Chapter 8

 

Ah, this is ever so grand!” Holly cried as the girls settled themselves onto the velvet cushions of what appeared to be the most elegantly appointed of the small boats waiting near Westminster to ferry passengers wherever they wished to go along the meandering banks of the Thames.

Lady Rivenhall appeared pained. “Learning to look graceful while entering and exiting a boat is part of your instruction, Miss Hammond. We could have taken the carriage to Vauxhall,” she added in softer tones, “but the journey is shorter by water and I must admit to enjoying the view of the Gardens as we approach from the riverside.”

Almost, Belle thought, Lady R sounded human. Perhaps now that her pupils were nearing the end of their instruction, she felt she could reveal a bit more of her inner self.

The waterman pushed away from the dock, shipped his oars, and began to row. A smile tugged at Belle’s lips as they moved out onto the moonlit water. Something magical seemed to tinge the world around them tonight. Not just that they were in London, staying at a fine Mayfair residence the girls had not dreamed Lady Juliana owned. Not that they were dressed as fine as young ladies making their first visit to Almack’s. Nor even that they were finally free of visiting the British Museum, the Tower, and the National Gallery, or spending inordinate amounts of time standing on raised platforms in the backrooms of Bond Street dress-makers.

There was simply something in the air. Belle allowed herself a wry smile. Something far better than the questionable odors drifting off a river that tended to be the great city’s sewer. The excitement of the unknown? Perhaps, but that could also be frightening. What man was to be hers? Would she see him tonight? Who would do for Cecy, for Holly?

Fear had no place here. Not tonight. She was basking in the cool evening air, dressed in white satin and silver gauze, with faux gems that sparkled like diamonds caught in each delicate pouf of her overskirt. Pearls, the symbol of innocence at her throat and ears, brilliants nestling in bits of ruffled silver gauze sparkling among her long blonde curls. She had never looked finer. She was about to become her own woman. Not a “kept” woman, but a woman in charge of her life.

A woman of power.

Just look at that!”

Ah, marvelous!”

Cries of delight from her friends brought Belle back to the reality of the moment. “Oh!” Eyes wide, she could only stare at the fairyland of twinkling lights now spread before them. A thousand lanterns and torches, she’d heard, but it had been impossible to picture until now. For a moment her hard-headed determination wavered. Surely, in such an enchanted forest miracles happened.

Magic.

No, not for Arabella Pierrepont. Nor Belle Ballard. She had no doubt why they were here, why they were displaying themselves in such a fantastical setting. Vauxhall was the stage, they the actors approaching from the watergate. The drama was about to begin.

 

Gabe sent his regrets to one of society’s most acclaimed hostesses, refusing a dinner invitation most young gentlemen would have considered mandatory. He waved away an offer from friends to indulge in a game of Faro, and scribbled a response to an entreating note from Felice Lattimore, which said only, Perhaps very late. A.

And now, madman that he was, he was paying a waterman and stepping onto the dock at Vauxhall at nine at night. And all because, months ago, an inexplicable urge to chivalry had seized him by the throat in the midst of a debauched game of cards. Chivalry that had not extended to the only proper solution for the poor girl—marriage to the man who had spirited her away from her father’s house in the wee hours of the morning.

Made her a whore, guilt whispered mockingly in his ear.

Hell and the devil! He’d brought her to safety, certain Juliana Rivenhall would never force the girl. He had paid off Pierrepont. And yet he’d read Lady R’s invitation so many times he had memorized it. I shall have the pleasure of chaperoning three highly attractive young ladies to Vauxhall gardens. . . . If you should pass by between the hours of eight and ten, I will be delighted to make them known to you.

Curiosity was only natural, Gabe assured himself. He wanted to know what had happened to the chit, that was all. Was she one of the three, or had she long since been sent to a position of safety far from the city? He sighed. A terrible waste to confine the lovely Lady Arabella to the role of companion, reading to an invalid, organizing embroidery threads, running errands . . .

