Vanity (9 page)

Lord Rupert barely looked at her, but he reached into his pocket and tossed her a coin. She fell back, scrabbling as it tumbled to the cobbles. “She’ll only spend it on gin,” he said with a cold indifference that made Octavia wince, although she understood the helplessness that lay behind it.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But it might make her more patient with the babe.”

“And when she’s killed herself with gin, what will become of the child?” The same detachment was in his voice, but Octavia had the feeling that it was a mask for his true feelings. She’d learned her own ways of dealing with the horrors that lived and breathed on these streets, and she knew that if one didn’t cultivate a certain detachment, one would be driven mad with the knowledge of one’s own powerlessness.

She made no answer to the rhetorical question, merely directed him to Quaker Street. He drew up outside the sign of the three golden balls and beckoned an urchin who was standing in the frozen gutter, his bare feet wrapped in a piece of sacking.

“Can you hold the horses, lad?”

“I’ll go in on my own,” Octavia protested. “I’m quite accustomed to doing so.”

Lord Rupert ignored this, merely jumped from the carriage and held up a hand to assist her to alight. The urchin had hold of the leader’s bridle, a grin splitting his filthy face as he contemplated his amazing good fortune.

Octavia shrugged and stepped down, aware of the curious eyes at windows, their less inhibited neighbors staring openly out of their doors at the extraordinary sight of Mistress Forster’s lodger riding in an elegant carriage in company with an exquisitely dressed gentleman. Her companion opened the door, the bell tinkling merrily. He held it for her, and she stepped into the crowded, dark, and frowsty interior, where thé smell of old clothes and dust and mold dominated.

“Come fer yer pa’s books, then?” An elderly man, so short his head barely topped the counter, blinked into the dimness. “Thought you wasn’t comin’ to pay yer installment this week. Due yesterday, ye were. Lucky I didn’t sell ’em on ye.”

“Oh, come on, Jebediah. Who around here would buy Plato’s
Republic
and two volumes of Tacitus?” Octavia said dismissively, reaching into her skirt for the pouch. She extracted several coins and dropped them onto the counter.

“And two shillin’ interest,” Jebediah said, scooping the coins off the counter. “Due yesterday.”

“There’s no interest if I redeem them,” Octavia declared. “So don’t try your sharp tricks on me.”

Jebediah gave her a toothless grin and stared over her shoulder at the tall, elegant figure of her companion. “I see ye’ve got yerself a gennelman friend, then. Quite the gent ’e looks.”

Octavia flushed angrily. “Fetch me the books, Jebediah.”

“All right, all right.” He shuffled off in his carpet slippers into the dark recesses of the noisome shop, returning after a minute with three leather-bound, gilt-edged volumes. “Doin’ ye a favor, I am, takin’ these fer good money,” he asserted. “Much good they’d do me if’n ye didn’t come fer ’em.”

“Exactly what I said,” Octavia agreed serenely, opening the volumes and clapping them together. A cloud of dust filled the dank air. “But don’t think I’m not grateful, you old rogue.” She dropped another shilling on the counter. “That’s just to show my appreciation.”

“Come into a fortune ’ave ye?” He picked up the coin and bit it to test the metal, his shrewd eyes returning to the silent figure of Lord Rupert. “A fortune, eh? Well, who can blame ye when yer face is all the fortune ye’ve got.”

Octavia swung on her heel and made for the door, clutching her father’s books. There was no hope of explaining the true situation to Jebediah, who saw what he saw. And what he saw was what everyone would see, she knew. Yet another reason for not wishing to be taken to her door by her present companion. Lord Nick would have been one thing, but Lord Rupert Warwick was quite another.

“How often do you have to go through that?” Lord Rupert inquired, handing her up into the phaeton. “He seemed a most encroaching gentleman.”

“Too often, and he is,” she responded, examining the books carefully. “He’s a rogue, and I’m always afraid he might decide he has a use for the pages and tear them out.
Papa frets so whenever a book is missing from his library, I dread to think how he’d react if they came back damaged.”

