Cynthia Bailey Pratt (14 page)

Berenice had not seemed dull at all. She had gone riding again in the morning, visited three shops with a new friend before luncheon, and dashed off again in the afternoon to have tea in company. Now, however, she leaned her head back onto the rolled arm of the settee with a mighty sigh. “My, but I am weary. If I continue in this way, I’ll need to take the waters to cure me of the fatigue.”

A smile breaking out despite her worries that Berenice also might be too tired to go out in the evening, Danita asked, “Burnt to the socket already?”

Berenice laughed and sat up. “No, not quite. I’m having such fun, I hate the thought of going home. Grandmamma said we might not stay much longer.”

“When did she say this?”

“Right after she received that letter from Grandfather. When I talked to her about your sovereign.”

“Was she angry that you took it?” Danita already knew the answer. Mrs. Clively never showed anger toward Berenice, though it seemed strange she’d spoken so slightingly of the girl just now in her room, when all her affection centered about her grandchild.

“Grandmamma is never angry at me,” Berenice answered, echoing her cousin’s thoughts. The girl yawned. “Do you know, I think it is coming on to rain? I guess there’ll be no fireworks tonight. It’s too bad; Mrs. Rivington said we might watch them from a barge on the canal. I was so looking forward to it. Mr. Newland said he’d be there.”

“You like Mr. Newland’s company?”

The girl lifted her shoulder. “He’s pleasant enough. But there are other men I would prefer to spend an evening with.” Danita knew her cousin thought of Sir Carleton. Berenice would not have hesitated an instant if he had asked her to be by his side tonight, nor would have any obstacle stood in her way, not rain, not another’s ill-health, nor her own fears.

Danita could not stand the idea that her cousin, pampered and indulged, could be braver than she herself, who had tried so hard to make her way in a cold world. Though she felt she could contrive to sneak away even if poor weather kept her relations home, Danita hoped it would not rain, a hope that grew to a prayer as the gray afternoon wore on.

The long-case clock in the foyer sang a baritone song of eight notes, echoed by the trilling chimes of the smaller clocks throughout the house. The front door closed behind Mrs. Clively and her granddaughter. Laughing voices faded into the distance as their party all went off together to the water’s edge. Mr. Figgs stopped to flick a speck of dust from the brass face of the clock before pushing open the door beneath the stairs.

The falling collar of her cloak pulled up close to her face, Danita descended the front stairs, feeling each step with her foot before trusting her full weight on it. Then, she stopped dead, trapped on the landing by a voice from below.

“You come here and look at this,” Figgs said, leading the youngest maid by the hand. The green baize door beat the alarm as it swung back and forth behind them. “Do you see this dust?”

“Yes, Mr. Figgs.”

“Well, clean it. And never let me see it there again! If this laziness continues, I shall speak to Mrs. Clively about it.”

“Oh, it won’t, Mr. Figgs. I swear it.”

Danita stood, paralyzed, on the landing. All either servant had to do was raise their heads and she would be seen. Closing her eyes, in hopes they would not feel her nearness by a sixth sense, she stood above them, scarcely breathing. She had much to fear from the gossip that would inevitably arise if she were seen muffled in a cloak to carry out an intrigue.

Once the clock was cleaned to Mr. Figgs’s satisfaction, the servants departed. Danita flashed one glance back up the stairs. It was not too late to return to her room. She called resolution to her aid and advanced.

Coming out of Number 12, she saw, across the street, an arm wave in a peculiar side-to-side fashion from the open door of Number 15. Her cloak billowing about her, Danita rushed from one side of the street to the other. Flying by the stone steps, she stumbled over the threshold, all but falling into the foyer.

Sir Carleton caught her at arm’s length, holding her shoulders as she entered once more into his house. “Would you knock me off my feet. Miss Wingrove? Come, you’re out of breath. Let me find a glass of brandy, now, to calm you.” He freed her.

“The ... the servants?” she asked, shaking her head at the offered refreshments.

“All gone. I played a fine gruff scene, declaring myself to be sick of their faces and not wishing to see a one of them before morning. As they no doubt know I’ve been losing of late, they had ample cause to believe my ill-temper.”