He could have stooped to asking Lady Rivenhall about the poor abused girl—the post was, after all, remarkably efficient. But, no, Viscount Ashford, heir to an earldom, dared not show interest, particularly in a girl who might still be considered eligible for marriage.

If the ton were not so vicious about its niceties.

Yet the poor, bedraggled girl haunted him. Perhaps it was the spark of fire he’d seen when she finally defied her father. Perhaps it was simply her fragile blonde beauty, his urge to protect. But tonight he would walk down the glimmering paths to the supper pavilions, lurk among the crowd, and find the answer to his question. That was all. He simply needed to know.

Ignoring the many feminine eyes cast in his direction, Gabe headed straight for the long crescent of private supper boxes, which were open on one side so diners could see and be seen. Sounds of music—Handel, he thought—drifted above the soft sibilance of the crowd. The smell of food grew stronger as he approached the private boxes. He slowed his pace, keeping on the far side of the broad walkway, hunkering down so he wouldn’t tower above the crowd. Swiftly, he scanned the supper boxes. No, no, no, no, no, and . . . yes!

Lady Rivenhall in the flesh, modishly garbed in silver gray silk overlaid by bands of black lace, her bronze hair shining like a beacon beneath a crystal chandelier. And with her . . . Gabriel drew a sharp breath, fisted his hands at his side, appalled by the intensity of his reaction. She was there, the little Pierrepont, displayed in all the purity of white and silver for any man who cared to look. And pay. Displayed with two others Lady Rivenhall had wisely decided not to garb in virginal white. Gabe narrowed his eyes at them, somehow annoyed to find Lady Arabella in their company.

The dark-haired one seemed to relish the role of courtesan-in-waiting, wearing a shade of green known to be the color of Medieval women who wished to offer themselves for sale, and laughing up into the eyes of one of London’s well-known rakes. The sandy brown-haired one, garbed in sky blue, was also smiling, her gaze fixed on another young gentleman of Gabe’s acquaintance. While Lady Arabella, looking as demure as a girl just up from the country, was being introduced to—

Blood rushed through Gabe’s veins, setting off an explosion that propelled him through the crowd and straight into the private supper box. Jason, Marquess of Longmere, notorious for debauchery from one end of England to the other, was not, absolutely not going to touch a hair on Lady Arabella’s golden head. Ever!

Lord Ashford, how delightful to see you,” Lady Rivenhall declared, deftly adding him to her list of introductions. The names of the two unknowns sailed over his head, but Ballard? Belle Ballard? Lady Arabella Pierrepont was hiding behind the contrived name of a lady of the evening? And being ogled by not just these the three reprobates in the box but by every man passing by. Dear God, what had he done?

Gabe managed a bow, murmuring all the expected phrases, but single-mindedness had him in its grip. “Lady Rivenhall, I wonder if I might have the pleasure of escorting Miss Ballard on a tour of the gardens. We are, after all, old acquaintances.”

Over strong protests from the other three gentleman, Lady R agreed. “It is nearly ten, after all, and our ladies have met a quite astonishing number of gentleman. So by all means, enjoy a stroll, Ashford. No more than half an hour, however.”

Half an hour? He’d need half a year to say all he had to say. He’d rescued her, paid her father for her freedom. How dare she choose the life of a courtesan? Grimly, Gabe offered his hand to help her up. She responded demurely, eyes cast down. He whisked her out of the box, maneuvering through the crowd, plunging down the first dark path he found.

My lord! Go slower, I can scarce keep up.”

Gabe skidded to a halt, suddenly realizing that only ambient light lit this particular path, one of Vauxhall’s many accommodating paths for lovers. “I beg your pardon, Lady—Belle, was it?”

Yes.” Her voice a bit breathless. His fault, of course.

There should be a bench along here somewhere . . .” Gabe continued to pull her after him, though at a slower pace, until he found a narrow side path which led to a sheltered niche cut into the shrubbery. A very private niche, surprisingly unoccupied. “And now, my girl, tell me what you’re doing on display like a plum ripe for the plucking.”