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While the two Viscounts kept finishing each other’s incomplete sentences as they gave an exaggerated (Helen was sure) account of the lovely young Lady Travers, her impeccably cut riding habit (Stultz, of course!) and her magnificent chestnut thoroughbred, Helen’s sharp eyes had not failed to make note of the fact that Lord Charles remained silent and unusually thoughtful through it all. Helen asked ingenuously: “But if she is so much the lady and so enormously wealthy, why is it that no one knows her background or where she comes from? Unless she is Spanish or Italian or something like that, of course...”
Only then did Charles say in a strangely off-hand kind of voice: “Oh—I have the feeling that Lady Travers comes from sturdy English stock, all right, although I arrived at the Row too late to catch more than a glimpse of her this morning.” And try as she would, Helen could not get anything more out of him for the rest of the night.
“Well, my dear! It seems as if all of London is talking about you, although in the most flattering terms possible, of course. So wise of you, though, to remain slightly mysterious, at le
ast until after the Stafford House ball. And— oh goodness! Look at all these cards! Now that is the real sign of acceptance, you know.”
Alexa and Lady Margery had just returned after a tiring morning and afternoon spent shopping at various establishments on Regent Street, and the silver tray in the entrance hall was already piled high with engraved cards that Alexa only frowned at with a slightly preoccupied air.
“I suppose Mr. Jarvis is right and I should employ a secretary,” she said, leading the way into the pleasantly airy room she had just had redecorated for her use as a study and a retreat. “But I have been sending out polite notes in reply to them all, and that is what has been keeping me busy almost every afternoon.” She paused by one of the windows with her back half-turned to her friend before adding, as if it had been a casual afterthought: “I see that there has been a great deal of activity going on across the square for the past few days. Bridget mentioned that it is all because the Dowager Marchioness of Newbury has decided to move in. Do you think perhaps that she might feel curious enough to have one of her footmen drop a card off here? I wonder what I should do in that case!”
Lady Margery, who had let herself sink into a chair with a sigh as soon as they had entered, now sighed again as she looked quizzically at the straight-backed young woman who had just turned about to face her. “I would think, love, that it would depend on just what you mean to achieve in the end, if you know what it is yourself. You have made yourself noticed already and have them all buzzing with conjecture as to who you are and where you have appeared from. And there is no doubt in my mind that after you have made your formal social debut at Stafford House next week you will be firmly established in the best social circles, if that is indeed all you want?” She moved her hand almost wearily at Alexa’s look that mixed surprise and wariness. “You don’t mind my being frank? After all, we have all been quite open with each other from the beginning, have we not; and you know that I know as much as my husband does. The point is, my dear—and I hope you have thought about it very carefully, for you know how fond I am of you—are you really sure? Of what you want, what you might gain, and what you might lose?”
What did she hope to achieve in the end? Alexa had already asked herself the question many times; and as for having something to lose, why, that could be dismissed easily enough because she felt almost like the Spanish conquistador Cortez, who set fire to his own ships so that he and his followers could only go forward and never back. She herself had nothing and nowhere to go back to either. Nothing to lose, really, as they did.
She said as much as she walked slowly away from the windows to stand by her desk, running her fingers abstractedly over its polished surface while she considered everything else. Mr. Jarvis had already pointed out the “perils and pitfalls” as he put it. Her aunt’s profession for one thing. Her husband’s far too recent death. And most of all her own indiscretion (he had been kind enough not to call it “stupidity,” she thought wryly) that fateful night in Rome. Men, after all, were usually believed; and he could very easily spread the story that she was given to frequenting brothels for entertainment. Would he actually do so? Alexa had almost to shake the thought from her mind.
“You said yourself that they are noticing me,” she said finally. “And I haven’t made any overt moves in that direction, have I? Let them come to me first, when they begin to wonder and tie little facts together and ask themselves questions. Perhaps that is all I want—to see them suffer the torture of suspense and start to be afraid of consequences for a change. Oh, I don’t know! Except that I want them all to know who I am! The Witch, my grandmother. Gavin Edward Dameron, Marquess of Newbury, and his bigamous wife and his bastard daughters. The future Marquess of Newbury. Do you think that he will be quite as anxious to marry the lovely Helen when he knows the truth? If no one else knows, let them know and try to live with the constant anticipation that I might topple them down from their high perches any time I choose to!”
“Well, love, do think everything over very carefully and do weigh every consequence, won’t you?” And then, dropping her rather solemn tone as her eyes began to twinkle irrepressibly, Lady Margery added, “But I must admit that I can hardly wait until I see their faces when you make your curtsy to the Queen. And you must promise to be the soul of discretion until then at least!”
