Chapter 2
“You’ll only set them tittering, Mother,” Frederic grumped. The edges of a headache pinched behind his eyes. “Please, as you love me, don’t encourage it.”
The Duke of Blackmore escorted his mother through the wide arch separating the rotunda from the ballroom.
Flickering candles danced in their sconces as if eager for music.
Frederic wished he could share their enthusiasm.
Esther Grandon, the Dowager Duchess of Blackmore, nodded acknowledgement as they passed a group of ladies.
“Really, Frederic,” his mother said, raising a hand to acknowledge a gentleman’s bow, “you really are too hard on them. Tittering? These are the daughters of the ton, the jewels of the realm.”
“I think—even in the face of your inevitable displeasure—that I shall aver with even more sincerity: if these indeed are jewels, I prefer their earthy counterparts.”
Frederic’s mother raised one elegant eyebrow.
She had, to put the term blandly, aged exceptionally well.
The sudden passing of her husband, while a deep and lasting grief to her, had at least the benefit of relieving her of long-carried concerns and worries which had done wonders for her disposition and complexion.
Even now, years after her loss, the tell-tale signs of age were only just beginning to creep about her eyes, and her long, ebony hair, pulled into a lush, flowing bun abundant with curls, bobbed affably to passersby.
“You really ought not to be so fastidious—especially at your age and condition when you could easily make one of these gems yours with a word.”
Frederic briefly halted, waiting for the party ahead of them to proceed.
“I have neither a plan nor inclination to marry. Even if the thought, consumed as my attention has been with business, had entered my fancy, I surely wouldn’t have attended it.”
His mother, prone to such effusions of the heart, sighed.
“Dear Frederic—”
He pulled her around the group and further into the ballroom.
“No ‘Dear Frederic’ tonight, Mother. I’m in a terrible humor already.”
“Your Grace, then.”
She pulled on his arm, turning him to face her.
“Since your father’s unfortunate death, you are the master to the estate.”
Frederic clenched his jaw but said nothing. This territory wasn’t unfamiliar, much as he wished it to be. The duchess continued, unfazed.
“As such, you are bound with certain obligations—producing an heir of your own among them.”
Answers sprang unbidden to Frederic’s lips, and he shut them to trap them inside.
Perhaps, if his father had been more circumspect in his obligations, he could have produced more heirs himself.
He, for example, made no pretense of guarding his wife’s honor and frequently sent her alone to such social engagements as this.
It was Frederic who had accompanied and watched over her—and suffered through extra helpings of Lady Ethington’s platitudes on local lace—and returned home to an abandoned house and feeble excuses voiced by the mouths of apologetic servants.
Frederic’s thoughts, unchecked for a moment, continued down their surly way. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the unfortunate death his mother mentioned so ruefully, in combination with his own assiduous business efforts, there wouldn’t have been an estate left to manage.
He sighed. But true points aside, it didn’t do to speak ill of the dead, however much they endeavored in life to deserve it.
“From my own experience,” he said, trying to keep the ire out of his voice, “I wouldn’t inflict a childhood like mine on any being, much less my own issue.”
Her eyes clouded.
Frederic sighed but continued, “your affection wasn’t sufficient to cover his neglect. His addiction—”
“Frederic!” she said reproachfully, looking about the room.
“His habits, if you prefer,” he amended, lowering his voice, “put me through what I would never willingly inflict on another, especially a child. Were I—as you have often expressed hope that I would—to follow in his footsteps, then even in my last, selfish moments, the horse races would weigh heavier in my esteem than the suffering of my own kin.”
The duchess brushed a curl off her shoulder and smiled tightly as another patron strolled past them.
“You did not know him as I did.”
“What I knew was enough. And I firmly hold, madam, that even if the chance for matrimony were to present itself, I wouldn’t be inclined to take it.”
His eyes scanned the room. He nodded to a few gentlemen of his acquaintance, generally associated with recent business interests. A few others he passed over scornfully. He had no time for such men as those—men with whom his father would have enjoyed spending an evening.
An older gentleman, quite close to them, bowed.
“Your Graces—a pleasure, as always.”
“Lord Russell.” The duchess curtsied. “I hope you have come intent on being better company tonight than my son. He hardly wishes to dance at all and only accompanied me upon my insistence.”
Frederic bowed but said nothing. Lord Russell smiled nervously.
