The Last of Lady Lansdown (6 page)

She joined some of the guests. Soon Lord Rennie strolled up to greet her.

“My condolences, Lady Lansdown,” Rennie remarked in his usual sincere fashion. He spent the next minutes desperately struggling to extol the supposed virtues of her late husband. Finally she could not stand one more minute. With a furtive shift of her eyes, she searched for a means of escape and noticed Douglas Cartland standing alone in the corner, watching her.

Rennie turned to follow her gaze. “Yes, I brought Douglas along. He knew your husband back in the old London days when he,” there was an uncomfortable pause, “uh, when he lived there.”

Jane turned her attention back to her neighbor. “I was surprised he remembered the exact day we met.”

“Of course he would remember. June sixteenth is the very night he—”

“The night he what?” She was curious at Rennie’s mid-sentence halt.

He bit his lip. “Guess I should not say. Something personal, you know. Something I don’t guess Cartland would like bandied about. Is Miss Hart here?”

“Millicent?” Jane looked about, her gaze combing the crowd for a glimpse of her younger sister. “I don’t see her at the moment, but she must be around somewhere.” Come to think of it, she had not seen Millicent for quite a while.

“Then I shall look for her. Excuse me, Countess.”

Jane watched as Rennie wandered off. Poor man. Even if he found her, it would do no good.

Jane felt someone come up beside her. “Ah, there you are, my dear aunt,” said an oily male voice, “may I offer my sincere condolences?”

It was odious Percy, the Eltons’ oldest son. Just the sound of his voice made her flinch inside. She wished she could run and hide, but good manners decreed otherwise. She turned to face him, noting his utterly bland appearance. Percy was of medium height, in his middle thirties, and slight of build. His thin, sandy hair and pasty, unhealthy-looking complexion attested to the decadence of his life in London. Jane never cared for his patronizing attitude, and Millicent hated his shifty-eyed, lecherous gaze. The oldest of the Eltons’ five sons, he was still a bachelor. “No woman would have that slimy fop,” Millicent had proclaimed.

Jane put on her polite smile. “Thank you, Percy. How kind of you, and may I express my condolences to you? I know how you must be grieving the loss of your dear uncle.”

“I am desolate.” His eyes raked over her boldly. “Keep in mind that I stand by to console you in your grief at any time.” He leaned intimately close, his lips curving into an inviting smile. “When you feel lonely, and I am sure you will,
do
let me know, dear Aunt.”

Despicable man
. “I doubt I shall be feeling
lonely
, as you put it, any time soon, Percy. Now I must see to my guests.” Disguising her disgust, she turned her back on her nephew and walked away. How frustrating that she could not be rid of him. No chance now, especially since his father was about to become the new Lord Lansdown.

Carrying on her duties as hostess, Jane drifted through the crowd, talking to this person and that. When would this farce be over? How long must she greet people she had never met and receive their insincere condolences? How she hated acting the part of the grieving widow, mournfully repeating again and again how she would sorely miss her dear, departed husband, a lie that became increasingly burdensome with each repetition.

Later, after she had received what seemed like the thousandth condolence, she came across Douglas Cartland, still in the same corner, alone, with that same curious smile on his face. She stopped in front of him, searching for something to say. “Ah, Mister Cartland, have you partaken of the refreshments? If you will look in the dining room—”

“I am not interested in refreshments, and I don’t think you’re especially interested in whether or not I
partake
, as you put it, of your punch and tarts and whatever else you’re feeding your guests.”

Struck dumb by his rude reply, she made herself busy by snapping open her black lace mourning fan. Fluttering it beneath her chin, she inquired, “So what
do
you think I’m interested in?”

An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth, which brought out two dimples in his cheeks she hadn’t noticed before. “Countess, I have been watching you. The only thing you are interested in right now is quitting this charade so you can set aside your ludicrous façade of the grieving widow and act yourself.”

