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“I believe it’s too late for warnings, my lord,” Graydon said. “I should like to leave you one of my own, however.”
“Would you?” Cardemore sounded mildly interested.
“I’ll tell you this only once. I am not a frippery young lord, and it is to your own folly that you mistake me for one. I’ll do what I must to smooth Lady Lillian’s and Lady Isabel’s way into society, and I shall make certain, as best I can, that your sister enjoys her visit to London, but I will not do so under threat by either yourself or your minions. You will leave me in peace to fulfill my word of honor. If you cannot, then you may burn St. Cathyrs to the ground now and we’ll have no more to do with each other.”
“Well said,” Cardemore returned without a pause. “A better speech than even Wellington can lay claim to, I imagine. I am not, however, as you might realize, a man who much admires speeches. Prove yourself, and I will do what you ask. As to being followed, I’ve already given you my word.”
“Then we have an understanding,” Graydon stated with a nod. “I’ll bid you good-day, my lord.”
After the door closed and he was alone, Cardemore spent a full silent minute shuffling through his papers again before shoving his work aside and saying, “Come out, Porter.”
A closet door opened on the other side of the room and the man who had served as Graydon’s shadow walked out.
“Ah ooh thatithfied, mah ord?” he said.
Cardemore rose from his chair. “Don’t speak, Porter. It’s painful to hear. And sit down before you fall.” He moved to the room’s lone window, pushing the drapes aside just enough to keep an eye on the street below. “Am I satisfied? Aye, I am. Very satisfied, indeed. He’s better than I could have hoped for. Perhaps not the man I would have chosen for a brother-in-law, but he’ll be a good husband to Lily or live to regret it.” A thin smile played on his lips. “Somehow, I doubt it will ever come to that.”
He turned to his minion, who sat nursing his aching head in both hands.
“I want you to proceed as planned with the kidnapping. Lily’s comfort is to be of utmost importance. I won’t have her harmed in any way. You can do as you please with Graydon, so long as he isn’t permanently injured. And make certain everyone involved understands that the blame is to be laid at Saxby’s door. I don’t want Graydon or Lily ever discovering who’s truly behind their brief imprisonment. Certainly not until they’re married. There are to be no slips. No mistakes. Do you understand, Porter?”
“Ess, mah ord,” Porter replied obediently.
“Make certain of it. If anything should go wrong, you’ll have more to worry about than a broken jaw. Much more.”
Chapter Seven (#ulink_933e21ef-5f3a-51b7-be46-948b6b647bbf)
At night for the past three years, just before she fell asleep, Lily had lain quietly in her bed and let herself dream of all the exciting things that a young lady having her first season in London might experience. Being driven through a London park at the fashionable hour of five o’clock in the company of a handsome gentleman had been among her favorites, but Lily had been realistic enough never to let herself believe that the event would actually happen. The closest she would get, she had told herself with all practicality, would be in coercing her brother to take her out one afternoon. But Aaron disdained fashion almost more than he did the ton, and, although he would dutifully perform the task, Lily had too often envisioned the constant scowl he would wear, and the dark comments he would make, and had given up on the idea long before she and Isabel had ever even set foot in London.
But God must have heard her prayers, for here she was, not only rolling through Hyde Park in the most elegant barouche imaginable, but escorted by a gentleman whose handsomeness far exceeded even her most willfully exaggerated dreams.
She glanced down at the simple day dress she wore and felt foolishly plain. The dark rose gown, with its lighter-colored pelisse and satin trimmings of cream and pink, had been the height of fashion in the country. But here in London it was at least two years behind, no matter what Aunt Margaret said about it looking perfectly lovely. Lord Graydon had been effusive in his compliments, of course, but that was to be expected. A man of his good manners wouldn’t speak the truth about such matters, even though he himself was dressed to perfection. Aaron would call him a dandy, or a frippery young lordling, or, worse, a man who let himself be managed by his valet, but Lily knew what the rest of fashionable society must think: that the Earl of Graydon was clearly a pink of the pink. A man who dressed with impeccable taste, wearing clothing cut of the finest quality.
He was sitting beside her in the elegant barouche, looking inhumanly perfect in buff-colored pantaloons and a dark blue coat. He appeared very relaxed, almost indolent in his posture, tapping his long fingers in a rhythmic motion over the top of his walking cane and grinning like a boy across the carriage at Isabel, who was entertaining him with humorous stories of all the scrapes the two of them had gotten into at Cardemore Hall. Lily found it hard to believe that he found such tales so interesting, but it must have been so, for his delight and laughter seemed genuine. He glanced at her, as if feeling her gaze upon him, and his smile softened from amusement to gentle interest.
