Flushing with pleasure, Mrs. Applegate fanned her cheeks. “Very kind in you to say so, Your Grace. I’m only sorry Lady Eversleigh was otherwise engaged. Lady Thorpe and Mrs. Carlisle were par-ticularly anxious to make her acquaintance. Perhaps you might drop a word in her ear, my lord? I hold an ‘at home’ every second week and would be most pleased to have her attend.”
“Yes, of course.” A sudden chill enveloped Jason’s heart. He glanced about. “If you’ll pardon me, ma’am, I’ve just sighted someone I must catch.”
With an elegant bow, he detached himself from Mrs. Applegate’s clinging toils and headed into the crowd. Not the Park, not Mrs. Applegate’s. So where had Lenore spent her afternoon?
Seeing the dark head of Lady Morecambe pass before him, he swung into her wake. When she paused by a group of ladies to allow another to pass before her, Jason stopped by her side. “Good evening, Lady Morecambe.”
Theresa Morecambe jumped and swung about. “Oh, Your Grace! You gave me quite a start.”
Looking down into her blue eyes and seeing the relief therein, Jason drew his own conclusions. But he was only interested in discovering his wife’s afternoon pastimes. Bowing briefly over Lady Morecambe’s hand, he fixed her with a cool and somewhat stern gaze. “I believe you spend a great deal of time with my wife, Lady Morecambe?”
There was nothing in the tenor of his words to cause offence, but he was not the last surprised to see Theresa Morecambe’s eyes widen. With a visible effort, she pulled herself together, then airily shrugged. “Now and then. But we’re not forever in each other’s pockets, Your Grace. You must not be thinking so.” Under his relentless gaze, Lady Morecambe’s defences wavered. She rushed on, “In fact, this afternoon I attended Mrs. Marshall’s drum. Lady Eversleigh was otherwise engaged—I assume she attended Mrs. Dwyer’s musical afternoon—a most rewarding and, er…en-lightening experience, I’m sure.”
Struggling to keep his lips straight, Jason nodded. “I dare say.” With the curtest of bows, he let Lady Morecambe flee. He gave a minute to consideration of which of his peers was the guilty party in her case, before hauling his mind back to his own unknown. Where had Lenore gone?
The next half-hour went in a vain search for Mrs. Dwyer. Forced to the conclusion that that particular young matron had not featured on Lady Cheswell’s list, Jason stood stock-still by the side of the ballroom, a black cloud of suspicion drawing ever nearer.
“Good God, Eversleigh! Stop standing there like a rock. There’s a chair behind you, if you haven’t noticed. I need it—and you’re in the way.”
Blinking, moving aside automatically, Jason found himself facing his father’s youngest sister. “You have my heartfelt apologies, Agatha.” Smoothly, he helped her to the chair.
Settling herself in a cloud of deep purple draperies, Agatha humphed. “No sense trying any of your flummery on me, m’lad.”
Jason’s lips twitched but he held his tongue.
Looking up at him, Agatha’s black eyes narrowed. “But what are you doing here, propping the wall? Watching your wife hard at work?” With a nod, she indicated the set Lenore had joined on the dance floor. “Exhausting ain’t it?”
“Exceptionally.” Try as he might, Jason could not keep his disapproval from colouring his tone. “I find it hard to believe she is not, now, enjoying what she once professed to abhor.”
Agatha chuckled. “Well, if she’s convinced you, she needn’t fear any other finding her out.”
Knowing his aunt harboured a definite soft spot for Lenore, Jason let that remark pass unchallenged.
“Still, at least she escaped Lady Fairford’s effort today. I don’t know how some of these people find their way into the ton, believe me I don’t. The most shabby entertainment—nip-cheese from beginning to end. I went on to Henrietta Dwyer’s—timed it well; the singing was over but I didn’t see Lenore there. No doubt she went to Lady Argyle’s ‘at home’. If I’d had any sense, I would have gone there to start with.”
Feeling very much like a drowning man making one last desperate attempt to grab hold of a buoy, Jason made his excuses to his aunt and set out on Lady Argyle’s trail.
