Duel of Hearts (18 page)

“How very good of both of you. Shall I need my shawl, do you think?”

“Warm out,” Gil reassured her.

“You will charm every fellow who sees you,” Hugh offered gallantly.

“Spanish coin,” Leah teased with a lightness she did not feel. “But I nonetheless thank you for it.”

Outside, the sun was shining and the temperature quite pleasant. Hugh's carriage, with its leather hood folded back, afforded an excellent view as they wended their way through the London streets toward Hyde Park. Leah, unconscious of the fetching picture she presented in her sage-green dress and her new high-crowned Parisian hat with feathers that curved along the upturned brim, sat across from the two men. Other vehicles drew up as they came abreast and greetings were exchanged by the curious.

A lone horseman approached on Gil's side and raised his hand in salute. Before Hugh could urge his driver on, Leah leaned to the side of her seat to hail the Earl of Rotherfield. “Marcus!” she called out brightly.

“Lady Lyndon,” he acknowledged with a grave inclination of his black head. “Had I known you favored a drive, I should have offered to take you myself.”

“Oh, hallo, Marcus,” Gil muttered. “Got to move- traffic, you know.”

As there were not above five vehicles in the park so early, Rotherfield raised a skeptical eyebrow and a faint smile played at his mouth. “Shocking squeeze,” he agreed imperturbably. “Your servant, Renfield—a pleasure speaking with you, Rivington,” he adde0d.

Gil waited until they were out of hearing before turning his attention across to Leah. “Been meaning to speak to you of him, Lady Lyndon. Shocking bad
ton
to acknowledge him, my dear—ain't at all the sort of man a female ought to admit to knowing.”

“Why?” she asked bluntly. “I find him quite charming.”

Hugh choked and them reddened when she fixed him with those strange eyes of hers. “It is not the sort of thing one can tell a lady,” he evaded. “Sordid story.”

“Gil?”

“Can't say—let it suffice that any female'd be queer in the attic to encourage him.”

“Lord Renfield, I assure you that I do not suffer from an excess of sensibility, nor am I easily disgusted. If Lord Rotherfield's crime is so unspeakable, then why is he not clapped up in jail? Or swinging from the Nubbin' Cheat?” she demanded. “He has never been anything but a gentleman to me.”—

“Well, he ain't,” Gil answered dampeningly.

“I find nothing to dislike in his person or his character,” she persisted, still trying to discover what had put Rotherfield so far beyond the pale.

“His character?” they chorused almost in unison. “He has none!”

“Well-”

“Ah … have you seen Eliza Vestris in The Beggar's Opera yet?” Hugh asked hastily. ‘ Ί have heard ‘tis quite her best role.”

“What? Oh, I daresay it is.” Following Hugh's lead, Gil leaned across to address Leah directly. “Have you heard Vestris? Got a prime voice, I can tell you.”

‘I have never been to the opera, my lord.”

“You ain't? Well, now's the time to go, ain't it, Hugh? Promised to each other anyways, so it don't matter if we add another head to the party.”

“Oh, no, I—”

“Bring Tony also,” Hugh suggested.

“Ah, I believe Tony is out for the evening, sirs.” The reminder of how her husband had left his house lowered her spirits again, and then she forced herself to brighten. “But that is not to say I shall not be delighted.”

“Done.”

On the way back to Lyndon House, she decided that she had too much pride to let Tony know how badly he'd hurt her. She was going to the opera, holding her head high in the company of two of London's eligible bachelors, and the
ton
could stare at her if they wished.

S
ettled into her well-situated box with a full half-hour to spare before curtain time, the dowager duchess gestured imperiously for her glass, ready to begin quite the most diverting portion of the evening. Squinting hideously to focus on those around them, she began duly noting who was with whom for the edification of Mrs. Buckhaven.

