A Lady's Revenge, page 24
“Mother thinks so,” Jane said. “Though Henry is not keen on it.”
“I daresay,” Lydia said, sipping at her glass. She was not keen on it either. To ally those two houses was a severe mismatch in finances, not to mention politics. Lord Kinsley had been a more progressive sort, cheering on the American experiment, while Hackett had always been stuck in the past, focused on fortifying the family name, and ultimately digging himself deeper into a financial hole because of it.
Speaking of the devil, Lord Leighton came striding over in his signature blue. He was a handsome sight, golden hair and blue eyes that mirrored his sister’s good looks. When he smiled, every woman, including Lydia, did her best to suppress a sigh. He greeted her, complimented her, took her by the hand to twirl her as if they were dancing. It was silly and girlish, but it felt nice to be petted in that way, even if it was by Leighton, whom she’d known for years.
Truthfully, she had never heard such words of praise from John. He wasn’t the sort to lay on flattery. And while they had a physical attraction, he kept his professional distance when he could. It was she who pressed their closeness, she who sought him in the glade, she who asked for him to wrap her hands, and then the Orangery. Would he have kissed any woman who sought him out in such a way? Perhaps it wasn’t her that he even had a physical connection with; perhaps she just happened to be there, happened to be interested, and he took advantage of an opportunity when he saw it.
James was no longer dancing and was nowhere to be seen in the ballroom, leading Lydia to suspect they were on the unchaperoned terrace. Inwardly she cringed. James was not thinking. “Where is Miss Dorchester? She must be here,” she said, hoping to cover for them by pretending she hadn’t seen them.
They pretended to look more, and Lydia saw Lady Isabelle and her mother hunting Leighton as a pair of vultures circled carrion.
“Don’t bother,” Leighton said. “She’s on the terrace with Andrepont, keeping warm.”
The women glanced over, able to make out the dark figure of the James embracing Miss Dorchester. Jane gasped, but Lydia winced. “No,” Lydia said. “She does not want him, she told me.”
Leighton shrugged, revealing for a fraction of a second a look of disappointment. It nearly broke Lydia’s heart. She hadn’t thought Leighton might truly like the girl, but it appeared she was wrong.
Lady Isabelle and her mother began to descend upon their group, but Leighton asked Lydia to dance before they could arrive. Lydia glanced over to the terrace doors where Rose and James still lingered behind.
“Of course,” Lydia said. “I would be honored.”
He smiled the dazzling smile that kept three-quarters of the ton reeling and put his hand out to her. She took it, and they made their way through the crowd of people. But before they could arrive, a servant appeared, whispering something in an urgent tone of voice. Lydia couldn’t make out the words as she stood politely trying to ignore them.
Leighton dropped her gloved hand, bowing low as a signal of respect. “I apologize, Lady Lydia. A household matter has come to my attention. I will return to you as soon as I am able.”
Lydia curtsied in response to show her acceptance. “At your convenience, my lord.” He left in a hurry, though his control over his body language was practiced, and for anyone who didn’t see he was following his servant out of the ballroom, he looked as relaxed and at ease as he had been when he asked her to dance.
She didn’t mind being left. Instead of returning to Lady Isabelle, she parked herself near the terrace doors to catch whichever errant lover reentered first. Neither had shown good judgment. She didn’t understand why, when everyone knew the role they had to play, there were so many problems with comprehending the parts.
James’s reputation would never be bothered by an evening on an unchaperoned terrace, but Miss Dorchester’s would suffer when she walked through those same glass doors. Lydia inched closer, her fan open and buzzing, as if she needed some air.
Miss Dorchester slipped through the small open space between the French doors. Lydia pounced on her, threading her arm through the other girl’s as if they were the best of friends. The once active fan dropped, dangling from Lydia’s wrist.
“Miss Dorchester, lovely to see you,” Lydia said, steering the girl to the back of the ballroom. Here Miss Dorchester could do less damage if she intended to have a breakdown. Lydia suddenly wished for John. How his steady demeanor made it easier to keep herself calm.
