To Love a Wicked Lord (8 page)

“I don't know,” Pippa admitted. “I never saw her like this before. She's happy and healthy, but bawdy and irrepressible.”

“She may only be enjoying masculine attentions after so long without them. Your grandfather may have been enchanted and attracted by her liveliness when she was young, but I take it he keeps to himself most of the time these days?”

“Yes, to his books and researches and his visitors,” Pippa said.

“And as to why your fiancé visited with him?”

“They spoke politics. Noel was researching a paper he wanted to write for the
Gentleman's Magazine
. Grandfather is a known scholar. They both were fascinated by Bonaparte.”

Nothing in Maxwell's expression changed but she got the feeling he was intensely interested.

“In what way?”

“Grandfather said that when a great man arises, he stirs other men to greatness too, and the world becomes a more interesting place.”

“More interesting, and more lethal in this case. Was your grandfather an admirer of Napoleon? Was Noel? Don't look so shocked, many loyal Englishmen do admire him.”

“No, in fact, the reverse,” she said. “Noel thought he was a great evil, and Grandfather said he was
like Alexander the Great or Attila the Hun in that his greatness lay in his ability to change the world, not in his honorable intentions.”

“Bonaparte's only intentions are to better himself,” Maxwell said, turning his attention back to the road. “When the world is in chaos men turn to leaders. Some are born to lead but have the bad luck to be born in peaceful times. The little general was born lucky.”

She shivered. “I hope we are not that lucky on this side of the channel.”

She gasped as they rounded a curve in the road and she saw a long building topped with glittering golden domes and copulas. “That is beautiful,” she said. “I see why they…called it as they did.”

“It is large,” Maxwell agreed. “And rather shocking, to be sure. But that's not where our prince lives. It's his new stables.”

“Oh,” she said sadly. “Then I can see why he's mocked. It's something out of an Arabian tale, beautiful, but quite out of place here in England. He built it for horses? With poverty being so widespread? No wonder there are those who think Bonaparte's the better man. I don't know if he actually helps the poor in France, but at least he says he will.”

“They already helped themselves. He feeds
their greedy intentions. But surely you know females aren't supposed to be interested in politics,” he commented.

She lifted her nose, and tried to stare down its inconsiderable length at him. “That,” she said, “is something I was lucky enough not to be taught. My grandfather admires wit and brain in a woman.” She paused and looked down at her gloves. “My grandmother had that.”

“And still does,” Maxwell said. “I tell you what, my dear,” he added, adopting his bored, amused tones again. “I've an invitation to a soiree at our prince's incomplete pavilion. I do enjoy a good party, but it will also be in the nature of work for me. It's a fine place to hear gossip, since our prince is here. Should you like to come with me? With your grandmother too, of course, and Whitney. There should be no scandal about an engaged lady going out for an evening with her grandmother and a few of her grandmother's frivolous escorts. Everyone who comes to Brighton longs to be asked to see the latest treasures being installed in the Pavilion.”

“I'd like that,” she said eagerly. “Will I have a chance to meet him?”

“Our prince? Of course.”

“I'd like that very much,” she said. “So will
Grandmother. Wait until Grandfather hears about it!”

“They are your sun and moon, aren't they?” he asked curiously.

She nodded.

“Then why were you so eager to leave them?”

She held up her head. The sunlight glinted off her hair, making it shine as brightly as the domes they were driving past. “I'm four and twenty now. Noel made me realize time was passing,” she said. “And that I hadn't yet lived for myself.”

He nodded, and abruptly changed the subject. “Now would you like to see the bathing machines by the sea? Should you like to get out and walk on the strand by the sea for a bit as well?”

“I would,” she said, plopping her bonnet on her head again and hurriedly tying its strings. “That would be wonderful.”

“It would be a way of living for yourself,” he said, “without the encumbrance of a fiancé.”

She sobered. She looked at him and her expression was such that the humor in his dark, knowing eyes faded. She thought that he must have forgotten their incident in the night. Nothing in his eyes or his affect showed sensual awareness of her. He must have been testing her or himself that night. Whatever had spurred his desire for her, it was
gone now. Well and good she thought, with disappointment she steadfastly ignored, she could speak to him honestly without that tug of attraction cluttering up her mind.

“I'm not encumbered now, true,” she said. “This whole journey was to find out why. But now I see there's more to it than that and more to life than I knew. Noel awakened me. When he left and didn't return I was crushed and felt outcast and shamed. Now I'm grateful, whatever reasons he had. Now I want to see it all for myself.”

