Chapter Eleven
‘Still not right. Something simple, perhaps.’
Sebastian ripped the complicated cravat from around his throat and tossed it on the floor.
His valet, Jenks, sighed and pulled a third linen from the wardrobe then turned back to his master. ‘Perhaps I might suggest something, Your Grace.’ By the look in his eyes, what he wanted to suggest was a length of plain hemp and a short drop. Jenks was a patient man, but he had his limits.
‘She kissed me,’ Sebastian said, giving the servant a desperate look.
This was met with a blank stare, as if to remind him that he’d kissed half the women in London, and it did not normally result in so much wasted linen.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘She kissed me.’
Jenks blinked once, shocked. Then, he turned back to the bureau. ‘I suggest black silk.’
‘For evening?’ Sebastian said, equally surprised.
‘Very Byronic. But tied in a sentimentale to give it a touch of youthful whimsy.’
‘Interesting,’ Sebastian said, almost nodding in approval until a cautioning grunt from Jenks reminded him that movement now would spoil the knot. Once this was properly done and he had been helped into his evening coat, he had to admit that the valet was right. He looked elegant, but distinctive.
It was exactly what he wanted if he was to stand out from the crowd at the Theatre Royal, tonight.
When he’d seen the playbill, he had not needed to bribe a Septon maid to know where the family would be tonight.
The entr’acte soprano was a favourite of both Portia and Julian’s and he doubted they would leave Cassie behind.
Since their box was directly across from his, he could have a delightful evening of gazing at her and, with luck, a chance meeting in the saloon leading to their seats.
He sighed and smiled. He had been smitten before.
But after this afternoon, he was quite lost to her.
The first thing he’d seen upon arriving at the menagerie was the pin he’d given her, tucked into the flowers on her bonnet as if it had crawled there itself.
She was wearing the thing as if it had greater meaning to her than some random trinket. It gave him hope.
And what had she said before the kiss? That it was hard to fall out of love with him?
The implications of that were almost too wonderful to believe.
Though she was resisting the truth, her feelings had not changed.
She was still his, just as he was hers. It was only loyalty to her brother that was keeping her from surrender.
She was weakening, he was sure. She had come close to admitting her feelings today.
If he could get her away from her keepers, somewhere they might be truly alone, the last barriers between them would fall.
He patted the breast pocket of his coat where he kept his mother’s wedding ring, a beaded gold band edged in repoussé leaves.
Which would be better, he wondered, to seduce her at the first sign of acceptance, or to wait the excruciating days or weeks until the knot was tied? Or should he let her choose, torturing him as she saw fit until he had expiated every past sin and proved himself worthy?
The thought of their future left him giddy and he gave Jenks a daffy smile and a wave of farewell before setting out for the theatre.
By the time he had settled in his box, the performance had already begun.
A Shakespeare comedy, which was a relief.
He was in the mood to see lovers united and happy, not a stage strewn with bodies.
But more than anything, he was interested in the box across the circle from him, which was still empty.
It was several more minutes before Septon and his party arrived, filed into the box and took their seats.
Cassie was there, of course, wearing an evening gown of silver net that he had not seen before.
The colour would suit her grey eyes, he was sure.
He could imagine them sparkling as she laughed at something happening on the stage.
Then, the door to the box opened again and another man entered, taking the seat beside her.
Gerald Balard.
Sebastian leaned back in his seat, wishing he could shrink back into the shadows and out of notice.
He had seen Balard dancing with her at Almack’s and thought nothing of it.
She’d danced with dozens of men this Season and had said nothing about this one.
Nor had Julian mentioned him as a possible husband.
There had been only two suitors and he’d gotten rid of both of them. The way had been clear for him. Until tonight, and the sudden appearance of this interloper.
Of all the men in London, why did it have to be this one?
Balard had the build and good looks of Rutland, with broad shoulders and an excess of wavy brown hair, but none of that man’s vices.
He was not quite as pure-hearted as Blake.
But he did not gamble or drink to excess.
And he was wealthier than those two men combined.