“Did he see?” Miss Dorchester asked.
“Of course he saw. That’s why James probably did it,” she said, forcing them to stroll around the perimeter of the ballroom at an unnaturally slow pace.
“I bit him to make him stop,” Miss Dorchester said.
Lydia barked out a laugh. She doubted James had ever been bitten by one of his conquests. It cemented Lydia’s good opinion. The girl had more gumption than Lydia gave her credit for; she was glad Miss Dorchester fought back.
“Then I slapped him,” Miss Dorchester admitted, pointing to a small wisp of discoloration on her handsome dove-gray glove. “That’s his blood.”
In a strange way, Lydia was proud of Miss Dorchester. She pushed back her attacker, even though he was known to her, even though he could have easily hurt her. This girl wasn’t having any of James’s nonsense, and when she said no, she meant it. Surely that was deserving of admiration. “If only Leighton had stuck around a little longer,” Lydia said.
They strolled nearer to the door as Miss Dorchester looked towards the exit. Lydia plucked a champagne flute from a tray, handing it to Miss Dorchester. She steered them towards a group of women.
The Scottish lasses with whom they had become acquainted during the Season lit up when Lydia and Miss Dorchester joined their circle.
Lady Isabelle approached, this time without her mother. Was she trying to follow Lydia everywhere? She didn’t want to talk to the girl.
Lydia darted her eyes back over the far side of the ballroom, where James had slipped back in. There were enough dancers to keep the attention of most partygoers at the front of the room, allowing his movements to go mostly unnoticed. His lip was beginning to swell, but he didn’t appear angry. No, he seemed resigned. Good, she thought. Perhaps he would finally go home.
Miss Dorchester, however, blanched the color of the Grecian gowns. Even the lasses picked up on her distress.
“I’ve heard Andrepont is the very image of his father,” said Miss Moore, one of these hearty girls from the North.
The statement felt like cold water in Lydia’s veins.
“In that he is very handsome,” added Miss Brown.
Lady Isabelle had just enough time to overhear the remark. The satisfied smirk on her face spoke of a marriage contract. Lady Kinsley must have made an agreement with Hackett already. Lydia’s heart tripped faster, just as it had on the dueling field.
“You look a tad pale, Miss Dorchester. Bad luck in love?” Lady Isabelle said with a thin-lipped smirk.
Lydia bit her tongue. If Miss Dorchester could stand up to James, she should have the bravery to deal with Lady Isabelle. There was power in facing one’s demons.
“Would you excuse me?” Miss Dorchester said, setting down her glass on the nearest table. She curtsied low, the courtesy more for Lydia.
“I suppose I scared her off,” Lady Isabelle said as they all watched Miss Dorchester leave the ballroom.
“I doubt that very much,” Lydia said, watching a servant sweep Miss Dorchester’s glass off the table.
“I’m told that I can be intimidating,” Lady Isabelle said, attempting to preen.
“Only to those easily intimidated, and I assure you, Miss Dorchester is not,” Lydia said, turning on her heel before her tongue let loose. She gave a curt nod to the group.
Lady Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Then why did she leave so quickly?” Lady Isabelle challenged.
“A woman can have her own reasons,” Miss Moore said.
Lydia was glad the girl defended Miss Dorchester. It was good to see that Miss Dorchester had the potential to make friends.
From behind her, a familiar voice boomed, “There you are.”
Lydia turned to see Lord Hackett limping over with a cane. She hadn’t seen him enter. She did her best to mask her horror, but she was afraid it was no use. He’d seen her expression.
“I may be a bit slower now, but I assure you, Lady Lydia, there is no worry of gangrene.”
Clenching her teeth was all she could do. He was even more grotesque with his limp and his cane, his pallor a rough, splotchy purple. Cold tripped through her, and she willed herself not to start shaking. She would not tremble because of him. Hackett truly was the last one left. “Perhaps gangrene won’t be your downfall, but life is full of traps.”