“But a female isn't free in our world if she has no husband,” he said. “So you yourself said.”

“I was wrong,” she retorted. “Just look at me. I am free. Maybe it's better to be a disgraced lady than an obedient one. How much scandal can one female bear? I think that if it doesn't bother her, there's no limit. If I am whispered about when I did nothing wrong, then there's little else I can do that's worse, I think. And since I was only disgraced because someone else acted badly I begin to wonder what exactly is good and bad, and if it matters at all, at least to me.”

“I didn't mean to start a revolution,” he said with a wry smile. “I begin to think that you ought never to have come to Brighton at all.”

“Revolutions are caused by unhappiness and
desperation,” she said, staring straight ahead. “That's what Grandfather says. And I was suffering from both.”

“And now?” he asked quizzically.

“And now,” she said with defiance, “we shall see, shall we?”

“So,” he said, “we shall. But remember, your time is limited. This is all to pass that time until we can find out what happened to your errant fiancé. And when we do, no matter what you decide, whether you take him up or toss him away, you can't go capering off all over the world by yourself again.”

She turned to him and smiled. “Why not? Who can say? I've only just begun.”

A
fter much thought and trying on and casting off, Pippa finally decided on a dark blue gown with a filmy silver overskirt to match the colors of the moonlight shadows. Her hair was sleeked and pulled tight to a tumble of curls high on the back of her head. A single strand pearl necklace glowed at her throat. She stared into the looking glass and felt she lacked something. She had little color herself, her lips were pink, her hair light. The effect was elegant, she hoped, and she couldn't find a fault in her complexion or attire. But she thought she looked perhaps a bit too subtle for such a night of magnificence.

She badly needed a touch of color. But she'd not dare wear gold, red, or any vibrant jewel colors because although bright colors might liven her appearance, they also might make her harmonize with the prince's lavish Pavilion. She'd heard it was
furnished in the latest Chinoiserie style, all dragon red and glittering gold; a gleaming symphony of exotic colors. She wanted to make an impression, after all, not fade into the wallpapers.

Of course, she didn't want to make a spectacle of herself either, she hurriedly reminded herself. Fine thing that would be, to be seen dressed like a doxie, dancing the night away, lost in gaiety, when anyone might find out she didn't know what was happening to her lost fiancé. So she guessed she was correctly dressed. Even so, she felt a bit flat.

She hadn't seen the marquis or Sir Whitney for days. But this morning she'd gotten a note from Maxwell saying that he might have something to tell them this very night. The thought of possible news of her missing fiancé wasn't what she was dwelling on now. The fact that she was going to a soiree at the Royal Pavilion amidst the famous and infamous of English society and might meet the Prince of Wales himself occupied her mind too much.

“You look like a moon princess,” her maid cooed. “Cool and lovely.”

“Thank you,” Pippa commented absently as she turned to one side and pulled in her stomach in. She looked at herself up and down, backward and forward in the glass.

Pity, Pippa thought, that she couldn't pull in her impudent, jutting rear and full bosom so she could look even more like a Greek statue, as was the mode. At least she'd do. Again, she wished she had fashionable inky black hair and long-lashed dark sultry eyes. But that would make her a twin to a certain gentleman and she certainly didn't want that. After all, opposites attracted. She blinked. She certainly didn't want to attract him.

Liar, she thought, and so stopped thinking about it, picked up a blue silk fan, a silvery shawl, and went to fetch her grandmother.

Pippa took a few steps down the hall, delighting in the feeling of her whisper-thin overskirt floating around her. Then she stopped and listened. Laughter was coming from belowstairs: her grandmother's new high-pitched giggles, and the rich sound of masculine merriment accompanying it. Pippa wasn't a woman who cursed, but what she was thinking might have shocked even the new, jolly care-for-nothing grandmother she found herself with.

She tried to glide slowly down the stairs to make an entrance. She could have tumbled down the length of it, she thought sourly. No one paid attention. There was her grandmother, looking like a merry little elf, swathed in yards of scarlet and gold. She wore a golden necklace and more
rings and bracelets than Pippa could count. She had scarlet feathers in her bright hair. Garish as it was, it suited her. Her round cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled. The flush and sparkle had obviously been enhanced by the subtle use of paint and brush. But the lady was vibrant and looked adorable.

The gentlemen were in the height of formal fashion, with no jewels or fobs or glimpses of bright waistcoats to ruin the stark black and white of their attire. But they didn't look funereal. Maxwell wore a single signet ring on his slender hand. His friend had a simple pearl stickpin on his high white cravat.

