Diamonds and Deceit (At Somerton) Page 5

  The duke looked at her blankly, then, with a hint of embarrassment, said: “I must admit that my last London season is a…little hazy in my memory.”

  “Oh, I remember it very well.” Charlotte smiled behind her fan, her eyes sparkling.

  “Indeed?”

  Rose was amused to hear the duke sounding quite nervous. He looked over Charlotte’s shoulder, directly at Rose. Before she could do anything but blush and wish she were elsewhere, he said, “Lady Rose, are you engaged for this dance?”

  There was an outraged rustle as all the women swung to face Rose. Rose found herself speared on at least three fierce gazes.

  “Oh, Lady Rose doesn’t dance,” Lady Gertrude said with a high-pitched giggle.

  “No?” The duke did not look away from Rose’s face.

  “No indeed. She has rather more practical accomplishments.” Lady Cynthia fluttered her fan.

  For the first time Rose had seen him, the duke looked intrigued. “I see. Are you political, Lady Rose? Is this a protest against the patriarchy of ballroom conventions? I’ll agree it’s unfair that the ladies have to wait to be picked.”

  The countess placed a hand on his arm. “Alexander,” she said softly, “it would be kinder not to tease her. You can see how embarrassed she is by your attention—”

  Rose found herself furious. She did not want to dance with the duke. It would only draw eyes to her. But she most certainly would not be told by the countess who she was allowed to dance with. Besides, hadn’t Ada said it? She was as good as anyone there. She could dance with anyone who asked her. She clutched Ada’s words to her like a lucky charm.

  “Lady Gertrude is sadly misinformed,” she said shortly. “I should be delighted to dance with you.” She could feel the furious gazes of every woman upon her, cold and hard as diamonds. You expect me to try to snare him, she thought. Well, I’ll show you that even though I’m a housemaid, I have pride. No one will be able to call me a fortune hunter. I shall dance with him, but I shan’t speak to him, let alone flirt. But I shall have one dance, at least, this season.

  She caught up her train and took the hand the duke extended. He raised one dark eyebrow, an ironic humor in his eyes, and swept Rose onto the dance floor.

  Ada allowed Laurence to steer her across the dance floor. He was an assertive partner, and if only she could conquer the slight irritation she always felt at being led, it would have been delightful to dance with him.

  “Happy, darling?” He broke the silence, looking keenly into her face.

  Ada was slightly taken aback. It was not often that he enquired about her feelings, and she hesitated. Was she happy? Not without Ravi—not with an ocean separating them—but she had known right from the beginning that all that was impossible. She remembered the first night they had met, their first kiss. It had been on the boat back from India, the stars had been sharp and clear overhead as he drew her close. She had been so full of grand ideas, so naïve and innocent. Ravi had destroyed her illusions about India, but he had replaced them with something better—truth. He was the only man she had ever known who had treated her not as a lady, nor as a woman, but as an equal. In the few months they spent together, he had rewritten her heart. Even though she had neither seen nor heard from him for months, if she closed her eyes she could still imagine herself in his arms, not Laurence’s.

  “You certainly look happy,” said Laurence. She opened her eyes with a start. Laurence was looking down at her, smiling. “Indeed,” he went on, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more beautiful than in this moment.”

  She blushed under his gaze, startled to realize that her heart was beating faster. She scolded herself for thinking of Ravi. She had told herself a long time ago that it was useless to think of him: too painful to remember the times they had kissed, the way he had made her feel. It was best to put those feelings away, to think instead of things that were in her power to do, things that could make a difference to her family and her country. Things like marrying Laurence.

  Hastily she said, “What a crush tonight. I should think the whole of London is here.”

  “And they are all looking at us,” he replied.

  “Are they?”

  “Of course.” He reversed, smoothly gliding her past the orchestra. “They’re saying what a well-matched couple we are.”

  “I suppose they are.” She smiled at him.

  “Do you agree with them?” His gaze did not leave her face, and she had a slight, uncomfortable desire to blink.

