Rakehell's Widow Read online

  Lord Gainsford was smiling. “Well, I wish you well, Octavia, although I can’t say I approve of ladies involving themselves in gambling.”

  “Don’t be so pompous,” she retorted. “Besides this isn’t gambling, it’s backing a certainty.”

  “I suppose you are in with a knowing one?”

  “With the Duke of Grafton himself, to say nothing of the jockey, Frank Buckle. They inform me that Tyrant cannot fail, and I believe them. I shall be there myself to cheer the brute home.”

  Jillian was shocked. “You are going to the Derby, Your Grace?”

  “Why, yes, I wouldn’t miss it, Epson has the most iniquitous EO and faro tables!”

  “But don’t they also have fairs and crowds of the most disreputable sort?” asked Jillian, obviously shocked that a lady of such high rank should be attending so vulgar and popular a race meeting.

  Octavia chuckled again. “Of course they do, my dear. There are similar crowds at Ascot, only there they masquerade as high society. You’ll see for yourself when you join my house party for Ascot week.”

  “Are we joining you?” Jillian glanced uncertainly at Alabeth, who nodded.

  “Why, yes, Octavia has kindly asked us to be her guests at Stoneleigh Park, which is barely a mile from Ascot racecourse.”

  Lord Gainsford beckoned a footman to refill his glass. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to,” he grumbled. “This damned Peace of Amiens has sent the whole world mad, completely mad. There’s more money being squandered on leisure and pleasure this summer than ever before, and all because people are foolish enough to believe Bonaparte to be sincere.”

  Jillian was fearful that the conversation would turn upon the boring topic of the First Consul’s political machinations, and she hastily intervened. “Well, at least the peace means that Count Adam Zaleski will be coming to Town.”

  Lord Gainsford nodded, “Aye, a pretty fellow from all accounts, guaranteed to have all the ladies swooning at the sight of him.”

  “What is he like?” asked Alabeth. “Has anyone here seen him yet? Octavia?”

  “No,” replied the Duchess. “Like Gainsford, I only know what is said of him. He’s reputed to be quite the most divine of creatures, all golden and angelic, and yet full of Polish fire. Why do you ask? Have you heard something interesting?”

  Alabeth lowered her eyes. “No.”

  “You’ve aroused my curiosity—”

  “It’s nothing, truly it isn’t.”

  Jillian warmed to the subject of the Count. “I simply can’t wait to see him.”

  Charles was scornful. “I’m given to understand that he’s nothing more than a salon musician, a little gaudy, and reliant upon his looks to carry him through.”

  Jillian’s eyes flashed with annoyance and Octavia reproved him a little. “Nonsense, Charles, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I have it on most reliable evidence that he is indeed a virtuoso of the first order and can bring forth more life from the pianoforte than anyone else in the world.”

  Charles was determined to be unimpressed, and Alabeth knew that it was because he was jealous of Jillian’s interest in the Count, for he went on, “I trust you are right, Octavia, for I am already heartily sick and tired of hearing the fellow’s name. Zaleski, Zaleski, Zaleski, that’s all one hears from morning till night, in every drawing room, club, or pleasure garden.”

  Jillian was superior. “And you will continue to hear of him, sir, because he is a genius, a veritable magician of music, and I pray with all my heart that I will be fortunate enough to be one of his pupils.” She looked at Octavia. “He is still going to give tuition, isn’t he, Your Grace?”

  “I believe so.”

  Lord Gainsford eyed Jillian for a moment. “I presume, then, that you are a talented player yourself, Lady Jillian.”

  “I play a little,” she said, flushing prettily and with a genuine modesty, which probably made Charles Allister even more wretchedly her slave than he already was.

  “Then I don’t know whether I should advise you to seek tuition from the Count,” said the old lord, smiling at her, “for he is said to be most unorthodox, thinking nothing of playing a black key with his thumb, or of crossing a longer finger over a shorter one.”

  Jillian was nonplussed that anyone of such stature could disregard the basic rules. “Surely you are wrong, sir.”