Distantly related to both an earl and a marquis but able to support himself with his own investments.
If he was here tonight, it had nothing to do with seeking favours from the Duke of Septon. He wanted nothing from Julian, but his sister.
As he watched, Balard leaned towards Cassie, murmuring something into her ear and pointing towards the stage. She smiled and nodded, consulting her programme, and making some comment in return.
They made a lovely couple. If she had been his sister, he’d have been over the moon at the prospect of such a match. She would be guaranteed a future that was comfortable, safe and scandal free.
He should go. She had not noticed him, yet.
He could slink away without being seen and meet her tomorrow, as planned.
Then he could ask her about her evening.
Or, better yet, he could say nothing at all and focus on the events of the afternoon.
It was one thing to spy on her and another to get caught doing so in such an obvious way for the hours it would take for this performance to end.
Then, the door to his box opened and a woman slipped in to take the seat beside him.
He turned to see Harriette Wilson smiling and fluttering her fan. ‘Westbridge,’ she said, her voice a seductive purr. ‘I could not bear to see you looking so lonely. I had to come and rescue you.’
‘Harriette,’ he said. And then, his voice failed him. Harriette Wilson was the most notorious courtesan in London and had her own reserved box, just down the circle from him. It would not be the first time they had enjoyed a performance together.
And after, they had enjoyed far more than that. She was infamous and deserved every bit of her reputation. Someday, he might wish to reminisce about that time.
Just, not now.
‘Harriette,’ he said, plastering a smile on his face. ‘I was not expecting company.’
She gave him a dubious look and draped an arm along the back of his chair, leaning closer. ‘Then this is your lucky night,’ she said, letting out a puff of breath that ruffled his hair.
‘I wouldn’t want to interfere with your plans,’ he said, leaning away.
‘I have nothing tonight,’ she said, inching closer until she had almost pushed him off his chair.
‘Or offend your protector,’ he added, leaning back over the arm of his chair.
‘I have no one at the moment,’ she said, walking her fingers up the buttons of his vest.
He snatched her hand away, holding it for a moment. ‘Flattering though your offer is, I cannot accept.’ He sat up straight again, even though it brought him closer to her. Then, he whispered, ‘There is a lady I do not wish to disappoint.’
‘How interesting,’ she said, refusing to move. ‘Tell me more.’
‘There is not much to tell,’ he admitted. ‘I have made no offer as yet. But I have no room in my heart for another.’
‘True love,’ she said with a mischievous smile. ‘How delightful. And how rare.’ She slid back to her own chair, clasping their joined hands with her free one. ‘I will accept your refusal. Tonight, at least. And give you my best wishes.’ Then, she leaned forward again and kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled, relieved. Then, he glanced across the theatre and saw the shocked face of Cassie Fisk staring back at him.
Balard was still at her side, leaning close, whispering and pointing at Harriette. Julian and Portia were looking at him as well, their expressions grim and disapproving. If Cassie was not already learning the identity of Sebastian’s friend, she would hear of it on the way home.
But it appeared it was already too late for him. She gave him a final frown, then turned deliberately towards the stage, watching the comedy in stony silence.
The play seemed to go on for ages.
There were singers and musicians between the acts, and the farce that followed the main performance.
And through it all, Gerald was yammering in her ear about everyone around them, as if they had come to watch the audience, and not the actors.
Why was he bothering? She saw these same people at every ball and dinner.
Was it really worthy of comment if they wore the same clothing twice in a week?
She had not wanted to bring an escort to the theatre.
This evening was supposed to be just the three of them, enjoying Shakespeare and a soprano that Portia assured her was particularly good.
But at the last minute, they’d met Mr Balard in the grand saloon, and he’d invited himself to join their party.
And now, she was trapped, smiling politely and being forced to attend to the needs of a gentleman when she only wanted to relax and think about her day.
Her hand stole to the amber pin, hidden amongst the silk roses clustered at the top of her bodice. It was a single spot of gold on the silver gown, only noticeable if one took the time to look for it.
