Shenanigans in Berkeley Square Page 3

  They were still carrying on.

  “His father’s a lord, of course, and a senior bencher.” Hortense eyed Lucia meaningfully across the silver platter of sliced fruit. “Boxes at Goodwood, the Theatre Royal, a subscription to Almack’s. Even without his inheritance, George Anson must be worth ten thousand a year. Once he inherits—”

  Lucia’s gaze wandered from her bossy elder sister to her plate. Even with those inducements, no one wanted to be stuck with George Anson. Not even Lucia.

  Nor Hortense, come to that.

  He stifled a sigh. A distasteful task awaited him, he’d steeled himself to it, and there was no sense putting it off any longer. If he wanted information regarding the lovely young lady from the coffee house, he needed to ask the fonts of all knowledge whose shadows darkened his table.

  Smoky eyes, smoldering sideways glances… a strange, delicious yearning tightened his abdomen. That moment in the coffee house refused to leave his thoughts. It haunted him, no matter how many times he called his fancy to order. Floating amber hair, natural grace and balance… Rainier shook off the enchanting memory and cleared his throat.

  “Tell me.” He helped himself to a smidgen more of the roast and potatoes. It would unfortunately delay him in his sisters’ company for that much longer, but no one knew the gossip like them. “What do you know of the Busche family?”

  Hortense froze, her fork poised in midair. “The Busche family.” Pause. “Well.” A bit of potato slid off the tines, splatted to her plate with a wet sound. She laid the knife and fork across the pewter, glancing meaningfully at Lucia.

  As if stifling a titter.

  He gritted his teeth. He needed the information. And if he kept telling himself that, he might not reach across the table and yank out Hortense’s prating tongue. “Yes. The Busche family.” Surely just asking wouldn’t be enough to send her to the scandal-mongers, would it?

  Lucia leaned forward again. “Family seat in Harrow-on-the-Hill. And quite a lovely one, they say. But the brother, Mr. Franklin Busche, has some important, hush-hush position with the War Office, so they’re almost always in town now.”

  “He misses most of the entertainments.” Hortense angled her dinner ring beneath the candelabra’s steady light. Red flashed against the brilliant glow; a ruby, perhaps a garnet. “Even the ones he’s already accepted, sometimes without even sending a message. The Foresters held dinner for fifteen minutes, waiting for him.” She glanced up, eyes slitted. “But of course, it will have been the lovely Miss Coralie Busche who caught your masculine eye.”

  “I have no other for her to catch.” Rainier chewed steadily, ignoring the clutching sensation beginning in his inner workings. He’d not rise to her bait, no matter how she worded her innuendo. Oh, but those dark eyes…

  “And she is lovely.” Hortense sighed, again angling her hand beneath the light. The red stone and the gold shimmered, faded, shimmered again. Her hooded eyes flicked up and her gaze fastened onto him as if pinning him in place. “Or at least, she has a lovely bosom.”

  The clutching sensation intensified. Even for Hortense, that was low.

  “Men.” Lucia shook her head. “They miss the important things.”

  “Such as Miss Busche having only five thousand pounds in the ten per cents.” One last shimmer from the red stone, and Hortense resumed her knife and fork. “A paltry sum, impossible to live on. The city’s become so expensive, and the taxes on menservants, carriages, dogs, windows—” She heaved another sigh and cut into her meat.

  Lucia nodded. “And then, Miss Busche is so very—” She leaned forward and whispered, as if conveying some shameful secret. “—so very Romantic, you know.”

  As if he weren’t.

  “A dreamer.” Hortense scoffed. “Foggy between the ears. No practical notions whatsoever. Doubt she could manage a household with the best and most honest staff alive. Although she does sing well.”

  Not a word about the young lady’s education, taste, or strengths. Just her finances, her family’s position, and an afterthought regarding her personality and one accomplishment. And no telling how much was fact, how much his wretched sisters’ spite. Rainier wished some accurate measurement existed, informing him what percentage of their assessment he could shrug off and which part that would be.

  He’d learned almost nothing worth the asking, nothing beyond the dark eyes that glanced at him sideways from his memory.

