Almost - Almost A Bride Part 16

The library door stood open and as she pa.s.sed she saw Jack sitting behind the desk, a strongbox opened beside him, a quill in hand, a sheet of vellum in front of him. Now might be a good moment to plant a few seeds, she thought, her mind making the easy move from orchids.

"Jack?" She hovered in the doorway.

He rose swiftly. "Come in."

She entered the room, closing the door behind her, and approached the desk. He remained standing behind it, regarding her speculatively.

She perched on the corner of the desk and her eye fell on the opened strongbox. For a moment all thought went out of her head as she recognized the handwriting on an envelope that lay uppermost on the papers in the box. It was her letter to Cornwall. She had been more than puzzled by her relatives' lack of response, but now she understood. Jack had never sent her letter.

It was such an astounding deception that for a moment she was tongue-tied. Jack said into the sudden silence, "You had something you wanted to talk about . . . ?"

"Oh, yes." She picked up the ivory-handled knife he used to sharpen his pens and idly turned it in her hands, examining it with all the close attention she would devote to a speck of mold on an orchid. "I was wondering if you would mind if I invited Meg to pay a visit."

Jack frowned slightly. "Now?"

"Not now precisely," she said, still not raising her eyes from the knife. "But quite soon."

"Tired of my company already?" he inquired with a quizzical smile.

"No, of course not." She refused to respond to the teasing note. "But I miss Meg. Forgive me for saying so, but a husband doesn't fulfill the role of a close female friend."

"For which I can only be grateful," he said wryly. He wasn't sure what he thought of having Meg Barratt under his roof. "I would prefer you to wait until the spring . . . when you'll have established yourself in London. You'll be more use to Meg then anyway."

He leaned forward to cup her chin, offering a conciliatory smile to soften this semirefusal. "I'm not ready to share you yet, my sweet."

Arabella forced a responding smile even as her blood ran hot with anger. Why had he not sent the letter? He had prevented her from making her own choice about this marriage. Why?

"In a couple of months, then," she said, turning her head aside so that his hand fell from her chin. "I'll write to Meg and suggest it." She slipped off the desk. "I'm going to the conservatory. I'm very excited about some new arrivals. Jewel orchids and Queen of the Night." She was aware, however, that the excitement was conspicuously absent from her tone as she hurried to the door.

Chapter 13.

When Monsieur Christophe arrived punctually at four o'clock, Arabella still had not decided how to deal with her knowledge of her husband's deception.

"If your grace would tilt ze 'ead a little," the coiffeur murmured, as he twisted ringlets around the wand of a curling iron.

Arabella, sitting in a loose peignoir, obliged, watching in the mirror as her hair was clipped and teased, curled and pomaded. "Did you come from Paris, Monsieur Christophe?" she inquired.

"Ah, mais oui, milady. Ah, pauvre Paris." He sighed heavily.

"Yes, indeed," Arabella agreed with sympathy. "There are many emigres in London, I believe."

"Many of us, yes, milady," the man agreed with another sigh. "We try to make a living . . . to 'elp each other where we can, but it is not always easy. We must depend so much on ze generosity of your countrymen and women, your grace."

Arabella regarded him gravely in the mirror. "If there is anything I can do, monsieur, you need only ask. I don't know many people as yet, but soon perhaps I shall be in a position to make recommendations. In the meantime, I would be happy to patronize your fellow artistes."

The coiffeur gave her a grateful smile. "Your grace is too kind. But I will remember your offer."

The door opened behind them and the duke came in, dressed for the evening in a coat of sapphire blue velvet, a waistcoat edged in silver lace, knee britches, and a froth of lace at his throat and wrists. A ribbon of the same velvet confined his hair at his nape, a sapphire winked in the foaming ruffles at his throat, and diamonds glittered on his fingers. The silver blade of his rapier was sheathed at his side and he carried a jewel box.

He was magnificent. Deceitful, arbitrary, manipulative, pa.s.sionate, and ultimately magnificent. Arabella gazed at his reflection in the mirror as he came up behind her, a smile on his full, sensual mouth. The white streak running back from his brow was in startling contrast to the glossy black of the rest of his hair, and the eyes a.s.sessing her were the pewter color of water at sunset.

"Good evening, your grace." The hairdresser bowed in his direction.