“Ah, I knew it,” she announced smugly, “the crimcons have the right of it—there is Millbrook with Mrs. Pennington. Tsk,” she clucked disapprovingly. “And Lady Millbrook is but lately risen from childbed.” Slowly turning her glass around the crowd, she shook her head. “And there is Jeremy Fyfield with that dancer but lately come from Spain—it did not take her long to discover a patron, did it? Oh, look—'tis Lady Cresswaite with Mr. Ratcliffe—never say he is to be her latest lover. If she does not watch it, her brood will be called the Cresswaite miscellany. And there is Sally Jersey … mmmm … ought never to wear precisely that shade of puce, do you think?”

“Oh, dear ma'am—her companion leaned forward to compensate for her nearsightedness—”is that not Lord Blakemore … or could it be Mr. Thurston? The one in the green coat.”

“Where? Oh, good God, 'tis Tony!” The duchess let her glass fall, to dangle from its ribbon, as she gasped in shock. “Bucky, my salts!”

“In the green coat?” Mrs. Buckhaven asked doubtfully. “You must be mistaken, ma'am, for Lyndon would not wear green. I—”

“That wretched boy! Whatever can he be thinking?

The salts, Bucky!” Hester Havinghurst leaned back in her seat as though she thought to faint.

“Now, now, dear ma'am—it cannot be as bad as all that,” she murmured soothingly as she discovered the salts container and twisted open the lid. “Here … ” Waving it under her elderly employer's nose with one hand, she attempted to gain possession of the glass with the other, but already the dowager was lifting it again. “And that awful woman, Bucky!”

“Lady Lyndon? But I thought you—”

“Not Leah, paperskull! That Chandler creature!”

“Well!” Mrs. Buckhaven sank back, offended.

“Well, I daresay you are not a paperskull, Bucky,” the dowager offered in apology, “but I own I am overset. What
can
he be thinking? To appear publicly in her company so soon after he is returned from his wedding trip— oh, whatever will Mr. Cole think?”

“Poor Lady Lyndon—I pray she does not get wind of it,” Bucky offered more to the point. “But perhaps you are mistaken.”

“I know my great-nephew when I see him—it is he!” Hester declared stoutly. Her glass dropped again, to dangle from the ribbon.

Moving more quickly this time to retrieve it, Mrs. Buckhaven managed to gain possession and looked for herself. “Oh, dear—it is Lyndon!”

“I
told
you it was! Well, I shall simply have to take a hand in the matter, Bucky. Leah will not know how to go on if this becomes common knowledge, and there will be no scotching the
on-dit
now, I am sure. Mr. Cole will be mad as fire and will cut him off without a penny—the paperskull!”

“I say—”

“Not you this time! Tony!”

“Oh.” Taking advantage of having the glass, the companion scanned the crowd for herself, sweeping the boxes curiously to see who was attending to Lord Lyndon's behavior. “Oh, my,” she breathed faintly. “Oh, dear.”

“I wish you would pay attention, Bucky,” the dowager complained with feeling. “There is Lyndon whistling a fortune down the wind, and—”

“But ‘tis Lady Lyndon!”

“
Leah?
Here? Bucky, give over my glass! Where is she? Perhaps you could go over and gain her attention, say I am ill … anything—”

“She has seen him.”

“Oh, merciful heavens! Whatever … ?”

“She acknowledged him, ma'am—nodded to him as politely as you please, she did. Lud! How he could prefer anyone to her is beyond understanding.”

“Give me my glass!”

Reluctantly her companion relinquished it, but not until she took one last look. “Between the two of them, I'd say ‘tis Lady Lyndon who is the Incomparable, ma'am.”

As Hester again scanned the audience, her worst fears were confirmed. Leah, utterly stunning in a sea-green gauze and exquisite emeralds, sat serenely between lords Renfield and Rivington whilst everyone watched her, some even having the effrontery to point and comment openly.

When she'd seen her husband and the Chandler woman, Leah's heart had plummeted and remained like a heavy knot in her stomach, but she'd not give him the satisfaction of a scene. She was no ill-bred harpy quick to dispute possession of a man. Despite her inner turmoil, she turned to her companions with resolve and ignored the looks of those around her. In sympathy, Gil's hand crept to pat hers as he hissed in a low underbreath, “Sorry for this—wouldn't have had it happen for the world.”

