They’d spent Robert’s last evening drinking ale in an Oxford tavern while he explained why he wasn’t in the least sorry to be leaving university and how a man’s expectations of where he stood in the world were often blinkered. Jason still remembered his words, “Sometimes, the beliefs you carry throughout life are simply wrong, dear fellow.”
As they grew more foxed by the hour, Jason had sought to argue, sad to see his friend leave England. Their top-heavy drinking session had occurred only a month after Phoebe died, and Jason had espoused his strongly held opinion that a man who allowed himself to love a woman too deeply was vulnerable to great loss. He now regretted having bored his friend, but he had not changed his mind. Better to move lightly through life and resist temptations like Lady Helen.
It was good that Robert still appeared contented with his life. Jason had had the opportunity to visit him when in Italy. He’d found his artistic friend, who came from a titled and wealthy English family, living in a small house with the voluptuous and excitable mother of their four bambinos.
Jason admitted that, at the time, he’d considered Vale to be hiding from life and avoiding his responsibilities. But reading his letter, he saw he’d been wrong.
Francesca and the children are in good health, and we are soon to welcome another bambino,Vale wrote.We must now move to a bigger house. A nuisance when we are so comfortable here. Fortunately, I have received a good commission for a portrait, so money is not as tight as it is sometimes. Life is good, my friend. The food is abundant, the sun still shines, and the vino is excellent. You should come to visit and wet the baby’s head. As to your Baron Bianchi, I have met him briefly and been privileged to visit his wonderful villa to view his marvelous collection of sculpture and paintings. While I cannot claim to know him intimately, he is well thought of here.
Putting down the letter, Jason studied the Claude Lorraine landscape of a fictional Italy on the wall opposite. Was Lizzie about to disappear from his life? They’d always been close confidantes who supported each other through the darkest times. Only she understood how his past had affected him. He’d enjoyed her company after Greywood charged him with the task of caring for her. Was that about to change? One could never be sure of what lay in the future. Surely, this reinforced his view of the vagaries of life and how advisable it was to move through it unencumbered.
The door opened, and his brother strode in.
“I missed you last evening, Charlie. How was the theater?”
Charlie flung himself down on the leather sofa. “Mrs. Groton and Amelia found it entertaining, but if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” He shrugged. “Tumblers or a juggler’s feats are really only astonishing the first time you view them.”
Detecting the sour note in Charlie’s voice, Jason sat back and viewed him. “What has occurred?”
“Eh? Nothing. Not really.” He huffed out a breath. “It’s just that when driving Amelia in the park, the dandies and fops clustered around the curricle, demanding to know who she was. And then at the theater, it was even worse.”
“Miss Groton is very pretty. You must expect it, Charlie.”
“But Amelia encourages them. She’s a shocking flirt. Her aunt does nothing to stop her.”
“All this is new to her. And very exciting, I imagine.”
“I suppose so,” Charlie said in a sulky voice. “But she refused my invitation to go to the opera this evening. Said she had a sore throat and was tired.”
“Well, perhaps she is.”
He scowled. “I’d be prepared to place a bet in White’s betting book that she has another engagement. There was one persistent fellow hanging around her like a bee around the lavender. Didn’t like the cut of his jib. Whispered something in her ear I didn’t hear.”
“Care to go out with me tonight, then?” Jason asked, wishing to distract himself from a vision of Lady Helen in his arms. “I’m happy for you to choose the venue, except for cockfights.”
Charlie grinned. “Really? That would be grand, Jas. Tonight there’s a chance for a fellow to spar with Gentleman John Jackson at his boxing club.”
“Excellent. Afterward, we could indulge in a spot of fencing practice at Angelo’s Fencing Academy, next door, then end the night with a good lobster dinner at the Royal Saloon in Piccadilly.”
“Capital!” Charlie bounded up, Miss Groton apparently forgotten. Jason was pleased with the opportunity to enjoy Charlie’s company before he was sent back. He’d been corresponding with an influential friend who had written to the dean on his behalf. Word had come this morning that Charlie was to return to Oxford at the beginning of the next term. But Jason wasn’t about to tell him now. No sense in spoiling the evening.
***
As she was about to escape into her bedroom, Helen’s mother appeared. “Lord Peyton has left, Helen?”
“Yes, Mama.” Her pulse was still racing. Peyton had kissed her. She’d been so caught up in the excitement of their possible discovery, had she unwittingly invited his kiss when she placed a hand on his arm? And before she could gain control of herself, she had kissed him back! Did he think her fast? Or was he a rake? She didn’t want to believe it of him. Couldn’t, not when she could still feel the touch of his lips and his strong manly arms around her and wanted to be alone to relive the moment.
Her mother, who had the instinct of a lioness, grabbed her arm. “Something has occurred?”
Helen dragged in a slow, deep breath. “Yes, we were able to decipher more of the letter. And must now await Papa’s return to understand it.” She hoped it was enough to put her mother off.
“Come into your room. I want to hear all about it.”
Perched on her bed, she tried to present a coherent account of events, expect for, of course, the kiss.
“Well, that is interesting,” Mama observed. “And best left to Lord Peyton until your father is home.” Helen feared a telltale flush was still in evidence, as a worried frown creased her mother’s forehead. “I wonder if I should allow you to spend time alone with Peyton. He is an army man after all.”
“Oh, Mama! Lord Peyton is a gentleman, worthy of our trust.” Helen surprised herself by rushing to his defense, dismayed at the prospect of them no longer working together and losing their new-found intimacy, no matter how utterly disturbing and fruitless it was. However, it wasn’t a lie. Peyton was no rake. He’d quickly let her go when she’d come to her senses. She knew only too well what rakehells were capable of. A rake would have laughed at her reaction, kissed her again, and taken other liberties. Peyton was nothing like Albert Lord Lawley, the gentleman, so called, who had ruined her life. She suppressed a shiver. “You cannot always tell a true gentleman by his title.”