Jack nodded at him and placed the jewel box on a piecrust table. "Would you arrange this in her grace's coiffure?" He opened the box and took out a diamond horseshoe tiara.

"Oh, yes, your grace. Lovely." Christophe took the jewel reverently. "Her grace's hair cries out for diamonds, it will be the perfect framework."

"The St. Jules's diamonds," Jack said to Arabella as he withdrew a necklace from the box.

He moved behind her and fastened the string of perfectly matched gems around her neck. They lay heavy and cold on her breast.

"I'm not dressed yet," she pointed out, unsure how to respond to this splendor.

"I wanted to see if they became you," Jack said. "They do." He took from the box a pair of diamond drops and handed them to her. "Put those on."

She obeyed, tying the thin threads around her ears so that the sparkling drops lay against the slender column of her neck. Monsieur Christophe fussed for a few more minutes with the tiara, then declared, "C'est fini. Magnifique, n'est-ce pas, milord?"

Jack nodded. "Yes," he said simply. "Even more than I had guessed."

"Ooo, Lady Arabella," whispered Becky, who had been standing a silent and attentive observer of the hairdressing. "Ooo, aren't they lovely?"

Arabella gazed at her reflection. Even wearing only a simple peignoir, she was transformed by the jewels. "I feel like something out of The Arabian Nights," she said. "But I don't think they suit me, Jack. They're too . . . too . . . oh, splendid, for want of a better word. I'm much too down-to-earth and my tastes are too simple for diamonds. Particularly such perfect ones."

"You are quite wrong, my dear," he stated in a tone that brooked no argument. "They become you very well. And when you have the gown on, you will see how right I am."

"Yes, indeed, your grace," Christophe agreed, packing up the tools of his trade. "Never 'ave I seen diamonds suit a lady better."

"You flatter me," Arabella said somewhat ruefully as she got up from her chair. The hairdresser bowed, protesting. She shook her head with a smile. "I thank you for your trouble, monsieur. And don't forget that other matter."

"No, indeed, madame. My thanks." He bowed himself from the room.

"What other matter?" Jack asked.

"A simple matter between a lady and her hairdresser," Arabella declared. "You know so much about women, sir, you must surely be aware of the special relations.h.i.+p that exists between a lady and her coiffeur."

"I'd have laid odds not you," he said, but then shrugged, dismissing the subject. He went to the door to her bedchamber and held it open for her. "Come and put on the gown. I'm anxious to see the full effect."He followed her, Becky on his heels, into her chamber and stood with his back to the fire, taking a pinch of snuff, watching with a critical eye as Becky with agonizing care inched first the undergown and then the gown itself over Arabella's jeweled and artistically arranged coiffure.

The decolletage was certainly dramatic, and the sparkle of diamonds on her breast made it even more so. Doubtfully Arabella cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath the thin silk and organza. They were barely covered. It would take no more than an injudicious shrug to reveal her nipples.

"You'll become accustomed," Jack said, accurately guessing her thoughts. "I predict a most startling success, madam." He offered his arm. "Let us go down to dinner."

They arrived at Covent Garden just before ten o'clock. It was a cold night and Arabella s.h.i.+vered. The gauzy stole draped over her upper arms was no protection against the wind, and neither were the long white silk gloves, or the thin silk stockings and light satin slippers. She glanced enviously at her companion in his warm velvet. His face was the only part of his anatomy exposed to the elements.

"You'll be too hot inside, I promise," he said, slipping her hand into his arm as they walked up the steps to the opera house.

The streets around the piazza were thronged and noisy with wh.o.r.es and street vendors touting for custom, parties of dissolute young men swaying drunkenly from tavern to tavern, from bordello to bathhouse. Elegantly clad operagoers were nowhere to be seen, except for the two just entering the building, and Arabella guessed that Jack had timed their arrival perfectly. Their entrance would draw eyes.

She was conscious of a stir of excitement. This was so different from her last foray into the world of high society.

They crossed the pillared foyer, the heels on her satin slippers clicking over the marble, and a flunky led them down a narrow, door-lined pa.s.sage. He stopped and opened one of the doors and stood aside. Arabella stepped into the box, blinking in the sudden blaze of light. Chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, throwing brilliant illumination over both stage and auditorium. A buzz of voices rose from the boxes and the packed rows below as people carried on their conversations without deference to the singers on the stage, or the musicians in the orchestra pit.

