Kaleidoscope: A Regency Novella Page 3

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “In the outer office.”

  “Good. Keep him away from anything with numbers on it and give me five minutes to put the ledgers away here. Then bring him up.”

  Sanjeet nodded and left as she methodically stacked the ledgers in the deep bottom drawer of her desk. She suspected Gerald wouldn’t have any interest in the company’s profits and losses, but Charles had taught her to guard all financial information. She was sitting at the desk with a three-year-old bill of lading in front of her when Gerald entered.

  “Lord Kelton, what brings you here?” She definitely wasn’t going to say it was a pleasure to see him. She was done with polite lies.

  “I called at your house a few times, and you were not at home.”

  And to him, she never would be, but that was unnecessary to say, even in the service of honesty. “Is there a reason for your diligence in hunting me down?” She remained seated, but didn’t offer him the same courtesy.

  “I had an interesting conversation with Dr. Grumman a few days ago. He’s retired now, but still frequents our club.” He looked at her expectantly. Caro had no idea who Grumman was, but since Gerald was obviously so pleased with meeting him, she was sure she wouldn’t like the man.

  “And…” She waited for the rest of his revelation.

  “He’s been the Rydell family doctor for years. He was reminiscing about the last time he saw Charles, which must have been a dozen years ago on his last voyage home. When I told him Charles’s widow was here, he was very surprised. It seems that Charles went to Dr. Grumman about impotence caused by some tropical disease he’d contracted. And Grumman diagnosed the problem as untreatable.”

  Caro came to her feet. “This is not a topic one discusses with a lady. I think you should leave.”

  “Oh, I think this is an excellent topic to discuss with my late uncle’s so-called widow. I could imagine an old man wanting a mistress like you to revive his failing masculinity, but now that I know he was incapable of consummation—”

  “Out!” She imperiously pointed toward the door.

  Instead, he slouched into a chair with a smarmy grin. “Why should I leave the office of a company that will soon be mine? You can wave that phony Indian marriage certificate around all you want, no English court is going to believe Charles Rydell actually married someone like you when he couldn’t even bed you. My attorney is confident that we can prove you’re the charlatan that mother and I have always known you to be.”

  “You are crude and uncouth. You have no idea what a real marriage is like. Rydell Shipping will never be yours. Leave now!” She raised her voice. “Sanjeet!”

  The small Indian’s head popped through the door so fast that it was obvious he had been hovering just outside. “Get some men to escort this man out and make sure he is never again admitted.”

  Sanjeet nodded and disappeared. Gerald came to his feet and sauntered to the door. “I can see myself out. Enjoy your little piece of power. It won’t be yours much longer.”

  The two large footmen who traveled with her to the dock area arrived but stood aside as Gerald did, indeed, see himself out. Caro subsided back into her desk chair. “Close the door,” she said. She didn’t look up until she heard the latch click and knew she was alone. Then she let the tears come.

  None of these cold, emotionless people on this cursed island would ever understand what her marriage to Charles had been like. She’d loved him. It was that simple.

  She’d been fourteen when her father had senselessly died in a bridge collapse. She’d been lost, adrift—and Charles had been there for her. A surrogate father. A guide through the labyrinth of Anglo-Indian society. A mentor who taught her to take her father’s place at Howe & Rydell Shipping.

  They’d married when she was seventeen after a disreputable young officer, attracted primarily by her wealth, had attempted to compromise her. Charles had already been ill with a combination of debilitating diseases, the curse of a European too long in the tropics, and had thought their time together would be short-lived. He’d hoped to protect her by giving her the status of his wife. He had seen, even then, that the East India Company would soon rule all of India, and the more English she seemed, the safer her future would be.

  As it turned out, they had eight years together—years that had seen her grow in experience and confidence. Years that had seen her slowly take control of the company now called simply Rydell shipping. Happy years.

  Charles had explained from the first that they could not truly live as man and wife and had often expressed his guilt that he’d taken so long in dying. He felt he’d stolen her youth. But Caro saw their marriage as time well spent. Yes, she’d loved him—and missed him horribly.

  She’d never imagined that anyone would discover their marriage had not been consummated, however. This information was personal and private. Information that if bandied about would demean Charles’s memory.

  Tight fear twisted her gut. Would the fact that she and Charles hadn’t enjoyed marital relations void her marriage? She had no idea if this would make any difference in English law. She recalled reading the phase “wedded and bedded” somewhere, but she thought that applied to marriages in the distant past. Would her persistent virginity negate an actual ceremony? Dear Lord, could Gerald insist she be examined by a physician? The thought sickened her.

  Perdition! This sniveling behavior was counterproductive. As with all problems, she would attack this head-on. She pulled a crisp handkerchief from her reticule and blew her nose in a great honking, unladylike sound that echoed in the empty office and made her mouth curl into an ironic smile. She would never be an English lady—really hadn’t wanted to be one. She knew she’d never fit into society and had been content to live on the fringes.

  But she was smart and not without her own area of influence. Ships sailed the world at her command. Because of her decisions, products from one continent were sold on another half a world away. She had money. She had beauty. There was no need to pretend false modesty when her mirror and men’s reactions told her the latter was true.