  “I believe that that is how he achieves such fluency, but what he can master so effortlessly would surely be impossible for lesser mortals. I gather that his own compositions are so diabolically difficult that another fellow attempting to emulate him was well advised to have an eminent surgeon at hand to attend the finger damage which resulted.”

  Octavia and Alabeth laughed, Jillian looked primly disapproving of such criticism of her idol, and Charles looked baleful, obviously despising the handsome Count well in advance.

  Lord Gainsford chuckled a little and then smiled kindly at Jillian, “I am teasing you, m’dear, so don’t take me seriously. I have always liked to hear a pretty gal playing the pianoforte, so will you indulge me a little and play for us now?”

  “Oh, I don’t know….”

  Charles was brighter suddenly. “Please do, Lady Jillian.”

  “If you would really like to hear me….”

  The two gentlemen stood immediately, Lord Gainsford managing somehow to offer her his arm first. “Of course we would, m’dear, it would be the perfect end of an excellent evening.”

  Alabeth and Octavia commandeered Charles between them, the Duchess chiding him just a little as they ascended to the music room some way behind Jillian and Lord Gainsford. “Do smile a little, Charles, for you look so gloomy that I fear poor Alabeth will think she has lost her touch as a hostess.”

  He was aghast. “Oh, please, Alabeth, never think that.”

  “I shall if you continue to frown.”

  “You both know why I’m frowning.”

  “We do indeed,” Octavia replied firmly, “and I, for one, think you’re going about it all the wrong way.”

  “I’m not a beau. I haven’t got the wiles of a skilled lover,” he grumbled.

  “No, you’re just moping around with spaniel eyes, and it ain’t the way with a minx like young Jillian,” said Octavia. “Ignore her a little, it will do her good.”

  They entered the music room, where an alert Sanderson had already placed some candles, and Jillian took her place at the pianoforte and began to play. The beautiful notes of a Mozart minuet stole out into the silent room, her delicate little fingers moving softly and expertly over the keys. The performance was faultless, the work of someone who was already very accomplished.

  She smiled with justifiable pleasure when they all applauded her afterward, although her smile froze a little when Charles made so bold as to take her hand and raise it to her lips. She was not interested in him and she showed it in the way she coolly removed her hand, her eyes flickering on to smile at Lord Gainsford, who was most effusive with his praise. Octavia frowned a little at Jillian’s conduct, especially when she saw how low the snub had brought poor Charles.

  He went to where Alabeth was standing by the window. “Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry—” she began.

  But he was suddenly and surprisingly firm. “She is the one for me, Alabeth, and I’m set upon winning her.”

  “Nothing would please me more than to welcome you as my brother-in-law, Charles, but I cannot say that I have seen anything encouraging in her manner toward you.”

  He smiled a little ruefully. “Nor I, but I must try, for I have never before felt this way.”

  Alabeth glanced at Jillian as she rose from the stool and once again took Lord Gainsford’s arm. “I wish you well, Charles,” she said softly, “but I swear she does not deserve you.”

  “She is the most perfect of creatures,” he breathed, unable to take his eyes off Jillian as she left the room on Lord Gainsford’s arm. “I adore her with all my heart and know that there is no other bride for me.
”

  Alabeth said nothing more, but she felt very sad, for she was sure that Charles was destined for nothing but heartbreak, for Jillian was completely indifferent to him.

  Chapter 9

  On the third of June, the Duke of Grafton’s horse Tyrant won the Derby with great ease, and Octavia returned in triumph from Epsom, not only having picked the winner but also having scored a notable success at an EO table. After such an excellent day, she had no doubt at all that her ball would be similarly memorable, as indeed it was.

