Portia Da Costa (12 page)

9

The Ruff Diamonds

Adela jerked upright, clutching her nose. It didn’t hurt after all these years, but the moment of breaking it was as vivid as ever. Looking down, she half expected to see blood on her clothing.

Against the pin-sharp memory of making love with Wilson, she remembered very little about the return to her room afterward. Being tall, and wiry and strong, he’d easily been able to carry her part of the way, but when she’d come to her senses, halfway across the lawn, she’d struggled and kicked, and he’d had to put her down. The rest of the way had been half stagger, half trudge, her accepting his help with a dazed reluctance. And a growing antipathy. She knew now—and in her heart then—that the clash between her face and a tree branch wasn’t Wilson’s fault, but her half-swooning mind had buried the notion. Beyond rational thought, pain, disappointment and anger had forever linked themselves with her cousin.

Some days after the incident, her portfolio had been delivered to her, intact, in a carefully tied parcel. No note accompanied it, but the devious, elaborate knot fastening the package could only have been wrought by Wilson’s hand. Adela had burnt the contents...beginning again.

The way the sunlight had moved round the room now made her glance at the small ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Sometime during her reverie, she’d flung herself on the bed, but now she flew to her feet.

It was well past the time to dress for dinner, and she was still lolling about in her day dress, hair half up, half down, all disheveled. Coming from a somewhat depleted household, the Ruffington women had but one maid between them, and the way Mama was fussing at the moment, it meant Lizzie’s time was mostly assigned to her. Sybil got next dibs, because of her beau, so Marguerite and Adela were having to fend mostly for themselves. Marguerite’s youth meant she wore her hair loose and wasn’t yet corseted, and Adela had developed ways of managing her own clothing, out of necessity.

But she was going to have to hurry now. The dinner gong was bound to ring any moment, because she could swear she’d heard the dressing one sound ages ago. There was no time now to turn the events of the past over and over again, in a pointless whirl, like the praxinoscope reel. There was plenty to fret about in the present, anyway, especially the ramifications of her interlude with Wilson, and the absurd liberties she’d allowed him to take.

“Allowed”? Encouraged, more like, you brainless twit!

Pushing the unsettling truth aside, she applied herself to the quickest possible quick-change act she could manage, grappling with her clothes and muttering and growling out the sort of curse words that would induce even more of a fainting fit in her parent. There was no water in her ewer or her basin, so she risked a quick dash to the bathroom at the end of the landing to fling a bit of cold water in the general direction of the most overheated portions of her body. Twisting to look at her posterior view, she was relieved to see her bottom was barely pink now. Wilson had a skilled hand nowadays. Had he got it from practice with
that woman?

No time to worry about her now, though. Hurtling back to her room, and narrowly avoiding cannoning into several prompt guests on their way down to dinner, Adela squashed all thoughts of her cousin’s fashionable ex-mistress. Coraline certainly wasn’t a woman to compare oneself with when preparing to dine at a glamorous house party.

But Adela’s usual clever ruses with her corset weren’t so clever this time. She kept losing hold of the laces, and the hooks kept coming unhooked. If only she’d rung the bell, there might have been a maid free to attend her. Although it wasn’t overly likely. She and her sisters were probably very low in the pecking order at such a large and fairly distinguished gathering.

You’re so clever, Wilson. You should design something better and easier to put on than this.
With the bow finally tied in front, she rested her hands on her lightly constrained waist, thankful she didn’t have to pull it in all that far.
Or better yet, if you have such a low opinion of corsets, you should speak to some of your cronies in high places about making dress reform a law of the land for the good of British womankind.

But had he really meant what he’d said about corseting? The sumptuous Coraline had been ferociously laced in her photograph, exhibiting lush, rounded bosoms almost overflowing her Worth gown, and the classic tiny waist, barely a hand span.

Just as Adela was fastening the tapes on her second layer of petticoats, an imperious knock came at the door, and before she could call out an answer, it was flung open and the second-oldest Ruffington girl sailed into the room. Sybil was already gowned, but her lovely golden hair was in almost as much disorder as Adela’s. Clumps of it seemed to have been pinned up in a rather ham-fisted fashion, and the rest was still tumbled freely around her shoulders.

