Chapter 5
Five
His valet removed his satin evening clothes, drew a cambric nightshirt over his head, and waited as James Dinsmore poured himself a brandy and took a seat at his dressing table.
“Is something wrong, sir?” The valet began brushing the waves out of James’s unbraided queue. Master Dinsmore usually retired closer to dawn and never poured his own drink.
“Quite all right.” James waved the question away with a moisturized hand. Actually, he felt unsettled, unclean even. “But I believe that will be enough brushing.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I draw the curtains?”
James nodded as he rose from his dressing table, picked up his brandy, and headed toward the bed, draped in a half canopy of champagne-colored silk.
He put the almost empty glass down on a marble-topped nightstand and climbed under the threadbare sheets.
A tad damp, but not nearly as cold as they had been when he and Anne first arrived in September.
“Shall I put out the candles, sir?”
“All but this one by my bed, Simmons.”
The pale-gold room faded into darkness, until all that could be seen lay within the shivery domain of the single candlestick on the nightstand.
A book of poetry, a glass of water, three copper coins.
The circle shifted briefly as Simmons opened the bedroom door and a draft from James’s study swept the room.
He paused, looking back at the golden figure in the bed. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
James shook his head. “Good night, Simmons.”
“Good night, sir.”
The door swung quietly closed.
James put his glass down, drew his knees up, and rested his chin on them.
He closed his eyes. Occasional bursts of laughter drifted up from the first-floor ballroom.
Outside his window he could hear voices, words of farewell, promises of future meetings, and the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones.
For a moment he felt like the child he’d once been in this London town house—fascinated by the glittering world of his parents’ parties, frustrated that he wasn’t allowed to attend, and ultimately reassured by the sound of the departing coaches that reminded him, when all was said and done, his parents would remain behind with him.
Sometimes during those parties, Anne would sneak into his room, and, standing on tiptoe, they’d peer out the windows, watching the guests.
Anne liked to imagine which sort of gowns and jewels she’d wear.
James liked to compare the men’s short ceremonial swords.
“When I’m married to a rich handsome fellow like that,” Anne would say, pointing with a child’s chubby finger, “I’ll buy you one for every day of the week! ”
But then their mother died and the parties stopped.
As their father became increasingly obsessed with the possibility of a Roman invasion, his solicitors became increasingly concerned about the decline of the Dinsmore fortune. They wanted to have the duke declared insane and have his title and responsibilities transferred to James.
Anne protested. Vehemently. Their father was grieving, she insisted—it was natural. Who knew but that his wits might return any day?
And the scandal. The ton might overlook idiosyncrasies in a peer.
They might sympathize with a downturn in fortune, but insanity would dash any hopes they might have of making truly suitable matches.
James allowed himself to be persuaded by his sister’s arguments.
If it made her happy to pretend their father was a reclusive scholar engrossed in antiquities, fine by him.
He’d just as soon avoid the responsibilities of heading up the family and overseeing the estates.
He didn’t really care about inheriting the title.
And he wasn’t particularly interested in marriage.
He wasn’t particularly interested in anything, he thought, with the weariness of a man of seventy, rather than twenty-seven. The image of a trim figure with a head full of chestnut curls and hazel eyes that bespoke trouble blazed into his head. “Not even you,” he whispered.
Just another body, then? His inner voice mocked him. Just another set of lips that fitted yours as if they’d been made to meet? Just another pair of warm, smooth breasts seemingly designed to fill your hands? And the heat…
“It was the champagne,” he murmured.
You weren’t drinking champagne.
“The brandy, then.” He was, he realized wryly, talking out loud to himself.
Does that explain why even now you’re as hard as a…
“Bloody hell!” He flopped back on his pillows, disgusted. Even his thoughts were indecent. “It’s true,” he said to the shadows. “I’ve no sense of decency, no sense of honor, no sense of responsibility. Everyone knows it… Ask Lounsbury, ask Ashton. Christ, just ask Elizabeth’s brother.”
What about your sister?
Anne?
What about all the things you’ve given up for her?
James frowned. He hadn’t given up all that much. Anne was his sister. He did what needed to be done to make her happy. Lord knew she had little enough of that… God, what was it he was feeling? Was it guilt? He put his hands over his eyes and groaned. Why didn’t you say no, Elizabeth?
Other people might believe James Dinsmore was a conscienceless cad, but Elizabeth had faith in him. She sat up in bed. He would come for her this morning—she felt sure of it.
It was an intuition based on a vague, but never quite forgotten, memory.
A slim blond boy holding his fragile sister, reassuring her that the other children really did like her, that they teased her because they were jealous of her wit, her creativity, and her elfin beauty.
Elfin beauty—Elizabeth recalled those words most vividly.
They hadn’t only sounded magical; Anne had cheered up, and Elizabeth had found herself suddenly, ragingly jealous.
She wanted to be told she was wondrous, too—and not, as Rafe seemed overly fond of saying, a disaster waiting to be unleashed.
At the thought of disaster, Elizabeth threw off her covers.
She needed to get up and get ready. She needed to figure out what to wear.
She yanked the embroidered bellpull hanging near her canopied bed.
Then, yanked again for good measure. Her maid, Molly, rushed nearly breathless into the room, a cup of chocolate and a roll teetering precariously on a tray.
“What is it, my lady? You’re up so early, what do you need? I brought you something to eat, in case you were hungry.”
“Molly, you’re a marvel. I am famished.”
Elizabeth tore a corner off the roll and began chewing thoughtfully, her eyes surveying the contents of her armoire, like a general studying a battle plan.