  If he’d become leery of mixing with the opposite sex, well, he had a good reason. Or two.

  Chapter Three

  It had been a stunningly beautiful day in early June, almost four months ago, when Coralie’s life had been forever changed by one perfect, glorious moment.

  Her unhappy glance around had been arrested by a particularly fine bay gelding — the finest horse within view, and Mrs. Lacey’s aching hip had forced them to pause, fortunately enough, at a location that commanded a dramatic sweep of Rotten Row. Exercise daily, the physician had instructed Mrs. Lacey; but a carriage ride to Hyde Park and a promenade along the Row had shown that the limits of her beloved companion’s physical strength were more modest than they’d hoped. Coralie had sent the footman for a chair and helped support Mrs. Lacey’s trembling weight whilst they’d waited. The summertime warmth had washed over them and the fashionable crowd chattered and gossiped, voices rustling with the leaves overhead. The closest horses had kicked a fine spray of sand into the air, and Coralie draped her shawl over Mrs. Lacey’s face.

  Along the sweeping Row, a score of elegant riders astride equally fine horses had trotted and cantered, in pairs, trios, and small groups. But that bay gelding had stood out from the crowd, and not only because he trotted alone. Not a flashy horse, nor one of those that looked handsome yet served no purpose — no, the gelding had combined a splendid round trot with lovely lines and a glossy coat, functionality plus form in the most complete manner. His tackle, also — high quality leather, nothing fancy nor decorated with silver, but clearly handmade to fit both horse and rider. And the rider—

  She'd stared. She could do nothing else. The crowd around her had seemed to melt away as the moment’s perfection took hold. The delightfully warm sunshine, the gossipy chattering, the other horses and riders, even Mrs. Lacey’s sad weight on her arm, all had faded to nothing, leaving Coralie and the oncoming rider astride his exceptional gelding residing alone in some form of alternative reality, hoofbeats falling in a gentle, hushed cocoon. The gelding’s stylish, ground-covering trot had closed the distance swiftly yet slowly at the same time, the very seconds disjointed by the moment’s splendor, and as the horse advanced her view had remorselessly swiveled to follow. A sudden profile, sharply outlined against the blue sky: a tall brow beneath a classical hat, strong cheekbones slanting down to a determined chin and soft, full lips, deeply set eyes staring boldly ahead, and a clean Grecian nose, perfectly straight.

  One perfect, perfectly beautiful moment, in a world where so very few of them existed.

  The rider hadn’t glanced aside, ignoring the crowd of pedestrian gossips as if schooling and exercising his gelding deserved all of his concentration, as if a job to be done must be done properly, fully, entirely, or it should not be undertaken at all. Strong opinions, surely, behind that broad, high forehead, those clear and focused eyes. And surely there had to be a simple elegance of mind to match, judging by the horse’s turnout and the rider’s clothing.

  “Who’s that man who just passed us?” she’d whispered to Mrs. Lacey. “On the very fine bay gelding?”

  Mrs. Lacey had still been slumped and fighting for breath, an edge of pain tightening her jaw and one hand pressing her old violet walking gown to her hip. She’d glanced at the fitted maroon riding coat and the flicking black tail, moving steadily away along the Row. “That’s Mr. Kenneth Rainier of the Huntingdon family, a distant cousin to the Countess of Bath. I do hope that chair hurries, my dear. We should never have attempted to walk so far.”

  No, they certainly shouldn’t. But
even as she’d agreed aloud and done her best to comfort and sustain her companion, Coralie had watched the horse and rider out of sight.

  That afternoon, whilst Mrs. Lacey had rested with warm compresses and a soothing draught, Coralie had hastily accepted the sadly overdue invitation to the Holly Hall summer ball. Everyone who was anyone would be there. Franklin’s schedule had been already engaged, of course — now that he’d taken a position with the War Office, her brother and guardian’s schedule was no longer his own to command — and instead of accompanying her, he’d discreetly fobbed her off into Lady de Lisle’s party. Distressing, that, but at least it had been before the good dame’s willingness to act as chaperone for any young lady in need had lead to them all being called her harem.

