The Affectionate Adversary (12 page)

But look at Lady Delacroix on this night. In direct contrast to her words, she floated through the ballroom like a queen.

Her sparkling jewels and elegant laces vied for attention. Her very posture bespoke fortune and class. Everything about this creature belied Charles’s certainty that he had known and loved her as Mrs. Sarah Carlyle aboard the
Queen Elinor
.

“I fear Lady Delacroix is unlikely to take notice of you, Mr. Locke,” one of the men commented. “I am told she is quite content with her situation in life and does not intend to permit another husband to intrude upon it. Who could blame her? As eldest daughter of the late Mr. Gerald Watson, she has all the money she could ever want. And as the dowager Lady Delacroix, she possesses the effects of her late husband’s good reputation and place in society.”

“Thus she has immense power, prestige, and influence,” another added. “Lady Delacroix lacks nothing, and she makes her disdain for suitors well-known. As if to avoid all society, she has been abroad these two years past and is only lately returned to her family and friends. No, Mr. Locke, were I a bachelor, I should make every attempt to win the hand of Miss Watson. Lady Delacroix herself, I believe, is unattainable.”

Unwilling to quell the urge to confront this proud and indifferent creature the men described, Charles excused himself and stepped away. As he started toward Lady Delacroix, he recalled Sarah Carlyle’s rejection of his marriage proposal. How her words had reverberated through him again and again as he sat in painful loneliness in his father’s house. But now he understood that although she had wept tears enough to convince any man of her innocence, her message on that day aboard ship had been filled with deceit.

“I do not care for banks or warehouses or drawing rooms.
Business ventures and grand houses have no meaning to me whatsoever,”
she had insisted.
“I deplore any goal of financial gain. My sole object in life is to rid myself of such earthly encumbrances and devote my whole being to the pursuit of heaven.”

What rot! Look at her now, laden with “earthly encumbrances,”
Charles fumed as he strode through the crowd toward the object of his ire. How dare she cite religion as an excuse to be rid of him? Sobbing as though her heart must break, she had told him of her devotion to her faith and her aim of poverty.

“It is God I wish to please, not man,”
she had assured her wooer, the words dripping with piety.
“I do not want a house or servants or fine gowns. I cannot abide a husband who desires to spend his days laboring to increase his wealth. I wish to be poor. I wish to have nothing. If I wear rags and sleep in a hovel, I shall be content. Any man who would have me as his wife must feel the same.”

Utter tripe! Of course it mattered not to Lady Delacroix whether Charles Locke worked in a bank or built a tea enterprise. She had no need of his pathetic efforts to provide her with security and comfort. How she must have laughed to herself as he told her how he planned to add rooms to his father’s house on Threadneedle Street and to erect a warehouse nearby. What amusement she must have taken in his pitiable list of assets and options. When she had a world of riches and honor spread before her, she had surely thought his small chest of stolen gold a paltry thing.

His fury mounting with each step, Charles followed the woman and her sister across the ballroom. As they neared the dance floor, the flaxen-haired Lord Delacroix tipped his head and left them to join another group. With much obsequious bowing, an elderly gentleman greeted the two ladies. They paused for a moment, accepted his salutations, and then moved on. A young friend in a feather-tipped turban stopped them momentarily and said something amusing. They giggled and hurried away.

Charles edged around the double lines of dancers and passed the portal to the dining room, where the evening’s repast was being set up. At last Lady Delacroix was within his reach. As he approached, she suddenly halted, opened her fan, and whispered something to her sister. Then with a last glance about the room, she slipped through a pair of tall, glass-paned doors and vanished.

  
Six
  

Such a relief! Sarah leaned against the stone wall, tilted her head to the starlit sky, and drank down a deep breath of fresh air. Since her return to London, she had attended three dinner parties and two balls, and she had made an appearance at St. James’s court. This evening’s reception at Lord Marston’s house was certain to go on until well after midnight. She had never felt so exhausted in all her life.

Boating on the Ganges and trekking across China were nothing to this endless social whirlwind! Caught up in it at once, she had been hurled headlong into her former life.

Gowns had come out of trunks. Furs had been aired. New gloves and slippers fitted. Jewels taken from locked boxes. And hats … oh, the hats. Sarah could not remember when she had been forced to examine so many bonnets, so much ribbon, so many faux flowers, leaves, and bits of shrubbery.

Mary would not hear of her sister going out in society in a hat that was two years behind the times. And so the three sisters had traipsed from one milliner’s shop to another. They sorted through ribbons and laces for daytime, feathered turbans for evening gatherings, and bonnets with narrow poke brims and every sort of adornment imaginable until at last the perfect array of headwear had been procured.

Prudence had insisted that something must be done with her eldest sister’s long hair. And so Sarah had been made to sit immobile while her brown locks were trimmed, curled, and set atop her head to reflect the current rage for Grecian style. Sarah informed Mary and Pru that she had visited Greece, and no one there wore such ridiculous ringlets and braids. But they would hear of nothing less than converting their dear sister into the very image of a classical goddess from some ancient urn.