“Della, please, please help me with my hair. I’m having such a terrible time. Mama’s got Lizzie, and Maggie’s useless, and nobody answered the bell, and when I tried to do it on my own, it went all over the place.”

Adela smiled. Sybil could be a self-absorbed little minx at times, but when she stopped to think, she was a kind-hearted girl. She also had looks that were hard to resist and impossible not to love. An innocent yet voluptuously gilded temptress, she resembled their plump and flaxen-haired mother rather than their late father, who’d been lean and limber and brown-haired, much like Adela and Marguerite.

“Come here, Syb, and don’t get in such a state. I’m sure we can create something acceptable if you’ll just keep still.”

Sybil flew across the room, the satin of her white gown swishing. Despite the trials with her hair, her toilette was otherwise complete. Her smooth, creamy shoulders rose in gleaming magnificence from the low, boatlike neckline, making Adela frown. Surely a flighty eighteen-year-old shouldn’t be showing so much flesh? As daughters they were now out of mourning for their father, but Sybil’s display of cleavage was still excessive in Adela’s opinion.

“Shouldn’t you perhaps wear a fichu at your bosom, Syb? That gown exhibits rather more of you than it should, you know. What on earth will Mama say? She’ll realize you’ve been tampering with the neckline.”

“Oh, Della, you goose. It was Mama who instructed me to change it. She’s determined that I should get Algernon to propose this weekend.” Smiling and self-satisfied, Sybil reached out and angled the glass so she could admire herself. “She doesn’t realize that he’s already absolutely and completely devoted to me.”

Oh, dear, what had Sybil been up to? Not having been out much in the two years since their father’s death, they barely knew the young viscount. But Sybil must have worked fast to make such a huge impression at just one or two music recitals and relatively small soirees. The accent had probably been on “fast”....

“What do you mean, devoted? You hardly know him.”

“Ah, but I do....” Sybil pressed her fingers to her pert, curvaceous bosom. “And he knows me. He drew me aside at the Wotheringtons’ musical thing. Told me he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as me in his life. And...” She drew in a breath, making some kind of fichu or lace insert even more necessary. Something would have to be said to Mama about unsuitable garments for a naive young girl. “...that he’d die if I didn’t hold out at least a small hope that one day he might have me.”

“Sybil!”

“Ouch, that hurt!”

Adela’s disquiet was now a tolling bell of alarm. Sybil had put herself in such danger before, playing with the affections of young men. There had been an incident with a precociously literate gardener’s boy when she’d been barely sixteen. Fortunately, the matter had been put a stop to, without any harm done, but Adela was fearful of her sister’s passionate, capricious nature.

It doesn’t matter what happens to me. My secret can come out, and nothing will be spoiled, because nobody wants me, anyway. But
you
need to preserve your reputation, sweetheart.

Adela grasped her sibling’s shoulders. “You haven’t done anything silly, have you?” She glared at Sybil in the glass, trying to be the wise, authoritative older sister. Oh, the hypocrisy... “Tell me you haven’t compromised yourself, please.”

Not like me.

“Of course not. Don’t make a fuss, Della. We’ve exchanged a few letters, that’s all.”

Letters? Oh, not letters again. That was worse than a few indiscreet kisses or caresses. Much worse. Letters were tangible and could get into the wrong hands.

“How many? You haven’t written anything stupid, have you?”

Sybil beamed. “Oh, he writes so beautifully, Della...quite takes my breath away.” She patted her bosom again, and Adela wondered if her sister did, in fact, have one of these epistles tucked down her corset. “He’s perfectly lyrical.”

“Well, I’m more concerned about what
you’ve
written. Remember the trouble we had with those notes you sent to Jimmy Roberts? If those had gone any further astray, you’d have been ruined, you fool. It was devilishly lucky that we found that he’d simply mislaid them, after all...and even luckier that he gave them all back when the foolishness ended.”

Sybil shook her head, making the latest tress Adela had pinned into place come tumbling down again in a cascade of gold. “Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. I keep them safe, and Algernon keeps his safe, too. We’re not children!”

Adela sighed. No, her sister was a grown woman, even if she didn’t quite understand the ramifications of pursuing her passions and urges...and then writing about them.

And how could I of all people blame Sybil for her feelings, and her flirtations, and her courting of danger? You’re not the one who lost her virginity to the first man who fancied it, are you, Syb? Or the woman who secretly purchases the services of handsome, well-formed young men to satisfy her passions.

