The Women of Eden (20 page)

Amazed at how lovely the evening had become, she closed her eyes and gave in to the glorious sensation of their bodies moving together, the flow of others around them, the enticing floral odors which permeated the Great Hall.

It was with a sense of regret that she heard the music come to a

halt. She opened her eyes to find him staring down on her, as though he, too, regretted that it was over.

"Would you care to—sit down?" he asked, as the couples shifted about them.

"Not really." She smiled, hoping that she wasn't being too daring.

"Shall we try again, then?" he asked, laughing, his arm still about her.

"Yes," she agreed, finding his face a continuous source of pleasure, a rugged face with a few fine lines about the corners of his eyes, a face quick with intelligence and something else, a sober quality that spoke of—what? Sorrow?

Then the music commenced again, the tempo slower this time, and she felt him draw her closer and did not object and discovered that by looking straight ahead her eyes just cleared his shoulder, and by concentrating further she was aware of his breath caressing the right side of her forehead.

"Lady Mary," he asked, his voice soft over the slowed tempo of the music, "may I—ask you a question?"

She looked up, amused by his formality. "Of course."

"Have you—ever seen me before?"

She thought at first that he was teasing. But she saw not a glint of humor on his face.

"Seen you before?" she repeated. "Where would I have seen you before?"

"Do you—know London?"

"Know it!" she exclaimed. "I hve there most of the time when I'm not at Eden."

"Do you know of—an establishment called Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club?"

The words approached her steadily over the music. It was several moments before she realized that they had stopped dancing, hearing not the music but Elizabeth's fearful warning. "What if someone should discover who you are, and tell John?"

"Mr. Stanhope, I think I should retire now."

"No, please, wait," he begged. "I did not mean to cause you distress." He led her toward the center of the Great Hall and out of the flow of dancers. "I simply wanted to tell you how much pleasure you have given me. Earlier I thought it was you, but wasn't certain until I heard your lovely voice."

Embarrassed, her mind turning on all the aspects of trouble he could cause for her, she tried to retreat.

But he protested a second time and held her close, and with no option except to make a public spectacle of them both, she remained in his arms.

"Please listen," he begged, as though he'd known beforehand that the announcement would upset her. "I have enjoyed your performances for the last six months, refusing to let anything interfere with my Thursday evenings at Jeremy Sims'." He drew so close that his face disappeared from her view and she was left with the sensation of his whispered breath in her ear.

"If your appearances there are a secret, then I swear that it will be my secret as well. All I ask is that you let me know in advance so that we can guard against a repetition of what happened."

She looked at him, recalling the gentleman who had come to her rescue. "It—was you."

He nodded. "I had hoped to gain an introduction that night, but when I returned to the stage, you were gone."

"Elizabeth was—"

"I know. Alarmed, as well she should have been."

"How did you recognize me?"

"Your voice, although I was fairly certain when I first saw you. I simply couldn't make a connection."

"And you've told no one?"

"No."

She continued to gaze up at him, only vaguely aware of the couples passing behind them. She softly laughed. "I had thought that the mask would—"

"It did, for a while. But you must remember I've studied you closely every Thursday night for months."

Flattered, she blushed. "Why?"

He paused. "Because I found you the most fascinating woman I had ever seen."

It was as though the rest of the Great Hall had gone dark about her and the only light available was that of his face.

"Mr. Stanhope, I-"

Though he had not interrupted her, she broke off, finding that she lacked suflEcient breath to form words. All that mattered was this remarkable man, who continued to stare down on her with a degree of adoration she'd never seen in a man's face before. She had the most

peculiar feeling that what was happening would have happened anyway, that no force in heaven or on earth could have prevented them from standing here at the center of this crowded hall, at a time approaching midnight, on a mild May evening in the year 1870.

Still no words from him, only that tender expression on his face, a look of relief, as though a long search were over.

"Is anything wrong?"

The voice came not from him but from behind her and belonged to Andrew Rhoades, who had interrupted his dance with Dhari long enough to make inquiry of the two who stood so still at the center of the dance.

