Mistress at Midnight (4 page)

Lord Hawkhurst stood next to a beautiful woman, her face wreathed in kindness.

‘Lady Cassandra Lindsay, may I introduce Mrs Aurelia St Harlow.’

Lady Cassandra did not falter as she put out her hand in welcome, the grasp of her fingers warm and lingering. Such unexpected amiability was surprising, for it was far more common to encounter only censure.

‘It has been a long while since I remember Stephen conversing so fervently with a dance partner.’

‘The music did not allow him the courtesy of bidding me farewell, I am afraid, my lady,’ she returned. ‘I am certain he was much relieved when he was able to escape, though he has promised my sister a dance.’ She got this in because Lord Hawkhurst looked anything but happy on the other side of the small circle of people.

‘Oh, I rather think her card is full already, Mrs St Harlow. My brother Rodney has pencilled in at least two waltzes.’

Leonora fussed prettily as Lady Lindsay
introduced her brother to Aurelia and a small bloom of hope lingered in the air.

Could it even possibly be this easy? When Aurelia looked across at Lord Hawkhurst she saw the gold shards in his eyes harden. He was the tallest man in the room and easily the most prepossessing. No wonder women fell over their feet to be near him. But there was something under the visage that he presented to this society that was…darker.

Glancing away, she made much of extracting a lace handkerchief from her reticule. Charles had had the same sort of darkness, and look where that had got her.

Her sister, on the other hand, had a broad smile on her face and was using her fan most agilely. Aurelia had never seen her so animated and hoped that this was not a bad thing. Did men like a woman to talk quite as much? Was it not too forward to tap a man on the arm in the way that she was doing? Lady Lindsay’s brother did not look in the slightest bit offended so perhaps such behaviour was expected. The headache that had been forming all day raked at the sides of her temple because she doubted that they would ever be given such a chance as excellent
as this one again. The thought of coming away without contacts was dispiriting.

‘Mr Northrup enjoys riding, Lia. I said he should accompany us for a canter around the Park.’ Her sister’s eyes were wide with hope, the blue in them matching her gown.

‘Perhaps he should be careful, then, not to jump hedges,’ Hawkhurst drawled in reply, though Cassandra Lindsay merely swatted his arm with her fan.

‘Take no notice of Hawk, Mrs St Harlow. Charles was always taking great chances to show off his jumping skills. I couldn’t believe he had not broken his neck before he…’ She petered off, her brow furrowing, and the man beside her, whom Lia did not as yet know, began to speak.

‘Before he died in the same way that the legends abounding in Transylvania tell of?’

Vampires? He spoke of such? The conversation amongst this group of people seemed irreverent and quick witted. No taboos. No carefully untouched subjects, and after Charles’s rigid lack if humour such wit was refreshing. They laughed a lot, too, she thought, though Lord Hawkhurst’s smile came nowhere near his eyes.

‘You must not mind Hawk and my husband
Nathaniel at all, Mrs St Harlow. I know how very difficult Charles’s death must have been for you and I am certain that Rodney would love the chance of being invited into the charming company of your sister for an afternoon’s ride. Where do you reside here in London?’

‘Braeburn House, Lady Lindsay, in Mayfair.’ Leonora was quick with her directions and Aurelia could only applaud her sister’s acumen at seizing the moment, but the thought of Hawkhurst paying a social call was worrying.

What would he see there that she had tried to hide? Would they expect to meet Papa? Was there a chance he might talk with those about the area and understand things that she had been so successful thus far in concealing from others?

She was so exhausted with trying to tie all the threads of her life together she could barely breathe. How quickly could it all unravel?

The arrival of a young blonde woman and an older one within the group changed the tone of what was spoken of as introductions were given.

‘You look as beautiful as ever, Lady Berkeley,’
Cassandra’s husband said as he kissed the back of the woman’s hand.

‘You were always the flatterer, Lord Lindsay. Your mother was the same, God bless her soul.’

The chatter was convivial and familiar between the people who had grown up all of their lives inside the sheltered world of the
ton
. Were Stephen Hawkhurst and Elizabeth Berkeley a couple promised to each other? The thought made Aurelia’s head throb harder and she knew that she did not fit in here. She watched as the younger Berkeley woman shyly laid her gloved fingers on Lord Hawkhurst’s arm and asked him a question beneath her breath.