  She would use her assets to fight the Earl of Kelton—and she would win. She would grind his haughty face into the dust of the street. All he had was the word of some ancient family doctor that Charles had been incapable of physically being her husband. She could easily eliminate the evidence of this fact. She simply had to find a discrete partner to relieve her of her long held virginity. The rest was the territory of lawyers, and she could hire the best. She suspected Gerald and his whey-faced mother would run out of money long before she did and have to retire from the field.

  She only had to adjust the settings a little and the patterns would change. She smiled and began to make her plans.

  Luke surveyed the ballroom. Tomorrow’s papers would proclaim the Hazelton’s ball a great success. Everyone with even the pretense of being anyone was there. When his half-brother discovered the theft, Luke would be the immediate suspect, but he would have the entire ton to testify he had been dancing the night away.

  He planned to make himself obvious by asking a number of debutants to dance. The chaperones of these virginal misses would be aghast, but the girls themselves would eagerly add his name to their dance cards. Nothing was as attractive as the forbidden—and he was confident most had been warned against him. After all, he was the bounder who had compromised Lady Belinda Fuquay and then refused to marry her.

  Lady Belinda had named him as the father of the child she carried, and everyone took her word as the truth. Since he’d only conversed with her on two occasions, and never alone, he wasn’t sure how this miraculous conception was supposed to have taken place. But no one had believed his protestations of innocence. No lady would admit to such ruin if it weren’t true.

  He had no idea why she’d chosen him. Perhaps because he was studying for the church at the time and she imagined him so filled with the milk of human kindness that he would happily make a nest for both her and h
er burgeoning cuckoo. Lady Belinda hadn’t taken into account that the son of an English marquess and a French countess would have too much pride to be a dupe.

  He’d lived to regret not marrying her. How could he have suspected that desperation would lead Lady Belinda to hang herself in her dressing room? Her false accusation and suicide had alienated him from his family, rendered him unfit for the clergy, and set him firmly on the path to becoming a wastrel.

  But, ironically, notoriety carried its own allure, and he continued to be invited to most of society’s events. He was tolerated as long as he restricted his perceived predatory behavior to those widows and bored wives of the fast set. Tonight, he would prowl the debutants, however, and that would be remembered.

  He could only hope that Tremaine and his tame safecracker would find his mother’s unset jewels in his eldest brother’s safe. The infusion of such wealth would enable him to buy a small stud farm somewhere in a distant county. There he could make himself into a different person. Perhaps he could become someone he liked better than he did his present self.

  He had the will to change. He just needed the means.

  He greeted his host and hostess, then headed unerringly toward the cluster of pale gowns that delineated tonight’s quarry. His steps slowed at the sound of laughter from a cluster of men to his right. Two of the men shifted so he could see the object of their interest—a shapely woman in brilliant green. Ladies dressed in bright colors weren’t his present goal, but his feet unconsciously turned in that direction.

  Between the bodies of the adoring group, Luke caught only quick flashes of the surrounded lady. Hair as dark as night arranged in an elaborate design. A long, graceful neck. Gently sloping shoulders. Skin the color of weak tea with milk. Intermittent shimmers of fine silk that sparkled like green fire. And then the lady turned, and he gazed into the fathomless depths of Carolyn Rydell’s dark eyes.

  He was surprised that he was not surprised. It seemed that he had known from the first that it was she. The men between them seemed to melt away like wax in the sun. He bent over her hand and kissed it. “Mrs. Rydell.”

  One of her dark brows arched slightly, but she too seemed unsurprised at his arrival, almost as if this meeting had been planned or inevitable. “Lord Lucien. I’m delighted to see you looking so well.”

  “I didn’t realize you two were acquainted.” Templeton’s dry, disapproving voice broke into what had seemed to be a private conversation. Interesting. His oh-so-married, elder half-brother was one of the swarm gathered around Carolyn Rydell. His middle brother David would have been less of a surprise, since David had married for money and found his amusement elsewhere. Temp, however, had always seemed to adhere to the straight and narrow. Luke kept his face composed, but inwardly he smiled. He wouldn’t have to worry about having a firm alibi for the robbery that was, hopefully, taking place at this very moment at Templeton’s house.

  “Mrs. Rydell was the good Samaritan whose servants plucked me from the Thames when I was accosted last month.” Luke turned his attention back to Carolyn, as Templeton mumbled something about low places. “I hope you have a place for me on your dance card. Perhaps the supper dance?” He suddenly very much wanted to spend time with this intriguing woman. His sexual desire must have been as battered as his body while he was in residence in her home. He remembered her only with kindness and not the lust that was currently roaring through his blood.

  She examined the card that dangled from her wrist. “Alas, that dance is Lord Penhurst’s, but the first set after supper is open.”

  Well into the evening. No doubt a quadrille. Not even a waltz. Disappointment rode him, but Luke dutifully signed his name and took his leave. At least his presence was established and he would not have to terrorize any of the young misses and their mothers. With relief, he headed toward the card room.

