Кейси Майклс - The Secrets of the Heart

“You bastard!” Symington growled, clenching his hamlike hands into impotent fists as the glow from the fire glinted on the barrel of the pistol. “Oh, I know who you are now! I’ve heard the stories. I know what you’ve done to other mill owners. So now you’re after me, are you? Well, I won’t bow down to you like the others have. You’ll hang for this, you miserable scoundrel—and I’ll be there to watch you dance!”

“That’s the spirit, Herbert. Down but not out!” the man said encouragingly as the door to the coach opened and the groom reached in to let down the steps. “You take that thought with you. Take it and hold it close to your heart, along with my list of demands. And, oh yes, thank you for the coach. It will bring a considerable sum, I’m convinced, proceeds which will doubtless fill many a stomach these next months. Once again, Herbert, good evening to you. I sincerely wish I will not find it necessary we should meet again.”

“Oh, I’ll see you again, you heartless bastard. See you and more!” Symington tried desperately to make out the facial features of his tormentor in the glow from the fire, but it was useless. He felt himself being pulled unceremoniously from his beloved coach before a well-laced kick from his former employee nearly sent him sprawling onto the gravel drive in front of the inferno that was once his house.

The coach drove away, the sound of delighted laugher floating back to mock him, and Symington angrily yanked off the ribbon holding the list of demands, bent on ripping the paper into a thousand pieces.

As he unrolled the single sheet, something long and soft fluttered to the ground and he picked it up. He held it to the light from the blaze before cursing roundly, flinging the thing from him, and turning to slowly walk the three miles back into Little Pillington.

Behind him, lying abandoned on the drive, a single peacock feather winked blue and green in the light from the blazing fire.

The world is full of fools, and he who would not see it should live alone and smash his mirror.

attributed to Claude Le Petite

Society is now one polished horde,

formed of two mighty tribes,

the Bores, and Bored.

Lord Byron

LADY UNDERCLIFF HAD BEEN sadly out of sorts for a month, or so she informed anyone who applied to her for the reason behind her perpetual pout.

She was incensed because her thoroughly thoughtless husband had adamantly refused to return from his hunting box in Scotland until the second week of the Season, thus delaying the annual Undercliff Ball, which, as everyone was aware, had been held the first week of the Season these past sixteen years.

Not that she could not have pressed on with her plans for the ball without Charles, for heaven only knew the man had never lifted a finger for any but his own pleasure in all his life. But her ladyship was very conscious of appearances, and opening the ball without her husband at her side would only cause speculative gossip, especially since that sad interlude the man had indulged in most publicly three years past with that absurd Covent Garden warbler.

Besides, Lady Undercliff considered herself to be a perfect wretch at recollecting names, and she had grown to rely on his lordship’s guidance during those tedious hours spent in the receiving line, complimenting friends on the birth of another grandchild or remembering to inquire as to the welfare of another acquaintance’s old-as-God Great-aunt Imogene.

And Charles knew she counted on his memory, damn his hunt-mad, philandering hide to perdition!

In the end, there had been nothing else for it but to live with the consequences of her mate’s selfishness, and Lady Undercliff had been forced to take her pleasure where she found it, which is the same as to say that the tradesmen’s bills her dearest husband Charles would find falling like snow upon his study desk in the next weeks would much resemble a blizzard.

Lady Undercliff had always taken great pride in her ability to delight both her guests’ eyes and stomachs with her lavish entertainments, but she had definitely outdone herself in her preparations for this particular ball.

The delicately draped bunting that hung everywhere, the dozens and dozens of ceiling-high plants, the hothouse bouquets, the rented gilt-back chairs, the painted cherubs and other statuary, the hiring of a score of servers, the presence of musicians in three drawing rooms in addition to those in the ballroom, the luscious sliced salmon, the dazzling variety of Gunther ices, indeed, even the silver-on-silk gown and flashing diamonds worn by the lady herself—all had been ordered with a glib “And have all bills forwarded directly to my husband, the earl.”

And yet, with the hour relentlessly creeping toward midnight on the evening of the ball, and with the compliments of the happy partygoers still ringing in her ears as she remained adamantly at the top of the stairs, Lady Undercliff continued to pout.

“This is entirely your fault, Charles,” she sniped at her husband, who was most probably wishing himself away from the receiving line and safely ensconced in the card room, a drink at his elbow, although she’d not give him that satisfaction. “He isn’t coming.”

“Prinny?” Lord Undercliff asked, frowning. “Who wants him here anyway, Gert? We’d have the servants scraping rotted eggs from the windows for a week if the populace caught sight of him rolling his carcass in here. Ain’t the least in good odor with the masses, you know—or you would, if you weren’t always worrying about all the wrong things.”

“Not his royal highness, Charles,” Lady Undercliff gritted out quietly from between clenched teeth, “as if I’d want that terrible old man lumbering in here with his fat mistress and shoveling all that lovely salmon down his greedy gullet. And don’t call me ‘Gert’! The man I am speaking of is St. Clair.”