“Are you expecting someone special to pay a call today, my lady?” Molly settled the tray on a table near the hearth, carefully arranging the silverware. “It’s been very quiet downstairs. Hardly anyone’s come round to leave a card.”
“The white muslin with the roses,” Elizabeth said firmly. She pulled a length of gauzy rose fabric from a drawer. “And could you see that this fichu is pressed for me?”
“I’ll take it downstairs this moment. And then I’ll return and help you dress.”
“Good morning, all.” Elizabeth glided into the breakfast room an hour later, a vision in rose and ribbons.
She picked up a plate from the sideboard and began peering under the lids of the silver chafing dishes.
“Smells delicious.” She inhaled the fragrant steam rising from a dish of sausages.
Piling her plate high, she turned. “Did everyone sleep well?”
Rafe, Alix, Louisa, and Madeleine stared at her as if she were wearing garters on her head.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I awaken after these late nights feeling as if I might devour the contents of the kitchen.”
“It’s the shock,” Rafe said dourly. “The shock of the scandal has sent her completely round the bend. She’s mad. Mad as Ophelia. Next thing you know, she’ll come skipping in with a bouquet of weeds.”
“There’s rosemary for remembrance?” Elizabeth shook her head. “Not to worry, I know that rosemary is meant for chicken.” She set her plate down next to Louisa and drew up a chair.
“It’s also lovely baked in bread,” Louisa offered. “I’ve some growing in the herb garden I planted at Moreham Hall.”
“Now they’ve both gone off.” Rafe brought his hand down on the table and the crystal jumped. “This is not a tea party. We have not gathered to chatter about Shakespeare, the culinary arts, or gardening. We are here to discuss what is to be done about Elizabeth.”
“Now that you mention gardening,” Louisa ventured, “I would be willing to take her back to the country, away from this dreadful, noisy city. Perhaps we might putter about in the gardens until this whole dreadful thing has blown over?”
“No, no, no.” Madeleine put down her coffee cup and joined the fray. “She should not run away from the scandal. She should face it head-on, chin up. And with a dramatic story.” She pursed her lips. “I shall think of something.”
“I can only imagine,” Rafe said with a mock shudder.
Madeleine held up a hand for silence. “Elizabeth is ill. Something chronic, incurable… She swoons, frequently, often without warning—”
“People will say she is with child,” Alix said.
“Too much champagne then…”
“They’ll say she’s a drinker,” Louisa responded. She glanced at Rafe, the words like her father and her eldest brother unspoken but voluble.
“Corsets too tight?”
“She should have excused herself and made her way to a retiring room,” Alix said.
Madeleine frowned. “None of you are helping…”
“Perhaps the ton is not discussing me at all,” Elizabeth suggested, over the rim of her coffee cup.
Four pairs of eyes swiveled in her direction.
“Of course they are,” Rafe said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Louisa nodded. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I must agree.”
Alix added, “The only cards that have arrived this morning are from old biddies notorious for their curiosity. Lady Morton’s arrived at eight a.m. sharp.”
“That creature.” Elizabeth’s cup rattled in the saucer as she set it down. “What could she possibly want? She’s never stepped foot across this threshold before.”
“She wants to see how you are doing, of course,” Louisa said quietly.
“She wants to see if you’ve been crying, if you’re remorseful, or defiant.
To see if you will add any delicious details to the malicious soup she’s stirring.
She wants to scrutinize how you walk and how you sit, and speculate later whether Rafe has beaten you. ”
“He wouldn’t!” Elizabeth sputtered.
“I ought to have,” Rafe said.
“There were no other cards…?” Elizabeth toyed with her knife.
“And if I might inquire, whom are you expecting to call?” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Certainly not James Dinsmore?”
Elizabeth flushed.
“You’re more likely to hear from Ashton or Lounsbury than that scoundrel.”
“You’ve always thought the worst of him.” Elizabeth’s chin jutted defiantly.
“Events, it would seem, have proven me right.”
Madeleine cleared her throat as if trying to clear the air. “Perhaps she should marry him.”
“Never,” Rafe spat.
“Why not?” Elizabeth dropped her knife and straightened.
Alix put a hand on her husband’s arm as she spoke, to keep him in his chair. “I know you don’t like him, my love, but it is a reasonable solution…”
“It’s an appalling solution.” Rafe leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.
“Rafe, did you ever consider that…that James”—Elizabeth stumbled over her words, so much easier to think than to say out loud—“that he might be falling in love with me?”
“No.”
“Why? Am I that unattractive, Rafe, that unlovable?”
“James Dinsmore is incapable of love.”
Everyone in the room suddenly studied their plate, or their hands. Elizabeth was momentarily stunned into silence. “But he loves Anne—”
“I suppose, in his own twisted way. Certainly, she’s the only one to whom I’ve ever seen him express any tenderness.”
“Last night—” Elizabeth started again.
“Don’t confuse lust with love. You were young and willing and he took advantage. It probably amused him to dally with my sister; I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw seducing you as revenge for my failure to offer for Anne.”
“It’s always James you fault, never Anne.”
“With good reason. Anne has a sense of right and wrong. James has none.” His hazel eyes met hers.
“But, let us say, for the sake of argument, Anne was behind what happened. All the more reason you shouldn’t marry him.
Would you want a man with so few morals that he’d play whoremaster for his sister? ”
Alix gasped. Madeleine stared at Rafe. And Louisa gazed with worn eyes at her daughter. Elizabeth ignored the remark.
“And if he asks you for my hand?”
“Why then”—Rafe slashed open a roll with his butter knife—“I’ll kill him.”