She slipped back to her sitting room. This afternoon, she vowed, they would ride together over the winter-hard slopes to the woods, the wind in their hair, hearts beating fast. And then return happily to their home.
A tug on the tasselled bell-rope brought an awe-struck maidservant with a tray.
As she sipped her tea, she realised she was so happy with Nicholas that she had not noticed how alone she was. As if she was in a foreign country. No doubt she would make friends later but there was something she could do about it right now.
She reached for a pen and paper.
Dear Hetty,
I do hope you have got over your shock about the wedding, my dear, for here is another one.
I was just wondering if you can bear to leave your odious brood to take a position here as my companion. We shall have fun together and …
Renzi finished his breakfast. “My dear, I feel I should show my face in London. I’ve a suspicion Father may not have left affairs in as regular a fashion as I’d like.”
He knew of his father’s political cronies, the fast set at the races, the disgrace at Almack’s and, no doubt, there would be other distasteful matters to deal with.
“Do we have a town house, Nicholas? I would so like to entertain!”
“We do, dearest, but I fancy now is not the time for you to be seen in Town. Let them get over their rude curiosities first, I beg.”
He would do all in his power to protect her from the tittering behind fans and ogling from the ill-bred that would be her lot if she went with him.
“I won’t be offended, Nicholas dear-don’t concern yourself on my account, please.”
“Sweetheart, I won’t hear of it. I’ll be gone only a short while to see how things are and I shall return at the gallop, I swear!”
There would be no shifting him so she took charge of the packing and saw him off in the carriage, waving forlornly as it ground away down the long drive.
Renzi shifted into the agreeable comfort of the padded seat and let his mind wander.
What would he find in Curzon Street? He had been there only once, long ago, when his mother had sent him to implore the earl to return to his neglected estate. He had found him in raucous squalor with his sycophants, deaf to pleading, sarcastic and threatening. Renzi felt a twist of sadness that his mother, in her arranged marriage, had never known the deep happiness that was now his.
Dear Cecilia-his heart went out to her. As long as he drew breath he would shield her and safeguard her from the savagery and hypocrisy he knew lay behind much of the facade of gentility and politeness at the pinnacle of society.
The town house was much as he remembered, a little shabbier, a little sadder. The butler was surprised to see him, and somewhat surly, and the rooms smelt stuffy and uncared-for although he could see they had been used recently.
Renzi went to the drawing room and hesitated for a moment before sitting in the grand high-backed leather chair his father had used. It felt stilted, awkward, and he found another. Damn, but there were ghosts here he couldn’t shake off.
The front-door bell sounded and the butler came bearing a card on a tray.
Charles Grosvenor. The thin-faced wretch who’d been his father’s electoral agent. He’d lost no time in making his number, but as he lived opposite he would have seen his arrival.
He strode in, dressed in the fashionable tight pantaloons and ridiculous high collar, then bowed, with a wide smile and a click of heels. “Hail to you, sir, the new lord of Eskdale and the parliamentary seat of Noakes Minor!”
“Yes?” Renzi said flatly. He did not get up, or offer a chair.
The smile slipped a little. “Why, my good lord, I came to enquire as to your plans for your installation in the House.”
“I haven’t made any.”
“Sir, it is the season, Parliament does sit and there are those in the Party who are anxious concerning the fate of the upcoming Rents and Imposts Bill. The Tory Party that is-whose cause you will, of course, be warm to.”
Lord Farndon could take his seat in the House of Lords but also had the right of patronage of a local rotten borough. Votes in the upper and lower house both.
“Mr Grosvenor. Let me be clear: the entire practice of politics is distasteful to me. It is founded on the odd notion that all of nature and man, in all its diversity and wonder, might be compressed and then divided in twain-one or the other, none else. How then is it possible to reach an understanding of a matter touching on the behaviour of all men, when one is obliged to regard it through the lens of one artificial polity?”
There was now no smile at all.
“Thank you for calling. I shall doubtless inform you should I feel a sudden urge to politick. Good day to you, sir.”
There would be other pressures. For a certainty he was now labelled awkward, and bigger guns would be brought up. He sighed and closed his eyes.
It would be better once Cecilia was here but in the meantime there was so much to-
“Hello-who the devil are you?”
Renzi’s eyes snapped open. A tousled, unsavoury man of years in a dressing-gown stood in the doorway, blinking.
“I’m Lord Farndon. And who the devil are you, sir?”
“Ah, of course. The old boy popped off and you’re his whelp.”
Anger suddenly boiled and Renzi got to his feet. “I demand an explanation from you, sir,” he barked, “or I’ll have you thrown on the street as you stand.”
The man sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You can’t do that, it ain’t allowed.”
“I can, and I-”
“I’ve got assured and legal occupation in this house for a peppercorn rental-your father was generous to those that were useful to him for … certain purposes. As you will be, when you know the lie, young fellow.”
The utter banality of a pointless, aimless existence for the rest of his life threatened to choke him. Head down, Renzi stormed out of the house.
The Mayfair streets were stirring. Calls were being made, assignations of the evening settled. Footmen hurried on their errands and tradesmen of the better sort were making their rounds.
As he turned the corner a black carriage taking the shorter path turned across and obliged him to flatten to the wall. It ground past and he caught a glimpse of an old, pale face. Their eyes met but then the coach was gone.
He set off in the opposite direction, in his black mood ignoring the faint shouting behind him.
Then he became aware of a commotion. It was the black carriage in a desperate tangle, trying against the irate flow of traffic to turn about and come back. Curses and cries from other carriages rang out as it finally trotted up to him.
The door was flung open and a man leaned out and cried, “Dear fellow! Ren-that is to say, my lord Farndon! Well met, well met indeed! Are you in haste? Or would you do me the honour of a luncheon at my club?”
It was the Marquess of Bloomsbury, Cecilia’s previous employer, now retired from some discreet diplomatic post on account of health.
“Most willingly, sir,” Renzi said, brightening, and climbed in to sit beside him.
“I do beg your pardon most humbly,” the marquess said. “I see from the Gazette you are now ennobled. I could scarcely credit the news. My earnest felicitations, of course.”
He had aged greatly, was frail and bent, but his eyes nevertheless held a keen humour.
“More deserved of your kind sentiments, sir, is my recent marriage to the woman of my heart-Miss Cecilia Kydd as was.”
“Splendid! Now, why do I believe the marchioness will not be surprised one whit?”
Time passed agreeably on the way to Boodles. They had first met in dramatic circumstances together in a shipwreck in the Caribbean and much had happened since.
After the rib of lamb they retired to the library for brandy.
“I can’t pretend that I find our meeting other than fortuitous,” Bloomsbury said. “I’ve been vexed for some time to think of an excuse to speak to you alone, as it were.”