Gerald had spotted it, of course. She suspected he was more interested in the breasts concealed beneath it. Or perhaps he was really that interested in women’s fashion. He had leaned a little too close and announced she had ‘a canker in the fragrant rose’.
When she had not responded, he’d added. ‘That is Shakespeare.’
‘A sonnet,’ she’d agreed. ‘Ninety-five, I believe.’
‘And it is not really a canker. It is a bug,’ he’d added, still staring at her bosom.
‘An ant,’ she’d clarified.
‘It is a curious bit of glitter for such a lovely girl,’ he’d said, remembering a moment too late that he should be looking into her eyes.
‘It was a gift,’ she’d said.
‘You wear it out of charity for the giver?’ His smile had turned patronizing.
‘I wear it because I like it,’ she’d said, then she’d stared expectantly at him until he’d given up and turned his attention back to critiquing the crowd.
She’d allowed herself to do so, as well.
It had taken only a moment to spot Westbridge in a box across the way.
She’d had to struggle to stay focused on the performance and allowed herself only an occasional hungry glance in his direction as she scanned the rest of the people and feigned interest in Mr Balard’s never-ending commentary.
‘Now, that is interesting,’ he’d said, with a disapproving huff.
She’d spared him a polite glance to show that she cared.
He’d pointed, which was exceptionally rude. ‘Westbridge has a new light o’ love.’
Her head had snapped back to stare at the woman in his box.
‘Harriette Wilson,’ he’d said smugly. ‘I can’t fault his taste. She is expensive enough. But she has lain with half the peerage already.’
Cassie stared at the woman, who had all but draped herself over the Duke and was whispering into his ear. ‘She is attractive, I suppose. But her nose is a trifle too long.’
Portia had looked at her with narrowed eyes, then raised the little spyglass she carried for a better look.
‘It is not her nose that men are interested in,’ Julian said, and his wife struck him in the arm with the spyglass before turning to look at the stage again.
Cassie had as well, though she had not heard a word of the play for the rest of the night.
Now they were in the carriage, on the way home again, and she fiddled with the pin on her bodice and stared out the window at the dimly lit streets.
‘Mr Balard seemed very nice,’ Portia said with a rising inflection as if daring Cassie to comment.
When she did not, Julian said, ‘His pedigree is excellent.’ Then, he waited with the same thinly veiled interest as Portia did.
She turned and looked from one expectant face to another. ‘Next, I suppose you will tell me he has good wind and sound legs.’
‘Well,’ Portia began cautiously, ‘His legs are rather fine.’
Julian gave her a sharp look.
‘Some men pad them,’ she said with a smile and a shrug. ‘He does not.’ Then, she looked back to Cassie. ‘But beauty is a fleeting virtue. It is more important that he be of good character.’
‘And he is that,’ her brother assured her. ‘There is no scandal attached to his name or his family. He is loosely connected to two titles, though unlikely to inherit them. Wealthy, as well. He just purchased some fine horses at Tattersalls, and a new carriage.’
‘He has informed me,’ Cassie said, gazing out the window again.
‘I am only telling you so that you know I approve,’ Julian said, a little more gently.
‘And I am telling you that his favourite topics of conversation are other people and himself,’ she said. ‘The horses were a close third.’ Then, because she could not help herself, she added, ‘And who is Harriette Wilson?’
There was an awkward pause as Julian and Portia exchanged glances. Then, Julian said, ‘As you said just now, it is rude to speak of other people. Especially women like her.’
‘Wellington’s mistress,’ Portia said, then looked at Julian and shrugged. ‘And your brother is right. We shouldn’t speak of her. Ladies aren’t supposed to know such things.’
‘And yet, it is clear that they all do,’ Cassie said, disgusted. ‘I don’t know what I dislike more about the people of London, their despicable behaviour, or the lies they tell to hide it.’
Or the way they could seem like the sweetest most misunderstood man on Earth, and then, just a few hours later, act exactly the way everyone assured one that they would.
She would meet him tomorrow for the last time and tell him what she thought of him.
Then, she would return his stick pin and take the next mail coach back to the Cotswolds.