She kissed the top of Sybil’s head, then started again on her coiffeur. “Just promise me you’ll be very careful, sweetheart, won’t you? I couldn’t bear it if anyone hurt you and made you unhappy.” She attacked another long golden strand and secured it in place.

“I will, Della, I will....” Sybil’s smile in the mirror was a little sheepish, but genuine and loving. “Don’t worry, and thank you for caring about me the way you do. I know it can’t be easy when you don’t have a beau of your own.” Her grin widened. “But I’m really looking out for all of us, you know, by snagging Algernon. If Grandpa won’t give us more than a pittance, and you won’t make an effort with Wilson, someone has to make sure we all have an income.”

Is it so obvious, the enmity between Wilson and me? I thought I’d covered it up quite well.

“There’s no effort to be made with Wilson. He and I don’t have much in common, other than he’s our remote cousin. We barely come into contact with each other.” Adela fought the urge to stuff a hairpin slightly more forcibly than she should into Sybil’s hair. Her younger sibling didn’t mean to be tactless, but everything about Wilson was a delicate issue, especially now. “And anyway, if you’re so concerned that Wilson’s going to get all the Old Curmudgeon’s money as well as the title, why don’t
you
set your cap at him, Syb, instead of Algernon?”

Sybil tossed her head, making Adela tut. Her sister’s hair was as thick and glossy as her own, and just as wayward. It needed a very firm hand. “Oh, I’m too much of an utter nitwit to interest Wilson. You and he
do
have things in common. You’re very intelligent, Della, and artistic, and you know things. And he obviously prefers older women.” To Sybil, seven years of seniority made Adela ancient. “It’s obvious he admires you.”

“I can’t imagine how you can think that.” Adela coiled up one gilded tress after another, securing them in place. “As I’ve said, we rarely if ever see him, and I’m sure he’s still smarting from the loss of his, um, latest sweetheart.”

“Oh, tish poo, he isn’t! The fabulous Coraline threw him over. He probably hates her for running off with some Italian duke who’s even richer than he’s going to be....” Sybil’s pretty mouth thinned, and Adela had to hide her smile as her sister obviously switched tack. “Rich with
our
money. Oh, I hate Grandpapa! If only you’d been a boy, Della, we’d all be living in the lap of luxury.... If Mama had given him a grandson, he wouldn’t have hated us all so, and he would
have
to keep us all in a grand manner.”

Their perennial story...

“Well, I’m not a man, am I? And we have to do the best we can. So you’d better keep still and let me finish your hair. Then Algernon will be so overcome with love that he’ll propose tonight and you won’t have to write any more silly letters.” She set the last thick tress in place, and began to primp and tease the small curls around Sybil’s forehead. “And please tell me that you’ve burned those other ones.” Her sister had cherished the bundle of love notes long after her misguided tendresse had been over. Adela had seen her reading them not long ago.

Sybil swung around, an outraged expression on her face. “I could never do that! Never!”

“But, Sybil—”

“I won’t discuss it, Della. I won’t. And if you’d ever enjoyed such a beautiful amour, you wouldn’t destroy its mementos, either.” Sybil was a mule when her mind was made up, and Adela could see her mentally dismissing the topic of the letters and moving on to the next order of business. She smiled into the mirror, patting Adela’s handiwork and preening. “Perfect, Della.... It’s absolutely perfect.” Her head up, she touched her fingers to her throat. “Now, wearing the Ruff diamonds tonight I shall be completely irresistible!”

Another cause for concern. Had Mama brought the famous gems with her? It was foolhardy, not so much because they might be stolen, but because they were a treasure whose possession was a continuing matter of contention.

The Ruff diamonds, as everyone called the brilliant and famous gems, were Mama’s own possession, a personal gift from Papa, on their wedding. But there had been some talk that the Old Curmudgeon insisted they belonged to him. Papa had purchased the parure for Mama himself, but as his income had derived solely from his father, the old fellow insisted that he’d paid for them, and that they were the Millingford Diamonds, not the Ruffington ones, thus creating yet another bone of contention. Mama was standing firm, though, which was possibly why she’d engaged that slinking weasel Blair Devine as her advisor.