The Temptation of the Night Jasmine (15 page)

‘It’s your carpet.’

‘Hmm,’ said Colin, and put it in his mouth instead, by which I gathered that he enjoyed vacuuming about as much as I do.

All in all, it was a perfectly lovely evening. We fell asleep in a happy haze of red wine and extra-connubial canoodling, curled up against the cold beneath Colin’s utilitarian blue duvet. It may have been ugly, but it did know its business. For the first time since I’d come to England, I wasn’t cold. Having a boy in the bed is better than having one’s own space heater.

I was dreaming quite happily of Colin striding into the Great Hall of Nottingham Castle with a large pig thrown over his shoulders – ‘Back to the sties with you!’ shouted Prince John, banging his fist on the trestle board with rage – when the Sheriff set off the castle alarm, the portcullis came crashing down, and I was jolted brutally and finally out of sleep.

Half strangling myself in the covers as I flailed into wakefulness, I realised blearily that it wasn’t the castle alarm system after all, but the double ring peculiar to English phones. Someone was phoning.

I would have loved to have dropped whoever it was down the nearest oubliette, but since I’d been so nastily jarred out of my castle fantasy, there was no oubliette to be had. Just the phone, which kept ringing and ringing, pausing after each double ring as though gathering its breath. It showed no signs of stopping.

Like most men, Colin could probably have slept through the charge of the Light Brigade as they thundered right over his pillow. Since I was on the side with the phone, I groped sleepily for the receiver, picked it up upside down, and had to reverse it, getting slightly tangled in the cord in the process.

‘Hello?’ I murmured sleepily, before I had time to wonder whether I should really be picking up Colin’s phone in the middle of the night. What if it was a family emergency? I wouldn’t want his mother to think I was a loose woman.

Instead of saying ‘hello’ back – or ‘cheers’ or whatever – the person on the other end of the phone muttered something in a foreign language and the connection clicked off. I couldn’t recognise the language, but it definitely wasn’t a Romance language or one of the Nordic ones. Whatever it was, it involved a lot of slurring sounds.

In other words, it was clearly a wrong number.

Oh, well. At least it wasn’t Colin’s mother. Or his sister.

‘All righty, then.’ I put the phone back in its cradle, tugged some quilt away from Colin (Ha! He did hog the blankets), pulled my pillow over my head, and prepared to go back to sleep.

The phone instantly started ringing again.

This time it was I who muttered something uncomplimentary.

‘Hello?’ I snapped, picking up the phone. Didn’t he realise it was three in the morning?

It must not have been three in the morning wherever he was. I could hear the sound of traffic, horns blaring, people chattering, taxi drivers cursing. I might not have been able to identify the language, but taxi drivers cursing sounds the same the world over. Trust me, it’s true.

But the person on the other end of the phone didn’t say a word. ‘Hello?’ I repeated.
Click
went the phone.

‘Well, same to you,’ I said, and thrust the receiver down. I missed the cradle, of course. Not that the crazy mis-dialler on the other end could hear it. Now I was awake, awake and annoyed. Colin, of course, was still fast asleep. To add insult to injury, in those crucial two minutes he had managed to wrap himself mummy-like in those few feet of blanket I had so painstakingly extracted from him.

I resisted the ignoble urge to poke him in the ribs. I couldn’t find his ribs, anyway. They were too thickly wrapped in
my
side of the blanket.

Grumbling to myself, I half climbed, half rolled out of the bed, sliding until my feet touched the floor. Screw seductive, I was putting on my flannelest flannel. Colin had lost the right to skimpy nightwear when he had stolen my half of the blanket.

I stomped barefoot across the prickly old carpet towards the chest of drawers, my eyes by now having adjusted enough to the darkness to at least make out the shape of large pieces of furniture.

As I was passing Colin’s side of the bed, his night table began to shriek at me.

After I jumped half out of my skin, I realised that I hadn’t set off some sort of outré girlfriend alarm, it was just his cell phone, which he had forgotten to switch to silent when he went to bed. Admittedly, we both had our minds on other things at the time.

Being a meat-and-potatoes sort of bloke, Colin had never bothered to install one of the music ring-tones; instead, it was just your basic ring, shrill and insistent. If Colin’s phone had been one of those flip-top kinds, I would never have looked. It would have been tantamount to opening his mail. But there it was, just lying there, screen side up, all lit up by the call. It was practically thrusting itself in my face. What was I supposed to do, shut my eyes?

On the glowing screen, the country code read ‘971.’ I’ve always been more than a bit baffled by international dialling, but I knew enough to know that that was not the UK. It wasn’t America, either, or anywhere in Europe. Where in the hell was 971? Someplace where people might still be out on the street and taxis might still be driving, perhaps?