  The day dawned sweet and clear, and as it was the King’s birthday, the carriages thronging London’s streets were decorated with sprays of flowers, the coachmen and footmen adorning their hats with similar sprays. There was only one cloud on Octavia’s horizon, and that was the fact that she was summoned to Court during the afternoon, and this necessitated an unfashionable step back in time of nearly fifty years, the King and Queen always insisting that hooped skirts, high headdresses, painted faces, and a great many diamonds were the only suitable fashion for such an occasion. Octavia had squeezed herself into the obligatory sedan chair, her skirts folded around her and her head bowed to protect the ridiculously high confection of wig and feathers, and she had been borne to St. James’s, feeling excessively conspicuous, for she attracted too much unwelcome attention from the vulgar—usually an unbridled mirth which made her fume at the monarch’s refusal to move with the times. However, the ordeal behind her, she returned to Seaham House and the preparations for the ball began in earnest.

  At the Wallborough house in Berkeley Square things were a great deal quieter, neither Alabeth nor Jillian having any other engagements before the ball. Alabeth had kept a wary eye on Jillian, but nothing untoward had occurred and there had, mercifully, been no other encounters with Piers Castleton. Jillian had conducted herself with reasonable decorum, although her manner toward poor Charles Allister was still cool and offhand. Only one thing caused Alabeth some alarm, and that was the receipt of a brief note from the steward at Wallborough, informing her that he would come up to London at the first opportunity as he had something to communicate to her which he would prefer not to set down on paper. This served to confirm to Alabeth that she had been right to be suspicious, and it made her very guarded where Jillian’s movements were concerned, that young lady frequently complaining that she doubted if anyone else in Town was being subjected to such rigorous rules and regulations. Alabeth knew she was being a little too strict and tried very hard to relax, but it was really very difficult when she found herself thinking time and time again of the Captain Francis affair and how Jillian had deliberately thwarted the basic rules of behavior in order to be with him. Jillian seemed to be behaving herself, however, obviously determined not to provoke Alabeth into refusing to go to the ball and thus preclude any chance of seeing the great Zaleski play.

  The Count’s arrival in Town had been greeted with a great flurry of excitement among the ladies, reports reaching Alabeth of his incredible good looks and charming manners. He was declared to be quite irresistible and was the object of much adoration, it being the ambition of a large number of ladies to secure him as a lover. Alabeth listened to all this a little skeptically, finding it hard to believe that any one man could be quite so devastating, but she did wonder about him, remembering Piers Castleton’s enigmatic warning.

  The hour was approaching when they were due to leave for Seaham House, and Alabeth was waiting in the drawing room for Jillian. She stood by the window, gazing out over the twilit square where the leaves on the plane trees were almost motionless in the calm of the summer evening. She wore a silver muslin gown picked out with tiny flowers embroidered in black, and a large, soft ostrich plume curled down from her jeweled hair. Black beads shimmered on her elegant shawl and there were rubies at her throat and in her ears. Her only other adornment was her wedding ring, worn outside her elbow-length white gloves. She was conscious of a feeling of nervous anticipation, for although she had attended many functions, this was the first one where practically all the ton would be present. It was also Jillian’s first London ball, the first occasion at which she would be properly on display, to be commented upon, gauged, assessed….

  She turned as she heard Jillian’s light steps approaching, and then she was there, a vision in peach, her silver slippers peeping out beneath her hem and a beautiful pearl-studded comb drawing her soft, curly hair behind one ear. Her excitement was infectious, for her lips were parted just a little and her blue eyes were lustrous, and shining as she twirled, all antagonism forgotten for a moment as she displayed her gown for her sister to admire. “How do I look?”

  “Exquisite.”

  “Truly?”

  Alabeth smiled. “Truly. You will set them all at sixes and sevens.”

  Jillian almost hugged herself with delight, but then she seemed to remember that she was at odds with Alabeth, and her smile faded. Her voice became more sedate and her glance was more cool. “Shall we go, then?”

  Alabeth could not help but be conscious of the chill which pushed the warmth aside, but she affected not to notice. “Yes, of course, I believe I hear the landau outside.”

  The hoods of the carriage were down on such a warm, still evening, and they sat side by side, Jillian becoming more and more nervous and excited as they neared Seaham House. There were carriages converging on that one address from all directions, and the evening was noisy with the sound of hooves and wheels. Seaham House itself was ablaze with lights, every window brilliant and not a single curtain drawn. Countless colored lanterns decorated the elegant facade and the steps beneath the portico were strewn with moss and flowers, placed with care to look as if they grew there. Garlands of greenery were draped around the Corinthian columns, and servants carrying flambeaux hurried out to greet each carriage as it arrived.

