Unlike the snobbery of the Assembly Rooms, the formal gardens around the buildings were open to those even without money or pedigree. The Bath elite felt quite good about themselves for allowing this bit of democracy.
Lady Camilla Rohman was welcomed with open arms and effusive greetings because Aunt Deveraux was bosom beaus with most of the grand dames of Bath. Cam knew she disliked many of them and wondered if the dislike was reciprocated, probably so. But of course here under the bright lights of the glorious chandeliers, envy and dislike were kept behind hands and only whispered. Older gentlemen and ladies played cards while young people danced to the musicians’ lively waltzes and country dances.
When Cam walked in on the arm of Pilcher, Lady Hornacker, renowned for her quivering chins, sharp eye and razor tongue, called to her. “Lady Camilla, how delightful to see you again in Bath. Your lovely sister is well? And your father?”
“My sister is well, excited about her wedding. My father is very busy with his new wife, my lady.”
“Ah,” a word that carried a wealth of meaning. She said, a leer in her hard voice, “A gentleman, I suppose, must be applauded at any age when he weds a young wife if he wishes another son.”
If they continued as they’d begun, there would be a dozen children.Cam merely nodded. “Indeed, my lady.”
“I was driving by the Royal Crescent yesterday and heard quite clearly your dear aunt Deveraux demand her early-afternoon restorative.”
Most of Bath probably heard her. Again, Cam only nodded.
“Your aunt Mildred—ah, no, Marguerite, such a clever affectation your aunt chose when she wed with Raoul so long ago. And even now she insists upon it. Even at her age, she draws masculine attention.” And the old bat scowled.
Cam said, “Marguerite is a lovely name, don’t you agree, my lady?”
Evidently not, for Lady Hornacker said without pause, “There she is with Colonel Everhard, off to the game room. Not her usual choice, hmm. Ah, Pilcher, dear boy, how areyour mother and father? Of course I had tea only two days ago with Aleria, but one never knows. Health can fail at any moment.”
Pilcher knew he had to be polite to the old besom, his mother always warned him not only was she rich from two dead husbands, she was the third daughter of a viscount. You never knew when she would pop up. He gave her another grand bow. “My mother and father send their best wishes, my lady, and yes, my mother continues well.”
She gave him a royal nod. “Pilcher, you may now lead Lady Camilla in a waltz.”
“As if we need her permission,” Pilcher said under his breath as he led Cam to the dance floor. “But Mother told me if she wishes to grant me permission to smoke a cigar, which I find quite nasty, I am to smile and bow and politely excuse myself.”
Cam was surprised at that bit of unexpected jocularity. Perhaps she’d misjudged Pilcher, but then she quickly discovered he still waltzed like a lame ostrich. He had to apologize three times for assaulting her slippered toes. When he asked her if she wished to take a lovely walk in the gardens, she smiled and shook her head, knowing he wanted to get her alone. A lovely old gentleman she’d seen many times here at the Assembly Rooms asked her to dance. He was reputed to have been intimate with her aunt Deveraux many decades before. He waltzed like a dream. She smiled up at him and let him flirt with her.
And always in the back of her mind was—where was Alex? What was he doing, thinking? Why in heaven’s name hadn’t he answered her letter?
Did he waltz well?
Thankfully, Pilcher was forced to relinquish her to a lovely line of other young gentlemen and she danced and danced until, for minutes at a time, she forgot she’d like to shootAlex for not at least replying with a simple note.Nothing from the lout.
Pilcher tried his best to get her alone, but she knew his every ploy and was nimble. She was aware of his simmering frustration on their carriage ride back to the Royal Crescent, but with her aunt speaking nonstop in a voice loud enough to make the carriage horses snort and try to break their harnesses, there was nothing he could do about it. Lady Deveraux had won fifty pounds at whist and bragged without pause.
Cam bid him a chipper good night before he could invite her to go riding with him or invite her to luncheon with his parents, please, anything but that—and she used Aunt Deveraux as a shield. Her aunt kindly acknowledged Pilcher’s escort in a voice loud enough to wake the neighborhood.
Even though Cam had told Cilly not to wait up for her, there she was, sitting in a chair, lightly snoring. Cam smiled, undressed herself and gently woke her and sent her to bed.
Once covered from head to toe in her favorite flannel nightgown and stretched out in her feather-soft bed, she lay there, staring at the high ceiling. She’d enjoyed herself. She loved to dance, even with the lame ostrich when he wasn’t assaulting her toes. But she knew Pilcher was going to be a problem. She lay there listening to the oak tree branch lightly hit against the window.I’m a female and until I’m married, I’m only a little pawn on a chessboard. I do as I’m ordered, go where I’m ordered. What can I do to be different? What can I do to distinguish myself, make myself—more?
CHAPTER 28
King’s Head
Vereker assumed they would stay the night, maybe two or three, maybe a week, maybe never leave. Ryder and Alex/Graham had each brought a portmanteau with changes of clothing for two days, but Vereker assured them it would not be a problem. After all, both men were similar to size as him. He would provide them with all the clothes they’d need. Even nightshirts. Ryder had expected this, but realized Alex—Graham—had not. He’d told his own valet, Flaubert, before they’d left for King’s Head he would be away for several nights and thus he could have a congé, perhaps travel to Brighton to see his sister. His news was received with a quivering lip and a pronouncement of doom for his master’s future appearance without his fine hand to guide the ship, so to speak.
It was Vereker’s valet, Terrance, who would see to both Graham and Ryder. Terrance had been with his lordship only ten years, he confided to Graham, ever since the retirementof his former far-too-old-fashioned valet. “Nice enough was Mr. Marriot, and surely he could prepare and fashion a lovely white wig in his younger years, but now, in modern times, he was sadly ill-equipped to cut a gentleman’s hair and style it appropriately.” Terrance went on to tell a fascinated Graham he was married to a lovely round-cheeked wife and father of four exceptional sons, living in one of the houses on King’s Head property, a lovely big cottage that could house future offspring, since he was a man of great vigor and his wife a woman of great fortitude.
Graham hadn’t really wanted anyone to take care of him, but he let Terrance do as he wished since he was brimming with enthusiasm and excitement and amazing stories to regale the long-lost son who was finally home, at last. No sooner was Graham allowed to step into the high tester bed, no nightshirt much to Terrance’s disapproval, the sheets warmed, naturally, than Terrance told him about his sharp-brained son Peter, who could catch any duck in the village pond. Graham was relieved to hear Peter was only four and not fourteen, and wondered if he and Simon had ever tried to catch the village ducks.
When finally Terrance bid him a pleasant good night and blew out the gas lamp, Graham found sleep was a long time coming. He stared up at the dark ceiling—were there fat cavorting cherubs lurking in clouds overhead? Maybe a young lady wearing a white flowing robe playing the lute?
As he finally dozed off, he thought yet again how his life had changed so utterly in such a short period of time. How long would it take him to come to grips with his new self? His family, his actual family. He repeated it to himself.I am Graham Hepburn. I am now Viscount Whitestone. I have a father and a sister and a brother-in-law. I had a brother, Simon—and was he dead as I was supposed to be?He had to be dead. Graham felt pain over his brother’s death eventhough he had no memory of him. Graham—it was a good name and now it was his. He wondered what his middle names were.
He lay there, trying desperately to remember—anything—but there was nothing at all, not even a whisper of anything at all familiar. His last thought before he fell asleep was Alex Ivanov no longer existed and wasn’t it odd what life could do to a young man?