They all looked up as Pippa came near. Her grandmother lifted a bejeweled hand and waggled a few fingers at her. The gentlemen bowed, and then turned back to Lady Carstairs again.

Many things had happened to Pippa in the last year. She'd been proposed to and become engaged, had a celebration to honor her engagement, had planned a wedding, and then she'd been left in the lurch. Since then, people had begun to look at her, and then away, so as not to seem to be staring at her. She'd hated it, but had gotten used to it. But she'd never been roundly, utterly, completely ignored before.

“You look lovely, Pippa,” Lady Carstairs finally said as her granddaughter drew near.

“Cool and collected. You'll do,” Maxwell commented.

Pippa was silent as the moon itself as she got into a coach with her grandmother and the two gentlemen. She was so angry she dared not speak. It hardly mattered. The trio in the coach with her were laughing and talking so much they didn't notice.

Then she began to feel sorry for herself; abandoned by her would-be lover, ignored by her once doting grandmother, and absolutely invisible to the striking gentlemen opposite her in the coach. And yet all was as it should be. She was supposed to be grieving for her lost fiancé, not out for a night of dazzling the populace. That was true but was small comfort to her. There was nothing that said an abandoned fiancée couldn't be admired, or even noticed.

Soon enough she heard the distant assurance of the sea on the shore, and saw flaming torches and lights outside the windows of the coach. Their carriage waited in line, stopped in a drive that was illuminated by standing torches and linkboys holding torches as they escorted guests. They were in front of the Royal Pavilion, which itself was lit from every window. It seemed fantastical, a struc
ture made of incandescent domes and cupolas in the darkness of the surrounding night.

So it was as well that she was both sad and angry, Pippa realized as she took Sir Whitney's gloved hand and stepped down to the pavement. She thought she'd be a little country mouse, dazzled and unsure, afraid to the point of mute timidity tonight. Instead, it seemed nothing, not even all this richness and glory, could faze her. She drifted down the drive in the wake of her grandmother and Maxwell and entered the Royal Pavilion, calm as a clam, cool as an oyster, and as seething with anger as a pot that was cooking either one of those cold-blooded creatures.

The interior of the place was just as she'd imagined. Rich Eastern colors decorated the carpets, walls, and ceilings in the great front salon. It was luxurious, rich and fantastical looking, like a page from a tale of Arabian nights. And yet, impossible as it seemed, Pippa had heard this wondrous place still didn't suit the Prince of Wales. He wanted his summer palace to be absolutely glorious and even more fabulous, so had contracted with his architect to build him something even more glamorous.

The guests at the soiree were as magnificently got up as the Pavilion. The women wore all the bright colors their prince admired, with match
ing jewels, feathers, and flowers at their necks and breasts and in their hair. Pippa felt wan and lost, like a ghost, not a moon princess, as she stepped inside with her party and waited to be announced. Even though the ceiling was high as a cathedral, the noise from the crowd was deafening. The company she saw was composed of bright chattering people of all ages.

They were greeted even before their cards were read aloud to the company.

“By gad!” a bald old gentleman cried out as he approached them, his two arms outstretched. “My teeth are gone, and so's my hearing, but these old eyes can spy a beauty every time.”

Pippa hid a smile as he came nearer.

“If it ain't Poppy herself,” the old fellow said with gusto as he took Lady Carstairs's hand. “And lookin' even finer than she did a dog's age ago. How are you, my lovely? And where's that bear of a husband? Don't want him blackening my eyes because of what they see.”

Pippa's grandmother giggled as the old fellow bent to kiss her bejeweled hand. “Musgrave, you rogue,” she said archly. “Talk about not changing! I'd have known you anywhere.”

“Duke of Weedon now, Poppy,” he said, thrusting out his thin chest. “Castle, acres, estates, and
all. I'd have tried harder to make a match with you if I'd had the title then. But I suppose it would've done no good. You had your man, and what a fellow he turned out to be. Famous. Famous everywhere. Beats a duke any day. Where's he now?”

“At home,” Lady Carstairs said. “I'm here with my granddaughter tonight.”

The old man turned his eyes toward Pippa for the first time. An almost clownish expression of sorrow appeared on his lined and age-spotted face. He took Pippa's hand and patted it. “I'm sorry for you, sweetheart,” he said. “Fella must have lost his mind, leaving a pretty bit like you in the lurch. Hey, Poppy,” he said, turning to her grandmother again. “That means you and I can have a waltz together again tonight, hey what?”