The ringing stopped abruptly. A few moments later, the phone gave a double beep, like an electronic belch, to signify that a message had been left.

I didn’t check the message, of course. The fact that I didn’t have Colin’s voice mail access code was entirely immaterial. Good relationships, as we all know, are based on trust.

Blah, blah, blah.

Trust and, in my case, a hearty dose of curiosity.

It couldn’t hurt to just find out what the country code was. After all, I was wide awake now (I hurled an accusatory glance at the lump on the bed happily wrapped in all the blankets and sleeping away), and scrolling through directory numbers could have a soporific effect. It would be like counting sheep without the sheep.

Colin had told me there was Internet access in his study. I could look it up there. And while I was at it, I could check my email. Yes, that was what I was doing, checking my email. Nobody was saying anything about snooping. If I had been home and wide-awake in the middle of the night, of course I would go check email. It was immaterial that the email happened to be in Colin’s study.

If I had ever learnt how, I probably would have been whistling with my hands stuck into my nonexistent pockets.

Oh, this was just silly! There was nothing wrong with going on a quick email check.

Pulling my thick old flannel nightgown over my head, I tiptoed out of the bedroom, pulling the door softly shut behind me.

‘C
harlotte!’ In the mad crush of the Queen’s Drawing Room, Lady Uppington manoeuvred her hoops expertly around broad skirt and a protruding sword to embrace Charlotte. ‘Your grandmother told me you were at Court.’

Charlotte smiled shyly at her best friend’s mother. ‘I’m in waiting on the queen,’ she said unnecessarily.

The egret feathers in Lady Uppington’s hair wagged in sympathy. ‘I was, too, you know, oh, ages and ages ago. Being a maid of honour was quite different in those days, not like it is now. We all lived in the palace, with that dreadful old dragon of a Mrs Schwellenberg hounding us, just sniffing for the slightest whiff of impropriety. That’s why it was such a scandal when – well, never mind that.’ Lady Uppington waved away whatever she had been about to say with a dramatic sweep of her lace-edged fan. ‘The queen has been kind to you?’

‘Tremendously,’ Charlotte was able to say with complete sincerity. ‘And the king has been all that is kind. He – this will sound very silly, but it was the kindest thing.’

‘Yes?’ said Lady Uppington encouragingly, as she had when Charlotte and Henrietta were very little and the girls would run to her to show off their drawings.

‘I had my battered old copy of Volume I of
Evelina
with me. His Majesty caught sight of it and asked me if I knew that Miss Burney had been an old friend of theirs. We agreed for a bit on what a wonderful writer she was, and I thought that was all. But then the next day, when I arrived at the palace, there was a package waiting for me, and in it was a splendidly bound set of the books, all done up in morocco leather with my name tooled in gold on the front. It’s so fine that I’m half afraid to read it.’

Lady Uppington tilted her head reminiscently. ‘That is very like the king. He was always good at the small gestures of munificence.’

Charlotte clasped her hands together over her fan. ‘He’s given me leave to use his library at the Queen’s House whenever I like. It’s splendid. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of
books
.’

Lady Uppington’s lips twitched. ‘Books always have been the surest way to Their Majesties’ hearts. So you’re happy, then?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Charlotte, hesitating only a bit. And she was happy, really she was. The queen asked only that she stand behind her at Assemblies and read to her from time to time; the king had made her up a book in his own private bindery and promised she should have all three volumes of
Cecelia
, too; and the Princess Mary had promised to teach her how to paint on velvet. It would all be quite perfect – if only Robert were there.

She had imagined his return a hundred times since that night at Girdings. He would come galloping down the alley to Girdings. Swinging off his horse, he would dash up the steps to the entrance. ‘Where is Lady Charlotte?’ he would demand of the first footman to open the door. ‘Gone to London, Your Grace,’ the footman would reply, looking neither right nor left. ‘To London!’ Robert would cry, with visions of rakes, rogues, and seducers wreaking havoc in his breast. Flinging himself right back onto his horse, he would ride
ventre à terre
to the capital, where he would charge into the Queen’s House, flinging lackeys right and left, and sweep Charlotte up into his manly arms.

Of course, that was only one version. Sometimes, Charlotte permitted him to change his linen before riding to London. Nor did he always storm the Palace. Sometimes, he would be waiting for her in the sitting room of Loring House, where she was staying with Henrietta. ‘Someone to see you,’ Henrietta would say, with that impish Henrietta glint in her eye. She would shove Charlotte into the sitting room, slam the door behind her, and there he would be – ready to sweep her into his manly arms. Many of the details of the daydream might change, but the manly arms bit was always the same.