In the centre of the crowd thronging Lady Cheswell’s dance floor, Lenore smiled and chatted, no longer afraid that her mask would slip but rather less sure about her temper. The sheer banality of the exercise was taking its toll; she was bored and rapidly losing patience. “Naturally, my lord,” she replied to Lord Selkirk, “I would not favour pink ribbons on such an outfit. I suspect Mr. Millthorpe would only find they tangled in his fobs. He seems to have quite an array, don’t you think?” A gale of laughter greeted this purely accurate observation. Lenore converted her grimace to a look of puzzled consideration as she studied the extravagant dandy holding court but paces away. As Mr. Millthorpe seemed to count such attention no more than his due, she did not feel she was committing any social solecism in so doing. Was this all they thought of—silk ribbons and bows?
Behind the solid fade of the Duchess of Eversleigh, Lenore inwardly sighed, hoping that she possessed the fortitude to carry her through the next weeks. Agatha, Lady Eckington and company were all agreed that she should not host any major entertainment until next Season. Which meant that all she had to do was continue to appear at the balls and parties, smiling and dancing, a devotee of all things frivolous. The dreary prospect was enough to make her feel ill. Thankfully, her resistance to indisposition had improved dramatically, at least in the evenings; as long as she adhered to her plan, she was confident her health would see the Season out. It was her temperament that was strained; she had never before had to suffer fools gladly.
“My dear Duchess! Allow me to compliment you on your gown, my dear.”
Mentally girding her loins, Lenore turned to exchange polite nods with Lady Hartwell. “How do you do, Lady Hartwell. Madame Lafarge will be delighted to know you approve of her style. Are you enjoying your evening?”
A little taken aback by this forthright response, Lady Hartwell rallied. “Why, yes, my dear. Such a sad crush, is it not? But I wanted to make sure you had received my note about my little gathering tomorrow. Dare I hope you’ll be able to attend?”
With the ease born of frequent repetition, Lenore smiled at Lady Hartwell, just the right combination of regret and reluctance in her eyes. “Indeed I got your note, but I regret I’m promised elsewhere for the afternoon. Perhaps next time?”
Fleetingly laying her hand on her ladyship’s gloved arm, as if appealing for her understanding, Lenore was not surprised to see resigned acceptance overlay her ladyship’s annoyance. She had her routine perfected to an art.
After promising to attend her soirée later in the month, Lenore parted from her ladyship, returning once more to the safety of her own circle. Lady Hartwell’s invitation was the sixth she had refused for the following afternoon. The number of ladies desirous of her company over tea would have made Harriet cackle.
Nodding to Lady Argyle as she passed her in the crowd, Lenore banished her boredom, casting herself once more into the fray—the chattering, glimmering, clamouring world of the ton.
For her, the time to leave could not come soon enough.
When, at last, the evening was done and she was handed into her carriage by her husband, she merely smiled sleepily at him, then subsided into silence, grateful for the darkness that cloaked her tiredness from his perceptive gaze. It was comforting, the way he was always there to escort her home. At times like this, when her willpower had been sapped by the demands of the ball and her resistance was low, she found it impossible not to admit, to that inner self who knew all her secrets, that she could not imagine any other gentleman giving her the same sense of security, of being protected against all harm. The vibrant strength of him as he sat beside her, his thigh brushing her silken skirts, came clearly to her senses.
Abruptly, blinking back her tears of frustration, Lenore turned to stare out of the carriage window, into the gloom. She had had her taste of paradise; she
should be content with her memories—they were more than many others had to warm them.
Beside her, Jason sat, chilled to the marrow, a man condemned. As the carriage ambled over the cobbles towards Eversleigh House, he watched the fades slip past, his hand fisted so tightly his knuckles ached. Long before it had been time to quit Lady Cheswell’s ballroom, he had exhausted all avenues of salvation. Lenore had not been at Lady Argyle’s; there had been no other entertainments held that afternoon at which a lady of her station would have appeared.
Which left one vital question unanswered, a suffocating cloud of uncertainty pressing down blackly upon him, making it difficult to breathe and even harder to think.