What?
She abruptly stopped waving her fan and stared at him. “Sir, that comment was most inappropriate.”
Oh no!
She sounded exactly like her mother. Even so, what an outrageous thing for him to say. “I think you should apologize.”

With mock solemnity, he bowed slightly. “Then I abjectly apologize, madam.”

He didn’t mean it. She could see his eyes were still openly amused. “Talk about a weak apology!”

“Ah, but I can see now I have made a terrible mistake. There must have been two Earls of Lansdown. Unfortunately, I, in my abysmal ignorance, was thinking of the Lansdown who was so obnoxious that even his dog detested him. Of course, your husband is the
other
Lord Lansdown, the one who was kind and generous to all, who loved children and animals, who spent his life thinking of ways to help others. My, my, you must be devastated, Countess. If this were India, I should wager you would be hastening to throw yourself onto one of those burning pyres, as wives do over there, so profound is their grief. You would be—”

“Stop!” She brought her fan to her face, this time to hide her laughter. With a struggle she composed her expression to its former solemnity. “Please. My mother would faint from shock if she saw me enjoying myself.”

“My apologies.” He grew serious. “I knew the earl from my London days. Every now and then I would run into him at the gambling tables in the London clubs. He had a reputation for ... well, I must not speak ill of the dead. Isn’t that what they say?”

“That is what my mother would say. What did he do? Cheat at cards?”

“Among other things.” He stood regarding her a moment, his eyes raking admiringly over her black clad figure. “What a pity a beautiful woman like you must wear mourning for a year in honor of a man you could not possibly have cared for. How could our society entertain such hypocrisy?”

She shrugged. “An excellent question for which I have no answer. That is simply the way it is.”

“Ah, yes.” Lightness returned to his voice. “We must never flaunt society’s rules. How is your horse?”

His abrupt change of subject left her speechless. “My ... horse?”

“Beauty, your horse. You told me about her when we danced at Lady Morton’s ball.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

Here came that sad smile again. “It was an unforgettable night in many ways.”

“I don’t have Beauty anymore.” Anguish filled her heart, as it always did when she thought about her horse. “My husband sold her at Tattersall’s. I don’t ride anymore.”

“Would you like to ride?”

Like to ride
? Her heart leaped at the thought that no longer would his lordship be able to dictate every nuance of her life. Beauty was gone forever, but now she could ride as much as she pleased. What a joyous thought! “Oh, yes, I shall be riding.”

“I know of some fine trails along the river. You and I will go riding someday soon.”

She started to say yes, but Sir Archibald’s advice came to mind.
Many eyes will be upon you. You must be the soul of discretion
. “Thank you for the invitation. However, it suddenly occurs to me I am not supposed to ride while in mourning.”

For a moment she thought he would utter a curse. “Of course. Again, my apologies for suggesting you have any fun in your life for the foreseeable future.” He bowed slightly. “Goodbye, Countess. I shall leave you to your grief.”

She watched as he moved away, then he suddenly turned and came back. “One more question.”

“Yes?”

“What did they do with it?”

“With what?”

“With his lordship’s ... shall we say, problem? Did they strap it down? Cut it off perhaps?”

His meaning came clear. “You are impossible! You truly are a scoundrel, just as they said. How did you know?”

He laughed and began to back away. “I will see you at the river.”

“No you will not.”

“Yes, I will,” He disappeared into the crowd.

Later, when Jane went upstairs, she found her sister in her bedchamber, flung face-down on her bed.

“Millicent, whatever is wrong? Why haven’t you come downstairs?”

“My life is over,” came Millicent’s muffled words. “I shall never be happy again.”

Jane sat on the side of the bed. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Read the letter on my bed table. You’ll see.”

Uh-oh
. Jane picked up the letter. As she read it, her heart sank.

Dear Miss Hart,

My condolences on the loss of your dear brother-in-law.

Due to a sudden change of plans, I deeply regret I cannot come to see you next week. As I shall be extremely busy these next few weeks, I fear I cannot see clear to rescheduling my visit any time in the foreseeable future.