It worried her, from time to time, that there had been no word from him. While the grand imaginings of his racing to her side were all very well, she would have been just as happy with a prosaic note, even if all it said was, ‘Held up on business, miss you, back soon. R.’ But there had been no note.

Of course, if he had sent her anything, it had probably gone to Girdings, where, for all she knew, it might be gathering dust on her dressing table because Grandmama hadn’t seen fit to send it on. One never could tell with Grandmama. For all that Robert came with both Girdings and one of the most coveted titles in the kingdom, it would be very like her to take it into her head that it would be a mesalliance (‘mesalliance’ being one of Grandmama’s very favourite terms, applied frequently to Charlotte’s parents). No one had ever gone into details over who Robert’s late mother had been, but it had been made quite clear that she was of a sort who Would Not Be Received.

Even so, the lack of a message did make Charlotte just a little bit squirmy. Penelope’s voice (it was always Penelope’s voice) came at her at odd moments, saying things like, ‘If he really loved you, would he have gone off like that?’ and, ‘He knows how to use a quill, Charlotte. He would if he wanted to.’ That last one was bona fide Penelope, voiced over tea just the other morning.

Technically, like Robert’s late mother, Penelope ought to be on the list of those who were No Longer Received, but the dowager duchess considered Penelope her own personal project (or, as the dowager put it, ‘Reminds me of me at that age! Good stuff in that gel!’). A twist of the arm – or, more accurately, a well-placed thump of the cane – had elicited a marriage proposal from Lord Freddy Staines; the promise of a title, even if only a courtesy one, had placated Penelope’s mother; and the dowager’s influence had ensured that the newlyweds would have a comfortable posting in India, where they would make their home until the worst of the gossip rumbled down.

Robert’s friend, Lieutenant Fluellen, had also offered for Penelope, more than once. Penelope remained firm in her refusal. It would be, she said, a nasty trick to drag an innocent bystander down with her just because he was fool enough to fancy himself in love. Penelope had always had her own sort of honour.

Meanwhile, Charlotte couldn’t help but wonder, if Lieutenant Fluellen were back in London, proposing to Penelope every alternate morning and twice on Tuesdays, where was Robert?

Lieutenant Fluellen wasn’t the only one to appear in London. Not only was Lord Freddy Staines back in town, preparing for his imminent nuptials to Penelope, but Martin Frobisher had been seen making improper proposals at an Assembly on Tuesday, and Lord Henry Innes was right in the next room, crammed into knee breeches, in attendance on the king. London, it seemed, was a very popular place at the moment. Except for the Duke of Dovedale.

He wouldn’t have gone back to India, would he? Not without telling her, at least. A transcontinental voyage would, she would think, require a bit more than a two-word ‘forgive me.’

With an effort, Charlotte dragged her attention back to Lady Uppington. Fortunately, Lady Uppington was just as happy speaking to herself as to anyone else, and was politely taking Charlotte’s glazed stare as a sign of interest rather than abstraction as she reminisced about her own short spell at Court.

‘Of course, the queen was much younger then,’ she was saying. ‘But then, weren’t we all? Ah, but these hoops bring me right back,’ she said, patting the protrusions at her sides.

‘I rather like them,’ Charlotte admitted, swaying a little to make her skirt swish. The sweep of her train against the carpet made a most fascinating sound. Skimpy, faux-Grecian dresses might be all the rage in the streets of London, but to gain entrée into St James, the old-fashioned hooped skirts of the previous century were de rigueur. The full-skirted style suited Charlotte far better than the fashions currently in vogue. Long columns of cloth weren’t terribly flattering unless one were a long column oneself, which Charlotte decidedly wasn’t.

She just wished Robert were there to witness the effect.

‘And the men look awfully dashing with their swords, don’t they?’ said Lady Uppington wickedly. ‘There’s nothing like a long blade to lend countenance to a man.’

Henrietta would have been rolling her eyes by now, as she always did when her mother made outrageous statements. Blushing, Charlotte said, ‘They do look quite dashing.’

‘Speaking of dashing,’ said Lady Uppington, her green eyes twinkling like a girl’s. ‘I just had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your mysterious cousin.’

‘My … cousin?’ Charlotte’s heart began hammering against her stays.

Lady Uppington looked downright mischievous for a woman of fifty-odd. ‘Tall man, blond hair, ducal bearing? I believe you might be acquainted with him,’ she said so blandly that Charlotte knew, just knew, that Henrietta had been telling tales.

But all that was immaterial next to the crucial point. ‘You mean Robert? Er, the Duke of Dovedale? He’s here?’

