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He missed her softness and laughter. She had been the pulse, the lifeblood, the sweetness in his life. She had presided over their lives with music and merriment, and now she was gone by choice.
She would not be there for Christmas, for his fifteenth birthday, for...anything!
She was his mother, the betrayer. When he thought of her, those thoughts were laced with bitterness. She had been English, and he wondered if all English women were so heartless. He rather thought they must be.
He hated the wife his father brought into their home. He hated the way she looked at him, as though he was in the way. He didn’t see what his father saw in her.
He hated that his father declared Rose dead. How could he do that? He asked him once and his father said, “She has taken on a new life, a new name. She is dead to us.”
When gentle memories inserted themselves in his heart, he pushed them away. He would not, could not, forgive her. Such treachery was a woman!
~ PART ONE ~
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. (From the Tempest)
~ One ~
London – Early Spring 1805
VAUXHALL GARDENS HAD BEEN in existence for two hundred years, and time had not diminished its popularity. It was the fashionable place to be seen and to see during the London Season. Vauxhall was where the hedonistic haute ton flocked.
The Gardens were laid out for various forms of pleasure, and were as varied as the crowds the Gardens attracted. Its most famous rotunda was nestled within the beautifully landscaped lawns, and was considered top on the lists of its attractions.
This night, in the rotunda’s canopied balcony, a full orchestra at her back, was Madame Weichsel. Her voice and her selection of song were very nearly as lovely as she was herself. The crowd below the balcony sat or stood, as the case allowed, watching and listening raptly to her. Everywhere, people praised her.
Lady Jessica Stafford looked about the assembled audience and smiled to herself. It was obvious to this young but knowing miss, that although popular with the masses, the fashionable beau monde was receiving Madame with varying degrees of appreciation.
There were aristocratic Englishmen who leered and ogled Madame’s provocative movements in her clinging and quite transparent gown of silver flimsy. This, they did in rare style, with quizzing glasses held high. A ribald remark was passed now and then, which Jessie Stafford overheard and smiled over. Noblewomen whispered and gossiped about Madame’s off-stage activities. Drinks flowed.
Jessie enjoyed everything that went on all around her. She was twenty years old, just about to turn one and twenty. She had a mind of her own, and although she had enjoyed a London Season the previous year, she had not accepted anyone’s hand in marriage. Her uncle had been very good about this, and did not tease her to choose a husband. She, too, had been very good to her uncle, the Earl of Redcliff, Admiral Thomas Stafford, and had not teased him about the fact he had been Madame’s latest lover.
She leaned into her tall, broad uncle and said with a hint of a giggle, “She is very good, isn’t she, Uncle Thomas?”
He was nine and forty and still an attractive man, in spite of the fact he tended towards portliness. He was not immune to his niece’s mild tease and grinned. “I think, my dear, she is accounted a veritable nightingale. Don’t you think?”
He had raised his brow, and Jessie did laugh then. “Yes, Uncle. I do.”
He brushed her nose lightly and said, “Ah, Jessie, those dark lashes and violet eyes dig too deep into a man. It is no wonder I have to entertain some young buck every other day coming to court you.”
She pulled a face. “Is that what you think—that they court me for my eyes, my red hair, my face?” She snorted. “I rather think it is for my wealth and position. I am no fool, Uncle.”
“What you are is a sauce-box.”
Jessie smiled and scanned the crowd when someone new and interesting caught and held her attention. She studied him, and decided he was probably in his late twenties. He was taller than most and very well put together. His hair was black and silky, like a raven’s wing, under his tilted top hat. A wave of hair swept across his forehead. His brows were slightly winged, his lashes dark, and his eyes were dark, so very dark.
He stood in amicable conversation with his group of friends, young men all, who took up much of the space in the narrow aisle.
As Jessie watched with interest, she noticed he was the center of their attention, their talk was lively, and their laughter robust, which caught the eyes of a few disapproving dowagers.
She smiled to herself over this, noticing, too, that his own smile was disarmingly attractive. Perhaps she stared, yes, she admitted to herself, she was staring, and just as she was about to look away, his dark roving eye caught and held her gaze!
Color flooded her cheeks. Faith, she gasped to herself, he was openly surveying not only her face, but her figure as well. However, she discovered this fact quite took her breath away. He was bold and audacious and had no right to ogle her, yet...she found it exciting.
Honesty compelled her to admit he had done no more than she had.