After her friend had left, Alexa wondered rather guiltily if Mr. Jarvis, who had connections everywhere and in every walk of life, might have learned that she had called on her aunt against his express advice and that, besides communicating with her by messenger twice since then, she planned to pay her aunt Solange another visit very soon. There was so much more she had to find out! Including... Alexa picked up the scrawled note that had accompanied one of the extravagant baskets of flowers she had received during the past few days. She had not mentioned this to Mr. Jarvis either, wanting to think it over for herself first. What should she do about Lord Charles Lawrence? She felt nothing for him any longer, of course—if she ever had. But he had seen her riding, and the name Trovers had obviously touched a chord; he was almost sure she was the same Miss Alexandra Howard he had been privileged to become acquainted with in Ceylon last year. Alexa frowned again over his note.
...If I am mistaken, or presumptuous, I beg that you will forgive me. But if La Belle Inconnue and the young lady who has haunted my dreams ever since I was forcibly prevented from keeping our last appointment are one and the same...I am almost afraid to say more, except, again, I know that I know you, for there cannot be two women in this world blessed with the same expressive face and eyes and the same unique hair mat magically seems to have entrapped all the changing colors of autumn. And so I remain in suspense until I know if you choose to acknowledge our previous acquaintance or not.
Deering.
What a well-written and almost poetic note! Alexa thought a trifle cynically as she threw it down on her dressing table again. He had emphasized “‘forcibly prevented.” Had it been that way indeed, and not the way Nicholas had told it? Nicholas Dameron—a liar too many times already. But she didn’t want to think about him, especially while he was safely out of the way. Lord Charles. Her cousin, in fact sharing the same grandmother. What if she made him fall in love with her? It suddenly struck Alexa that they (as she had begun to say), even if they guessed at or knew her real identity, could not possibly know whether she was aware of her true antecedents or not, which made the whole situation even more deliciously ironic. And what if it was Lord Charles who made sure that she was properly introduced to all his relations, particularly on his mother’s
side? After that, and hearing of her name and background, there would be at least two of them who would begin to worry and wonder without being able to say anything openly.
If Lord Charles had hoped to receive some acknowledgment of his rather impetuous missive the next time he saw Lady Travers riding in the park, he was disappointed; for she rode with her friend Lady Margery again and spoke to no one except her companion and the Countess of Jersey, to whom she had just been introduced. What a magnificent horsewoman she was, as he should well remember from the many times they had ridden together in Colombo. Less than a year ago, as impossible as that seemed. And yet, in that short space of time she must have been both married and widowed! How much experience had she had? She was still as slim as a willow wand and did not look too much different, except for the way she wore her hair now and her modish, expensive clothes. And she had gained, since then, an almost indefinable air of self-assurance and poise along with the polish. Lady Travers. Was it really possible that she could have married that old man she used to refer to as her “uncle”? A Baronet—and very rich into the bargain, if he remembered correctly. And now all that wealth was hers to squander and enjoy, at least until she allowed herself to become entrapped by one of the fortune hunters the town was full of these days. Charles caught himself frowning at some of his closest friends who happened to be as impoverished as he was at the moment and feeling quite protective of her. Alexandra. “Alexa” that forbidding aunt of hers had called her. He had wanted her even then and had planned to bring her to England under his protection. Would have too, if Nicholas hadn’t seen fit to interfere, damn him! But perhaps it was just as well after all, for now—by God, she was here in London and not only wealthy but accepted by everyone!
Deciding to be patient, Lord Charles made a point of riding in the Row every day at about the same time that she usually did. He told himself that she had doubtless become wary of fortune hunters already, which would account for her aloofness and reserve in public. Even the die-hard old dowagers were beginning to unbend enough to admit grudgingly that in spite of her obvious youth Lady Travers seemed to be a quiet and serious-minded young woman with both the knowledge and proper regard for the conventions; although he could not help smiling to himself when he suddenly thought of his grandmother the Dowager Marchioness of Newbury and what her reactions might be. Perhaps, since she had moved into what was referred to as “Old Newbury House” in Belgrave Square for the rest of the season, he should find out by calling and paying his dutiful respects. Such a coincidence that Lady Travers lived just opposite!
Since the Dowager insisted on strict observance of the formalities, Lord Charles decided to leave his card with her butler on his way to the park the next day. He found himself quite nonplussed when he was requested to wait in the library for a few minutes and relieved the next moment when his Uncle Newbury’s third daughter, Philippa, came running down the stairs to announce gleefully that Belle-Mere had decided he could just as well escort them to watch the riders in the park, since their uncles were so late they had probably forgotten their promise, as usual. “And I am really quite glad, because I had much rather go with you!” Philippa added breathlessly before Helen could come downstairs and show her annoyance at having to be burdened with the presence of her younger sisters.