"No," she murmured. "We—were just—"

"—trying to find the tempo," Mr. Stanhope said with a smile, gently covering for her. "Come, Lady Mary," he invited. "Practice makes perfect."

Without warning he swept her away from the inquiring face and back into the waltz, Mary enjoying a sense of abandonment she'd never felt before, as in the rush of color, light and music, all of her old fears vanished, along with the past, and were replaced by the quiet strength and contagious optimism of the most remarkable gentleman she'd ever met.

"Mr. Stanhope," she gasped as his tempo increased, not really wanting to say anything but merely to speak his name. In the warmth of his smile, then his open laugh, she had no choice but to cling to him and follow after, and secretly pray that the dance would never end. . . .

"Who is he?" John demanded of Andrew Rhoades, peering out over the crowded Great Hall from the door of the Smoker, where he'd emerged for a breath of air unpolluted by the pedantry of the Royal Academy.

"He's Delane's friend," Andrew replied.

"The American?"

Andrew nodded.

"How long have they been dancing?" John demanded, amazed at Andrew's laxness. John had left him in charge of the women. Shocked anew by the sight of Mary enclosed in the arms of a stranger, he glanced across the hall to where he'd left Lila to find her in conversation with her father and—

Another strangerl

"And who is that?" he demanded. "My God, Andrew," he muttered, "I asked you to see them both to their chambers by midnight."

"It's a special occasion," Andrew replied quietly, though John thought he detected that hint of condescension in his voice that he'd heard repeatedly during this past year.

He felt a surge of resentment at such an attitude, and this, combined with the sight of Lila laughing as warmly as he'd seen her laugh in months, caused him to stride away from Andrew as though the man did not exist.

"John, wait," Andrew called, and caught up with him. "His name is Charles Pamell," he said in the manner of an apology. "He's a friend of Richard's and Professor Nichols', an ex-student, I beheve, from-"

"I don't remember seeing his name on the guest hst."

"It was there; I can vouch for it. Would you like to—"

John again cut him off by walking away, this time into the quiet arcade which encircled the hall. He was tired, his nerves stretched taut by the constant society around him. There were other problems, as well. The Academy was now in the process of withdrawing their initial praise of the painting by pointing out flaw after flaw to poor Alma-Tadema in the Smoker. The man had ceased even trying to defend himself or his vision.

There was one other overwhelming anxiety plaguing John, which as yet he'd not found the courage to share with anyone. Though his Great Hall was filled, these guests were cut from an inferior fabric, business associates, members of financial boards who had supported and encouraged the John Murrey firm in the days before his stock had soared.

But there were notable absences, as well. Earlier in the day he had ordered the banners raised for Lord and Lady Minden, for Lord and Lady Oreford, for Lord and Lady Berkely, for Lord and Lady Forbes and their daughter Eleanor.

Yet where were they? All he knew for certain was that they were not present, and he'd wanted desperately for them to be here. And the worst of it, those famihes were to have been only the beginning. More were scheduled to arrive on Monday.

Would they come? How dare they not?

The conclusion of the dance brought his attention back to the

Great Hall, and through the crush of dancers he caught sight of Mary and—

"What did you say his name was?" he demanded of Andrew, who stood beside him.

"Charles Parnell. He's Irish and I suppose Richard thought that—**

"No. I mean the other."

"Stanford, I believe," Andrew muttered, "or Stanhope. Something like that."

His vagueness and lack of concern enraged John. "Really, Andrew, I'm disappointed in you. I had thought I could trust you."

"What have I done?" Andrew demanded, laughing. "And what have they done? It is a festivity, John, one of your own planning. I doubt seriously if Lila or Mary knew that they had been forbidden enjoyment. Otherwise they might as well have stayed in their chambers."

"Which is now their immediate destination," John muttered, trying to restrain his anger.

As he started off, heading toward Lila, Andrew said, "What do you intend to do?"