“Does that rogue hold anything else of yours?” Rupert handed the urchin a sixpence before taking the reins again.

“Some jewelry … a few pieces that belonged to my mother,” Octavia said with a shrug. “So long as I pay the weekly installments, he’ll keep them. Although I can’t imagine when I might ever wear them again.”

It was said without self-pity, Rupert noticed, but he also heard the underlying bitterness. “One day you might get your revenge.”

Octavia laughed without humor. “And it snows in hell, I suppose.”

“One can dream,” he returned neutrally.

“One can dream,” she agreed. “Turn right at the end.”

They drew up at a narrow, crooked house in a narrow, crooked lane, the overhanging eaves on either side almost touching to form a roof across the street below. A grimy window on the ground floor exhibited the wares of the chandler. Above, a bow window jutted into the alley.

“My thanks for your escort,” Octavia said formally, jumping down before he could come to her assistance. “I trust you’ll be able to find your own way back.”

“Yesterday I said I felt obliged to restore you to the bosom of your family,” Rupert said with a bland smile, alighting beside her. “I haven’t changed my opinion. I look forward to meeting your father.”

“Your horses?” Octavia pointed out without much hope. Why on earth would he want to pursue this?

“I’m sure someone will be glad to walk them for me.” As he spoke, Mistress Forster’s eldest appeared in the doorway of the chandler’s, staring with wide-eyed astonishment at his mother’s lodger in such company.

“Walter, take his lordship’s horses,” Octavia directed with a resigned sigh. “Pray come within, sir.” She went ahead of him into the shop, wondering what frame of mind her father would be in. Sometimes he could be charming, at others so irascible, it was impossible to stay in the same room with him.

“Well, I never did. Just where’ve ye been, Miss Morgan? Out of my mind with worry, I’ve been.” A short, round lady bustled out from the back of the shop. “Your pa’s been creatin’ something chronic. He would ’ave it somethin’ ’ad ’appened to ye, although I told ’im ye’d taken shelter from the storm, like as not, and …” Her voice died as she took in Octavia’s companion. “Well, I never did.” She dropped an awkward curtsy. “Well, I never did.”

“This is Lord Rupert Warwick, Mistress Forster,” Octavia said hastily. “He’s come to visit Papa. This way, sir.” Without waiting for a further word from the astounded landlady, she swept up a narrow flight of stairs at the rear of the shop, his lordship on her heels.

Rupert inclined his head in a slight bow as he passed Mistress Forster. The woman seemed relatively well disposed toward her lodger, he thought, and the chandler’s shop, while hardly affluent, had a prosperous air at odds with the grimness of the surrounding streets.

It wasn’t the depths of poverty, but Octavia was as out of place as a diamond in a coal mine.

He followed her lithe figure up the creaking rickety wooden stairs, her hair glowing a burnished reddish brown in the light thrown by a candle in a wall sconce illuminating the tight spiral curve halfway up. At the head of the stairs she paused before a closed door, turning toward him as he came up to join her on the narrow landing. The golden eyes were lambent in the dimness, her full lips slightly parted as if she were about to say something. A warm pink tinged the high cheekbones, highlighting the creamy translucence of her complexion.

A veritable diamond—and if she would listen to him, then she would have a setting worthy of her.

Smiling, he cupped her chin in his gloved hand, but she pulled away sharply.

“You would ruin what reputation is left to me!” she hissed in whispered outrage. “It’s bad enough that I’ve been absent all night and then appear with you in this compromising fashion. The gossip will be all over the neighborhood, but there’s no need to spell it out for them.”

He drew back, offering an apologetic bow, although his tone was ironical rather than conciliatory. “Forgive me, Miss Morgan, I didn’t mean to presume. Now, may I pay my respects to your father?”

Octavia opened the door and stepped swiftly into the room. “Papa, I have brought you a visitor.”

