He considered. “How about Vauxhall? The gardens opened for the season a fortnight ago and there is always something amusing going on. Have you ever been there?”
“No. Would I need to change into a different dress?”
He surveyed the soft rose-colored muslin gown she wore. It was simple, but the lines were elegant. “Just a shawl. The evening is a little cool.”
One of his carriages waited outside and within minutes they were on their way. Gervase said little, but he held her hand firmly, the length of his forearm hard against hers, their fingers intertwined. Something was clearly amiss, but Diana preferred to let him speak in his own time.
Vauxhall had flourished for almost a hundred and fifty years, a pleasure garden south of the river where people from all ranks of society went to enjoy music, entertainments, dancing, fireworks, and most of all, to watch other people.
Rather than take a boat across the river, Gervase had his coachman drive them over London Bridge. After he had paid for admittance, they strolled the lantern-lit walks, Diana holding his arm and enjoying herself immensely.
Music from the concert filtered through the cool night air, and the atmosphere was festive. Young couples held hands, aspiring dandies eyed the crowds through quizzing glasses, wide-eyed shop girls in their best gowns brushed elbows with jewel-spangled ladies, and some who were not ladies, like her.
Eventually they took a small round table and two chairs in a quiet alcove formed by tall shrubbery. While Gervase went in search of a footman to order refreshments, Diana enjoyed the passing parade. It was all quite amusing, until she noticed a still figure, unusual in a place of constant motion.
She turned her head and found herself staring at the Count de Veseul. He was less than twenty feet away and his dark face regarded her from the edge of the flowing crowd. With insulting deliberation, he stared at the soft, curving flesh exposed by her low-cut gown, then raised his cane in a mocking salute.
Diana was too far away to see the cane clearly, but she had a vivid memory of the serpent head, and how he had used it that night at the theater. It had been months since she had seen Veseul, and she’d almost forgotten his existence. Now the menacing glitter in his eyes brought back the terror she’d felt then. Even though she was safe with so many people around, she felt alone and helpless without Gervase at her side, and the terror would not abate. She shivered and pulled her shawl around her shoulders against a sudden chill.
Time hung suspended as she stared at Veseul, willing him to go away. Then suddenly Gervase was walking toward her, and she was able to wrench her eyes away from the Frenchman. She grasped his hand and pulled him down next to her, feeling safer for touching him. “That man there, do you know him?”
Surprised, he followed her glance. Veseul bowed his head ironically, touching his hat in acknowledgment of the viscount. He was joined by a woman, a glorious golden creature dressed in the height of fashion, who stared at Gervase and Diana, but especially Diana, with cold pale eyes. Then the pair turned and walked away, disappearing swiftly in the crowd.
“He’s the Count de Veseul, a French royalist who escaped to England during the Reign of Terror,” Gervase answered in an edged voice. “He sometimes acts as a liaison between the British government and the Bourbon court-in-exile. Does he take your fancy?”
Shuddering, Diana said, “No! He frightens me. The way he was staring . . .” She shook her head, unwilling to explain further. With Gervase beside her, her fears seemed petty and unreasonable.
His momentary jealousy assuaged by her words, Gervase covered her cold hand with his. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you. Any woman alone here will attract unwelcome attention, especially a woman as beautiful as you.”
A footman arrived with their food and drink. After the servant left, Diana asked, “Did you recognize the woman with Veseul?”
“She’s Lady Haycroft, a widow,” he said briefly.
Surprised at what sounded like embarrassment, Diana asked, “Do you know her well?”
Shrugging, he said, “I’ve met her occasionally at those government social functions that I can’t avoid. She’s looking for a rich husband. I suppose that is why she is here with Veseul. There are few eligible men of wealth that she hasn’t attempted to . . . further her acquaintance with.”
It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines. Since no one seemed to know if Gervase was married, his wealth and virile good looks would certainly attract predatory females. Diana found her brows drawing together in a definite frown.
Seeing the expression, Gervase grinned. “Yes, she has cast out lures, and no, I haven’t taken them. Lady Haycroft is all ice and hard edges, not what I look for in a mistress.”
Clearly the connection that helped Diana sense his feelings ran both ways. He seemed gratified at her reaction, so perhaps it was not a bad thing. Blushing a little, she applied herself to her plate, washing the thin sliced ham down with a sip of burnt wine, then wrinkling her nose. The drink was a Vauxhall specialty, but perhaps it was a taste that needed to be acquired. Outside, someone announced that fireworks were about to start, and she heard the sound of people moving to find vantage spots.
Setting his fork down, Gervase said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
His voice was serious, and Diana glanced up at him, stricken. “You are tired of me and want a new mistress. You brought me here thinking that a public setting would prevent me from making a scene.”
“Good God, of course not!” He clasped her hand under the table reassuringly. “Do you think I would set you aside so casually?”
She looked away, not able to meet his eyes for fear that her incipient tears would start. “I don’t know. I don’t understand how men think, either men in general or you in particular.”
His grip tightened. “I don’t know how your mind works either, but I promise I wouldn’t dismiss you in a public place merely to save myself some discomfort. If it ever comes to that, I’ll tell you in private, so you can throw things if you like.”
The hardrat-a-tat-tatof firecrackers announced the start of the display. Flinching at the unexpected noise, Diana smiled tremulously. “I’m afraid that I’m a crier, not a thrower. You would probably prefer throwing.”
“You’re right about that,” he agreed with feeling. “But all this is quite apart from what I wanted to tell you.” He stopped, as if thinking about how best to phrase it, then said simply, “I’m going away for a while.”
“Like your trip to Ireland?”
