I had left Lydia at her dressing table, brushing out her long hair. I had wanted to linger and watch her, but my supper appointment pressed me. I had put my hands on her waist, kissed the nape of her neck, then taken my leave.
"Accompany me, Mr. Allandale," I said firmly. I certainly did not want him waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her like an outraged governess.
Again, his mask slipped. The habitual pleasant expression left him. "How dare you."
I slapped my hat to my head, took Allandale by the elbow, and steered him outside. William gave me an anguished look as we passed. I said to him, "If Mr. Allandale tries to call again tonight, or even tomorrow, do not admit him."
William, wide-eyed, nodded. He closed the door behind us.
Allandale shook off my hold before we'd walked five feet. "Explain yourself, sir. What the devil were you doing upstairs in my mother-in-law's house?"
I set my mouth in a grim line. "I have nothing to explain. And if you question her about it, I will not overlook it. Do you understand me?"
He stopped. A hurrying gentleman, perspiring in the heat, nearly ran him down. Grumbling, the gentleman pushed past and went on.
"Good God, Lacey, you are a cad of the highest water."
"It is not your business," I said.
"Not my business? She is the mother of the woman I shall marry! Shall I let her be ruined by a fortune hunter? I will not stand by and let you deceive her."
I caught his coat lapels, uncaring of others in the street who stopped to gape. I jerked him close, glaring into his flawless face. "I would do nothing to hurt her, you thrice-damned idiot. If you speak one word of this to her, I will- "
"Call me out?" He glared back, his shock overcome.
"No, I will drag you to the Thames and throw you in. Let the watermen fish you out. They will if you offer them enough coin."
He swallowed. "You are mad enough to do it."
"I am. If I discover that you have spoken to her of this matter in any way, I advise you to dress in the suit you most wish to ruin."
I released him. He landed on his feet, looking startled, then he jerked from me and hastily smoothed his coat. "I find it hard to credit that you are a friend of Mr. Grenville's. He would be shocked at your behavior."
"In this case," I said, "I believe he'd agree with me."
I turned on my heel, marched away, and left him red and furious in the middle of the street.
Every corner of London had its own characteristic, every street its personality. Rich then poor then rich ran together like water and cream. Mansions could give rise to rookeries in two streets, and inhabitants of each would not know a thing of what went on not a short walk away.
Not far from Grosvenor Square, where I made my way to the house of the Derwents upon the appointed hour, had stood Tyburn Tree, the infamous gallows where executions had taken place until late in the last century. South of the old hanging place, Mayfair had sprouted a swath of mansions, some of the finest in London. The Derwents, Grenville had given me to understand, were among the wealthiest citizens in England.
I wondered that I had not heard of the Derwents before, but Grenville assured me they were also among the humblest. Sir Gideon had sat in the House of Commons for many years before retiring to spend more time with his family. He had been made a baronet because of services to the realm, mostly philanthropic. No one could claim to know a more disinterested giver of money to the poor than Sir Gideon Derwent, and so George III had been persuaded to honor him.
If he had given away a fortune to the London poor, he must have had much to spare, I thought as I descended from the hackney and gazed up at Derwent's enormous mansion.
Light glowed from every window, as though they expected a crowd. I hoped not, as I was not in the mood to be jovial to dozens of people I did not know.
The hackney driver grinned at me as I counted shillings into his hand. "Someone's got friends in 'igh places," he said. He chortled as he drove away.
Stately columns flanked a grand double-doored entrance, and a red carpet stretched like a tongue over the small bit of pavement to me. I wondered what exalted guest they were expecting.
I soon learned. A butler met me at the door, bowed formally, and ushered me into the house. A footman, equally stately, though much younger, took my gloves and hat.
The butler led me through a massive hall, equally as large as that in Lady Mary Fortescue's country house, but thankfully, much more tastefully decorated. Gray, white, and gold marbled columns marched along the walls, sheltering niches that bore busts of prominent Greek and Roman scholars. Burgundy hangings framed high windows in the rear, and soft gold panels graced the ceiling.
At the end of this echoing hall stood a tall double doorway, behind it, a gargantuan drawing room, and the Derwents.
They were grouped about a chaise longue as though posed for a portrait. Lady Derwent reposed on the chaise, and Sir Gideon stood behind her, his hand affectionately on her shoulder. Leland stood next to his father, brimming with delight, his gray eyes fixed hungrily upon my regimentals.
In a chair next to Lady Derwent sat a girl perhaps a few years younger than Leland. Ash-blond hair and gray eyes made her a child of Sir Gideon, and the slightly shy, innocently curious looks she darted at me confirmed it.
The fifth member of the group proved to be a lady I had met earlier that year-Mrs. Danbury, a young widow of the same blond hair and gray eyes of the Derwents. She was not, in fact, Sir Gideon's daughter, I was informed as she was presented, but his niece.
Lady Derwent did not rise, but lifted her hand for me. Her blond hair was darker than her son's and going gray, and her eyes were light blue. The hand she offered me was thin and worn. As I bowed over it, I saw in her face a weariness, a gray tinge that her smile could not disguise.
Melissa Derwent went brilliant scarlet and looked frantically at anything but me when I bowed to her and murmured a greeting. She did not offer her hand, but curled her fingers into her palms so tightly I feared she'd hurt herself.
Mrs. Danbury did profess to remember me. Her smile was crooked, slanting one side of her mouth. "Captain Lacey and I have met before. At Lord Arbuthnot's, was it not?"
I agreed that it was.
They plied me with Madeira, then we went through another pair of palatial doors, opened by two footmen, to a dining room with a ceiling at least twenty feet high.
As the ambience promised, the food brought in by the deferential footmen on trolleys was on par with what Anton gave me at Grenville's. I ate from fine porcelain plates with a heavy silver knife and spoon, and drank from crystal goblets that never seemed to be empty of smooth, blood red wine.
I realized as we began that there was no other guest but me. I was the one they had lit the house for, had unfurled the red carpet for, had produced this meal for. Good lord.
By the time we reached the fish course, Sir Gideon had asked me to relate, in detail, my life in the army, from the time I'd volunteered to the day I'd decided to leave the life behind. I could not imagine why they'd want me to tire them with war stories, but they asked many eager questions, and Sir Gideon refused to let me steer the conversation elsewhere.
"Tell us of Mysore," he'd say eagerly. "Did you ride elephants? Was the Tippu Sultan as cruel as they say?"
"I have no idea," I had to reply. "When we at last stormed the city, the Sultan was dead, by his own hand or murdered, who could say. But yes, I did manage to ride an elephant."
I then had to tell them exactly what that had been like. Unnerving, to say the least. The elephants kept in the town of Seringapatam were gentle enough, being generally used as beasts of burden, but to ride atop a creature as large as a house, who regarded you as no more significant than a flea, had been a bit unsettling.