The Prince of Ravenscar (7 page)

What a dreadful thing to say, you old besom.
Roxanne paused for only a moment, tenting her fingers and tapping them against her chin. “Do you know,” she said, limp as a lily pad, “Devlin told me he finds Sophie exactly to his taste. He tells me she is amusing and beautiful, and her lovely inches add to her appeal—”

“When would my dear son tell you anything, Miss Radcliffe? It is not you who have been hanging about him, it is this one, who, I believe now, is indeed an heiress, since Corinne wants her for her son. So I will know the truth. Are you an heiress?” A large finger covered nearly to the knuckle with a mammoth sapphire ring pointed at Sophie.

Roxanne continued as if Lorelei had never spoken. “And he much admires Sophie's lovely complexion, all golden and rich, the perfect foil to his glorious pallor—”

“Enough, Miss Radcliffe! You are impertinent. I will not have it. You”—she shook her beringed finger again at Sophie—“you will answer me now. If your answer is not satisfactory, you will stay away from my son.”

Sophie gave her a sweet smile. “As I said, your grace, my situation is none of your affair.”

“This is not to be borne!” The duchess flounced out, head up, shoulders squared, her immense net bonnet with abundant bunches of purple grapes quivering, looking like a regal purple ship under full sail. She whipped about in the doorway. “You are an heiress, aren't you?”

When the two ladies only stared at her, she yelled at Mint to open the door so she could leave this den of iniquity. She was not, she boomed, in a voice more penetrating than Mrs. Eldridge's, pleased.

“Well,” Roxanne said, after they heard the front door close, “that was entertaining. Let the old battle-ax stew on that. An heiress or not an heiress, that is the question. Let's go to Hookham's; there is a new novel I have heard about.”

 

 

 

M
y lady, the two young female persons I believe you told his lordship you found vastly amusing at the Buxted ball are here to see you,” Willicombe said, bowed, stood back, and ushered Sophie and Roxanne into the lovely classical drawing room, filled with sunlight, a valuable commodity on any day in England. Willicombe bowed deep again to Corrie, this time at a different angle, not out of respect, she knew, but to allow the sunlight to shine off his bald head.

“Thank you, Willicombe,” Corrie Sherbrooke said, and rose quickly, too quickly. “Oh, dear,” she said, and dashed to a covered pot behind a wing chair in the corner of the room and threw up.

Roxanne started forward, but Willicombe raised a hand. “Pray be seated, ma'am,” he said, and walked in his stately way to where his mistress was on her knees, heaving. He poured a dollop of clear liquid into a glass, eased down beside his mistress, and held out the glass and a handkerchief. “When you drink it down, my lady, you may have one of Cook's special biscuits.”

“I hate you, Willicombe.”

“I know, my lady, I would most assuredly hate me as well, were I to be hugging the chamber pot as you are. Drink this wondrous potion. It will set you back on a fine course. Who knows, you may steer straight into the wind for several hours before you again crash into the shoals.”

“I am not a bloody boat, Willicombe.”

“No, indeed, my lady, but if you were, you would be a lovely yacht, similar to his lordship's
Esmerelda,
whose sails billow so prettily in the wind.”

Corrie Sherbrooke's eyes nearly crossed. She wiped her mouth, then took the glass, gave it a look of loathing, and tipped it down. She sputtered and coughed. “I have downed that nasty stuff, now give me my biscuit, Willicombe, before I clout you.”

Without a word, Willicombe handed her what looked like a piece of a scone.

After a minute of silent chewing, Corrie drew a breath and allowed Willicombe to assist her to rise. She sent a dazzling smile to Roxanne and Sophie, both still standing by the door.

“Such drama I provide, and all on your first visit. Hello, Miss Radcliffe. Ah, you must be Miss Wilkie.”

Roxanne said, “Yes, this is my niece, Sophie Wilkie. Sophie, Lady Hammersmith.”

“A pleasure. Do call me Corrie, both of you. I am very pleased you are here.”

Sophie said, “That is very kind of you. Believe me, it was not our intention to make you sick. Goodness, perhaps we should take our leave.”