Closing her eyes as she leaned against the cool wall now, Sarah heaved a rueful sigh and tried to think happier thoughts. She pictured the deck of the
Queen Elinor
and her favorite chair, which had given her a stupendous view of the ocean. She thought of tossing waves and salt-sea smells and the snap and creak of ropes and sails. And then her thoughts wandered, as always, to the face of Charles Locke … the pressure of his arm against hers … the brilliance of his eyes reflecting the blue of the water … the corners of his mouth tipped up in a gentle smile—

“Excuse me, madam.” The voice was too close for comfort. “May I be so bold as to interrupt your reverie?”

“As a matter of fact,” she began, intending to whisk away the offender. And then she focused on his face. Instantly, her blood sank to her knees, and she gripped the stone behind her for support. “Charles …”

“Good evening, Mrs. Carlyle. Or perhaps I should say—Lady Delacroix.”

Too startled to respond, Sarah could do nothing but stare in disbelief. She had expected never to lay eyes upon the man again. But here he was. Not two paces away. Tall, square-shouldered, his sapphire eyes aglow in the starlight—it was truly him.

“How—” she shook her head—“how are you here?”

“By invitation, of course. The Chouteau brothers were my close companions in childhood. I grew up alongside Ruel and Alexander at Slocombe House in Devon. Lord Marston employed my father as steward of his estate.” He set his hands at his waist, disdain curling his lips. “Did you dismiss everything I told you as swiftly as you dismissed me, Lady Delacroix?”

“But I did not think … I hardly expected …”

“No, I can see that. You supposed I would return to London and try to rebuild my life, while you rushed back to your society and all its perquisites.”

Disconcerted, Sarah touched the diamond-and-pearl pendant that hung from a gold chain about her neck. This was Charles, and he was angry. Why? Because she had rejected him? Because she had not expected to find him among the
ton
? What was wrong?

“I am surprised to see you,” she tried. “But that does not make you unwelcome, sir. Indeed, I am pleased to find you among Lord Marston’s guests. It is you who appear unhappy at this chance encounter.”

“Unhappy, no. But I am as astonished as you. During our previous acquaintance, you led me to believe your name was Mrs. Sarah Carlyle. You were a pious young widow bent on ridding yourself of all earthly possessions. Tonight I find myself in the presence of Lady Delacroix, whose enjoyment of her wealth and standing is clear to all.”

“Is it?” she said, offended at his accusing tone.

“I believe that pendant with which you toy might be sold for enough money to build a school for blind girls in China,” he observed. “Or to purchase a printing press for a needy missionary in India. Has divesting yourself of such trinkets proven too tiresome to undertake?”

“Upon my honor, you are presumptuous, Mr. Locke!” She tilted her chin. “You know nothing of my intentions, and you have no assurance of where I take my enjoyment. If you believe it is in baubles such as these, you are mistaken. Perhaps it is
you
who dismissed me from your thoughts, Mr.Locke, for I once told you exactly what I believe. As for my name—I would have you know that my late husband was George Carlyle, Lord Delacroix. I did not deceive you there, for I am in every way Mrs. Carlyle.”

“By your society, you are known as Lady Delacroix.”

“When we met, you were not my society. You were a badly injured man pulled up from the sea and nearly tossed back into it for dead. I took it upon myself to assist the ship’s doctor in tending to you and the others who had been taken from the
Tintagel
. In such circumstances, I felt no need to insist upon proper forms of address, nor did I see the necessity of correcting the situation later.”

“No necessity—though I believed myself to be in love with a common woman of typical means and a kind heart?”

Sarah clenched her teeth as she struggled against the unseemly retorts that formed on her tongue. How dare he! She had given hours of her time, nearly wearing herself out in caring for him and the other men. And now he stood before her in accusation—because she had not given him her formal title?

“You believed yourself to be in love with Sarah Carlyle,” she said at last. “But you were too proud and full of self-pity and ambition to heed her message. Is that not true, Mr.

Locke? You supposed Mrs. Carlyle to be a common woman of normal means who intended to give her father’s riches to the needy. That woman begged you to join in her mission, but you could not love her that much.”

“That was it, then? A ruse to dupe a suitor into believing he must love you enough to abandon every hope and dream in his heart? every effort toward security and comfort? Once you had an avowal of poverty, what then? Do you make a habit of toying with men, Lady Delacroix?”

“I did not play you for a fool, sir. Our conversations were genuine and honest, as were my feelings for you. I am now as I was then. But who are you? I believed the Mr. Locke I met aboard the
Queen Elinor
to be a kind and well-mannered gentleman. I found him brave and wise and caring. He grieved a boy named Danny who had been lost at sea, and he honored a father who had given his all to a bold but ill-fated enterprise. That Mr. Locke was earnest and intelligent and, above all, considerate of the feelings of others.” Sarah pulled herself up straight and met his steady gaze. “You, sir, are a brute!”

Unwilling to hear another word from his mouth, Sarah lifted her skirts and hurried back into the ballroom. She must escape this place! Flee these people! How could he have come here when she had worked so hard to put him out of her thoughts? How dare he accuse her of such infamies—toying with men, delighting in her wealth, deceiving others? It was too much!