“Are you enjoying the ride, Lady Lillian? What do you think of this mad crush?” He gestured with one hand toward the crowded lane.
She thought it wonderful, although it was, in all truth, quite silly for so many people to go parading about in the late afternoon, day after day after day. They’d been hailed and stopped by a number of elegants since they’d entered the park, some of them riding horseback, some of them perched high upon their fashionable phaetons, some riding in open carriages of varying elegance and size, and all of them desiring to be introduced to Isabel and her. Most of them had looked at her with dismay upon discovering that she didn’t speak and had quickly thereafter made their excuses and left, but Lily was used to that. Simply meeting such a variety of fashionable people had been an event, and she imagined herself back in Somerset, holding court before her awestruck friends while regaling them with memories of her time in London.
He was waiting for a reply, and Lily opened the little gold case that dangled from a bracelet at her wrist. She had forgotten to have it with her when she’d gone riding that morning, but had made certain to bring it for her drive in the park. Extracting one of the tiny sheets of paper and the small gold pen, she wrote, Wonderful. Better than Hassim’s Traveling Circus. She underlined circus twice and handed him the note, grinning with satisfaction when he burst into laughter.
“Dear me,” he said, chuckling as he passed the note to Isabel. “I shall have to see what I can do to give you ladies a much more favorable impression of Town. Tell me, are there any particular places in London that you should enjoy seeing?”
“The Tower!” Isabel said at once, while Lily scribbled another note.
“Vauxhall,” he read, slanting an amused glance at her, “and Madame Tussaud’s.”
“Oh, everywhere,” Isabel told him, her face filled with childlike earnestness. “We decided that long before we came, isn’t that so, Lily? If this is to be our only season in London, we want to see all there is to see, and do everything there is to do.”
“That’s quite a challenge, but I should be very glad if you would allow me to assist you in the matter,” Lord Graydon replied, “at least so far as I am able, when Parliament isn’t in session. Perhaps tomorrow, if you’re free, might I escort you both, and Lady Margaret, if she would enjoy such an outing, to the Tower of London? I should deem it an honor.”
“Oh, yes!” Isabel said with open delight. “How very kind of you, my lord! I’m certain Mama will wish to come.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll speak with Lady Margaret when we return to Wilborn Place.” A rider on a magnificent black horse neared their carriage, and Lord Graydon raised a hand in greeting. “Hello, Daltry. I wondered if we might meet you here.”
Lord Daltry, handsome in tan trousers and a black coat that hugged his large, muscular person to perfection, looked tense and uncomfortable as he brought his steed alongside the barouche. He made a slight bow in his saddle. “Good day Lady Lillian, Lady Isabel.” The glance he sent Isabel’s way was greeted with a frozen stare. “Graydon,” Lord Daltry continued stiffly, “I hope the day finds you well.”
“Quite well, I thank you,” Lord Graydon replied casually. “Despite the crowd, the park is rather pleasant this afternoon, don’t you agree?”
Lord Daltry didn’t seem interested in the park. He glanced at Isabel again and when she pointedly lifted her chin and looked away, he replied, “Yes.”
“If I’d known you’d be parading today I would have invited you to come along with us and make a foursome. I’m sure the ladies would have enjoyed having your company.”
Lily nodded and smiled. Isabel tapped the bottom of the carriage with her parasol and made a sound of disdain.
“As it happens…” Lord Daltry said, clearing his throat. “Ahem. As it happens, I’ve been reconsidering some of the remarks I made to Lady Isabel this morning, and it has occurred to me that…perhaps…an apology is in order.”
Isabel stopped tapping her parasol and looked him full in the face.
“Perhaps?” she asked.
“Ahem,” Lord Daltry said once more, looking so uncomfortable that Lily felt sorry for him. “No, not perhaps, exactly. I certainly owe you an apology, although you will admit that you provoked the situation and that we both made remarks any normal person would regret—”
Isabel cut him off. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I do not, as it happens, regret one word that I said to you this morning. And I did not provoke the situation.”
“You most certainly did,” Lord Daltry returned more heatedly. “Riding your horse so recklessly that you might have broken your neck and lamed the animal. A more nitwitted display of horse handling I’ve yet to see.”
Isabel stamped her parasol so solidly on the barouche’s floor that Lily thought she’d poked a hole through it. “I had my mount completely under control, sir, and would have continued to do so if you hadn’t come charging out of nowhere and frightened the poor beast half to death!”