Lady Carstairs tittered and looked up at her two escorts from under her painted lashes. “Of course you might,” she said, “if there is to be dancing.”

“I'll talk to our royal host,” the duke said. “He's got enough room here for a dozen cotillions. So, if he agrees, you'll dance with me?”

Lady Carstairs turned her head and winked at Maxwell. “If my escorts tonight agree that you may.”

“Demmed if you didn't always set the boys to wrangling,” the duke said. “But I have precedence
so now they'll have to let me take you into the dance first, eh what, my lords?”

Maxwell and Whitney bowed.

“But first let's go in and find some old friends,” the duke said, taking Lady Carstairs's arm. The others let the ancient duke lead her into the main salon. They followed as the master of ceremonies hastily announced them. That caused a stir. The older guests at the soiree converged on Lady Carstairs and the duke. Some of the younger ladies and gentlemen immediately made their way to her two noble former escorts. And Pippa stopped where she was, behind her grandmother. She stood alone, feeling out of place, which was odd, she thought, since she also seemed to be invisible.

Sir Whitney disappeared into the crowd.

“I'll be making inquiries,” Maxwell told Pippa softly. Then he left her, stopping to have a word with a soberly dressed gentleman before he was gone and into the colorful and clamorous gathering.

The neatly dressed gentleman sauntered over to Pippa. He wasn't precisely handsome but, rather, neat and self-assured. He bowed. “Miss Carstairs,” he said in a cool voice. “Allow me to hope that my friend Lord Montrose helps you discover the whereabouts of your errant fiancé.”

“Thank you,” she said, casting down her gaze, horrified to discover that her reputation had preceded her everywhere.

He chuckled. “Wars may come and peace may go, but withal, gossip remains Britain's leading interest,” he said. “Never fear. Like all fresh produce, nothing withers faster.”

She was searching for something to say when she noticed that the crowd around them had fallen silent, avidly listening to them.

“Oh that,” he said, waving his slender white hand. “My audience. I am Brummell, by the way.”

Her eyes widened. The great George “Beau” Brummell, arbiter of Fashion, master of the cutting bon mot, advisor and bosom beaux to the prince himself? This was an unlooked-for honor. She couldn't have spoken if someone had pointed a knife at her and ordered her to.

“You'll survive this,” he added in soft tones. “You have Montrose to ensure it, I will assist. Ah, here comes someone who will make them forget everything but him. Bow prettily, and keep smiling.”

Pippa looked up and took in another quick breath. Guests were bowing at a pudgy gentleman as he passed through their midst, like tall grasses bending before a breeze. He wore a great-jeweled
star on a golden chain on his wide breast. This must be the Prince of Wales himself. But surely it couldn't be. Her grandmother had called him beautiful. The man approaching them was nothing like. His bland face was decidedly plump. His hair was gold, but growing scarce, and he had a huge pillow of a stomach and hefty thighs that his long coat couldn't conceal.

“Ho, Brummell!” he called in a plummy voice. “I arrive!”

Brummell bowed. “As I see, sir.”

“You've cornered a pretty pigeon,” the Prince said. “But I've spied a lovely partridge. Lady Carstairs,” he said, bending slightly over Pippa's grandmother's hand, “it's been years, but you grow lovelier.”

“As do you, Your Grace,” Lady Carstairs said, beaming. “You haven't changed at all. Pray tell me your secret.”

The prince beamed.

“But first,” Pippa's grandmother went on, her arm tucked into His Royal Highness's, “may I present my granddaughter, Phillipa?”

“You may,” the prince said. He looked at Phillipa, pity clear to see in his mild blue eyes. “Pretty little creature. Forget him, my dear, as he forgot you. Come explore my little summerhouse, surely that
will make you forget your cares, as it does for me.”

“Smile and smile and smile, whatever happens,” Mr. Brummell said into Pippa's ear as he put her arm on his, and they followed their host farther into the Pavilion.

At least afterward she could say that she saw the Prince's pavilion when it was just begun, although to tell the truth, Pippa realized she'd have to make up much of it. The cunning sculptures and artworks, the paintings and tables and chairs, the beds and sofas and ornate ceilings were a blur in her mind because she could only keep thinking, “I am here! In the Royal Pavilion, with the Prince of Wales! With the great Brummell himself, as well!”

There were many rooms and artworks to be seen. But in time, the little parade returned to where they had begun.

Brummel bowed to Pippa. “Thank you for your company,” he said simply, and left.

The prince patted Lady Carstairs's hand again. “That thief Carstairs snatched you up before I could speak for you.”