“I should be alone in the world if everyone were to leave me when I got ill. The sickness comes and it goes. My mama-in-law assures me I have but two more weeks and all the pots can be packed away—until the next time.”

Sophie stared at her, clearly appalled. “You wish to have a next time?”

“I should shoot myself if I believed for a minute I should wish for a next time. However, my husband, James, tells me he is assured by my physician, a sadist in Harley Street named Silas Legbourne, that the good Lord wipes away a lady's memories of all the unpleasantness of childbearing.”

Sophie said, “How utterly unfair. Are you sure this physician knows what he is talking about? Oh, dear, I just thought of Mrs. Masonry back home. She has birthed ten children. Oh, goodness, after all that, how could you possibly have any memories left in your head at all?”

Willicombe cleared his throat.

“Yes, Willicombe?”

“Dr. Legbourne assures all of us, my lady, that a readjustment of a lady's memories in this instance is critical to humanity, that if it were not the case, then the world would empty itself of people enough, what with the excessive croaking that goes on. So, he concludes, ladies must forget all their travails in order to further produce replacement human beings to fill our world.”

Roxanne said to the plump little man with his perfectly round bald head, “You have made an excellent point. But would it not lead one to inevitably conclude that ladies are then responsible for all wars and famine and general misery in the world?”

Willicombe recognized the light hand that had delivered the lovely irony, but before he could reply in equally stunning irony, Lord Hammersmith appeared in the doorway, took in his wife's pale face and the two ladies who looked, he thought, equal parts bemused and horrified, and said, “Good morning, ladies. Corrie, you look ready for a bit of brandy.”

All female eyes followed him as he walked to the sideboard, lifted a lovely crystal carafe, and poured his wife a dollop of brandy. He wrapped her white hands around the snifter and watched her drink it down, shudder when the heat landed in her belly. He then took her arm and led her to a high-backed pale blue chair. He said over his shoulder, “She is nearly herself again. My mother's potion and Cook's scones always work wonders.”

He leaned down and kissed his wife's forehead.

All it took was for Corrie to look up at him and she forgot about smashing him for getting her into this fix. She loved him too much, she supposed, and was, she realized, quite ready to forget her travails, which didn't say much for her brains. She managed a sneer. “You wouldn't sound so calm, so very bored, if you were the one lurching toward chamber pots in every single room in this bloody town house.”

“Of course not,” he said, “but I am not the heroine here, you are.” He patted her cheek and turned. “Willicombe, she drank down my mother's potion and ate her reward scone?” At the profound bow, James added, “Magnificent shine this morning, Willicombe. Now, you are Miss Radcliffe and Miss Wilkie, are you not?”

We are no more than six feet from him,
Roxanne thought, staring into those unbelievable violet eyes, which, she saw, held concern for his wife and good manners toward his doubtless unwanted guests.

“Yes, we are,” Sophie said, and to Roxanne's eyes, she appeared unaffected by this god of a man. “I agree, Corrie is a heroine. However, I believe we have come at a particularly bad time. We will take our leave.”

“Oh, no,” Corrie said. “I am feeling quite fine now. Willicombe, please fetch us some cakes and tea. James, will you remain, or have you an engagement?”

He eyed her, seemed reassured. “I am meeting Father at Signore Ricalli's. Mother might be there as well. She told me she needed to polish her fencing skills. You've never seen her fence, Corrie, she's really rather good, fast as a flea, hops around my father, makes him curse and laugh. Try not to throw up on your slippers, sweetheart. Your maid told me three pairs have already been sent to the dustbin.”

“I simply can't figure out how I manage to do that, I mean, my skirts stick out a good five feet,” Corrie said, and took a quick look at her favorite Pomona green slippers. Not this time, thank the good Lord.

“You have big feet.”

She threw a pillow at him, which he plucked out of the air not six inches from his perfect nose. She said, “There is no reason to tell our guests all of my defects on their first visit. Now, after I have given you your heir, I should like to polish my fencing skills as well.”