  And so, that Saturday evening, after arriving at the earliest possible civilized time, after greeting her host, hostess, and Miss Deborah Kringle, Coralie had loitered in the entryway’s shadows and watched the other guests trickle in. She’d done her best to hide her embarrassment, but surely they’d all spied her, despite the gloom in her corner; surely they’d all wondered at her outré behavior and whispered, the ladies behind their decorated fans. Even her best pretense couldn’t make the old family portraits in the gallery sufficiently interesting for the long stares she’d given them, and her heart had pounded, heat rising in her face. The evening had showed every indication of dissolving into disaster. And with all the other concurrent entertainments spread across Mayfair, would the fascinating Mr. Rainier even show?

  But he had.

  He’d arrived at the stroke of eight, greeting his hosts with grave courtesy. Again his simple presence had fluttered her pulse and commandeered her attention. Again she could do no more than admire his presentation, in particular his black merino swallowtail coat, perfectly cut and tailored in classical elegance, refusing to bow to a dandy’s caprice. He’d worn little jewelry and no rings, she’d noticed. Especially not that ring.

  Of course she’d been taught to abhor eavesdropping, and in general, she firmly practiced that belief. But in the Kringles’ powder blue ballroom, as he’d debated with other fashionable young gentlemen on the meanings to be drawn from William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience, the intensity of his voice and the economical gestures of his hand — precise, measured, more than eloquent — had mesmerized her beyond the bounds of good manners. Coralie had crept closer and listened, letting their conversation soak into her soul, absorbing Mr. Rainier’s perspectives and sensibilities, all the while pretending to be engrossed in the dancers. But who could even notice that capering tomfoolery when such a man was around?

  That evening, as she’d absorbed his thoughts on “the poetic Williams,” Blake and Wordsworth, she’d lost the ability to resist “the elegant Kenneth,” as she’d then considered Mr. Rainier. He and his friends had spoken of their social schedule; she’d taken careful note and rearranged her own to match, with especial attention paid to the Trent coffee house. As often as possible, she and Mrs. Lacey attended entertainments where she could share his company — at least listening to his discourse, even if she never dared bring herself to his notice. Why, in comparison, she had no education worth mentioning — no Latin, no Greek philosophy, and the only poetry the Shakespeare she’d read for herself. What a fool he’d consider her, a pretentious, dreaming, yearning fool.

  As the months passed, as summer flowed toward autumn, she’d never overheard Mr. Rainier speak an inelegant word. Unlike the unhappy Mr. Culver, he’d never uttered a commonplace truism; unlike poor dear George Anson, he’d never displayed any limits to his conversation, education, nor intellectual boundaries. He’d remained intriguing.

  She remained intrigued.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, October 15, 1813

  “We’re all disappointed, I assure you.”

  Lady Gower, her silver hair coiled like a serpent around her brow, led Coralie and Mrs. Lacey through a bevy of card tables, little islands scattered across her biggest drawing room with a riotous abandon for order. Everywhere, candlelight reflected from gilt: the crown molding along the ceiling, the dado railing partway up the walls, the carved baseboards, the raised boiserie moldings outlining the murals of shepherds and nymphs, the bracketing sconces, the elaborate frame of the mirrored overmantel above the shining marble fireplace, itself sculpted into fluid naiads and waterfalls, picked out with gold leaf. The room always made Coralie think of walking through a dragon’s treasure trove, and the winged menace hovering in one mural seemed to wink at her in passing.

  Most of the games had already begun, wagers and chatter and laughter flowing as brilliantly dressed players dealt and laid their cards. But at two of the tables, near the far wall and little touched by the overhead chandeliers, beyond the reach of the sconces, it seemed the number of players was incomplete, as several dim, unidentifiable figures remained standing beside their chairs.

  It also seemed the story of that vexing duke hunting her down Fleet Street had spread, or at least Lady Gower presumed Coralie wanted to know if her hunter was in attendance. Oh, it was mortifying, but at least the candlelight would hide her embarrassment. It would take a while for that tale to die down, and it wouldn’t help that she’d bought the gold crepe.