  Tremaine found him there an hour later. The look on his friend’s face told him everything, but he still excused himself and met Tremaine at the side of the room.

  “No loose gemstones in your brother’s safe,” Tremaine immediately said.

  “Half-brother.”

  The older man waved away the objection. “Semantics. We found a lot of papers that indicate Templeton has made some well-paying investments in shipping, an emerald necklace I remember his wife wearing for years, and a small packet of bank notes. I took a few odd bills to pay Sharp for his time, but left everything else. We buttoned everything up, and it’s possible Templeton will never know the safe was opened.”

  “What about the missing money?”

  Tremaine laughed. “I doubt your half-brother counts his coins as carefully as you do. This was just cash on hand, and he probably doesn’t know the exact amount he’s put in there. But I’m damned sorry we didn’t find your legacy.”

  “As am I.” Just saying the words pierced him with loss. He’d allowed himself to hope, to imagine another life. He’d been so damned sure the jewels would be in the safe. He again saw the gems tumbling through his own boyish hands, catching the light and making him laugh at the sparkling patterns they made. He knew his mother had owned them then, and she’d mentioned the jewels at the end. His father had to be wrong about their being used to help other French émigrés.

  “But what are you doing hiding in the card room? I thought the idea was to make yourself conspicuous by dancing with the debutants.”

  “I ran into Templeton early on, so he knows I’m here. I decided to spare those making their come-out. Right now I’m just killing time until I can claim my dance.”

  An incredulous look froze Tremaine’s mobile face. “Good God, Luke. You’re on someone’s dance card? This is taking conspicuous behavior to the limit. Who’s the unfortunate chit?”

  “No chit. Mrs. Rydell.”

  “Your delectable rescuer is here? Now there’s someone I wouldn’t mind standing up with myself.”

  The use of the word delectable irked Luke. “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he said in a tight voice.

  Tremaine grinned and slapped him on the back. “Not a bad plan. Your Mrs. Rydell has the worth of more than a few bags of gems in her possession—and the packaging is superb. You’d come out much better than your half-brother David did when he married for coin.”

  Luke hadn’t thought of Carolyn in those terms. He’d simply wanted to dance with her. To again feel her small, soft hand in his, to again see a smile in her dark eyes. And he’d do so as soon as the interminable supper ended.

  The pall of disappointment over not finding the jewels loosened its grip on his shoulders and floated away.

  Caro was sure she was developing a tic in her right cheek. She’d spent the entire evening smiling at idiots, and the false, frozen expression was taking its toll. As with her earlier forays into English society, she was surrounded by men interested in either marrying her money or enjoying an illicit tumble in the sheets. As examples of British manhood, she found them universally wanting. There certainly wasn’t a discrete lover in the entire group. Actually, she couldn’t envision any one of them as a lover, discrete or otherwise.

  While she lacked experience, Caro was not without knowledge. No one who grew up in India could be ignorant of what went on between men and women. She’d spent hours studying the carvings on temples and trying to reconcile the basics she knew to the convoluted couplings illustrated in stone. Much of this still eluded her, although she well remembered the heady rush when that young officer had kissed her in the garden. But then he’d grabbed her and squeezed her breasts. She’d been frightened and was trying to push him away when Charles found them. She’d fled to Charles’s encircling arms and felt safe there.

  Charles’s embrace had been filled with the sweetness of coming home. But before it had gone so wrong, the young officer’s kiss had been like running down a steep hill, knowing that at any moment she could fall, but enjoying the exhilaration of the danger. If she were going to rid herself of her virginity, then she wanted the fervor she’d briefly experienced. Sh
e didn’t feel even a glimmer of this emotion for anyone in the milling crowd of men around her.

  And then she saw Lucien Harlington coming toward her, weaving his way through the throng like a tiger stalking prey through the forest. He was all controlled power and subtle grace. Something within her whispered maybe.

  Luke wasn’t frightening. He was a known quantity. As he lay injured in her house, she’d watched him and had held his hand when fever terrors haunted his mind. She was comfortable with him. Yet something pulsed beneath the surface. Maybe?

  “I believe this is my dance,” he said, gently taking her hand and separating her from the herd.

  In that brief space of privacy as they walked to take their places in the waiting set, she could feel the beat of his pulse where her fingers rested on his wrist. The scent of clean male—and something more—surrounded him and called to her. Maybe became yes.

  She leaned toward him and quietly asked, “Could you call on me tomorrow morning, well before visiting hours?”

  He was the one to utter the word she’d been thinking. “Yes.”

  Changes in the Patterns for May 1825

  “Caro paced the drawing room and wondered if she were a fool. What had seemed sensible and inevitable beneath last night’s flickering candles appeared ridiculous and impossible in the light of day. Oh, she had no doubt that Lord Lucien would be happy to make her his mistress. Even the little she knew of his reputation assured her of this.

  She also knew how to interpret men’s speculative looks—and last night as they’d danced, Luke’s gaze had fairly smoldered. She was confident he’d agree to the physical aspects, but was less sure of his reaction on learning that she only required his services on one occasion and that secrecy was paramount.