“Why not? I like your feet, they're substantial, they can waltz for hours, and I imagine they will support your growing weight.”

“Your wit fells me, James.” She threw another pillow at him when he laughed. He caught it as well, and tossed it back to her, smiled at all the ladies, and walked out of the drawing room, whistling.

“Sometimes I want to clout him,” Corrie said, smiling comfortably at both of them. “But he makes me laugh, you see, so what am I to do?” She sat forward in her chair, eyes sparkling, yet she'd been violently ill only five minutes before. “So tell me what you think of my vampire.”

Truth be told, Roxanne would have rather spoken at great length about Corrie's husband, couching her interest in questions about his lordship's work in astronomy, but it was not to be. Roxanne gave it up. “Ah, Devlin. He does enjoy shocking people, curdling their innards when he talks about otherworldly bloodletting, giving them little frissons of dread when he looks pointedly at their necks. All in all, I should have to say I find Devlin Monroe vastly amusing. How long has he been playing this role?”

Corrie said, “I heard he read some ancient books at Oxford. There was a drawing of a vampire, and he decided he'd make a better bloodletter than the monster shown—he'd be more discreet.” She laughed.

Sophie said, “Was he not one of your beaux before you married Lord Hammersmith?”

“Mayhap, but not really, if you know what I mean. I met Devlin when I came to London last fall for my practice Season. Unfortunately, I was not granted much of one, since—well, a number of strange things happened to spur James and me into marriage.”

Sophie said, “Lady Klister confided in me that Devlin was brokenhearted when Lord Hammersmith got kidnapped and you went haring off after him and were ruined and thus forced to marry him, not Devlin.”

“Marry Devlin? That brings strange sorts of images to the mind, doesn't it? As for Devlin being brokenhearted, that is doubtful, since James told me he keeps three mistresses—yes, indeed,
three
mistresses—and all at the same time—at least he did last fall. I am being scrupulously honest here, since my husband assured me it was critical to our child's future sense of morality.”

Roxanne was riveted. “
Three
mistresses?
All at the same time?
Are you certain about this? I mean, how could any gentleman have the time to go from one to the other to the other to the other? It is absurd. Surely it is one of those male sorts of exaggerations.”

“To the best of my knowledge, James has never lied to me. He said I couldn't marry Devlin because when I found out the mistresses were still in the picture, I would kill him and then be hung, and he didn't want me to end up dead because of Devlin's excesses. I, of course, told him since Devlin is already dead, being a vampire and all, I couldn't be hung.”

Roxanne was shaking her head. “I simply can't believe it.
Three,
Corrie? As in three separate and different mistresses?”

Corrie gave a merry laugh. “Can you imagine? Three mistresses and a wife? The man would die of exhaustion, don't you think?” Corrie tapped her fingers on her chair arm. “Forgive me for being indelicate. Since you are not married and do not know of marital sorts of things, I shouldn't be speaking of—ah, but James—well, never mind that. I have known Lord Hammersmith since I was three years old. I know all his habits, good and rotten. Since the scales tip in his favor, I have no regrets. However, I envy both of you. You can sow wild oats until the bucket is empty, whereas I must be a proper wife and become fat.” She burst into tears.

Roxanne quickly rose and walked to sit beside Corrie, and pulled her into her arms. “It will be all right.” Pat, pat, pat. “Surely your husband does not have all that many rotten habits, and since you know all of them, you must also know how to punish him when he backslides into them. There is another thing about your husband—you can also simply sit and look at him, and surely that would bring great pleasure.”

Corrie pulled back. “Forgive me, it's not the thought of being wedded to James that makes me weep, it is the babe. I burst into tears upon being presented to his majesty the king. He was quite without a word to say. My papa-in-law told his majesty the babe, even unborn, was so overcome in his presence, he made his mother weep.

“You cannot imagine the ruckus that caused. My papa-in-law laughed for a good week. About my husband, you're right, Roxanne. I particularly like to look at him when he's sleeping. Every contrary sin he's committed during the day simply disappears when the candlelight flickers over his lovely self. I try and try, but I can only remain angry with him when I am at least one room away.”