  The landau joined the long queue, for it was taking some time for each vehicle to be escorted to the foot of the steps, the guests to alight, and the carriage to move on to make room for the next one. Jillian did not notice at all, and it was some time before Alabeth noticed, but fate had placed them directly behind Piers Castleton’s barouche. She watched the servants, flambeaux smoking and fluttering as they escorted the barouche the final yards to the house. The carriage door was flung open and Piers alighted.

  He was very correct in black velvet, pausing for a moment to adjust the white frill protruding from his cuff before turning to accept his gloves from a footman. His white shirt and stiff cravat looked very startling in the half-light, and his disheveled hair gave just the right hint of nonchalance to an otherwise formal appearance. Alabeth watched him, silently acknowledging that whatever her opinion of him, she could not deny that he was incredibly handsome—but then, that was one thing she had never denied.

  He passed on into the house, from which the strains of music emerged into the open air, and then the flambeaux were bobbing beside the Wallborough landau and Jillian was almost on the edge of her seat as she stared at the magnificent decorations covering the front of Seaham House.

  Inside, the decorations were no less magnificent, for Octavia had certainly made free with the Duke’s purse. In the flower-strewn vestibule each lady was presented with a tiny wrist bouquet of exotic flowers, obviously picked from the hothouses at Stoneleigh Park, and there were fountains playing endlessly into artificial pools where the flashing forms of gold and silver fish could be seen. Octavia had surpassed herself, more than earning her reputation as London’s premier hostess, for one doubted that Devonshire House or Melbourne House could have come up to this lavish display.

  The Duke and Duchess waited at the foot of the great marble steps leading down into the immense, glittering ballroom, the Duke looking somewhat gloomy, for he was pining for the ample charms of Lady Adelina Carver, who was causing him some anxiety because of her expressed preference for Harry Ponsonby. The thought that perhaps at this very moment she was languishing in Ponsonby’s arms was making the Duke very tetchy indeed. He loathed having to do
his duty at the best of times, but tonight was finding it more irksome than ever.

  Beside him, Octavia was resplendent in a vivid jade-green satin which was picked out with hundreds of tiny sequins. Knowing full well her spouse’s despondent thoughts, she felt no sympathy whatsoever, feeling that he merited none because of his frequent and open excursions outside the marriage bed.

  The master of ceremonies, very imposing in the Seaham livery of maroon and gold, stepped forward as Alabeth and Jillian approached, and his cane rapped loudly on the marble floor as he called out their names. A great many faces were turned immediately in their direction, quizzing glasses were raised, and there were whispers behind fans, for the Earl of Wallborough’s beautiful daughters were the object of considerable interest. Many remembered only too well the scandal which had centered upon Alabeth six years before, and now they wondered if Jillian was a similar chip off the Wallborough block. But for every slightly unkind soul, there was another who welcomed them with genuine pleasure, for whatever Alabeth may have done in the past, she had still been a very popular young lady, whose true friends would have forgiven her almost anything, especially a romantic, if undesirable, match with a charming rake like Lord Manvers.

  Alabeth began to descend the steps, Jillian following slightly behind, and Octavia came to meet them, smiling with delight. “My dears, you both look delectable, quite delectable. Is that not so, sir?” She nudged her morose husband.

  “Eh? Oh, yes—yes, the evening goes very well.”

  His wife frowned. “Do pay attention sir, for already you have asked the Marquis of Fullsdon how his wife is, and the world knows she has left him.”

  Alabeth smothered a smile, for Octavia’s words conjured up quite an entertaining picture. The Duke scowled, muttering that Fullsdon was such a miserly wretch he was surprised his very hounds hadn’t left him too. Octavia looked cross, but then forgot him as she linked arms with Alabeth and drew her aside. “I do not think a single soul has not accepted for tonight,” she said with ill-concealed delight. “I could not be more pleased, truly I couldn’t.”