, too, it was something of a triumph, as it was her first venture into entertaining since Robert’s death and it had been important to her that it went well. Jillian was perhaps a little restrained still, but she abstained from being too difficult and her manner was put down to shyness rather than willfulness.

  Sometime before midnight the majority of guests departed, leaving only Octavia, Charles Allister, and the rather elderly bachelor Lord Gainsford. They sat comfortably in the drawing room, enjoying a liqueur with walnuts and raisins, and the great windows stood open to let in the cool night air. The smell of the plane trees wafted in from the square, together with the sound of occasional laughter from the direction of Gunter’s, where a number of people had adjourned after the theater. The drawing room was a magnificent chamber, its walls hung with red silk and its ceiling a marvelous confection of gilt plaster-work, scrolls and leaves, lozenges, and spirals. On the floor was a Kidderminster carpet, woven especially to echo the ceiling design, and the whole thing was set off to perfection by the furniture upholstered in dark-ruby velvet. Dominating everything was a white marble and ormolu fireplace, a prime example of Adam’s genius, and in the corners of the room stood particularly handsome candle stands, their metalwork gleaming in the soft light.

  Octavia sat comfortably on a shield-back chair, glancing appreciatively around. “This is a beautiful room, Alabeth, I find it quite perfect.”

  “My father would be delighted to hear you say so.”

  “No doubt, which is why I would never tell him.” Octavia chuckled.

  “You are quite incorrigible,” she replied, smiling.

  Lord Gainsford nodded, his white wig leaving a dusting of powder on his otherwise impeccable black velvet shoulder. “Always were a regular wretch, Octavia, takin’ great delight in makin’ a fellow’s life a misery.”

  The Duchess beamed, smoothing her russet taffeta skirts. “You had your chance Gainsford, but you missed it and let me marry Seaham
instead.”

  “M’dear, I couldn’t afford you; you’d have made a beggar of me inside a month.”

  Octavia’s eyes were speculative. “I wonder what sort of go we’d have made of it? I admit to always liking that wicked look in your eyes; it promised all manner of entertaining things.”

  He flushed a little and cleared his throat. “Not in front of the little gel, Octavia, it ain’t done!” He glanced at Jillian.

  Octavia smiled again. “Come, now, I’ve said nothing to make Jillian blush, have I, my dear?”

  Jillian shook her head. “No, of course not.”

  “You’re looking quite delightful tonight—isn’t she, Gainsford?”

  “Yes, quite devastating. You remind me of my dear sister, for she was an exquisite little thing too.”

  Octavia pursed her lips wickedly. “Your sister always said you were a tyrant, never letting her live her own life and vetting every single beau who had the temerity to come calling.”

  “It’s a fellow’s duty to see his sister comes to no grief, and I did well enough for her, got her a Marquis.”

  Octavia looked even more wicked. “She said you were a tyrant, and when I realized that your name was on Alabeth’s list tonight, I simply couldn’t resist placing a great deal of money on a certain nag in the Derby.”

  “What nag?”

  “Why, Tyrant, of course!” Octavia was almost hugging herself with glee.

  Charles tore his eyes away from Jillian to look at Octavia. “The horse has never won anything in its life; I’ve even heard tell it has a wooden leg.”

  Octavia was unruffled. “The creature will not dare to lose for me, especially as I am celebrating the King’s birthday the next day.”