“Any occasion to meet His Grace in public is, of course, a delectation.” He turned to Frederic. “I hope, sir, that your disinclination does not stem from a lack of acquaintance with ladies of your preference. I should be happy to provide you with an introduction if you are so inclined.”
Frederic scanned the room. High brown curls wrapped in green velvet turbans and ostrich feathers; coquettish blonde ringlets flattered by fluttering lashes and pert, cherubic lips, the deepest auburn locks studded with diamonds and pearls—and yet, in all of them, something lacking. No depth. No presence. Just fashion.
He sighed.
“Thank you for your offer, sir, but I’m far more inclined to refreshment from the kitchens tonight than to any offered by the fairer sex.”
Lord Russell bowed and moved further into the room. Esther turned to her son.
“What your father was or wasn’t does not pertain to us here. Even more importantly,” her eyes softened, “you are not him, nor are you what he was or in any danger of becoming so.”
Frederic’s throat tightened. He had been there, the night his father died. He had been there every day since, trying to repair the damage of his sire’s spendthrift recklessness. Esther laid a hand on Frederic’s arm.
“When the time comes for you to raise your own child, I’m sure you’ll provide an excellent example.”
Frederic sniffed, but the corner of his mouth turned up, perhaps for the first time that evening.
Despite his taciturn rejection of the ball in general, he couldn’t help but be affected by the beauty of the room.
Gold crepe curtains fell down like the train of a benevolent goddess, blessing the shining marble tiles at their feet.
A chamber group played a thoughtful air in the corner, priming their instruments for more lively music to follow.
Frederic closed his eyes, absorbing the distant strain.
“Ah!” His mother cried in obvious relief. “Lady Felicity. So good to see you again.”
Frederic snapped his mouth shut just in time to prevent the groan that was threatening to escape it. In the future, he vowed to himself, he didn’t care how much his mother wanted company, he would send a servant instead.
He opened his eyes.
A petite, brown-eyed beauty bobbed in front of him, just rising from a deep curtsey. Her eyes immediately sought his.
“Your Grace,” she beamed almost as brightly as her honey-blonde curls. “I’m delighted as always.”
Frederic, trapped between his true and unfavorable opinions of the lady before him and the demands of false courtesy, merely gave a short bow. The duchess immediately filled the gap.
“And how is your father, dear? He was such a dear friend to my husband, you know, so many years ago.” She put a hand on her heart. “I certainly shan’t forget it.”
“Nor I,” Frederic added dryly. The Marquess of Wheybridge, after his father’s death, had not only been revealed to have been his greatest friend but also one of the creditors to which the Blackmore family owed the most. Esther shot Frederic the subtlest of warning glances.
Lady Felicity, with her eyes absorbed wholly by the duchess’ eligible, attractive, and uncomfortable son, did not notice.
“My father is well, thank you, or at least as well as I am.”
A pause. Frederic kept stubbornly silent, knowing full well his unspoken obligation to present a compliment of some sort.
If he could have found an opportunity for a compliment in Felicity that she wouldn’t treasure as a joyful scrap of his nonexistent regard, he would have presented it gladly. The silence stretched on.
The duchess did not grind her teeth, but he imagined she found it a sore trial not to. Frederic, as he had learned through careful experience, ignored her inclination and held fast to his own. His eyes passed over the card rooms, which he never entered, searching for an excuse to leave the group.
“I supposed you’ve heard, Your Grace,” Felicity mentioned, “of the ball’s most compelling draw.”
Frederic raised his eyebrows.
“Here you know more than I, my lady. What exactly is the draw of this ball?”
Felicity giggled as if he had made a joke. His mother repeated, less subtly, the warning glance.
“Someone in attendance,” she lowered her voice, “is cursed.”
“Cursed?” echoed Esther. “How so?”
“Twelve years ago, the Earl of Pranton and his family—the Dreshers, you know—set out on a journey on a dark and stormy night.”
Felicity stepped aside as a group of ladies filed past them. Frederic resisted the urge to follow them. At least he wouldn’t need to speak to anyone if he looked like he was going somewhere on purpose.
“But,” Felicity continued, “when the carriage passed over a rotting bridge, the swell of the river swept it away—along with every living soul inside.”
Frederic clasped his hands behind his back. Esther shook her head in sympathy.
“What a tragic story. My heart goes out to the family.”
