— One Year Later —
Richard stepped down from the carriage, wincing as the familiar pain shot up his right leg when he hit the ground. He was sure the pain was getting worse. He was getting old, or rheumatic, or fat, or— a tinkle of feminine, flirtatious laughter floated out from the open door of the mansion in front of him —cowardly.
Yes. There was something about feminine company that made his crippled knee decidedly worse. He should have stayed home in bed. For his health. Yes. That would have undeniably been the wisest course. But Lord Brocket had been one of his father's closest friends, and, even if there had been no love lost between father and son, Richard could not lightly turn down Brocket's invitation.
With a sigh, Richard thanked his groom and limped up the steps of the house. At the door, a butler stepped officiously forward, halting his progress.
"Your card, Sir?"
Irritated by the formality, Richard took his card from his pocket and handed it over. Lord Brocket had said it would be an intimate, relaxed dinner, but every candle in the grand chandelier was lit, and the pile of cards in the silver bowl on the hall table suggested dozens of guests had already arrived.
"Your cloak, my lord?
Richard unclasped his cloak and let it fall from his shoulders, revealing his stunted, narrow form. He felt a stab of blunt jealousy as a tall, broad footman came forward to take it from him. An absurd jealousy, Richard thought self-critically; even more absurd for the fact that if it weren't for the sound of distinctly feminine voices from the next room, he wouldn't be feeling it at all.
"And your cane, my lord?"
"The cane comes with me."
The butler's gaze dropped to the thick, ugly walnut cane Richard held in his left hand. The gleaming copper handle, shaped like a boar's head, leered out from between his fingers. A faint sneer of distaste rose briefly to the butler's lips.
But only briefly. He perfected his expression once more and moved smoothly to the doorway of the salon. Richard limped after him, banging his cane savagely on the marble tiles.
As they reached the door, one of the footmen beat a gong. For a moment, the room quietened, and scores of pale faces turned curiously to Richard before turning disinterestedly away again. It was a reaction he was used to, perhaps even a better reaction than the sympathetic curiosity his lame leg sometimes elicited, but somehow tonight it galled him.
"Lord Albroke," announced the butler.
Richard had good hearing and managed to catch one or two murmurs as he limped forward to greet his host:
"...father died a few months ago..."
"...got a fortune, lucky bastard..."
"...worth it to be a countess..."
Or perhaps they didn't care if he did hear. While his father had commanded respect and fear from the ton, Richard had never managed to command anything more powerful than indifference or sycophantism. Even now that he had inherited his father's title and become the Earl of Albroke, little had changed. The indifferent continued to be indifferent; the sycophants continued to be sycophants.
Lord Brocket came forward from the crowd to greet Richard with a wide, thin-lipped smile. "Good to see you, Albroke," he said. "I'm glad you came. How's the leg?"
How's the leg? Why was it always the first thing people asked?
"As usual," Richard said stiffly, shaking hands.
"Good to hear," Brocket said, without caring. "I'll recommend you my physician."
"Thank you," said Richard, to end the conversation, knowing the recommendation would never be passed on. But Brocket followed Richard as he stepped into the room.
"Can't have you going to seed yet. You're still young, you know. Now, let me introduce you to someone."
With a sinking feeling, Richard realized he was going to be set up. He stopped short and stared in dismay at Brocket. For the first time, he noticed a faint red mark on the older man's pallid cheek. He wondered what it was. Port-flush? But Brocket had always drunk very sparely.
"Something wrong?" Brocket asked.
"I — I just remembered." Richard floundered for an excuse and lit upon one with relief. "I have not given my compliments to Lady Laura. Is she not to host tonight?"
If there was anyone he could rely upon to ruin a set up, it was the embittered, querulous Lady Laura. He'd never heard her speak a good word of another woman in her life. And her opinion of him was worse.
Lord Brocket flushed, and the mark on his face deepened, showing for a moment, very clearly, the outline of a small, feminine handprint.
"She is... unwell tonight." Brocket touched his cheek briefly. "She will not be attending. I'm afraid her health has been delicate since Mr Maidstone's death."
"It has not been long."
"A year."
"But that isn't long. Not when you love someone." For a moment, Richard thought he had said too much. He hurriedly went on, "You must give her my compliments. And my condolences."
"I certainly shall, my dear boy," Brocket said. "Now, do let me introduce you to Miss Oliver."
But the gong sounded again, and another guest was announced at the door. Richard took the chance to slip away into the crowd. There was no doubt he would have to be introduced to Miss Oliver sooner or later, but he didn't see why it shouldn't be later. Perhaps so late that there wouldn't be any chance for more than hello before he could make an excuse to say goodbye.