Lady Helen, however, had surprisingly been all smiles and sweetness when she joined them with her other sister in a surprisingly short time, explaining to her dearest and most obliging cousin that she and her sisters had been invited to spend a few days with Belle-Mere, wh
o actually planned to give a ball for her. Wasn’t it sweet and thoughtful? “And I am to help with the guest list and all the plans, of course; for after all, as Belle-Mere reminded me, it will not be long before I will be giving my own balls!” She gave one of her rather tinkling laughs before saying archly, with a sideways glance at her preoccupied-seeming cousin, “That is, of course, if I can hope to drag Embry up to London for the season!” She added with another small laugh: “I must admit though that for the moment I cannot help feeling quite relieved that Embry is busy with purchasing horses instead of watching them and their female riders like the rest of you besotted gentlemen, or becoming another adoring follower of this mystery lady! Has anyone learned anything more about her background yet?”
“Her background is quite respectable, I’m sure, sweet coz,” Charles responded automatically as he scanned the crowd of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen who had arrived earlier to promenade up and down or ride or watch everyone else. “Will you not ride today?” he added almost maliciously, knowing how Helen hated to be outshone in anything. “I see several of your friends are here already and are waving at you. You are not nervous about riding that new Arab mare of Grandmother’s, are you? Perhaps I should try her out first, unless Ianthe is ready to take the challenge?”
That was enough for Helen, whose archness dropped away for a few moments as she snapped: “I think that I am a good enough rider to handle almost any horse fit for riding, although I’m grateful for your concern. But is your mount too fresh and likely to be troublesome? Because in that case, of course I would be more than glad to forgo the pleasure of riding in Rotten Row to allow you to do so.”
Instead of replying in kind as he was tempted to do, Lord Charles took a glance at the watch he had drawn from his vest pocket and shrugged instead as he advised his cousin to mount and be quick about it, before they were too late to see anyone.
Determined not to be observed losing her temper, Lady Helen followed his example in mounting one of the horses that had been brought along in the wake of their large open carriage, quite aware, as they cantered forward to join a group of acquaintances, that the silver-grey coat and darker mane of her mare formed a perfect complement to her charcoal-colored riding habit and her blonde and gold coloring. In fact, she received so many compliments from everyone they encountered that her smile became quite genuine and her cheeks a rose-pink that enhanced her beauty even more. Everything should have and would have gone off quite perfectly if they had not happened to meet with Lady Travers, who was riding a white-stockinged bay with a matching star on his forehead and was accompanied, for a change, by only her groom riding behind her. This time she was wearing a severely cut black cloth riding habit that was trimmed with black velvet, its severity relieved by white satin and silk and occasional intriguing glimpses of the white muslin trousers she had actually dared to wear beneath her skirts. Helen had heard that it was now considered quite the thing to do so, but it seemed to her that they could easily appear quite vulgar worn by certain persons—Lady Travers providing the perfect example.
It was on the tip of Helen’s tongue to observe as much when a rather flashily dressed woman almost flew past them on a huge black brute of a horse that seemed not only wild but completely unmanageable as well, in spite of the fact that its rider was foolhardy enough to keep only one gloved hand on her reins while she lifted the other as she passed in an openly challenging salute.
“That Skittles!” an admiring masculine voice commented laughingly at about the same time that Helen’s nervous grey mare reared up, almost unseating her rider, and decided to bolt in the opposite direction from that taken by the black. For some terror-filled, almost timeless moments, while she clung on with all her strength to reins and mane, Helen felt as if everything was whirling past her. Trees and shrubs and other horses and riders. Faces with open mouths and cries of alarm that were drowned out by the sound of the wind whistling in her ears and the pounding of hooves. And then, just as suddenly as it had all begun it was over, and Helen realized that she was actually alive and had been spared even the humiliation of being thrown in front of everyone. But she might have been killed! Helen had to force herself to sit erect again and wished she could stop her hands from shaking for long enough so that she could straighten her hat, with its ostrich plume that now covered her eyes and most of her face instead of curling jauntily about its brim. “Here, let me do that for you,” a competent feminine voice offered, and before Helen had time to protest she found the offending feather no longer obscuring her vision as her silk hat was adjusted over the golden mass of curls it had taken her maid over two hours to arrange. The same matter-of-fact feminine voice said it was a very pretty hat indeed before adding that any horse might decide to run away at any time and they were hard to control if one was taken completely unawares as she had obviously been. “It has even happened to me on several occasions, and sometimes I have ended up taking the most ungraceful spills!”
As Helen’s vision returned and she saw who had been speaking to her, she could gladly have cried with vexation or...
“How can we ever thank you enough?” Lord Charles said fervently at that moment. “I suppose all the rest of us, even I, must have been paralyzed with shock for those few crucial moments during which only you were quick-witted enough to act! I...”
“ I had almost decided far too rashly to take up the gauntlet that had just been thrown, I’m afraid!” Alexa said in a dry voice as she released her firm hold on the Arab mare’s reins. “In fact, I had already started off, and that was why I was able to catch up so easily.” She shrugged lightly. “There is really no need for thanks, you know. I’m sure someone else would have done the same if I had not got there first.”