His reply was as softly given back, the girl’s cheeks glowing as excitement filled her eyes. Elizabeth Berkeley was like the first flush of some exquisite English rose: all promise, sweetness and hope. Aurelia could not remember a time when she had ever been like that.

At five she had watched her mother pack her bags and disappear. At six she had been the unwanted stepdaughter of her father’s new wife and at seventeen Charles St Harlow
had entered her life, like a falling star burning brightly.

Another waltz was struck and Lord Hawkhurst and Elizabeth Berkeley excused themselves to take to the floor, his arm around the young woman’s waist in a careful ownership, the height and colouring of each exactly complementing the other.

‘Did you know Hawk well when you were married to his cousin, Mrs St Harlow?’ The question was from Cassandra Lindsay, eyes full of curiosity as she moved to stand directly beside Aurelia.

‘No, I never once met him. His uncle, however, was a friend.’

A smile lit up Lady Lindsay’s entire face. ‘Alfred is rather picky about who he accords friendship to. Take Elizabeth Berkeley, for instance. I doubt he realises she exists.’

‘She is very beautiful.’

‘And quite lovely with it, which is a relief beyond measure if Stephen should decide to offer for her.’

‘Which he will?’ Aurelia had not meant to ask the question, and from the sharp interest in green eyes knew she had made a mistake by doing so. She was glad of the barrier of thick glass.

‘Lord Hawkhurst has never taken a wife and his estate is more than healthy, so it behoves him to provide heirs. How long were you married to Charles?’

‘Three years, my lady.’ The tone of her voice was flatter than it should have been but tonight, with Leonora’s face alight with possibility and hope, Aurelia was finding it hard to feign her usual pretence.

Cassandra Lindsay’s next words were therefore unexpected. ‘We are having a house party at our country estate in Kent in early September. Would you and your sister like to join us for the weekend?’

Her heart began to beat a little faster, the rhythm of it imbued with an unfamiliar kind of joy. It had been so long since a stranger had reached out a hand in friendship. Still, she could not quite accept the gift without honesty.

‘Perhaps Leonora could attend with a chaperon, Lady Lindsay. My presence may be detrimental to the success of your gathering, you see, for there are many stories about me—’

Cassandra Lindsay broke in. ‘There are always rumours, Mrs St Harlow, and there are always detractors, but anyone whom Uncle
Alfred takes a shine to I would trust with my life.’

‘Thank you.’ The ache in her throat was surprising as she glanced around, the heavy frowns of others less intimidating after such a conversation.

As the music ended the party regrouped. Elizabeth Berkeley had joined her mother to one side of the room, chatting with a group of other young women all dressed in differing shades of yellow. Stephen Hawkhurst unexpectedly walked back to Aurelia’s side.

‘Are you promised for this set, Mrs St Harlow?’

His question came quietly and in response Aurelia showed him her dance card without a scribble upon it. ‘I seldom garner partners, my lord,’ she returned, ‘and certainly never the same man twice.’

His mouth turned up as he observed the empty page, and with the gracious strains of Strauss from the orchestra at the head of the room Aurelia felt disorientated.

Something else lingered there, too, but she did not care to examine those feelings as his fingers lifted the battered spectacles from her nose and held them away for a moment.

‘Is that better?’

The faces of those around them came into full focus. ‘Disfavour is often easier to stomach when it is barely seen, my lord.’

‘Many here have their own skeletons should one bother to dig deeper, Mrs St Harlow. Take heart, for you are not the only person in the room with a past.’

Aurelia glanced away as he replaced her looking glasses. Did he speak about himself?

His hair was draped long across the nape of a snowy, crisp white collar, strands of midnight reflecting blue, the sense of danger and menace that she associated with him heightened here.

Charles had been a man who had promised everything and delivered nothing, a liar and a cheat who used those in positions of less power ruthlessly. Stephen Hawkhurst appeared to be the very opposite. She could not imagine him striking fraudulent bargains or making empty promises.

As his uncle joined them, the old man’s hand reached down to extract a large handkerchief to wipe his shining brow. Alfred Hawkhurst’s eyes were more opaque than she remembered them to be and he had a wheeze that was concerning.