“Isn’t it just?” Lord Hackett said, his fat face mirroring the smugness of his daughter.
Parsons brought him some gin, but John didn’t know where to even sit in his own home. First he was in his bedroom, and then downstairs in the study. He wandered into the formal drawing room next. If he’d gotten things up to snuff, gotten Pearl a suitable chaperone, this would have been where she received callers. Proper ladies and perhaps a respectable fellow once in a while too.
He ought to stay with the middle-class folk. That was setting his sights high enough. Miss Franklin was a nice girl, and he liked her brother. She got along well with Pearl. But Miss Franklin seemed the type of woman who wouldn’t respond to his charms, so to speak. So perhaps Miss Perry would be a woman to court instead. She was Pearl’s friend, so that was good, knowing they already got along well. Her silly attempts to get his attention at the gallery bothered him, though. Why couldn’t she just be straightforward? Why did she have to flutter her eyelashes and act so…so…girlish?
Because men like him were supposed to like girls who fluttered their eyelashes. But he liked women with strength. Women whose biceps had striations, whose focus could narrow to the width of a necklace chain. Women who followed their own code of ethics.
But it wasn’t his fault that Lydia wouldn’t let him in. He tried, good Lord, he tried. How many times could he knock on that door or outright ask to be let in? She wouldn’t do it. And he had to accept that, for whatever her reasons, she didn’t want him.
He wandered out of the dimly lit drawing room. To be fair, Parsons had attempted to anticipate his behavior by lighting candles ahead of his movements, but John was being so unpredictable the butler couldn’t keep up. John returned to his study.
When Parsons burst into the room, John assumed it was to berate him for his movements. “I apologize, Parsons,” John said, his hands up in surrender. “I promise to stay in one place.”
Parsons inclined his head to acknowledge the apology. “Thank you, sir. But I came to inform you of a visitor.”
John set his glass down. “Now?”
“Shall I show her in to your study, or will you meet her in the drawing room?” Parsons asked.
The gin slid down his throat before he could think to swallow it. His thoughts immediately turned to Lydia, her dark hair undone, a hooded cape for disguise. She might tell him all of her secrets, the reason her cousin had shot Hackett, the reason for her weeping in the carriage, why she cared about that ship, all of it. Then he could kiss her senseless, strip off every stitch, and drink in every inch of flesh. He shook himself from his brief reverie.
“Here, please, Parsons,” he said, getting to his feet. He burped, lessening the bloat; he shouldn’t have drunk so much ale with Caulie. He bounced a little, hoping to sober up.
The butler gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, leaving John to sniff at his clothes. He lifted an arm. The stale smell of beer sweat permeated his shirt.
The desk drawers squeaked in protest as John opened each one, searching for some kind of scent to mask his own. They were empty but for a small pot of ink and an unsharpened quill. He had leased the place furnished, but apparently one needed to supply one’s own stationery.
When he heard the footsteps down the hall, he stood. They didn’t sound light enough to be Lady Lydia’s. No, they were slow and heavy. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was late. Despite his poor manners in visiting her home near the midnight hour, he didn’t think Lydia would repay in kind.
The door opened and Bess filled the entrance. Her pallor was waxy and pale from exhaustion, the dark circles beneath her eyes even more pronounced. John left his post behind the desk and ushered her to a chair. “Are you well? What’s happened? Denby?”
She held up her hand to stop his flow of questions.
“Would you like anything?” John asked instead. “Gin? It tastes awful, but it’s a proper glass o’ daffy.”
Bess nodded as she dropped into a chair. John leapt up and poured a finger into a tumbler. She sipped at it without haste, shuddering as it went down. John seated himself in the chair next to her and waited, his own glass within reach.
“It’s done,” she said, her voice raspy and dry.
“Denby?” he asked.
She nodded, her limp hair oily and shifting with her gesture. There must have been no time to care for herself, or perhaps no one to help her care for an ailing man.