  Dear Laurence, she thought. He wants me to love him so much. The thought twisted a guilty knife in her heart. No matter what she felt for Ravi, it would be inexcusable to allow Laurence to suspect that she might have cared for someone other than him. He did not deserve that.

  “Of course,” she said, and her voice was warm, and she drew closer to him. She breathed in the scent of his cologne and clean muslin. He smiled. There was no denying that he was very handsome. And he was in high spirits tonight. Maybe now was a good time to ask a question that had been nagging at her for some time. “Laurence,” she began. “I’ve been wondering where exactly you stand on the Irish question. Your speeches—”

  “Ada, please.” His voice was pained. “Not tonight. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, shall we? Like any other couple in love.”

  Abruptly he stopped dancing and drew her after him, off the dance floor, toward the open French windows that looked out over the gardens of St. James’. She followed him, but hesitated when he stepped outside into the warm night.

  He turned back to smile at her.

  “We are engaged,” he said teasingly, stretching out an inviting hand.

  Ada followed him out into the gardens. She crossed her arms, though it was not cold; the thin fabric of her ball gown shuddered in the breeze. Laurence led her out into the darkness, his shirtfront and cuffs shining white in the light from the ballroom.

  When we’re married, she thought, we’ll be alone like this together all the time. Forever.

  “We should go back,” she said. “Rose—”

  “Rose can take care of herself.” His voice was low and seductive. He took her in, his gaze raking over her low neckline and the glittering diamonds at her throat. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her close to him. “I want tonight to be about us and us only.”

  Gently he took her face between his hands and kissed her. Aware that no one could see them in the shadows, she pressed closer, melting into him. The kiss deepened, and she felt his hands upon her waist, with nothing but the thin silk of her gown between them. She had never been kissed with such desperation. His kisses moved across her cheek, down her neck—and she pulled away, breathing fast, trembling.

  “Engaged, Laurence, not married,” she said, with an unsteady laugh. But her heart was beating fast, her face was flushed, and she had to admit that even though he was not Ravi…

  “In love,” he said, pulling her back to him. This time she met his lips boldly and as they kissed, she felt herself weaken and soften, whirled away like a leaf on a wild river.

  “You mustn’t keep me waiting.” His voice was rough and tender at the same time, as he murmured in her ear. “When shall we be married?”

  She felt a catch in her throat, and suddenly the passion was gone. This was too real.

  “It depends upon my father,” she said, drawing away.

  “I’m not marrying him. Ada, when? Let’s set a date. We can announce it tonight—”

  “No,” she said hastily. “That is, I—it’s so soon. It feels as if we’re moving so fast.” Her voice shook. She rambled on. “It’s Rose’s first season. I want to be there for her. There are so many considerations—I don’t think—I can’t be sure.”

  She pulled away from him and walked back to the ballroom, sparing a single glance back at her betrothed. His face was obscured by the shadows, and she could not read his emotions. She wished she could at least read her own.

  The duke was an excellent dancer. Rose realized t
his in a second, with relief. She had had dancing lessons all through the spring, but with so little practice during the season she had forgotten most of what she had learned.

  Yet there was an awkward silence. Rose was beginning to feel a little abashed. She had expected the usual well-bred yawns about the weather, Cowes, and Goodwood. Either that, or—with the duke’s reputation—an actual assault on her honor. Neither of these were forthcoming, and she was beginning to feel a little embarrassed for dancing with him out of pure bravado. Not such a fierce lion after all, she thought. Her thoughts drifted, as usual, to the unseen people in the room. The footmen standing silently at the doors, uncomplaining about their aching feet, the hidden army of lady’s maids in the cloakrooms, waiting to dart into action should a lace petal fall from a hem. And for every lady, a maid waiting up, yawning, till her mistress deigned to come home; for every gentleman a valet doing the same. The queue of chauffeurs smoking outside. And then the cleaning, the dusting, the polishing, the—

  “What are you thinking?” the duke said. His eyes were fixed on her face, sober and curious.