He ducked under an ostrich feather blooming from a woman's hairpiece and skulked behind a group of fat old men, who hid him from view of Lord Brocket. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a woman he knew, sitting down out of the way by a vase of palm fronds with a deep frown on her wrinkled face. Miss Dalrymple, about eighty years old, and a sort of charity case in the Leamont parish. Her manners were awful, but she was the last of a very good family, and somehow no one dared deny her a place at their table. She was the perfect armour against flirtation. Richard went over to her in relief.
"Good evening, Miss Dalrymple."
She looked up, saying nothing. Her brown eyes directly on his, she cracked a nut in her bony old hands, ate it, and stuffed the shell into the crack of the sofa.
"Oh that's not—"
"Don't you start," she said warningly.
"But you'll attract mice to Lord Calloway's house."
"Shan't." She cracked another nut. "It's too full of snakes for the mice to have a chance. Did you see his daughter slapped him?"
"I have not seen Lady Laura for some time," Richard said. "Now do give me those shells and I'll find a servant."
"I told you not to start." She cracked another nut and tossed the shell in the vase of palm fronds. "There's too many nosy young footmen in the dining room. I had to take the nuts and run."
"A not unusual occurrence in your life, I think." Richard eyed her reticule. "Dare I ask what else you've absconded with?"
"There's nothing in there but my powder!" she sniffed. "You could use some yourself, my lord. You're looking dreadfully peaky."
"I thank you," Richard said drily.
"It's your health," the old lady continued remorselessly. "I suppose you've got gout, or rheumatism, or venereal disease."
"I do not!"
"Then it's your diet," she decided. "Not that it'll improve tonight. His Lordship loads his table with butter and lard. Even these nuts are too rich."
"That does not seem to stop you eating them."
Miss Dalrymple was silenced. No sound came from her but the rhythmic crack of a nut and the dull crunching of her last remaining teeth. But Richard didn't dare leave her side, for Lord Brocket was now making his way around the room, performing introductions and playing the part of the genial host. At the moment, he was talking with a tall young man whose face was vaguely familiar to Richard. Familiar, and somehow unpleasant. Frowning, he tried to remember where he had met him before.
Miss Dalrymple finished her nuts and deposited the last of the shells in the tufts of the sofa back.
"The Honourable Giles Fordham," she said, following Richard's gaze. "One of your rivals. And I fear you'll lose out to him in looks, my boy. He might have stepped out of a fashion-plate."
Giles Fordham. Richard shuddered. No wonder he hadn't recognized him. It had been years and years ago, when they were both at Oxford together. Barely more than boys. And afterwards Richard had done his best to forget Fordham and the whole event.
Then, Miss Dalrymple's words sunk in. "What do you mean by 'my rivals'?"
"Don't you know?" Miss Dalrymple grinned maliciously. "Lord Brocket's brought all us old ladies and mothers to chaperone you young fellows while you chase after his daughter. Wants to marry her off again."
"Not to me, I can assure you." Richard shifted his weight uneasily. "Lord Brocket had once hoped my brother would marry Lady Laura, but he never entertained the same idea of me."
"And you with the title?" Miss Dalrymple looked at him skeptically. "Why not?"
"I suppose he thought I was too old for her."
Richard was lying, but it came easily to him on this matter. His father and Brocket had always desired a match between their children, but a violent fever in Richard's youth had left him infertile, and so his father and Brocket had agreed a better match for the families would be if Laura married Richard's younger brother, Neil. Only that had thankfully never come off.
"Not more than twenty years," replied Miss Dalrymple, counting on her bony fingers. "That's not so much of a difference."
"Twenty years!?" Richard turned indignantly to her before he realized she was hiding laughter in her pursed lips and bright cheeks. "Miss Dalrymple, you jest indeed."
"As I ought, when you utter such horseradish. Too old for her! It can't be more than ten years between you!"
"Eight, if I remember her age right. But it does not signify. Her father plans no match with me."
"It's her choice that matters in the end," said Miss Dalrymple. "But you'd lose out to that Honourable Giles anyway. Look how tall he is. And such fair hair." She cast a rather sympathetic glance at Richard, who was short and dark and by no means handsome. "Let me powder you up a bit."
"Thank you, but no."
Richard scanned the room and noticed now that there were rather a large amount of men he knew to be bachelors, and rather few truly handsome young ladies. Certainly, it had the appearance of being a miniature marriage mart, not an intimate dinner at all. Richard cursed himself for being naive enough to come. He should have known Brocket hadn't asked him for the pleasure of his company.
At the other end of the room, the dinner bell was rung. Richard offered Miss Dalrymple his arm.