“That poor beast was already frightened,” Lord Daltry insisted. “If I hadn’t stopped you when I did—”
“Ah, Hanby,” Lord Graydon greeted loudly as another rider on horseback joined them. “Good day. Please, come and join our fracas.” His mild tone caused Lily to smile, as the situation was so ridiculous, and he turned back to her with a conspiratorial wink that nearly sent her into whoops of laughter.
“Good day, Graydon. Daltry. Fracas?” Lord Hanby repeated, lifting his tall hat from his nearly bald head just long enough to make his bow to the ladies. “I wished to greet Lady Isabel and Lady Lillian. Good day,” he said to Isabel, only briefly including Lily in his smile.
“Good day, my lord,” Isabel replied politely, ignoring Lord Daltry’s immense scowl as she leaned past him to smile at Lord Hanby. “My, what a fine mare. She looks wonderful to ride.”
Lord Hanby flushed with obvious pleasure, and sat up straighter in his saddle, although it did nothing to heighten the look of his short, slender person. Beside Lord Daltry, Lord Hanby looked almost elfin.
“She is indeed,” he agreed with unabashed pride. “She’s but one of the finest in my stable that I brought to Town for the season. One day you must allow me to take you riding, Lady Isabel. I should be very happy to provide you with a mount that I believe you’ll find quite exceptional.”
“I wouldn’t, Hanby, if I were you,” Lord Daltry muttered.
Isabel glared at him before replying to Lord Hanby sweetly, “Lily and I would like that exceedingly, my lord. Thank you.”
Lord Hanby glanced at Lily, their eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds before he turned back to Isabel. “Will you be at Lady Pebworth’s ball tonight, Lady Isabel? I would very much like to reserve a dance with you, if I might.”
“Hah,” Lord Daltry remarked as if he’d never heard anything more foolish.
Isabel gifted Lord Hanby with her most dazzling smile—the one that had slain more men in Somerset than Lily could keep count of. Lord Hanby fell beneath its effect at once, leaning toward Isabel on his saddle until he met with Lord Daltry’s hard elbow.
“You honor me, my lord. Lily and I would both be very glad to reserve a dance with you, if you would only tell us which dances you prefer.”
Oh, Isabel, Lily thought with a groan. She couldn’t tell who was more red-faced, she or Lord Hanby, who was suddenly at a loss for words. Beside her, Lily saw Lord Graydon’s hand tighten upon his walking stick, and she wondered, with a sinking heart, if he was embarrassed to be seen in her presence. She was used to being treated as though she were invisible, but to others, especially to a person with a kind heart such as Lord Graydon possessed, the experience might seem terribly unpleasant.
“Why, I…” Lord Hanby began, clearly flustered.
“I’ve already reserved a waltz with Lady Lillian,” Lord Graydon said suddenly, tightly, “as well as the supper dance.”
“And I’ve reserved a waltz and a quadrille,” Lord Daltry put in. “You’ll have to make do with what’s left over.”
“Oh, well,” Lord Hanby said, looking at Lily uncomfortably. “Perhaps, then, if you’ll save me the first country dance, my lady?” He turned away before Lily could do so much as nod at him. “Lady Isabel, I was hoping that you might not yet have reserved the supper dance?”
“She has,” Lord Daltry answered, not giving Isabel a chance to speak. “With me. You can have a quadrille. Now please be a good chap, Hanby, and shove off.”
“Well, really,” Lord Hanby said, affronted by this glaring lack of good manners.
Lord Graydon covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. He glanced at Lily and she had to look away to contain her own amusement.
“I have not reserved the supper dance!” Isabel insisted furiously.
“Yes, you have,” Lord Daltry countered firmly. “Hanby, do I have to tell you twice, or would you rather serve as my next sparring partner at Jackson’s?”
Lord Hanby’s eyes widened, taking in Lord Daltry’s massive person, and then he said meekly, “A quadrille will be quite acceptable, Lady Isabel. Good day.” He nodded nervously at Lily and Lord Graydon. “Good day, my lady. Graydon. Daltry.”
“Why you ill-mannered, conceited swine!” Isabel said after Lord Hanby had ridden away. “How dare you lie about such a thing.”
Lord Daltry looked down at her from his greater height and said, “I rather like Hanby, at least enough to protect him from an underbred country chit who’d probably run some of his finest horses into the ground before she was done turning the man into a simpering fool by merely batting her eyelashes at him.”