The smart town house seemed to breathe with silence. Sir Carleton’s voice echoed strangely in the emptiness. For the first time, Danita understood how much she trusted him. Never, until this moment, had the thought crossed her mind that she would be completely alone with him. Scandal enough! Yet, she knew she was safe. She studied him covertly.

Dressed all in black, save for a white cravat accenting his broad chest. Sir Carleton had a raffish air. The dark hair was combed back, as though his fingers had ruffled it. His big hands wandered restlessly, now grasping his lapel, now rubbing one against the other.

Impulsively, Danita seized one of his hands. Its warmth and weight surprised her, yet she did not release it. Turning the palm so the rays of the single candle fell on it, she bent her head. His breath disturbed the exposed nape of her neck. Her voice trembled as she said, “I foresee great good fortune for you. The cards are favorable. All your opponents will fall down before you.”

His face was shadowed. Yet his amber eyes seemed to bum as she straightened with a smile. His hand turned under hers and held it strongly. “A kiss for luck, then. Miss Wingrove?”

His lips brushed hers with the gentlest of caresses. She was conscious of his great  shoulders blocking out the light. Her knees went weak with the frightening knowledge that he could gather her up in his arms and overwhelm her every scruple. As her heart jumped within her breast, Danita knew how much she wanted him to do just that.

The longing to break her own reserve was growing very strong when the candlelight dazzled her again. Sir Carleton said, “The things I bought for you are upstairs. Don’t be long. The party is set for nine and we have some distance to travel.”

“Yes, I’ll hurry.” As she went up the stairs, she heard the ring of glasses touching and knew Sir Carleton was pouring a drink with, perhaps, a shaking hand.

The simple white room seemed unoccupied. The tester bed was stripped of hangings and had no sheet or blanket. Yet candles sent up clean flames from the bedside table and the dresser. Across the foot of the bed, a gown reflected the candlelight with a shimmer of rose. Gold slippers lay before her on the floor.

Danita smiled tenderly as she realized Sir Carleton must have done everything himself, from lighting the candles to laying out the clothes he’d bought for her. He must have stood here, looking about him to see if anything was amiss. She would thank him the best way she knew how, by making herself as beautiful as he could ever wish any woman to be.

Used to doing without a maid, Danita found there was an art to dressing in finery that was not needed to don her simple gowns. In striving to bring the gown’s tightness down over her head, she nearly strangled herself with the bodice. While reeling about the room in the throes of her struggle, Danita knocked against the wall. A picture dropped down with a loud bang. Fortunately, it was not glazed.

A knock sounded almost at once at the chamber door. The dress still over her head, and one arm trapped between the gown and her body, Danita called, “Yes?”

“Do you need...how are you progressing?” Sir Carle-ton asked.

“Perfectly well, thank you. I shan’t be long.” Feeling as though she would never escape from the toils of the gown, Danita at last battled her way to the surface. Only then did she find the interior ties that would have enabled her to open the waist more fully. Nevertheless, the silk and lace draped her figure beautifully, though the body of the gown seemed to begin alarmingly far away. The waist was extremely short and perhaps three inches of material covered her bosom, being caught up in the center with a rosette and a pearl.

A fillet of rose ribbon lay beside a clean hairbrush on the vanity. He had apparently given up the notion of a concealing wig. Finding too late that she should have done this first, Danita struggled to tame her rioting hair. At last, she achieved a style no ladies’ maid would have approved but which seemed willing to resist the lure of gravity.

Danita approached the long glass with some trepidation. The simple topknot, adorned by the fillet and loose tendrils dropping low, softened the rather strong contours of her face. The rose of her gown brought out the tender warmth of her skin. Her eyes seemed huge and dark, and her lips a deeper rose. The cut of the gown accentuated the smooth rise of her breasts and the delicacy of her waist, always hidden before in the concealing and shapeless gowns that befitted her humble positions.

Danita knew exactly how much of her heightened appearance was due to the dress, and how much to Sir Carleton. All she need do is not think for a moment, and the memory of his nearness returned, bringing with it that strange new sensation in her heart. With trembling hands, she drew on the long kid gloves, softer than suede.