Hugh, confirmed bachelor that he was, felt for her also. Lifting his program to shield their faces, he whispered bracingly, “Put her on the run—you are ten times better-looking and at least five years younger. Just smile as though you don't care a fig for it.”

Elaine stared across the intervening space, ready to gloat over her triumph, but the sight of her rival turned the taste of victory to ashes in her mouth. The Leah Barsett who'd returned from Paris bore little resemblance to the Leah Cole she'd seen earlier. Her tawny hair was knotted almost severely atop her head, pulled back without so much as a loose strand to frame her face, allowing the perfection of that face to stand alone, starkly setting off a profile as fine as any sculpture. The girl's dress was in the latest Parisian style—cut wide, off the shoulders almost, to expose an expanse of creamy skin above a broad ruffle that obscured her breasts and formed short sleeves. And the necklace, which could only be guessed at from the distance, glittered a deep green at her white throat. For the first time in her memory, Elaine Chandler felt dowdy.

Feeling he had created a social disaster, Gil carried on manfully, setting about to give everyone the impression that he was enthralled with the lovely Lady Lyndon. And Hugh, who had never been in the petticoat line himself, betook it upon himself to appear equally enchanted, hanging on every word uttered by her. And all three of them fervently hoped the curtain would go up quickly.

As for Tony, any perverse enjoyment he'd had in asserting his independence from his equally independent wife was dispelled when he saw her. He'd not really wanted to see Elaine at all, had regretted his hasty decision to accompany her to the opera well before they'd even reached King's Theater, and now it seemed that his world was truly crumbling around him. There was nothing he could think of that would make things right with the wife he truly loved. Jealousy, he was fast discovering, was a dangerous and destructive thing.

Mercifully, the music began in earnest and the lights dimmed as the curtain rose. Eliza Vestris, whom critics insisted “sang like an angel,” was in exceptional voice, but none of the principals in the dramatic farce unfolding in the audience noted it. To a person, they dreaded the intermission with its gossipy interbox visitations. Almost before the last note had been sung and the lights came up again, Gil excused himself to have a few choice words with Tony Barsett. Hugh, still nonplussed by the social implications of it all, gallantly offered to procure a glass of lemonade for Leah, leaving her quite briefly in the company of Renfield's footmen after her repeated assurances that she was in far greater need of refreshment than conversation. And Tony manfully determined to see his wife, missing Gil on the way.

Rotherfield himself had observed most of the unfolding drama from the recesses of his own box, and considered the whole affair could not have been better if he had been allowed to plan it. As Gil and Hugh left, he thought to seek out Leah, only to find Tony there first. Biding his time to console the injured bride, he eased himself into the Bagshot box, sending the eldest daughter's suitors scattering and striking horror in both the girl and her mother, who were certain that the earl's attentions would discourage more eligible bachelors.

“Leah …” Tony hesitated in view of his wife's decidedly cold countenance. “Believe me, I would not have had this occur for the world,” he said, groping for encouragement and finding none.

“ 'Twas not my intent to embarrass you. I—”

“ 'Tis of no moment, my lord,” she assured him frostily. “I quite understand the ways of the
ton
now, I believe. Gentlemen are supposed to engage in liaisons with numerous females of every class, unmarried females are forbidden all but the most superficial and well-chaperoned discourse with gentlemen—and for good reason, I might note—while married
ladies
are free to pursue both married and unmarried gentlemen in the absences of their husbands, who are themselves busy being gentlemen. My mistake, of course, has been one of class—I can quite see that now—and I am prepared to rectify my error.” Her gray eyes sparking martially, she nonetheless kept her voice calm and clipped. “As a titled lady, I shall of course cast about for a suitable lover.” “You will not. Leah—”

“Alas, but did no one of your impeccable gentlemen friends tell you it is considered quite gauche for either of us to cut up a dust over this state of affairs?” she asked with a decided lift to her eyebrow. “I am prepared to be quite
ladylike
about your lapse, that you may go pursue your Other Interests.”