Arabella took the chair at the front of the box and without haste opened her fan. Jack sat beside her, resting his forearms on the velvet-padded balcony rail as he looked around the opera house. A few hands were raised in greeting and he nodded in response, then turned to look at the action on the stage.

Arabella could hear the buzz increase in volume as opera gla.s.ses were lifted and directed onto the St. Jules box. She kept her own gaze steadily on the stage and idly fanned herself, concealing most of her countenance from the curious stares openly directed at her. Until now she would never have believed there was amus.e.m.e.nt to be gained out of being the object of everyone's attention and curiosity.

Jack cast an occasional seemingly casual glance around the audience. To his satisfaction, everyone of importance seemed to be present. The Prince of Wales had returned from his foray to Brunswick, and both he and his brother, the duke of York, were in the royal box, laughing loudly with a few cronies. They waved gaily at him when they caught his eye. The earl and countess of Worth were also in their box. Charles Fox and George Cavenaugh were in the audience below with a group of fellow Whigs, and Jack wondered how long Fox would be able to stay away from the gaming tables.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Devons.h.i.+re, in a rather astonis.h.i.+ng hat sporting five very fine ostrich plumes, was with a circle of friends in equally flamboyant headgear. Her husband was not in evidence but that didn't surprise Jack. The duke was rarely seen in public with his wife, who ran the Devons.h.i.+re House circle according to her own rules. They even had their own language, an absurdity that Jack found laughable, but he was obliged to acknowledge that Georgiana herself, despite her foolish affectations, was a formidable and intelligent woman, greatly admired by Fox and the rest of the Whig cognoscenti. Of course, she was an inveterate gambler, which a cynic might consider accounted to a greater or lesser extent for her deep and abiding friends.h.i.+p with Fox.

There was a final chord from the orchestra signaling the interval, and the curtain came down. The houselights were already fully blazing and the men in the audience instantly rose from their seats to pay calls on the ladies in the boxes.

Jack glanced at Arabella. She seemed perfectly calm and at ease, gently fanning herself as she looked around with every appearance of casual interest. The door to the box opened and the first of their visitors arrived.

George, Prince of Wales, and Frederick, Duke of York, crowded into the small s.p.a.ce. Jack was on his feet instantly, bowing, and Arabella, recognizing her august visitors, rose too, sweeping into a deep curtsy, not an easy maneuver in the cramped box, but the simplicity of her dress was an advantage.

"Jack, welcome back. London has been a dreary place without you," George declared, raising a quizzing gla.s.s to examine Arabella, who straightened slowly from her obeisance and met the almost rude stare with a smile. "This is your bride, I take it," he observed.

"Yes, sir. Allow me to present her grace, the d.u.c.h.ess of St. Jules." Jack took Arabella's hand and drew her forward.

"Delighted, ma'am." Both princes bowed, their eyes drinking in every aspect of their friend's wife. Only a year separated the brothers and their physical resemblance was uncanny, both of them florid of complexion beneath rather wild powdered curls, both of them on the stout side.

"My compliments, ma'am," Frederick said. "My congratulations, Jack, you lucky dog."

"Thank you, sir," Jack returned with another smaller bow. His eyes were gleaming.

"The new style becomes you, ma'am," George announced, finally dropping his quizzing gla.s.s. His pale blue eyes were slightly bloodshot. "Demmed if I've seen a lady look so well in it."

"You are too kind, sir," Arabella murmured, plying her fan.

"No, no, my brother has the right of it," Frederick stated. "Haven't seen you in Town before, ma'am." A question mark lurked in the statement.

Actually, you have, Arabella reflected with inner amus.e.m.e.nt. But the Arabella Lacey of ten years ago would not have drawn your attention.

"Where've you been hiding yourself?" George demanded. "Where d'you find her, Jack?"

Arabella decided that the royal brothers' manners were boorish, to say the least. But she kept a somewhat inane smile upon lips that were firmly closed.

Jack knew that the princes had both been out of Town in the last two weeks, so presumably they had not yet heard the gossip about Jack Fortescu's bride. "My wife was Frederick Lacey's half sister," he explained. "I have known her for some time." It was a smooth lie that couldn't be proved.