  It was so unexpected. Not in half a season had she ever been asked that question. Before she had an instant to think she had answered, readily, “I was thinking those mirrors must be the very devil to clean.”

  She heard her own words with the most mortified shock. Color rushed into her face and she felt dizzy with horror. The duke burst out laughing. How could she have said that? How could she have exposed herself so horribly?

  “B-but it’s true!” she gabbled, hardly knowing what she was saying, simply feeling that she had to defend herself. “Look at that old man leaning against them. They pick up fingerprints like you wouldn’t believe and some poor girl will be up all night scrubbing them.”

  He was still laughing. Heads turned as they passed to swing around at the top of the room, and the music swept them away again. Rose felt tears of embarrassment and anger start to her eyes. How dare he laugh? So many people’s hard work had gone into creating this ball. Now she didn’t care what he thought of her. She jerked her hands away from him; he misstepped and nearly tripped them into the path of the next couple. Rose tried to push him away but he held her wrists, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “Have you any idea how much our supper cost?” she snapped. “And how much a housemaid earns? And how—”

  “Some idea, yes.” His green eyes were dancing. But he was really laughing. Not sneering. “You’re quite right, of course, this entire event is ridiculous.”

  Rose felt as if her weapons had been tweaked out of her hands. “But…” she began. “I—” There really wasn’t anything to do except agree with him.

  He went on, with relish, “It’s utterly decadent, entirely foolish, silly, destructive, idiotic, charmless—”

  “Not charmless,” she objected, with a small smile. “Did you not see Lady Gertrude’s Brussels lace gloves? I’ve been informed that they add enough charm to the room to make up even for my appearance.”

  “Vapid, vicious—”

  “No, no, not vicious.” She shook her head at him solemnly, glancing around at the glittering crowds. “It’s fun.”

  “In its way.” His gaze skimmed the room. “But I sometimes wonder how long it can all go on.”

  “I think till four o’clock in the morning at least,” Rose said unhappily. She caught his eye and they both started laughing again. “That’s not what you meant, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t,” he said, steering her away from a nearby couple. “And you’re right, it is fun. At least, it is now.” He smiled down at Rose and, to her horror, she felt herself blush. “And I’m sorry for my melancholy outlook,” he continued. “I shouldn’t be casting a pall over the season.”

  “I forgot, your father died,” Rose said. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he said formally. They danced on in silence. Rose winced. How could she have put her foot in it so badly?

  “At least he died in his bed,” he added a second later. “He must be the first Huntleigh in centuries not to have been killed in battle. Bannockburn, Edgehill, Waterloo…” He grinned. “It’s a sad sort of life, brought up with faces much like your own glooming down at you from dusty portraits, seeming to say, Your turn next. It’s hard to escape your past.”

  Rose was silent. It was a shock to hear her own thoughts put into words.

  He glanced down at her uncertainly.

  “I—I’m being poetical, I’m afraid.” He was apologizing. He thought she disapproved of him! “At least that’s what Laurence always used to accuse me of. A great sin in his eyes.”

  “You know Lord Fintan well?” Rose glanced around, but she could see Ada and her fiancé nowhere.

  “We were in the same year at Eton.”

  “Are you really rivals?”

  “Oh, hardly. Laurence was always interested in politics, and I have no desire to go into the House.” He smiled. “We have never really cared about the same things.”

  “Well, I like poetry,” she said firmly.

  He smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. But still, I shouldn’t let my ancestry weigh on my spirits. After all, they had to die some way or other. Strawberry leaves are not the fruit of immortality, no matter what the Countess of Westlake thinks.”

  It took Rose a moment to realize he was joking, and then she laughed aloud. Heads turned. Rose quickly covered her mouth. She could see the countess glaring at her from the crowd.

  “I must learn to laugh more discreetly,” she said when she had recovered herself.

