Part 6 (1/2)
The facts that, now that they were safe and on the move again, her hands had begun to shake and her stomach felt exceptionally queasy, and she believed she could begin to weep rather copiously if anyone so much as looked at her slightly askance, were all suddenly being brought very much home to her. She'd been reckless, and she could have been dead.
Why did she not stop to consider the consequences before she acted? Why did the illogical and impossible always seem rational and infinitely plausible when her wild Romany blood was up, as Tatiana had always told her?
Alina was proud of her Romany blood, but even as she looked for some excuse to explain away her more rash and ridiculous actions, she did not think it fair to blame that blood. She knew where the blame truly lay, and it was with her.
Just another failing she would have to apply herself to correcting before she became a bride. And just another reason to resent the absent Justin Wilde. If he had done his duty, he would have been riding in the coach with her-the coach that would be on its way to London-and nowhere near those hideous highwaymen. He would have taken up the brace of pistols and defended her. Why, if she looked at the thing long enough and hard enough, it was all his fault that she was sitting here, her beautiful new outfit ruined, muddy water dripping off the tip of her nose.
All of which she would tell him when he came to fetch her from this Ashurst Hall they were heading for. If he came to fetch her.
Beside her, as he attempted to insert a much-folded cloth inside his unb.u.t.toned jacket, Luka groaned, and Alina brought her straying mind back to attention.
”Oh, I'm so sorry, Luka, I'm neglecting you. Are you all right?” she asked him. ”Tatiana, why didn't you help Luka out of his jacket, so that we can see to his wound? Oh, never mind, you were probably too busy watching me make an utter cake of myself. Here, let's do it now.”
”I was told we were only little more than a mile from Ashurst Hall just before we were attacked, my lady,” he told her. ”I can wait until we arrive. You shouldn't have to see the wound. It isn't seemly.”
”Neither is bleeding yourself dry,” Alina pointed out, but the coach had now turned, and the wheels were suddenly covering much smoother ground, the ruts and jaw-jarring potholes of the other road no longer in evidence.
”My lady...your clothing?”
Tatiana's warning brought Alina back to her own personal dilemma. That was probably vain of her, but she couldn't help herself. She was about to meet Justin's friends-an English duke and d.u.c.h.ess, no less-and she was going to see them for the first time while looking as if she'd just finished rolling about in a pigsty. Oh, how Aunt Mimi would have laughed to see her like this, and then pointed out that it was no less than she would have expected from her mongrel niece.
”I'm going to blame him for that, too,” Alina declared as Tatiana, being a down-to-earth sort in times like these-at least once the shooting and the shouting were over-asked her ladys.h.i.+p to please spit on the corner of yet another linen square, so that the servant could wipe some of the dirt off her ladys.h.i.+p's cheeks.
But then I might allow him to kiss me again...
CHAPTER FIVE.
JUSTIN WILDE ARRIVED at Carleton House just after midnight, clad in his usual impeccable evening clothes and looking fresher-and smelling better-than most of the other guests of His Royal Majesty, the Prince Regent.
His appearance in the midst of the haut ton was a surprise, and presented a dilemma to everyone else present. Did they pretend not to see him? Did they nod as he pa.s.sed-after all, he would not have gained entry without an invitation from the Prince Regent. Did they dare to approach him, clap him on the back, behave as if they were delighted to see him again, after dealing him the cut direct only a few months earlier, when he'd first returned to London? So much of society was in knowing whom to speak to and whom to avoid.
But he did look das.h.i.+ng, his well-remembered handsome, impeccable self. All that fas.h.i.+onably styled dark hair above those oddly unreadable green eyes. The way his black evening clothes fit his exemplary body. His snowy-white neckcloth always above reproach, tied in an intricate style of his own design, one that had never been successfully copied. That insouciant walk, as if he saw nothing in the world he feared. Pockets so deep his wealth seemed to have no measure at all. He was a true rara avis in all respects, the compleat, set-up gentleman. And hadn't he always had a smile for everyone, a joke for the men, a compliment for the ladies?
Yes, Baron Wilde was a bit of all right, really. Perfect in so many ways. Shame about him in that duel over his s.l.u.t of a wife, firing early like that and shooting poor what-was-his-name in the back. b.l.o.o.d.y coward...
No one could possibly imagine that the subject of their mingled awe, envy and repulsion had just spent the better part of two days in the saddle, or that he was harboring thoughts of committing dire physical mayhem on the body attached to the pudgy, beringed fingers he was now bowing over with such grace.
But, then, that had always been Justin's way. His smile belonged to everyone; his thoughts were his own.
During his first years in town, he had been sought after, admired, hugely popular with not only the ladies but their mamas, and welcomed by other gentlemen to be one of any party or sporting event. Because he was pretty and mannerly. Because he was entertaining. Because he genuinely enjoyed life.
Before.
Before, in his shallow and trivial youth, he'd married Sheila Broughton after being dazzled by her pretty face, and the way, frankly, they seemed to turn all heads whenever they entered a room together. She had fit him well, rather like his perfectly tailored waistcoats.
