Authors: Andrea Pickens
Hammerton swirled the brandy in his glass, suppressing the hot anger that welled inside of him. "I shall have it entered in the betting book."
"How will we have proof of who's won?"
The earl turned towards the voice. "Do you doubt my word," he asked softly?
The gentleman shrank back a step. "Indeed, of... of course not, my lord. Stupid of me... must have had too much...." he trailed off lamely.
The matter was settled. The conversation drifted on to other topics. Hammerton took his leave and strolled out of the room, a faint but discernible look of satisfaction on his face.
"Aunt Aurelia! Alex! Cook is threatening to give notice if the two of you are late again for dinner."
A bespectacled nose peeked out from above a leatherbound quarto of The Iliad. At the other end of the table, a second appendage, liberally smudge with charcoal, looked up from a thick sketchbook. Two sets of eyes mirrored a vague surprise.
"I fear time has passed rather more quickly than I had imagined."
"My dear, it is I, at my age, who is supposed to say that." Lady Beckworth lay down her tome and patted absently at the neat bun of silver hair pinned at the nape of her neck. Her voice carried a tone of mild reproval, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Though age had brought the inevitable changes to her visage, it had not dulled the intelligence and life that radiated from the depths of their hazel color. There was, however, a glint of concern as she turned to face her niece. "You, on the other hand," she said lightly, "should be thinking about the Worthington's ball and not the leaf structure of verbena patagonica.
"Hmmmph." Alexandra Chilton closed her sketchbook with a little more force than necessary, then rubbed her hand absently on the folds of her muslin day dress, leaving a streak of grey down the side. "Why on earth should I be thinking about the Worthington's ball — I'm scarcely a giddy schoolgirl miss in my first Season. In fact, I'm as good as on the shelf..."
"Now my dear..."
"Oh, Aunt, you know as well as I do it's the truth. I'm too old, too opinionated and too poor to attract any offer, decent or otherwise. And well glad I am of it . I've yet to meet a man who is... is interesting enough to want to be leg shackled to for the rest of my life."
"Alex, really!" Her aunt tried to look shocked, but her face dissolved into a grin and a chuckle escaped her lips.
"Oh, Aurelia. How lucky I am that I may freely express my sentiments and know that you, at least will understand how I feel. And you have a... sense of humor as well. How awful not to be able to laugh at the foibles of Society — and one's self." She sighed. "My only regret is that we are such a burden on you. If I can find a publisher for my paintings on the flowers of Kent — and Mr. Simpson thinks it entirely possible — then I shall an income and Justin and I can..."
Lady Beckworth had risen and come to stand by Alex. She placed a hand over her niece's. "Alex, you and Justin are a gift to me, hardly a burden."
Alex squeezed her aunt's fragile fingers but kept her face averted, afraid of becoming a watering pot, something she detested above all things in one of her sex. "Yes, well, it is Justin you should be concerned about," she said in a husky voice. "It is for his sake, after all, that we are spending a Season here. He deserves the chance to acquire a little town bronze and to convince Anne's father that he will make her a good match, despite his lack of fortune. So, I shall dutifully attend the Worthington's ball and try not to say or do anything too outrageous that might disgrace the family name..."
Another thump reverberated through the heavy oak door. This time it opened a crack as well, just enough to admit a slender young man with still a bit of coltish awkwardness about him. He ran his hand through his tousled sandy curls in mock despair. "The exact meaning of (Greek) and the number of stamens of Nigella damascena will have to wait until tomorrow," he announced in a light tenor, which struggled to sound deeper. But like his sister and aunt, his eyes danced with humor. He pointed a finger meaningfully towards the hall. "After you, ladies."
"Shall I put it all the way up, or let it fall like this?" It was the second time the question was asked.
"Oh dear, I fear I was woolgathering, Maggie. Let it fall, please." Lady Beckworth shifted in her chair as her long time retainer continued to dress her hair for the coming evening. Though she gazed straight ahead at the large mirror on her dressing table, her eyes took in none of the details of her coiffure or her gown or even her own visage, which was perhaps even more attractive than in her youth now that a strength of character had subtly shaped the pleasant features. Her thoughts were centered on her niece and nephew.
How capricious life was, she mused. To have lost her husband and her brother-in law within weeks of each other was a cruel blow. But then Alex and Justin had come to live with her, the children she had never known. She hadn't thought it possible to feel true happiness again — she and her husband had, unlike many of the Ton, had a marriage based on love and respect. But she had, in ways she had never imagined. Now, if only she could see both of them as happy as she was. Her mouth quirked in a rueful smile at such presumptuousness. She might as well wish for the moon, she knew, than to think she could control another's destiny. But to her, the two young people and their future were the most important thing in her life.
Justin must be a changeling, so different from his father was he. Marcus had been a distant man, even before her sister had died, difficult to understand, especially when he retreated into his own private world of ideas. She shook her head slightly. She didn't think he really comprehended how much that forced his young, motherless children to fend for themselves, both emotionally as well as having to deal with the realities of keeping a household running, and with precious little funds to do it. Now nineteen, Justin had grown into a level-headed young man who showed such a sense of responsibility for his family that she almost wished he would cut a caper or two, just to assure her he wouldn't lapse into priggishness. Perhaps that came from being the only male left of the family at age sixteen. But then she thought of his ready wit and warm laughter she knew there was really no danger of that!