Isabel lifted her parasol with the obvious intent of smashing it upon Lord Daltry’s head. Lily sat forward with a gasp to stop her, but Lord Graydon’s hand pressed reassuringly on her arm.
“Ah, Lady Hamilton and Miss Hamilton,” he said as another carriage pulled up beside them in the long line of slow-moving vehicles. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Lord Graydon!” the handsome, middle-aged woman in the other carriage greeted. “Indeed, it is. Frances and I were just hoping that we might see you here.” The lovely young lady sitting beside her smiled first at Lord Graydon, and then at Lily. “Won’t you introduce us to your companions?”
“With pleasure,” said Lord Graydon, and Isabel lowered her parasol.
Within fifteen short minutes, Lily found herself strolling arm in arm with Miss Frances Hamilton through the colorful paradise of Kensington Gardens, with Lord Graydon escorting Lady Hamilton beside them. Somewhere not far behind, Lily could hear Isabel and Lord Daltry arguing hotly, but, thankfully, not overloudly.
Frances Hamilton was close to Lily’s age, and very much like the friends that she and Isabel had left behind in Somerset. With curling, golden hair and warm brown eyes, she was a pretty, easygoing girl, open and kind and utterly unfazed by Lily’s inability to speak. She accepted the notes Lily wrote without a pause in conversation, just as if Lily had spoken, rather than written, the words, and she was quick to understand the hand signals Lily usually found it necessary to make.
“I do so hope that you and Lady Isabel will be able to attend the small party my mother is giving next week, Lady Lillian,” Miss Hamilton said. “It will mainly be a literary gathering, but we’ll have music and cards, and I’m sure you’ll both find it most entertaining. Of course, it will be nothing compared to the sort of ball that Lady Pebworth is giving tonight. Will you and your cousin be attending? Oh, how lovely! Do tell me what you’re going to wear. I’m so grateful that I don’t have to wear white this season, as I did last year. I’m mortally weary of it.”
Miss Hamilton had the kind of voice that Lily had always been envious of, clear and bell-like, musical when she chattered on, as she was at the moment, so feminine and pretty that Lily had to tamp down the bitter jealousy that so swiftly rose within.
“Please tell me, what color will your gown be?” Miss Hamilton asked. “It won’t matter, of course, for you’re so beautiful that any color will look lovely. Every man who sees you must fall in love with you.”
The compliment made Lily’s cheeks burn, and she smiled at Frances Hamilton and shook her head.
Miss Hamilton pressed her arm and said earnestly, “Well, it’s perfectly true. Don’t you agree, my lord?”
“Indeed, I do,” Lord Graydon replied.
Lily hadn’t realized that the other couple had come so close. She pushed away in her embarrassment and strode to a nearby rosebush, which possessed flowers of a light, pinkish white hue. She fingered one of the soft petals and lifted a small handful of her skirt.
“How lovely,” Miss Hamilton said approvingly. “And aren’t you clever, choosing such a beautiful shade? White, but not quite white. I wish we had thought of such a thing, Mama, when I had my first season, rather than buying only white gowns.”
Lord Graydon smiled down at the girl, possessing one of her dainty hands. “I liked you very much in those gowns,” he murmured, his gaze intimate. “You look beautiful in white.” Lowering his head, he gently kissed the hand he yet held, and then gazed into Miss Hamilton’s eyes for a long moment before releasing her.
Miss Hamilton’s cheeks grew pink and her expression filled with pleasure, while Lady Hamilton looked on with smiling approval.
Lily stood very still, watching the scene as if she were, in truth, completely invisible, as if she had no part in any of it. They were in love, she realized. Lord Graydon and Miss Hamilton. And she realized, too, that it couldn’t possibly have been a coincidence that they had met here like this, or that Miss Hamilton had been so friendly to her.
Did they think her an idiot? she thought with sudden fury. Or that because she was mute, she wouldn’t be able to reason the matter out? It was bad enough for Lord Graydon and Lord Daltry to lie about having asked her to dance, but this…this well-intentioned pity, this forced kindness…she hated it! The only thing she hated more was not being able to tell them how much she resented being treated in such a way, as if she must be handled differently from anyone else.
But you are different, she told herself silently, her fingers unwittingly crushing the delicate petals in her hand as she stood there, invisible, watching. You don’t even exist most of the time.
She should be grateful that Lord Graydon had made such an effort on her behalf, she thought, but she wasn’t. Why had he done it? What on earth had ever made him do it?