"Shall we go in together?"
"Humph," she grumped, taking it. "You ought to be chasing one of those pretty young things, not an old woman like me."
Richard did not think it polite to tell her that the very reason he was talking to her was to avoid the pretty young things.
It was a rich dinner, and a dull one. At the table, Richard found himself at last introduced to Miss Oliver, who sat on his left and was so very pretty and scantily dressed that he hardly dared look at her for fear of being unable to control his eyes. This forced him to give more than fair attention to the young lady on his right, the equally pretty but more decently dressed Lady Eliza Handleby, who pressed her advantage by heartily agreeing with every phrase Richard uttered, no matter how inane.
It was a surprise to Richard to realize that he was squeezed between the two prettiest girls in the room, and not entirely a pleasant one; he had to talk to them, or at least to Lady Eliza, which was hard on him, and he could have appreciated their looks more if they had been seated directly opposite. But it proved to him one thing: if Brocket intended to match his daughter, it was not to Richard. Rather, Richard thought he had been invited as a distraction for Lady Laura's rivals.
Running his eyes around the table, he picked out the men he suspected might be candidates for Laura's hand. Each had position and could provide powerful connections to Lord Brocket. Each was seated between old or unavailable women. And each was saddled with the blackest of reputations.
Lord Denbury had abandoned his own mother to a poorhouse. Sir Frederick was widely known to be a spendthrift and gambler. Lord Yardly had at least three mistresses, in three separate townhouses in London. And Giles Fordham, seated in place of honour next to Brocket himself...
Across the table, their eyes met. Fordham's expression was cold and hateful, his jaw set, his eyes narrow. He knew Richard. He recognized him. Of course he did. How many other men in London had such a limp?
Richard dropped his knife on his plate and turned hastily to Lady Eliza.
"What do you think of the fish?"
"But what do you think of it?" she hedged. "I'm sure you must know better than me."
"As you can see, I haven't tried it yet," Richard said. "Is it worth the eating?"
"Oh..." She looked horrified to be asked so direct a question, and he felt almost sorry for intimidating her. She could not be much more than sixteen, and her family needed her to make a good marriage. "Oh... Um..."
"I take it I should pass on the fish," he said, and relief flooded her face.
"Yes, yes, indeed, I think that a very good decision, my lord."
He smiled at her to ease her anxiety, and pityingly gave her some more opinions to agree with. When he next dared turn around, Fordham was deep in conversation with Lord Brocket and would not meet his eyes.
After port, when the men returned to the women in the salon, Richard sought out Miss Dalrymple again, but she was deeply involved in a game of cards and shooed him away. Richard had no other escape. He stood in aimless conversation with Lady Eliza and Miss Oliver, painfully aware that he was boring them and wishing they would go away. At last, a young woman at the other end of the room proclaimed a violent desire to dance and called for music.
Brocket demurred: he had no musicians. Richard suspected he had no intention of allowing a dance if Laura could not join it. But Miss Dalrymple, who had been losing at cards, offered instantly her arthritic fingers to the cause and was seated at the piano before Brocket could stop her.
Music soon filled the room, space was cleared, and some eight or nine couples began to dance. Lady Eliza accepted Sir Frederick's hand and went off with him. Miss Oliver looked wistfully at Richard. He tapped his cane against his knee and even felt a little sorry for her.
"I'm afraid I can't dance."
"It's no matter," she said, though her face fell. "I prefer conversation."
But Richard could not supply it, and when Lord Yardly approached her a moment later, she went off without a backward glance.
Abandoned, alone, Richard took the chance to slip unseen out of the salon and across the hall to Lord Brocket's library.
There was a fire inside, but the room was otherwise unlit. After the glittering salon, Richard was almost blinded for a moment. He felt his way to the shadows of the bookcases before he heard a faint noise and realized he was not alone.
He stared at the vague silhouette on the sofa. His eyes became used to the light, and he recognized her.
"Lady Laura." He inclined slightly over his cane. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to intrude."
"Well." She barely moved. "You are."
He would have left. Later, he told himself he should have. But it had been several years since he had last seen her, not since well before her scandalous elopement. And as his eyes grew used to the light, he found it interesting to examine her face and see how it had changed. She had always been beautiful. But there was something sharp and hard in her beauty now, like beneath the soft flesh she was turning to stone. Beneath her hands. Her lips. Her eyes.
He wondered what had changed her, and wondering it, could not leave until he knew. He abandoned the bookshelves and lowered himself to the couch opposite.
"Yes. I am. How do you do?"
__
A/N: And Richard returns. This scene takes place about two or three months after the epilogue of Lady in Rags.