Where was Lenore spending her afternoons—and with whom?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN THE DAYS that followed, Jason verified beyond all possible doubt that his wife was absenting herself from the ton’s afternoon entertainments. His mood vacillated between cold cynicism and the blackest despair. One minute he had convinced himself that he did not need to know who she was dallying with, the next he was overcome by a primitive urge to find the gentleman responsible and flay him to within an inch of his life. In his more rational moments he wondered how it had all come about, why he had been unwise enough to let such a black fate befall him.
It was Agatha who brought the matter to a head.
Pacing restlessly before the fire in his library, the October morning grey beyond the long windows, Jason read for the twelfth time, his aunt’s missive. Quite why Agatha had nominated eleven o’clock for a meeting when she rarely rose before noon was a mystery. Likewise, he felt there was some significance in the fact that she had elected to call on him, rather than summoning him to attend her. Unfortunately he could not fathom what it was. Nevertheless, there could be no doubt that she was coming to tell him what he was not at all sure he wished to hear. Presumably Agatha had discovered what he had not—with whom Lenore was trysting.
The sound of the front doorbell halted him in his tracks. Lifting his head, he heard his aunt’s tones, unusually muted, in the hall. Squaring his shoulders, Jason braced himself to hear the unwelcome truth.
Smythe held the door open as Agatha swept in.
“Good morning, Aunt.” Smoothly, Jason went forward and gave her his arm to the chaise.
“Glad you found the time to see me, Eversleigh.” Agatha subsided on to the chaise, settling her heavy green carriage dress and placing her muff beside her. As the door clicked shut behind Smythe, she raised a worried face to Jason, standing by the fireplace, one arm braced against the mantelpiece. “It’s about Lenore. Don’t know what your plans are, but you should take her back to the Abbey immediately.”
Despite the fact that he had expected as much, hearing it said brought the misery that much nearer. His heart a solid lump of cold stone in his chest, Jason steeled himself to learn which sprig had stolen Lenore from him.
All Agatha saw was the hardening of the planes of his face. Already austere, his features took on an intimidating cast. Agatha allowed her own stubbornness to show, wagging a stern finger at him. “Oh, her little deception has been quite clever and entirely successful thus far, I’ll grant you, but she won’t get away with it forever.”
Jason could bear it no longer. “For God’s sake, Agatha, cut line. Who the devil is the bounder?” He ground the question out, then swung on his heel, restlessly pacing the hearth rug. “That’s all I want to know. I’ll call him out, of course.” The last was said with a certain measure of relief, even relish. At last he could do something, strike out at someone, to relieve his frustration and bitter disappointment.
Agatha stared at him as if he had run mad. “Have you lost your wits? If you’re to blame any man, it would have to be yourself. And how can you call yourself out, pray tell?”
Jason halted, total bewilderment replacing his look of predatory rage.
Agatha waved him to a chair. “For God’s sake, do sit down and stop towering over me. Remind me of your father when you behave like that.”
Too taken aback to protest, Jason did as he was bid.
“I’m merely here to bring to your notice the fact that Lenore is not well.” Agatha fixed her nephew with a penetrating stare. “If she’s breeding, she should be back at the Abbey. You know perfectly well she does not enjoy life here in town. It’s my belief the air’s not good for her, either. And the strain of supporting her new position, on top of all else, is proving too much.”
“Nonsense.” Jason had regained his composure. Obviously, his aunt was not as au fait with his wife’s doings as he had thought. “She’s enjoying herself hugely—throwing herself into the fray with the best of them.” His tone was dismissive, laced with contempt.
Agatha’s brows rose to astronomical heights. “Nonsense, is it? And just how much do you know of your wife’s life, sir? It might interest you to know that, when I did not see her at any of the afternoon engagements over the past week, I became suspicious. When she did not appear at Mrs. Athelbury’s tea, I stopped by here yesterday at four. And what did I find?”
Transfixed, Jason waited, every muscle tensed. Here? In his house?
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “I’d wager my best bonnet she was laid down upon her bed, fast asleep. That’s why she looks so much better in the evening than she does at luncheon. Spends her afternoons recouping so no one will see how worn down she is. Doesn’t sound like enjoyment to me.”
Jason’s brain was reeling. “Did you see her?”