"Dunston's?" George queried, once again taking up his quizzing gla.s.s as if this new piece of information might have altered Arabella's appearance in some way. "Well, I'll be demmed."

Both princes stared at her. They had not been at Brooke's on the night of Dunston's suicide, but they, like everyone else in their circles, knew the story.

Arabella returned the pale blue stares steadily over the top of her fan, that faint smile unwavering on her lips.

"Well, well," the Prince of Wales said finally. "You'll be a jewel in the crown of Society, ma'am, I declare it."

Now, that is better, Arabella thought as she responded to the compliment with another small curtsy and a murmur of appreciation.

They took their leave amid promises to call upon the new d.u.c.h.ess, and after that Arabella lost count of the number of introductions, the endless string of names attached to faces s.h.i.+ning with heat in the crowded box beneath the blazing chandeliers. She managed to identify Jack's special friends from among the powdered and bewigged heads and took special note of George Cavenaugh and Charles Fox. She decided that George seemed a sensible man and she knew that Fox, for all his eccentric style, was one of the finest minds in England. Finally the orchestra struck up the opening chords of the second act and the men slowly departed to their seats, but the scrutiny didn't end there. Opera gla.s.ses were still trained on the box and heads bobbed in conversation as the men pa.s.sed on to their female companions their impressions of the new d.u.c.h.ess.

Arabella felt like a prize heifer at the county fair and resolutely turned her attention to the stage.

Beside her, Jack raised his own opera gla.s.ses. The earl of Worth had been among their visitors and he had now returned to his wife's side. Lilly was leaning close to him, listening, a small frown marring her porcelain countenance. She glanced once towards the Fortescu box, then turned her head away as she saw Jack watching her through his opera gla.s.ses.

Arabella turned suddenly on her chair and said in a low voice, "So, is your mistress here tonight, Jack?"

The uncannily apposite question so startled him that he nearly dropped the gla.s.ses. "What did you say?"

The tawny eyes held a challenge that he knew he had to meet.

"Come on, Jack," she pressed. "Tell me which one is your mistress. You could at least be honest with me . . . in this anyway," she added, thinking again of the unsent letter to Cornwall.

Jack frowned, wondering exactly what she meant by the afterword. He said curtly, "You will see the countess of Worth in the fourth box in the second tier on the right."

Arabella took the opera gla.s.ses from his hand and trained them on the boxes, sweeping around the tiers, lingering only briefly on the box he'd described. But it was long enough for her to see that Lady Worth was as beautiful as she was elegant. Older than herself, but not by much, she thought.

"She's lovely," she said, handing back the gla.s.ses. She remembered being introduced to a Lord Worth among her curious visitors. "Her husband seemed a pleasant-enough man."

"He is."

She raised an eyebrow. "And conveniently complaisant, I gather."

Jack said nothing, but a telltale muscle twitched against his cheekbone.

With a tiny shrug Arabella returned her attention to the stage. But her eyes kept slipping towards the Worth box and the lovely woman who sat there. What had she expected? Some ugly fright of a woman? Of course Jack's mistress would be perfection, in appearance at least. Just as he was himself.

She said nothing more throughout what now seemed an interminable second act, despite the lighthearted charm of the music and the efforts of the singers to hold their audience's attention. When the curtain finally came down, she rose with alacrity.

Jack rearranged the stole over her shoulders. She could feel his annoyance in his hands, see it in the set of his mouth and the little rapier flicker in his eyes.

"I'll escort you to the carriage," he said, opening the door of the box. "I am going on to an engagement at Brooke's."

She said nothing, merely allowed him to take her arm in a courteous gesture of apparent solicitude as they left the box and joined the stream of people heading for the foyer. Here their progress was interrupted.

"Jack, I insist you present me to your wife." A lady of middle years in a vast picture hat adorned with ostrich feathers loomed in front of them. She regarded Arabella with friendly curiosity.

Jack bowed over her hand, before saying, "Her grace, the d.u.c.h.ess of Devons.h.i.+re, my dear. Ma'am, my wife, Lady Arabella."

The two women exchanged the bobbing nods appropriate to ladies of the same rank and the d.u.c.h.ess of Devons.h.i.+re smiled and said as she wafted away, "A new face is always welcome in our little society, my dear. I shall send you an invitation for my next card party."