She’d expected him to be waiting impatiently for her, and she paused for an instant on the threshold of his study for him to appraise her. Holding her breath as he came to her, she waited to hear his comments.

“There you are,” he said. “We’re only just going to be in time.” His hands did not linger as he draped her cloak over her shoulders. Danita’s pleasure in her appearance popped like a soap bubble, bright-hued one moment, nonexistent the next.

The Royal Crescent was an imposing structure that every visitor to Bath eagerly visited early in their stay. Danita and Berenice had lined up with the rest. There was, however, considerable difference between strolling along past the sternly identical town houses in the light of a bright early summer day, and visiting them in the evening, when every window glowed in the misty darkness.

As Danita emerged from the chair, dimly heard stories of bold-eyed courtesans and wild, reckless gambling in high life circulated through her brain. It was her trust in Sir Carleton alone that kept her from demanding that the chairmen take her back. All the same, as she followed him, she recalled caricatures of the Prince Regent and his cronies deep in play, while hard drinking and scandalous revelry went on all around them.

Entering the house, a gorgeously appareled majordomo took her cloak and then led them to the second floor. He announced Sir Carleton. Five men, their complexions washed out beneath the light of a brilliant lustre looked in their direction.

“Oh, God,” one said, fleshy cheeks swelling upward from a high collar, almost swallowing his narrow eyes, “he’s brought his doxy with him.” Another man laughed, coarsely, Danita thought.

In the past, Danita had often quelled a group of unruly students. Men could not be that much different. Schooling her features to be expressionless, Danita surveyed the flabby gentleman who had spoken. He reached out a fist for his wineglass and knocked it over. As he mopped frantically at the table with his handkerchief, Danita let her cool gaze fall on every man at the table.

Some looked away. Still others strove to return impudence for impudence. One in particular, the oldest man there, met her stare with cool conceit before he dropped his black eyes, not to the table, but to her figure. Danita felt he was dangerous and before him alone did her gaze falter.

Only once did she smile, and then hastily mastered herself. Upon seeing her, the young Earl of Framstead, in the act of swallowing his wine, gulped, coughed and turned an interesting shade of vermilion. Gasping for air, his eyes like gooseberries, he stared at her until Sir Carleton passed behind him and slapped him forcefully on the back. “Find a chair for my guest, will you, old man? I’ll take your seat. It’s sure to be lucky. What’s the game, gentlemen?”

“We were amusing ourselves with a trifle of
vingt-et-un,
until you should honor us,” the dangerous man said.

“I thank Your Grace. But as I am now here, what game, gentlemen?”

With a sneer, the duke said, “The most mathematical game, by which I mean the one that leaves the least to chance. Sir Carleton, is whist.”

“Undoubtedly, Your Grace. What say the other gentlemen?”

“Damned dull game. Let’s play something with some snap to it, hey?” The flabby man, catching sight of the duke’s face, reversed himself and said, “Er, um, yes, excuse me. Let it be whist by all means.”

Smiling at this recovery by one who was obviously a toady of the meanest sort. Sir Carleton said, “I am agreeable. But are we not too many for a single table and too few for another?”

“Viscount Norbridge will keep score. Your young friend needn’t play, either,” the duke replied as Lord Framstead, still goggling at Danita, carried in another chair.

“No, I’m far enough down as it is,” he answered, recovering himself. “Where do you want to sit. Miss ... I mean...?”

Sir Carleton said, pointing over his shoulder, “Put it back there, if you’ll be so good. You’ll be able to see the play very well, my dear.”

Danita seated herself regally, bestowing an austere smile upon Lord Framstead for his effort to make her comfortable. It was not long before the others forgot her presence. The air filled with pungent cigar smoke, sharp language, and wit of the commoner sort. Though the chair was hard and the atmosphere thick, Danita soon found her attention absorbed by the play before her.

It seemed obvious that the sharp-featured Duke of Lichoakes was not interested in any other player but Sir Carleton. The rest might win or lose rubbers as it pleased them, but the cold black eyes of the duke only brightened when Sir Carleton laid down losing hands. The marked lines in the nobleman’s face engraved themselves more deeply when the line of tricks grew longer before the Irish baronet. The others began to feel the antagonism between the two men, and little by little they ceased to hurl rough jests.