Felicity blinked.
“Yes, well—I’m sure it was very sad, especially at the time, but the most important element to us tonight is the sole survivor.”
“A survivor? Didn’t the entire family perish?”
Felicity lowered her voice to barely above a whisper.
“All, save one. Passersbys saw a dripping lady walking out of the water, trailing weeds and bearing the smoking carriage lantern in her hand, a black mark upon her brow.”
Esther fanned herself a little more quickly. Frederic frowned. He had never been one for ghost stories. The world itself was terrifying enough without conjuring a phantom with which to mask fears and superstition.
“Surely they were mistaken,” he suggested. “They must have been overwrought from the tragedy.”
Felicity tossed her head.
“I’ve heard it from the best authority. It is very likely not a mistake.”
Frederic pursed his lips but said nothing. Long, exhausting experience had taught him that once ladies like Felicity decided to believe in something, no earthly persuasion could influence them otherwise. She fluttered her eyelashes coyly, perhaps hoping to maintain an aura of mystique.
“After the accident, the lady joined the household of her illustrious aunt, the Viscountess of Vaugh. It’s said no other soul but the three of them—the lady, her maid, and the viscountess—live in the house, surrounded by the ghosts of the past.”
“No other soul?” Frederic broke in. “If they’re people of sufficient means, as a viscountess would surely be, they must have at least a servant or two to assist about the house.”
His mother looked at him disapprovingly. Here again, Frederic was adamant. Ghost stories about figures long gone were one thing, and he would—grudgingly—endure them. Gossip was quite another. Felicity straightened her glove.
“I’m only repeating what I’ve just heard, of course, and I can’t be responsible for any of the particulars.”
Or the damage, Frederic thought grimly. He remembered too well the sting of the ton’s gossip—the whispered lies and the twisted truths that had haunted him and his mother during his father’s scandalous sprees.
His father, of course, had done nothing to remediate matters and rather drove into fresh examples of disgrace to whet idle tongues.
“What a truly noble action on the part of the viscountess to sponsor a child deprived of parents and patronage so suddenly,” the duchess said, pityingly. She looked at Frederic with grieved eyes. He slipped his hand into her arm and patted it.
Felicity smiled until her eyes disappeared into fawning half circles.
“But of course, especially since some claim that the child—grown to be a lady—carries with her a grievous curse.”
Frederic snorted. Felicity, intent on her story, didn’t notice. His mother tightened, ever so slightly, her grip on Frederic’s arm.
“The lady—it’s said—carries a curse so severe that it only can be to blame for the deaths of her family and their staff.
” Felicity nodded meaningfully, as if letting them into a secret.
“Five of the Dreshers and countless staff perished because of that black, grievous curse. And that lady—that scarred, cursed lady—is here tonight!”
A woman—short, grey-haired and in possession of a prodigious set of blowsy curls—frowned, turning her head in their direction. Her deep blue taffeta ballgown crinkled in objection.
Frederic, worn down at last, curled his lip.
“I really am surprised at you, Lady Felicity, for repeating idle gossip on such a tragic topic.”
The woman nodded approvingly and moved past them, shooting Felicity a dangerous glance. The duchess fixed Frederic with such a glance herself, her lips pursed. Felicity blinked.
“Excuse me, Your Grace—I thought—”
“You thought wrong.”
Felicity bobbed a quick curtsey and left as her ears tinged a self-conscious pink. Esther sighed. Frederic spared her any further consternation with a quick bow.
“I’m stifled with this heat,” he said, pulling at his cravat. “I’ll return after a brief walk in the cool air.”
He stepped away, purposefully ignoring hopeful and suggestive glances from several feminine parties, and passed through to the garden.
The nerve of these ladies and their idle gossip!
The loss of an entire family dressed glibly in insincere regret to garnish a threadbare conversation!
His indignation pulsed like a kettle set for tea.
He stepped into the garden and strode behind a set of tiered topiary.
The cool evening air blessed his forehead like a wandering fairy, soothing and caressing his brow. Frederic breathed it in, savoring the stability, calm, and silence.
Voices floated through the shrubbery. Almost automatically, Frederic turned to move away from them. He would infinitely prefer a solitary walk.
“…an abomination, cursed by fate…”
He turned back, frowning. The acridity in the words stung his ears. He turned his attention from the garden and headed towards the sound.