Better he should have married his tailor....
He'd never loved her. After the first few months of their marriage, he hadn't liked her, either, any more than she had liked him. He'd married her fine good looks, and she'd pledged herself to his t.i.tle and deep pockets.
Still, they could have stumbled along, together yet not together, for several dozen years. Many did.
It was Sheila's lack of discretion that had brought both of them down, and taken Justin to that dew-covered lawn where his d.a.m.ned unerring aim had put a period to both Robbie Farber's existence and his own frivolous life as he had known it.
Eight years. Eight long years spent exiled from his country, his estates. Eight interminable years of doing whatever was asked of him, in the hope of gaining a pardon that would reunite him with his homeland and keep his neck out of a noose.
He'd returned to Mayfair only a few months ago, to learn that memories in the ton were longer than he would have imagined. There had been no welcome from anyone save Tanner Blake, Duke of Malvern, and Rafe Daughtry, Duke of Ashurst. But even those friends.h.i.+ps hadn't softened society's condemnation of him. The three days he'd spent at his town house had been enough to convince him that he had rushed his reentry into Society, and he had taken himself off again, prepared to await the following spring season before trying again.
Now he was back, only two months pa.s.sing between a nearly universal cut direct from those who had eight years earlier called themselves his friends and tonight's very visible acceptance by the Prince Regent-all part of the bargain they had struck.
Justin could hear the whispers, even as he could not make out the words. When he bowed his way back from the prince, it would be to see those same people who had judged him, had shunned him, now taking their cue from the prince and rus.h.i.+ng up as if they were delighted to see him again.
And he could, in return, be delighted to see them, allow himself to be brought back into favor. Even as he cursed them all for sycophants and fools, while also cursing himself for ever believing this life was the one he wanted, the life he'd sacrificed so much to regain.
”A word in your ear, sir?” Justin suggested quietly. ”You may frown as you lead me off, as if preparing to give me one last stern scold before welcoming me back into the fold of sheep standing all about us now, breathlessly antic.i.p.ating your reaction and ready to take their cue from you.”
”d.a.m.n you, what are you up to, Wilde? Where's the gel?” the Prince Regent asked sotto voce as he allowed two footmen to help him to his feet. He pointed toward a door off in a corner, and Justin fell into step directly beside him, in just the way George Brummell had dared to do, as if declaring them not only friends, but equals. Oh, this would add to his consequence; being so publicly taken off for a private coze with the heir to the throne. How Prinny must hate that. ”What are you doing here, Wilde? It was to be tomorrow night, at Covent Garden.”
”What? And miss this delightful gathering?” Justin responded lightly, insinuating his arm through the prince's crooked elbow, knowing the man had no choice but to allow the intimacy. ”Imagine my delight, sir, when I returned to London and espied the invitation waiting for me on my desk.”
He refrained from mentioning that the invitation had served to remove the problem of how to break into Carleton House at four in the morning and somehow make it past the guards.
”One of my fool secretaries must have already added you back to my invitation list. You shouldn't be on that list yet, not until you're bracketed with the gel. It was a mistake.”
”I wondered as much. But then I thought, my, how can I resist? After all, the wish of our Royal Highness can be nothing less than my command. I fair flew through my toilette, I tell you-taking only a miserly three hours to make myself presentable-and then hastened straight here. Please forgive my tardy and doubtless disheveled appearance. Although my man, Wigglesworth, persists in telling me that this waistcoat flatters me no end.”
”Humph,” the Prince Regent responded, which was as good as a compliment on Justin's attire, combined with a curse that His Royal Highness would never see a waistcoat so fine himself...or be able to see past it to his toes, either, come to that.
They'd entered the anteroom now, and Justin carefully first shut, then locked the door, deftly pocketing the key.
”The gel?” the prince said without preamble. ”Where the devil is the gel? Did you forget her on the docks? Can't you get the straight of anything, Wilde? She's supposed to be with you.”
Justin's smile never wavered. It was the sort of smile that could make a guilty man feel the sudden need to find a quick exit. ”You mean, sir, where is the daughter of one Lady Anne Louise Farber, sister to Robbie Farber, once Earl of Birling, and the man I shot down eight years ago for having maligned my then estranged wife's nonexistent reputation?”
The prince shot a quick look toward the door. ”You, um...you found that out quickly.”
Justin raised one well-defined eyebrow, feigning surprise even as his every suspicion was confirmed. ”Oh? So you're already aware of the connection? My, my, and here I was, prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, call the whole thing coincidence and be done with it. After all, how can a mere loyal subject even begin to conceive that his presumptive sire might be so devious, so cold-bloodedly calculating?”
”It wasn't like that, Wilde. Not at the beginning, at least.”
”At least? Tell me, is it still considered regicide if you're no more than a sorry excuse for a regent, and not the king? Or, knowing the mood of the populace, would I be looked upon more as a hero if I were to wring your d.a.m.n neck for you in the next minute?”
The prince's normally pink cheeks disappeared in the full, florid flush that now possessed him from cravat to hairline. ”You cannot speak to me this way! I'll summon the guards.”