  “No, please don’t.” His eyes shone as he looked at her. “We don’t hear much laughter during the season. Not real laughter. Yours makes me feel—” He broke off, frowning. “I don’t have a very good reputation, you know,” he said gloomily.

  Rose laughed again. It was impossible not to like him. He was such an odd mixture—droll and melancholy by turns. “You have a terrible reputation,” she replied. “But no one seems to mind.”

  His mouth twitched again. “The Duke of Huntleigh is much in demand.” He smiled. “But I sense not by you.”

  “Not in the least,” she said firmly. It was best to establish that at once, she thought. She wouldn’t give him any excuse to say she had flirted with him.

  “I don’t blame you.” They were moving toward the crowd as the music slowed. “The Duke of Huntleigh is a dull chap.”

  He steered her forward. She was a little dizzy, and he steadied her, holding her close for an instant.

  “Alexander Ross, though,” he said, warm and soft in her ear. “I flatter myself you might get to like him.”

  Rose felt herself flush and could not stop the smile that warmed her face. She wasn’t sure if it was his words or the fact that his lips were so close to her ear. She felt the soft pressure of his body against hers. She had a wild, insane desire to sink into his arms. But instead she stepped away from him, breathing fast. Everyone was looking at them, she realized. He was still holding her hand, even though the music had begun again. And she wasn’t letting go of his. She wasn’t quite sure why.

  She glanced toward the French windows. Before them stood Ada and Laurence. It seemed they had just entered. Laurence was frowning, a look on his face as if he had tasted something sour. Ada’s expression was tense and anxious. They stood close together but apart, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

  “Aren’t we engaged for this dance, Alexander?” A voice disturbed Rose, and she turned to see Charlotte smiling as she raised her dance card. “I nearly forgot, I was so busy admiring that wonderful portrait in the corner. The Italians have such a gift for character.”

  The duke started and released Rose’s hand. “We are.” He bowed over Charlotte’s.

  Rose could only step back and watch as Charlotte, still talking enthusiastically about art, sailed away with the duke and was lost on the dance floor.

  Palesbury

  “Here.” Sebastian Templeton leaned forward to speak throug
h the sliding window as Jackson drove the De Dion–Bouton toward the stone gates of Palesbury Castle Gaol. Jackson obliged by drawing the car to a halt.

  Sebastian tried not to look up at the high stone wall as he got out. Visitors from abroad who didn’t know what this place was admired the picturesque ivy that grew up the walls. But he knew what it was. A prison.

  “Wait for me in the village,” he told Jackson.

  As he walked toward the stone arch and the great wooden gates, he found himself shuddering. He did not want to see Oliver in here. He wanted this all to be a dream, for none of it to have happened—

  “Mr. Templeton, sir!”

  Sebastian started. The man who was in front of him—he must have been lurking in the shadows—had a coarse, familiar face, an insolent gaze. His collar was dirty and his coat out of style. He touched his hat briefly and smirked at Sebastian. “The Daily Truth, sir. Have your thoughts? Comments on the terrible tragedy, awful crime, depravity of modern society—”

  “No,” Sebastian said roughly. He pushed the journalist aside and hammered on the wooden door.

  “No comments? Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Good of you to trouble to look in on your valet. What does your countess mother think of it?”

  The man looked him up and down, and Sebastian hammered again. He felt as if he were being crawled over by insects. At last, the window opened, and the turnkey looked out. Sebastian stepped back at the smell of his breath.

  “Gerrout of here, you!” the turnkey bawled. Sebastian realized he was talking to the journalist. The man backed away but didn’t leave, like a stray dog. Sebastian heard metal clanking and rattling, and the door creaked open. Sebastian hurried inside. He shivered in the cold damp air that met him.

  “So sorry for the nuisance.” The turnkey was an obsequious little man with rotten teeth and a beer belly. He ushered Sebastian along, the keys at his waist dangling and clanking like some kind of medieval torture instrument. “The prisoner’s down here. Very good of you to take so much trouble over him. I’ve told him he should be grateful—”