Lord Undercliff looked at his wife down the length of his considerable nose. “St. Clair? That pranked-out mummer? Thunder an’ turf, now you’ve gone and slipped your moorings, Gert. What is he to anything? He ain’t but a baron. You’ve got three marquesses, a half dozen earls, and two dukes cluttering up the place already. What do you need with St. Clair?”

“You don’t understand,” Lady Undercliff spat. “But then, you never do. He must be here!”

“Yes, yes. He’s amusing enough, I’ll grant you that, but I can’t say I like what he’s done to our young men. Everything poor Beau has taught them about proper dress seems to have flown out the window thanks to St. Clair and his colored satins. Soon he’ll have us all powdering up our heads, Gert, and if he does that I just might have to call him out myself. Demmed nuisance, that powder, not to mention the tax. Besides, didn’t we turn the powder closet into a water closet just a few years past?”

Lady Undercliff gripped her kid-encased hands together tightly in front of her, knowing that if she did not win this struggle to control her overset emotions she would soon plant her beloved but woefully obtuse husband a wisty facer straight on his mouth.

“Charles, I don’t care a fig if St. Clair has all you gentlemen shaving your heads and painting your pates purple. No party is a success unless he attends. No hostess worth her salt would dare show her face in public again if Christian St. Clair deigned to ignore her invitation. Now do you understand, Charles? And it’s all your fault—you and your stupid hunting box. I’ll never forgive you for this, Charles. Never!”

“Females!” Lord Undercliff exploded, slapping his thigh in exasperation at his wife’s outburst. The single life was much preferable, he had often been heard to remark, if only there existed some way of setting up one’s nursery without having to shackle oneself with a bride who was never the sweet young beauty you thought she’d be but only a female like any other, with contrary ways no man could ever fathom, shrewish voices, and feathers for brains.

He peered past his wife and into the crowded, overheated ballroom. “You’ve got Lord Buxley, Gert. He’s popular enough. And that Tredway chit as well. Wasn’t she the toast of London last Season?”

“Yes, Charles—last Season,” Lady Undercliff informed her husband tersely. “Lady Ariana Tredway lends the party some cachet, as does Lord Buxley, but my primary coup for this evening seems to be the presence of Gabrielle Laurence, although I cannot for the life of me understand the attraction. Red hair, Charles. I mean, really! It’s not at all à la mode.”

Peering around his wife once more, Lord Undercliff caught sight of a slim, tallish girl waltzing by in the arms of the thrice-widowed Duke of Glynnon. He could not help but remember the chit, for he had bowed so long over her hand during his introduction to her in the receiving line that his wife had brought the heel of her evening slipper down hard on his instep to bring him back to attention.

Miss Laurence’s lovely face, he saw now, was wreathed in an animated smile as she spoke to the duke, her smooth white complexion framed by a mass of lovely curls the color of fire that blazed almost golden as the movements of the dance brought her beneath one of the brightly lit chandeliers. He grinned, remembering her dark, winglike brows, her shining green eyes, and, most especially, the small round mole he’d noticed sitting just to the left of her upper lip. Ah, what a fetching piece!

“Your judgment doesn’t seem to be bothering the duke overmuch, Gert,” Lord Undercliff remarked in an unwise attack of frankness, sparing a moment to catch a glimpse of Miss Laurence’s remarkably perfect bosom, which was modestly yet enticingly covered by an ivory silk gown. “As a matter of fact, I believe old Harry is drooling.”

“Oh, go back to Scotland, Charles, until you can learn to control yourself,” Lady Undercliff spat out, then broke into her first genuine smile in a month. “He’s here! Charles, darling, he’s here! Stand up straight, and for goodness sake don’t say anything stupid.”

Lord Undercliff, once a military man and therefore accustomed to taking orders, obeyed his wife’s command instinctively, squaring his shoulders and pulling in his stomach as he turned to greet their tardy guest and his small entourage of hangers-on, a wide, welcoming smile pasted on his lordship’s pudding face.

“Lady Undercliff! Look at you! Voyons! This is too much! Your beauty never ceases to astound me! I vow I cannot bear it!” Lord Christian St. Clair exclaimed a moment later, having successfully navigated the long, curving marble staircase to halt in front of the woman and execute an exquisitely elegant bow, while gifting her hand with a fleeting touch of his lips.

Lord Undercliff’s own lips curled in distaste as he watched this ridiculous display, taking in the baron’s outrageous costume of robin’s-egg-blue satin swallowtail coat and knee breeches, the elaborate lace-edged cuffs of his shirt, the foaming jabot at his tanned throat, the high collar that by rights should have sliced off the fellow’s ears by now.

The man was a menace, that’s what he was, bringing back into fashion a fashion that hadn’t been fashionable in years. And the young males of Society were following him like stunned sheep, more and more of them each day sauntering down Bond Street in clocked stockings, huge buckles on their shoes, and wearing enough lace to curtain a cathedral.

“I throw myself at your feet, beseeching mercy. A thousand pardons for my unforgivable tardiness, dear lady, please, I beg you,” Lord St. Clair pleaded, rising to his full six foot three of sartorial splendor to gaze adoringly into Lady Undercliff’s rapidly widening eyes.