"What you should have done hours ago. See that they are safely retired where they belong. I don't know why I must point certain facts out to you, but you know that my wife's strength is limited. She does not even possess the fortitude to carry a child to term. Am I to stand by and watch her deplete what little stamina she has left in a flirtation with—"

"She is not flirting, John. She is merely enjoying the company. As you can see, her father is present."

"And Mary," John went on, staring at the two who were commencing the next dance, their eyes locked on each other, "Mary is a child, an undisciplined, overemotional child. She would be amenable to the suggestions of anyone, even a fortune hunter."

Andrew laughed. "The gentleman does not look as though he's in need of a fortune, John."

Weary of talk and aware that he couldn't abandon Alma-Tadema forever in that lion's pit with the Royal Academy, John turned his back on Andrew's amusement and strode around the arcade until he was approaching the table where Lila sat laughing with her father and the tall Irishman.

"John . . ." She smiled, looking up. "I'm so glad you've joined us. Allow me to introduce—"

But he allowed her nothing and quietly commanded, "Come with me."

He saw the blush on her face, saw Lord Harrington lean forward as though to intervene. "John, I was just telling Mr.—"

"Come with me," John repeated.

From behind he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder and heard Andrew Rhoades offer courteously, "I will escort her to her chamber, John. You return to the Smoker. I suspect that you are needed."

The combination of the restraining hand and Andrew's voice blocking his will, and the sight of Lila pulling away as though fearful, all these things conspired against him, and he turned with a suddenness that dislodged Andrew's hand and was in the process of removing him further when another voice cut through his anger.

"John, I've been looking for you."

He glanced over his shoulder to see Richard rising from a near table where he'd been conversing with Nichols. He, too, was smiling, though it was a taut smile, full of warning.

As Richard drew near, John closed his eyes, belatedly aware of what he'd almost done. Oh, what a tale that would have been for the journalists to take back to London—John Murrey Eden engaging in fisticuffs with his solicitor on the night of—

In the manner of an arbitrator, Richard put his arm about John's shoulder. Before directing him back to the gaping company he whispered, "Your nerves are talking for you. Don't let them spoil a triumphant evening."

He led John back to the small table, where John saw Mr. Parnell on his feet, a look of anogance on his face.

"Charles"—Richard smiled—"it gives me great pleasure to present my cousin John Murrey Eden, your host and Eden's benefactor."

Still shaken by his eagerness to attack Andrew, John held himself in rigid control. He stared at Mr. Parnell's outstretched hand, then took it briefly, only half-listening to Richard's explanation of who the man was.

Beyond Richard's shoulder he saw Aslam and Professor Nichols looking his way. Had Aslam abandoned him as well?

"Now," Richard concluded, having said everything he'd wanted to say, "it is late. Lady Lila." He smiled. "Do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to your chambers. There is always tomorrow and—"

Suffering annoyance that Richard was doing so well what he had done so poorly, John stepped back from the table, thinking that per-

haps after all this foolishness were over he'd go away for a while. The Continent, even America, Let them all see how they could get along without him.

He looked back to see Lila whispering to Mr. Pamell. While her invitation was muted, Mr. Parnell's reply was clear. "Tomorrow at noon, yes, I'd be delighted."

He saw her accept Richard's arm, stop and deliver a warm kiss to her father, summon her cat Wolf and, without a word in his direction, start up the stairs, her head bent close to Richard, as though they were talking about him.

It wasn't until they had disappeared into the second-floor corridor that he came back to himself and observed that, where before all had been gaping at him, now ever}'one had turned about. Professor Nichols and Aslam walking toward the arched door which led to the night beyond. Lord Harrington and Parnell, their backs turned, engaged in conversation.

John closed his eyes, suffering the persistent feeling that he was in the midst of enemies. But of course that wasn't true. Richard had been right. It was his nerves and his various anxieties.

Then there was one to whom he owed an apology, Andrew Rhoades, and he turned to his left, where he'd last seen him.