John took her hand, watching as his friend fought back tears. Despite all of her hardships, he had never seen her cry: not from a punch, not even the day he watched as she was evicted from a boarding house for being unnatural. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t known she would be so attached to a client who had only contracted her for a few months. “You must have really cared for him.”
Energy appeared as her anger reared. She wrenched her hand out of his. “I didn’t care for that twat.”
She tossed back the gin. Tears filled her eyes, and John hoped it was the burning of the alcohol.
“I watched a man die tonight, John.” She stood, her sudden energy causing her to pace in front of the unlit fireplace. “He had money and influence, and he died alone in a house where even his loyal servants abandoned him. If he died alone, what will happen to me?”
“You still have fights and other income?” John asked. He wished Parsons had lit more candles in the room, for he could barely make out her expressions.
“I’m not talking about money,” Bess said. “I’m talking about my deathbed. ’S a cold and lonely place.”
Though his mind constantly worked on the future, setting up plans and strategies of money and work, training and security for Pearl, he hadn’t once thought of his deathbed. “Why on earth do you think you’ll die alone?” John asked, bewildered.
“Because look at me!” Her voice shook the room, an unexpected thunder.
John waited as she, in turn, waited for him. The painful tenor of her voice was unmistakable, but what she expected from him, he didn’t know. “I don’t understand,” he said, drawing out his words. This felt like he was walking into an ambush.
“I have committed the worst sin a woman can,” she said.
There were plenty of sins out there. What could be the worst? Did she murder Denby? No, she wouldn’t have told him he was dying if she did. It was something else. Something more philosophical. “Plenty of men would forgive a lady boxer—it isn’t that scandalous,” John said. He almost went on to mention the other few notorious female fighters who were either married when they fought or married after their fame had waned.
“Not boxing, John. You can’t even see it, can you?” Her voice thinned. She looked up at the ceiling, no doubt trying to stop what her exhaustion had loosed. “I am ugly. The worst sin of a woman is to be ugly, and I am she.”
John stood. There was no way to argue, but there was a way to soothe. She sagged against him as he wrapped his arms around one of the best fighters he’d ever known. Her body was more powerful than any other woman’s, her spirit fiercer than any man’s, and she was broken by the idea of spending her life as a solitary creature. It made him ache for her. More than he’d ever hurt for himself.
“You’ll never be alone, Bess. No matter what, you’ll have me,” he said.
“Yes, but you’ll never love me like that,” she said, her voice weary. “No one will love me the way you love Lydia.”
The truth of her words stung. He hadn’t thought of that word at all. Love was a strange thing, weird and mystical. People used it all the time to describe all sorts of bits that couldn’t be held up to the real feeling of love. People loved oysters. Sailors loved the sea. Debutantes loved the color sage. Rich people loved turtle soup.
But to love Lydia? He supposed that was true. When he went to tell her of Denby’s illness, she had seemed stricken that he might think her capable of poisoning the man. And in turn, it had hurt him to cause her hurt. And he really didn’t think she was responsible, but he’d given her the opportunity to deny it, to tell him everything, to let him in on the little club she’d formed but wouldn’t give him access to. She’d let him rub his hands all over her, push his hand higher up her skirts—but tell him why she pursued those two men with the fervor of a starving dog? He wasn’t good enough for that.
Holding Bess now was a comfort to him just as much as it was to her. Of all the people he knew, he was most like Bess. In some ways, they would be the perfect match. He had all the money in the world to keep her safe, and they had been training partners since they were knee high.
“It doesn’t matter,” John said, shushing her the way he would soothe an infant. His fingers combed through her short hair. “Because I love you anyway. You’ve not let anyone care for you, so let me.”
He called for Parsons, who seemed to be close by. John didn’t appreciate the man’s eavesdropping, but no matter.
“A bath and the guest room?” Parsons whispered.
“And a tray,” John said. “Food fixes everything. She likes the yellow cheese the best, the kind with the red rind.”
“Very good sir,” Parsons said, leaving the room without a sound.
“It’ll be yer head if I stay the night,” Bess said, sniffing. “They’ll think we’re basket-making.”