“Oh, yes.” Agatha sat back. “Those fools of yours woke her before I knew what they were about. Half green, she was—so you needn’t tell me I’m not right. She’s breeding, is she not?”
Absent-mindedly, Jason nodded. Lenore was not playing him false—had never done so—had never even thought of it.
When her nephew remained silent, absorbed with his thoughts, Agatha humphed. “What the devil is going on between you two? You’re head over ears in love with each other, which anyone with eyes in their heads can see, and you’re both playing fast and loose—for all the world as if you’re trying to convince yourselves, and the ton, that isn’t so.” Agatha paused to draw breath. Seeing the stunned expression on her nephew’s face, she rushed on, determined to have her say. “Well—it’s not working, so you might as well make the best of it and take off for the country!” She glared belligerently at Jason.
Jason stared back. The idea that the entire ton was privy to what he had hitherto believed a deep personal secret left him staggered. Foundering in a morass of relief, consternation and uncertainty, he voiced the first thought that entered his head. “Lenore doesn’t love me. We did not marry for love.”
“You may not have—who said you had?” Agatha opened her eyes wide. “I remember your reasons for marriage quite clearly—you needn’t repeat them. But what do you imagine that’s got to do with it?” When Jason made no response but, instead, looked set to slide back into melancholy absorption, she added, “And as for Lenore’s not loving you—you know nothing about the matter. Well—we all know what rakes are like—and let’s face it, dear boy, you’re one of the leaders of the pack. Never do know anything of love. Blind, you know. Rakes always are, even when it hits them in the face.”
Jason recovered enough to bestow a warning glance.
Agatha was unimpressed. “You aren’t going to try to tell me that you don’t love her, are you?”
Jason coloured.
“Ah ha! And I’m just as right about Lenore—you’ll see. Or you would, if you’d only do something about it.”
“That, my dear aunt, I think I can safely promise.” Feeling that he had allowed his aunt to lead the conversation long enough, Jason straightened in his chair. Agatha frowned, as if recalling some caveat to her deductions.
Glancing up, Agatha found her nephew’s grey gaze fixed on her face. “Tell me,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Did you, by any foolish chance, tell Lenore why you wanted to wed her—your ‘reasons for marriage’?”
“Of course, I did.”
“Merciful heavens!” Agatha declared in disgust. “By all the gods, Jason, I’d have thought you could do better than that. An approach, no better than the veriest whipster.”
Jason stiffened.
“Positively useless!” Agatha continued. “No wonder Lenore has been so set on this charade of hers—with no cost counted. She thinks to please you, to give you want you said you wanted—a marriage of convenience—no!—a marriage of reason.” Her tone scathing, her expression no less so, Agatha gathered her muff and fixed her errant nephew with a stern glare. “Well, Eversleigh! A nice mull you’ve made of it. Your wife’s been endangering her health and that of your heir just to give you the satisfaction of knowing your duchess is accepted by all the best people. I just hope you’re satisfied.” Imperiously, Agatha rose. “I suggest, now that I’ve shown you the error of your ways, you take immediate steps to rectify the situation.”
Her message delivered, in a most satisfying way, for she had rarely had the pleasure of seeing her intimidating nephew so vulnerable, Agatha bestowed a curt nod upon him and left him to his task. Feeling justifiably pleased with her morning’s work, she swept out.
Left to mull over her words, Jason was unsure whether he stood on his head or his heels. Luckily, the numbing sensation did not last, blown away by sheer relief and heady elation. Lenore was still his. Feeling oddly humble, he silently vowed he would take nothing for granted with respect to his wife henceforth. Dragging in what seemed like his first truly relaxed breath in a week, he stood and strode determinedly to the door.
It was time and past he had a long talk with his wife.
Upstairs, Lenore had just staggered from her bed. Unaware of any impending danger, she was engaged in her customary occupation on first rising—contemplating the roses about the rim of the basin left in readiness on a sidetable. She had long ago ceased to fight the nausea that engulfed her as soon as she came upright and took two steps. It was a thing to be endured. So she clung to her bowl and shut reality from her mind, waiting for the attack to pass.