‘They don’t want me there, Stephen. They never do. I can feel it when I speak to people.’ His thin voice shook—a man who had had enough of the lofty world surrounding him.

‘I feel exactly the same, Lord Alfred,’ Aurelia began as his nephew failed to speak, ‘though I find that the wine is helping.’ She took two glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to him. Alfred smiled and downed the lot before leaning forwards in a conspiratorial way.

‘You were always a favourite, my dear, and I am glad that you do not seem so melancholy now. I used to worry for you when Charles was about.’

Embarrassment swept through Aurelia’s whole body. A thousand lies and yet an old man, reportedly mad, had seen through the lot of them. Like her father had. Catching the golden glance of Lord Hawkhurst, she looked away.

She had changed. She had grown up. No one could ever make her so sad again. The silk of Leonora’s dress swirled cornflower blue in the middle of the floor, the weave of silver within it catching the light.

Macclesfield silk. Her lifeblood.

‘I am more than content, Lord Alfred.’ And quite competent, too, she thought. Dancing, needlework, luncheons and music—the pursuits of a well-brought-up young lady had long ceased to be a part of her domain. She tried hard to smile. She fitted nowhere now, like Alfred, lost in the middle somehow, an eternal outsider, looking in but never belonging. Not even knowing how to.

Her fingers strayed to the pendant at her throat, clutching The single diamond until she saw Lord Hawkhurst’s eye upon the piece. Why had she worn it? The kiss at Taylor’s Gap hung in the air between them in the particular manner of something unfinished. She could see the shape of it in his eyes and in the way he stood, his shoulders rigid with the tension of memory.

‘I have always loved jewellery.’ Alfred’s proclamation was welcomed for it broke the unease, his outstretched hand touching the piece. ‘What would you wish to be paid for this, my dear? Is it for sale?’

Hawkhurst carefully moved him back. ‘Mrs St Harlow holds the bauble in much esteem and would part with it only under the most extreme of circumstances, Alfred.’

‘She told you of that?’

‘Indeed she did.’ Shadows moved across his face, the planes at his cheeks softer now, and her body recalled the feel of Lord Hawkhurst’s skin beneath her fingers, warm and solid, lips slanting deep with the taste of safety.

Aurelia shook her head. Such dreams were not ones she could contemplate again. Besides, had not Cassandra Lindsay stressed the need of a suitable bride at Atherton?

The black bombazine covering her from neck to foot was synonymous with the sort of life she led. Secretive. Careful. Lonely. In bed well after midnight and up well before the dawn.

When Elizabeth Berkeley came back to the circle Aurelia excused herself and wound her way to the ladies’ room, where she sat for a good three-quarters of an hour on a chair in the small salon, completely impervious to the stares of others who were also using the chamber.

Another twenty minutes and she could be gone.

Hawk felt Elizabeth’s fingers entwined in the fabric of his sleeve. He wished he might have shaken her off and followed Aurelia St
Harlow to wherever it was she had gone at least half an hour ago, but appearances had to be maintained and he was always careful in this respect.

Cassie Lindsay watched him vigilantly, too, as she had done for months now, her eyes upon him filled with question. She had made it known that she had asked Mrs St Harlow and her sister to their country seat of St Auburn’s in a few weeks’ time and that the invitation had been accepted.

The evening was going exactly as Mrs St Harlow would have wished it to and yet now she had disappeared off into a crowd that detested her and was lost to sight.

Alfred had gone looking for her. Just that fact amazed him as his uncle seldom stayed for more than a few moments at any of these public gatherings and never inveigled himself into the lives of those he met here. And what did he damn well mean by referring to her melancholy?

‘I just love the colours of the gowns and the music, don’t you, my lord? Everyone says that yellow is quite the shade of things this season.’ Under the candelabras, Elizabeth’s cheekbones were striking.

‘Then you are eminently in fashion,’ he
returned, her gown the colour of sunbeams shimmering in the light. The black bombazine of Mrs St Harlow came to mind, for his cousin had been years dead already and it was far past time to throw off the shades of mourning. He wondered how her hair might look against emerald green or a deep translucent gold.

No. He needed innocence and a lack of complication, he must remember that, the artless push of purity scattering the oncoming darkness. Why, Aurelia St Harlow probably had as many demons inside her as he did.