  Lady Gower’s glance over her shoulder showed that presumption, not to mention a fair helping of amusement. “We all adore him, of course. The rumors regarding his rakishness are wildly exaggerated, and it’s such a triumph when a duke — possibly a royal duke — attends one’s entertainments. But,” she interrupted herself with a wistful sigh, “he regrets, et cetera. His message stated he already had a game underway and he didn’t wish to overplay his hand.” Another glance, even more amused. “Whatever that means?”

  The heat in Coralie’s face intensified. Clearly Lady Gower also presumed that His Grace’s other game involved her, meaning it would take even longer for the rumors to fade away. Predatory the twice-widowed Lady Gower might be; gossipy, most definitely.

  When their little party reached the edge of the candlelight, one of the shadowy figures beside the empty tables turned and squealed. Coralie jumped when Deborah Kringle dashed from the shadows, her pale skirts flying, and met them halfway.

  “Oh, good, you’re here at last!” Deborah looped Coralie’s arm through hers, tugged her away from Lady Gower, and hauled her the final few feet to one of the waiting tables. “You will partner me, won’t you? It’s whist.”

  Bemused, Coralie could only stare and stammer for something to say. Lady Gower’s presumptions and Deborah’s chumminess made for a strange start to the evening. She liked Deborah Kringle, but they certainly weren’t sufficiently acquainted to warrant such enthusiasm. They’d both been members of Lady de Lisle’s harem in the past, but whenever that happened, Deborah usually spent all her time with the other popular girls. Coralie had always felt too shy to intrude on their giggles and fun.

  As if sensing her hesitation, Deborah leaned close and whispered, too loudly to be called discreet. A hint of lavender perfume wafted over with her. “My alternative is—”

  Lady Gower cleared her throat and Deborah fell silent, straightening and assuming a mischievously guilty expression, but not relinquishing the arm she’d claimed. Their gloves formed a sharp contrast, her pale grey against Deborah’s red, the pair she’d worn at her parents’ Christmas ball last year. Could any other young lady in Mayfair get away with wearing that decadent shade?

  “No, Miss Kringle, I have other plans for this table.” Lady Gower winked at Coralie. “We shan’t give a certain gentleman an open playing field, shall we? Especially since he isn’t here to defend his interests. Instead, Miss Busche, I’d prefer you to partner—” She paused, a dramatic gleam in her eye.

  Oh. Oh. Without even looking, Coralie suddenly knew, and her pulse accelerated like a galloping horse. Her eyes had grown used to the area’s shadows and she glanced about. Three undemanding players crowded the other table, and Colonel Danning held Mrs. Lacey’s chair for her
as they settled in to play. Beside their own table, sporting a long-suffering but good-humored grin, stood George Anson — which explained Deborah’s mischief, she loved to pick on him even though he was a decent whist player — and behind him…

  A hollow sensation started in her chest and expanded until it seemed she’d float off the drawing room carpet.

  He stepped from behind George Anson, a gentle, questioning smile and a slight crinkling beside his eyes testifying to his pleasure. The balloon in her chest expanded. She’d died; she’d died and gone to the kindest Heaven there was.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said.

  She’d heard his voice so many times. But never before had he spoken to her. Through that inner hollowness, her heart pounded a rapid-fire drumbeat, thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.

  “No? Well, we can’t have that.” Lady Gower ushered him forward. “My dear Miss Busche, allow me to present Kenneth Rainier of Huntingdon. And Mr. Rainier, this is Miss Coralie Busche.”

  * * * *

  Of course they were going to lose. But if that gave Rainier a chance to become better acquainted with the beautiful Miss Busche, the temptress with smoky, haunting eyes, without Cumberland’s less than desirable presence stirring the waters — well, a few pence was an acceptable price. Besides, Deborah Kringle was notoriously tight with her pin money; she’d control the wagers and ensure the stakes remained bearable. He wouldn’t have to lose much.

  They’d settled around the table with partners facing — footmen had appeared to seat the ladies, more’s the pity — and the first wagers dotted the table’s center. Deborah scooped up the deck and shuffled it like a card sharp, ruffle-thump, ruffle-thump. “It’s been dreadfully dull in town lately,” she said. “So tell me, is there anything going on, besides the Maynards’ ball approaching?”