And he had ability too. He had applied himself to his studies at Oxford and his ideas on farming already had her small holdings turning a modest profit for the first time ever. She knew he was chafing at the bit to run a real estate. Any parent wise enough to look beyond the lack of title or fortune would find an unimpeachable husband for their daughter. And with his handsome features made even more appealing by his open, friendly manner, she did not doubt that there would be more than a few young ladies developing a tendre for him. However, he seemed to have his heart set on one, and with well-placed words here and there among her many connections, she hoped to be able to influence the girl's mother and father.
It was Alex she worried about. It was not that her niece lacked in practicality — if anything, she had too much of it, having had to have taken up the running of a household and the responsibility of a younger sibling at such an early age. It was Alex who learned to deal with tradesmen and stretch a meager budget when her father went haring off on his projects. No, it was that she was, well, she was too much like her father in other ways. Inquisitive to the point of pursuing an interest regardless of the consequences — Lady Beckworth thought once again of her brother-in law. A brilliant naturalist, but in his passion to achieve his own goals, he had sacrificed certain things for his family that she wondered whether he had a right to do. And in the end, he had left them without a feather to fly with. Impetuous was another word that came to mind when thinking of both of them. Why, else would Marcus have been rushing home on such a dismal night — no doubt to bring some fragile specimen back to his library — when no rational person would have attempted to drive a carriage along the seaside cliffs. Alex had that same unwavering determination, as well as the same touch of recklessness. She had acquired her father's love for the natural world and had translated it into becoming a botanical painter of no small talent. The only reason she had agreed to come to London was to meet the members of the Botanical Society, with whom she had been corresponding for several years.
A sigh escaped her lips. What a singular family they were, she herself immersed in finishing the work of her late husband, a translation of Homer's Iliad. But where she, at her stage and position in life, was allowed to be bookish and opinionated, Alex was in danger of being considered beyond the pale of Society with her attitudes. She was already considered old. Heaven forbid that she also get stuck with the reputation of being odd. Despite what the girl thought, Lady Beckworth was sure it would be a grave mistake for her niece to cut herself off from...
"I should think the red shawl, wouldn't you, Lady Aurelia?"
"Oh. Yes. Of course."
Maggie draped the soft cashmere over the slight shoulders and arranged it into neat folds. "You are late, as you well know," she said, speaking with the easy candor of a longtime retainer. "Now go along and enjoy the evening — and don't you be worrying about those two. They will manage just fine."
Hammerton swirled his brandy, eyeing the rich amber color as his mouth turned upwards at the corners.
"Don't know why you're looking so devilishly pleased with yourself," remarked his cousin. Arthur Standish turned his head as far as the starched, overly high points of his collar allowed. "Thought you, shall we say, disliked the Icy Earl. Can't imagine why you provoked such a wager with him. " He paused to take a large swallow of his own drink. "Especially," he couldn't help but add, "since you've had precious little luck against him. He's bound to win this one too, given the dog's reputation in the bedroom. It's a wonder his breeches are ever buttoned."
Hammerton's mouth curled up even more. "Ah, but his conquest will serve my purposes very well. To have the girl disgraced and to have her family have to retreat back to the country is exactly what I want." A humorless laugh escaped his thin lips. "And to have Branford act as my unwitting pawn makes it even more sweet. A hundred and some odd pounds is well worth it to use him like a whore."
Standish grunted as he toyed with the numerous fobs dangling from his brightly striped waistcoat. "I say, it may deuced clever of you. But I'd be very careful in voicing such thoughts aloud." He darted a glance around the room as he spoke as if to judge whether it was likely anyone could overhear them.
"I'm well aware of the fear most of you have of the man. Well I for one, do not hold him in such awe. I shall prove that his bloody lordship is not so clever by half as I am."
Standish frowned. "It's said he saved Wellington on the Peninsula through his wits."
"That's the only reason polite Society receives him. Remember that he also as good as murdered his young cousin there in order to get the title. He's nothing but a scoundrel."
Standish looked quickly around again. "Careful," he hissed. "I'd caution you not to forget the two duels."
"Have no fear that I will be fool enough to give him any reason to call me out. No, my besting of him be far more subtle. And far more satisfying."
"Why do you care about the girl being ruined. I thought we were..."
Hammerton's lips were still curled in a semblance of a smile. "Because it suits my plan, dear cousin. Yes, it suits it very well indeed. Just leave the thinking to me."
"Good lord, Sebastian. Never expected to see you at such a gathering as this."
Lord Henry Ashton made his way to the corner of the ballroom where Branford stood. Whether by accident or design, there were few others near the tall figure of the earl, who was dressed entirely in black, save for the snowy white of his starched shirt and elegantly tied cravat. "Cecelia is an old friend of Lady Worthington, else wild horses couldn't drag me to such a sad crush." He raised an eyebrow in question as he beckoned a passing footman to bring them both a glass of champagne.
Branford gave his friend a brief smile, then continued to survey the crowd, eyes intent as a hawk hunting some unsuspecting prey. "I have my reason, Henry."
Ashton snorted. "You sound as if you've stepped from some damned Radcliffe novel. It may make the ladies swoon — and don't give me that basilisk stare either. It may make most of your acquaintances quake in their boots but it has no such effect on me."