“If you think to make me jealous of Gil or Hugh, you are very wide of the mark, Leah. And as for Elaine, you have given me sufficient provocation that—”

“No,” she interrupted coldly. “We are far too civilized as lady and gentleman to engage in a fisticuff of words. If you will pardon me, I find you decidedly
de trop
, Tony.”

“Leah … ”he warned.

“Your friends amongst the
ton
are looking at you, so I think it best that you leave before you afford them further gossip,” she told him definitely. “Good night, sir.”

That her chill reception indicated an anger every bit as great as his earlier was not lost on him. Bowing stiffly over her hand, he attempted to withdraw gracefully. “I will see you at home, madam.”

Outside the box, Hugh approached with two glasses of lemonade. “Hallo, Tony,” he greeted Lyndon. “Deuced awkward thing for you to do, what with Lady L. in attendance. Don't think I'd try to speak with her just yet.”

“I already have,” Tony snapped as he pushed past him.

“Sorry, my dear,” Hugh told Leah, handing her one glass. “Shouldn't have left you alone.” Looking across to where a middle-aged woman in a plumed turban gestured frantically toward him, he waved back. “My mother,” he explained succinctly.

“Should you not speak with her?” Leah asked,-eager to be left alone just then. “I assure you that the worst is over—Tony has already been here.”

“I saw him.” He was somewhat reluctant to leave her, knowing full well his mother meant to read him a peal over Lyndon's lady. “Well, I daresay you are right,” he admitted grudgingly. “And Gil should return at any moment.”

To the Bagshots, it was a matter of infinite relief when Rotherfield murmured a hasty farewell and left them. “Countess or not, miss, I won't have you throwing your hat over the windmill for him,” Mrs. Bagshot told her daughter with unwarranted severity.

“Oh, no, Mama—he positively terrifies me,” the girl reassured her with an expressive shudder.

“I should hope so.”

“Ah, Lady Lyndon,” Rotherfield greeted Leah with a genuine smile. “You are in looks tonight, my dear,” he approved.

“Spanish coin, sir.”

“Now, why is it that those who possess it deny beauty, whilst those who lack any claim whatsover preen and priss in the mistaken notion they have it?” He took the liberty of sitting beside her, leaning closer to congratulate her. “Well done, my dear—your behavior in the matter is above reproach. And you are quite the most beautiful woman here, Leah. Elaine is hagged in comparison.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said this time. Out of the corner of her eye she could see people craning curiously to observe them, so she deliberately reached to tap Rotherfield playfully with her fan. “You know, you really must do something about this dreadful reputation of yours, as I keep receiving the direst warnings.”

“All deserved,” he admitted, grinning openly at her.

Across from them, the dowager duchess was again attempting to gain possession of her glass. “Bucky, your continuing theft prompts me to think I ought to give you one of your own,” she remarked peevishly. “Give it over.”

“Well,” her companion conceded in disappointment as she handed it back, “ ‘twas most diverting. First Lord Lyndon called on her, and they were to all appearances quite civil, and now Lord Rotherfield is paying his addresses, I believe.”

“Where?” Her eyes found the earl actually grinning at Lyndon's wife, and that disturbed the dowager far more than idle gossip. It had been years since she'd seen him smile openly. “Well, I shall have to take a hand, I think,” she announced to Mrs. Buckhaven.

“Now?”

“Of course not now! What would that be to the purpose? I shall call on her tomorrow and tell her how to go on.” Squinting again through the glass, she shook her head. “Besides, there is Gilbert Renfield.”

“Hallo, Marcus—you are in my chair,” Gil told the earl pointedly. “And you are like to stumble in the dark if you do not leave now.”

“I can find my way.”

“But can you repair the lady's rep?” Gil countered. “Got to go—my box, after all.”

Hugh, who had been waiting for Rotherfield to leave, sighed with relief when the earl brushed past him. “Stupid thing to do, Gil,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I mean, what if he'd taken the maggot into his brain to call you out?”