Rupert came in and closed the door behind him. The room was small and ill furnished, lit with smelly tallow candles and an oil lamp, a small coal fire spluttering in the hearth. A narrow cot with a patchwork quilt stood against one wall. The bow window looked out on the street, and sitting at a desk set in the window was a thin man with a mane of white hair and the same tawny gold eyes as his daughter. He wore an old-fashioned, full-skirted coat of faded gray velvet, his shirt was collarless, and a coarse horse blanket was draped over his shoulders. His features were well-defined beneath a bony, prominent brow, but he bore an air of distraction as he turned toward the door, frowning at the new arrivals.

“Octavia, child, where have you been? I do believe you weren’t here all night.”

“No, Papa, I was caught in the storm,” Octavia said, hurrying across the room, bending to kiss him. “Lord Rupert Warwick was so kind as to bring me home.” She gestured to her escort, who stepped forward and bowed.

“An honor, sir.”

Oliver Morgan’s eyes suddenly and disconcertingly sharpened. “And what have you to do with my daughter, sir? I’ve no time for courtiers.”

“No, a trivial breed, I agree,” Rupert said with a disarming smile. “Your daughter found herself in some difficulties in the storm, and I charged myself with the duty to return her to you. She has come to no hurt.” His eyes flickered toward Octavia, standing still and silent beside her father.

“Lord Rupert was all kindness, sir,” she said quietly. “And as you see, I am returned safe and sound. I’ve redeemed your Plato and Tacitus.” She placed the books on the table.

“Ah,” her father said, instantly distracted from whatever paternal anxieties had momentarily pierced his absorption. “I have been at my wit’s end without Tacitus. There’s a reference I’ve been trying to chase up for this article….”

His voice faded to a murmur as he began to leaf through the volume. “I believe it’s in the sixth book…. Ah, yes, here we are…. Forgive me, sir … but this is most pressing. My publishers await this article most urgently. Octavia will dispense the hospitality of our poor quarters.” He gestured vaguely with a thin but elegant hand before picking up his quill from the inkstand.

Rupert accepted this dismissal and stepped back. He looked around the room again. The smell of boiling pudding wafted from below, and he saw the cracks in the wainscot, the broken leg of one of the two straight-backed chairs at the square table in the center of the room, the cushionless settle beside the fireplace, the cracked and grimy window-panes. And he realized that the warmth of the fire was superficial, doing little to combat the bone-deep chill in the cheerless room.

Octavia had no illusions about her present lodging and met his returning gaze with a challenging defiance. He’d insisted on coming up, but she’d tolerate no pity from him.

Rupert made no comment, however, and walked to the door. “I’ll bid you farewell, Miss Morgan. I have an engagement at noon.”

So simple, so casual, so final. But what else had she expected? What else had she wanted?

“I’ll accompany you to your carriage,” Octavia said formally.

“No, please, there’s no need,” he returned. “I can find my own way out.”

“I’m sure you can, sir. Nevertheless, I am not inclined to be deficient in the obligations of a hostess despite the meanness of my lodging.”

Rupert made no answer to this challenging statement, merely walked ahead of her down the narrow staircase, through the shop and out into the street.

“Farewell, sir.” Octavia curtsied and gave him her hand. “I should thank you, I imagine, but I’m at a loss to know what for, since you would have had no need to escort me home if you hadn’t carried me off to Putney in the first place.”

“I ask no thanks,” he said solemnly, raising her hand to his lips as he bowed. “On the contrary, I extend my own.” A raised eyebrow and a half smile left her in no doubt as to his meaning, but she wouldn’t respond in kind, merely stepping back out of the road, waiting like a patient and polite hostess for him to depart.

The phaeton bowled away down the narrow lane, and Octavia turned to go back indoors. Life had been dreary before; now its bleakness made her want to weep. For a few glorious hours she’d participated in a shared dream, but it was over now. She had the memories, but in her present misery she knew they would torment rather than soothe.

T
he Earl of Wyndham advanced through the crowded antechamber at St. James’s Palace, pausing to greet acquaintances, bowing low to the influential, a word of greeting and compliment always ready to his lips as he drew closer to the salon where the king was holding his levee.