Regency High Society Vol 6: The Enigmatic Rake / The Lord And The Mystery Lady / The Wagering Widow / An Unconventional Widow. Anne O'BrienЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Excellent! I expect that you will play the role with your usual panache. If I might make a suggestion?’
‘Well?’
‘I suggest that you take the Countess of Wexford with you. She will not be unwilling and will reinforce your cover—your, ah, libertine tendencies. I believe she has more than a tendre for you.’ Wycliffe’s tone was dry as he noted the glitter of suppressed temper in Lord Faringdon’s eyes. ‘It should give the town tabbies all the ammunition they need to destroy your character and mask any further queries concerning your sudden return or the reason for your incapacity. You can embroider on the situation and your liaison with the fair lady as you see fit. There will certainly be no difficulty in persuading her to accompany you. No one will question your arrival in London.’
‘No. But my family might question whether they wish to associate with me! The Countess of Wexford. God help me! A more voracious woman I have never had the misfortune to meet.’
‘But Olivia is very beautiful.’
‘As well as self-seeking, manipulative and unprincipled. She would like nothing better than to get her claws into me and her fingers on my purse-strings. You have given me a hard path to follow, sir.’
‘I have every confidence in you, Joshua.’ Wycliffe rose to his feet, intimating the end of the conversation. ‘Take Olivia Wexford with you.’ It was more command than advice.
Lord Faringdon duly drained his glass and dragged himself to his feet, rescuing his cane, cursing as his limbs had stiffened.
‘On second thoughts… ‘ Wycliffe stretched out his hand, his frown deepening again. ‘About Marianne. I think that—’
‘No.’ The white shade around his lordship’s lips owed nothing to physical pain. His words and the manner of their delivery were harsh. ‘As you intimated so forcefully some few minutes ago, the subject of my wife is not up for discussion, Wycliffe.’
‘Even so—’
As you said, Marianne is dead.’
‘Very well.’ Wycliffe accepted the finality in the statement, if reluctantly. ‘I must wish you a speedy recovery, my lord. I know that you will do everything necessary to protect yourself. The identity of The Chameleon must not be allowed to suffer further revelations.’
Lord Joshua Faringdon left the British Ambassador’s home, lingering on the front steps to take a breath of fresh air. The Chameleon! A changeable thing, a creature of caprice, of quicksilver versatility. How fanciful. An identity acquired from those who saw only the glamour, the allure of a life dedicated to espionage. Yet, in reality, how sordid. Of course he could play the role of rake and libertine—had he not done so for years?—but that did not mean that he would enjoy doing so. If he needed to spread the gossip in London before his arrival, his sister Judith could be relied upon to do so. But he most certainly would not dance to Olivia Wexford’s avaricious tune or welcome her into his bed. He hoped, fleetingly, that the Prince Regent realised the sacrifices being made by some of his subjects to bolster the traditional monarchies of Europe in his name.
But he doubted it.
Chapter Two
Autumn 1819—London
‘Judith, I really must not—indeed, I cannot—live on your kindness any longer!’ Or on your charity!
Two ladies sat at breakfast in one of the elegant and supremely fashionable town houses in Grosvenor Square. A gentleman, the Earl of Painscastle, hid with deliberate concentration behind a copy of the Morning Post and determined to stay there. This was not the first time that such a statement had ruffled the early morning calm. Given the decisiveness in the tone on this occasion, matters were about to come to a head.
The two ladies, one his wife, the other his guest, faced each other across a spread of white linen. Much of an age, their appearance and character were very different, yet within the past months they had become fast friends. The red hair and green eyes of one spoke of a lively and energetic lady, dressed in the latest fashion despite the early hour. The other was of a quieter disposition with fair curls and calm blue eyes, her morning gown neat rather than fashionable. A quiet composure governed her every movement.
‘Dear Sarah!’ The redhead was in no way disturbed by this announcement. ‘Why ever should you not? I enjoy having your company.’ Judith Faringdon, now Countess of Painscastle, poured tea into her china cup with a flamboyant gesture. ‘Until you have decided what you will do next, where else should you stay? You are never a burden to us.’
‘You have been too kind, Judith. You are my dearest friend—but I would not outstay my welcome. I have finally made some decisions,’ replied Mrs Sarah Russell, a youthful widow and mother of a nearly six-year-old son.
‘Ah.’ Judith took a sip of tea. ‘Will you then go back to New York? To Henry and Eleanor and the children?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ The Countess frowned a little. ‘I was sure that you would and I know that they would make you welcome. In her letters, Eleanor writes that she misses you.’
‘I have thought of it,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘But I cannot allow myself to be dependent on them either. It was bad enough that Lord Henry had to pay the cost of my passage from New York. It is time that I determined the future for myself and John.’
‘So what have you decided? Will you perhaps visit Thea and Nick at Aymestry?’
‘No.’ Another uncompromising answer.
‘They too would be pleased to see you. I know that Thea feels that she owes you much in achieving her present state of sublime happiness.’ Judith smiled at her romantic recollection of the recent wedding that the family had celebrated, of the love that had so palpably wrapped around Nicholas and Theodora, soft as velvet, strong as forged metal.
Mrs Sarah Russell sighed. That was the problem. Her friends had nothing but good intentions towards her and her young son, however unlikely it might appear that they would be willing to give any thought to her happiness or comfort. Amazingly, her history had become closely interwoven with that of the Faringdons. Instrumental in aiding and abetting her brother Edward Baxendale to make a fraudulent claim against the Faringdon estate, she knew that she did not deserve any consideration from them. There were no extenuating circumstances, even though she had been driven by her conscience to unmask her brother and his trickery. But they had forgiven her, a knowledge that still had the power to warm her heart. Sarah had severed her connection irrevocably with her brother and had been taken under the collective wing of the Faringdon family.
Sarah had aided Eleanor in her elopement to join Lord Henry, Judith’s cousin, in America, and Lord Henry had taken her in and given her a home in New York when she had most needed one. Her decision to return to England had been prompted by the fraught relationship between Lord Nicholas, Henry’s younger brother, and Sarah’s own unknown sister Theodora, an adventurous lady who had been adopted outside the family and brought up by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux. Reconciled to Thea, Lord Nicholas had made Sarah welcome at Aymestry Manor, both for her own sake and, of course, as a member of the family when he had married Theodora. Judith—well, Judith and Simon had simply held out the hand of friendship. Thus, Sarah knew that her debt to the Faringdons was immeasurable. She could never repay such kindness and they would never ask it of her. But it was more than time that she stood on her own two feet. For herself and her son. Her pride would allow her to be dependent no longer.
‘What will you do, then?’
Sarah drew in a breath, anticipating the opposition that would meet her carefully thought-out statement, but would not be deterred. ‘I must find a position, some form of employment. I need an income and a settled home for myself and my son. John is now more than five years. He needs a home. So do I.’
‘Sarah! No!’ As expected, Judith put down her cup with some force.
‘I