Sincerely,

—
DeWitt

Filled with a sudden fury, Jane could hardly speak. “How dare he!”

Millicent turned on her back, revealing red eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “He seemed so smitten. Those little gifts ... those hints of his undying love. I thought surely ...” Smothering a sob, she turned over and buried her face in the pillow again.

Jane placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sure he did love you, but I can see his parents had a hand in this. They must have realized the earl’s death means a change in my status, and therefore yours. No doubt they suspected you would no longer have a dowry, or a reduced one at best.”

Millicent wasn’t listening. “I have lost everything.”

Feeling utterly helpless, Jane patted her sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

“Will it?” Millicent’s words were choked with despair.

When Jane left her sister’s bedchamber, she was sick at heart. How could she feel otherwise when their lives had changed completely?

Everything most definitely would not be all right.

Chapter 5

By the next day, the guests had left. All, that is, except James and Beatrice. “They’re not really guests,” Jane replied to her mother’s complaint. “You know very well Chatfield Court will soon be theirs.”

“That horrible woman!” Mama’s face grew red. “Haven’t you noticed how Beatrice is already parading around the house as if she owns it? She has even begun to order the servants around, and that’s not right.
You
are still the countess.”

At times Mama truly tried Jane’s patience. She had to remind herself that her mother meant well, that her concerns were not for herself but for her family. “We all hate the thought of leaving Chatfield Court, but we must learn to accept the inevitable. I already have, and it doesn’t bother me a bit.”

That evening, upon entering the dining room, Jane realized that—contrary to what she had told her mother—she had not entirely accepted the inevitable. She was headed toward her usual place at the foot of the table when, with a sickening jolt, she discovered her sister-in-law sitting in her chair. In Arthur’s chair at the head of the table sat James, the supposed new Earl of Lansdown, looking decidedly uncomfortable. No doubt Beatrice insisted he assume his rightful place.

“Well? Are you going to do something?” Mama asked in an infuriated whisper.

“I don’t need the aggravation,” Jane whispered back. “Let them sit there. What difference does it make?”

“Jane, my dear,” Beatrice cried out, the soul of cordiality. “I hope you do not mind the new seating arrangement. We shall all have to get accustomed to it, will we not?”

“Of course,” Jane said through gritted teeth. After all, what did it matter where she sat? Her new chair along the side was just as comfortable. The food was the same, and so was the company. Still, whenever she looked at Beatrice, she felt an urge to yank the chair out from underneath the greedy woman and dump her haughty derriere upon the floor. To make matters worse, her mother glared daggers at her from across the table.
Do something
! her eyes said. Even Granny sent her a questioning look.

The soup plates had not been cleared away before Beatrice began a cutting commentary on the reception following the funeral. “I noticed that despicable Douglas Cartland was there.”

Jane’s ears perked up. “Why is he despicable?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No.”

“Well!” Beatrice put her fork down, eager to tell. “It happened in London about five years ago. In the early hours of the morning, Cartland was racing his phaeton down St. James’ Street, deep in his cups, the story goes. He rounded a corner at top speed and struck a little girl in the middle of the street. She was only an orange girl, an orphan, from what I understand, but even so, two of the wheels ran right over her and ... well, as you can imagine, it was all quite dreadful. She died right there in the street. After it happened, he disappeared. Good riddance, I say. What person of quality would have anything to do with him? He’s a despicable man, a totally depraved individual.”

From the head of the table, James inquired in his quiet voice, “Then why was he here at Arthur’s funeral, my dear?”

“We could hardly turn him out.” Beatrice gave a disdainful sniff. “He is the guest of Lord Rennie. Some business about building a canal.”

“Is that so?” James’ eyes brightened. “’Pon my word, canals are a great investment these days. For years Rennie has talked about building one that would run from the River Hulm to the River Clearsy. Not an easy task, what with having to dig tunnels and build the locks and all.” He frowned in puzzlement. “I wonder how a rake like Cartland got involved with canal building.”