“You,” she heard Isabel’s angry voice say as she and Lord Daltry neared, “are an obstinate, thick-headed and stupid swine.”
“Yes, but at least I can ride a horse without half killing it,” he replied, adding acidly, “Lady Isabel.”
Lily had never been more grateful for her relative’s hot temper, and when Lord Graydon said, with a chuckle, “Perhaps we had better go before war breaks out in Kensington Gardens,” she readily let him guide her back to his waiting carriage and hand her in.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_f25e7b38-a5c5-5670-bec3-1b37f6a38f60)
Something was wrong, Graydon thought as he watched Lady Lillian Walford from across Lord and Lady Pebworth’s ballroom floor. Very, wretchedly wrong.
She was ethereally beautiful in her airy pink gown, which was indeed similar in color to the roses that she had so charmingly compared it to earlier in the day. He remembered perfectly the moment when her gloved hand had fingered the tiny petals—it was the last time she had smiled at him, the last moment she had gazed at him with the open friendliness he had found so refreshing. It seemed like an eternity ago.
She’d been misleading about the dress, however. It wasn’t simply a pink ball gown; it was a creation that had clearly been fashioned to suggest the dawn of a perfect new day. The net overskirt was fixed with what must have been hundreds of—what?—diamonds?—so that every movement set off a sparkling that looked like early stars fading against the blush of a clear morning’s light. The effect was eyecatching, and enchanting. Not that Lady Lillian needed such a gown to gather attention. She could have been dressed in a grain sack and every man in the room still would have been eyeing her with admiration. The trouble was that admiration, at this point, was the only sort of attention she was getting. The ball had been in progress for more than two hours, and she’d not once danced, not even with him.
Somewhere between the delightful afternoon they’d spent together and tonight, Lady Lillian had ceased to be an angel and had turned into a frigidly unapproachable ice maiden. He’d stood before her, having gone to claim his waltz, with his hand outstretched and his most charming smile frozen upon his face, both looking and feeling a fool, not knowing quite what to do. He had never before been turned away when he had requested a dance, and she—she had done nothing but stare at him as if he were something disgusting. She hadn’t even written him a note from her little golden note case, as she had done so often during the day, but had disdainfully communicated through Lady Isabel, who had clearly been highly embarrassed, relating that Lady Lillian had said it was not necessary for him to dance with her.
Not necessary, he thought angrily, watching her across the floor. What in the name of heaven was that supposed to mean? He’d gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf, and now, for no good reason, she threw it all back in his face. Just thinking of what he’d had to do to assure her a few dances made him clench his fists. Seaborne Margate had even had the gall to insist that he would only dance with the silent Lady Lillian if Graydon would sell him the black hunter he’d purchased last year. Now he’d lose the hunter for nothing; she’d turned Sea away just as coldly as she had the rest of them. Not that it hadn’t been amusing to see the handsome, lofty Sir Margate refused for once in his charmed life—the man had looked positively thunderstruck, a circumstance that Graydon knew Daltry wouldn’t stop taunting the man over for days to come—but Graydon still felt like wringing Lady Lillian’s ungrateful little neck.
She was standing near her sister-in-law and Lady Isabel, much as she had been at Almack’s a few days before. At Almack’s, however, she had at least looked approachable. Now, Lady Lillian looked like nothing better than an impenetrable fortress. Even Frances, who had been so generous in her friendship that afternoon, had been coolly rebuffed, and Lady Jersey had been sent scurrying away with little more than a chilly glance.
Both Lady Margaret and Lady Isabel looked as if they were lost, exasperated but completely unable to reason with their beautiful relative. Lady Isabel had tried to refuse to dance as well, clearly waiting for Lady Lillian to join the gaiety before she did, until Lord Daltry had finally refused to be put aside and had forced that formidable young woman into a waltz by practically carrying her onto the dance floor. When it was finished he carried her back to her mother and strode purposefully to Graydon’s side.
“She’s unhappy,” he said in a low voice. “Lady Isabel, that is. Seems as if Lady Lillian spent the rest of the day locked away in her bedchamber after we took them home. Cardemore went in and spoke with her after an hour or so, and when he came back out he didn’t look very pleased.”
“Damn,” Graydon muttered under his breath. “Something’s gone wrong, somehow, although I can’t imagine what it is. She was perfectly content this afternoon.”
Daltry accepted a cup of burgundy from a passing footman.
“She was silent on the way back to Wilborn Place,” he commented. “Not that she isn’t always silent, I suppose, but…you know what I mean.”