Lady Uppington was enjoying herself hugely. ‘Very much here, all present and accounted for, sword and all. I am pleased to say that he wears his sword with panache. But not too much panache,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘That would be common.’

‘Did you – did he ask about me?’ Charlotte was craning her neck wildly, knowing that she was behaving appallingly, but not caring in the least.

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself? The last time I saw him, he was’ – squinting, Lady Uppington peered about the crowd, gave a little nod of satisfaction, and levelled her fan like a cavalry captain signalling a charge – ‘right through there.’

It was hard to see in the mad crush, with so many wide skirts and plum-coloured coats shifting like the pattern in a kaleidoscope, but with the fortuitousness of the sun breaking through a cloud, the pattern shifted, the heavens parted, and there was Robert. Or, rather, Robert’s back, but Charlotte was quite sure she could recognise him at any angle. He looked ridiculously handsome in the plum-coloured coat and knee breeches that were required of men at court, with dark blond hair neatly brushed and gleaming with hidden glints of gold.

‘Charlotte?’

Charlotte jerked abruptly back to life as Lady Uppington nudged her in the ribs with her fan.

‘Yes?’

Lady Uppington gave her a maternal shove on the shoulders. ‘
Go
.’

Charlotte went.

Heedless of her hoops and train, Charlotte hurried across the room, skirts swishing. Pride had no place in true love. And it was true love, true with a capital T, truest of the true, truer than the truest … well, that was the general idea. Charlotte all but flew over a protruding train, dodging sword hilts with love-borne ease. He had come for her! He must have gone to Girdings and heard she’d come to Court and …

The man he was speaking to tapped him on the arm and indicated Charlotte, whose precipitous progress was eliciting more than one amused smile behind a fan. Charlotte caught the word ‘cousin,’ and then the man faded discreetly away, leaving Robert to his familial responsibilities.

As Robert turned, his sword turned with him like a compass’s needle – pointing away from her. Charlotte decided to ignore that bit. After all, not everything in life could be accounted an omen. Only the happy things.

‘Robert!’ Without pausing for breath, she held out both hands, skidding to a stop before him, flushed and happy. ‘I’m so happy you’ve come!’

Robert bowed, managing his sword with credible prowess. ‘Charlotte.’

Was it her imagination, or did he seem slightly less thrilled to see her than she was to see him? No matter; men were silly about things like public displays of affection. It was his first time at Court, after all, so maybe he was nervous about committing a breach of etiquette. Not that he would ever admit it. As Henrietta was fond of saying, men were about as likely to admit they were nervous as they were to stop and ask for directions, which was why one found so many hopelessly lost courtiers wandering around the tangled by-ways of the Palace after a levee, tripping over their own swords and desperate for a chamber pot.

Realising that she was babbling in her own mind, Charlotte promptly bottled it all up and turned all her enthusiasm on its proper source.

‘Did Grandmama tell you I would be here?’ she asked breathlessly, beaming all over her face. ‘I left a message for you at Girdings, but I wasn’t sure if you would see it, especially if your business kept you away longer than you expected.’

‘I haven’t been back to Girdings,’ he said shortly. ‘Not since—’

He broke off abruptly, looking as though he had just accidentally sat on the business end of his own sword.

‘Since Twelfth Night?’ Charlotte filled in for him, smiling at the memories that evoked. ‘Are you staying at Dovedale House?’

‘No,’ he said curtly, looking over his shoulder as he said it. ‘I thought it best to take bachelor quarters. So that I can pursue, er, my own pursuits.’

‘I … see,’ Charlotte said, even though she didn’t see at all, and Robert knew it. He always knew.

Robert laughed raggedly, as though the sound had been torn out of his very guts. ‘No, you don’t see, do you, Charlotte?’

‘Then tell me,’ she said simply.

For the first time, she noticed that there were deep circles beneath his blue eyes, and that the hair that had been brushed so neatly into place framed a face stripped of all its usual vitality. There was a sallow tinge beneath his tan, and lines along the sides of his lips that hadn’t been there two weeks before. Charlotte racked her brain for where she had seen that look before. It had been, she realised, on second sons, just come down from Oxford or Cambridge, who had found themselves playing too deep in the pleasures of the capital.

Charlotte took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘Robert, if you’re in some sort of trouble, don’t keep it to yourself. Let me help you.’

‘Help me,’ he said flatly.

‘Yes.’ She could feel her high-piled hair weighing her back as she tipped back her head to see him better. ‘That’s what people who care about each other do. As I care for you,’ she finished, a little awkwardly.

Against the granite of Robert’s expression, the sentiment sounded mawkish and flimsy, like rhymes worked by a fifth-rate poet. It had sounded much better in her head.