Only then did he turn to face her again. He pa.s.sed her a goblet.

Arabella took it, regarding him in frowning silence. It sounded so simple, and so in keeping with a man of Jack's reputation. A rogue, a rake, a gambler. He went out for what he wanted and he took it by whatever means came to hand. But she knew that was only a part of the man. Just as she knew he'd only given her a part of the story. But she had gone far enough for one night.

He raised his goblet in a toast. "Of course, my sweet, the more I got to know you, the more I realized that marriage to you could be a lot more than a union of convenience."

She inclined her head in silent acknowledgment and he reached over to touch her goblet with his own. "Let us drink to the future."

Much later, as she lay in her husband's arms listening to the steady rhythm of his sleeping breath, watching the firelight flicker on the painted, molded ceiling, Arabella found sleep elusive.

What kind of woman had his sister been? Why on earth had Jack never mentioned her, never talked of his loss? The Terror had taken so many lives, it was an all too common story.

But if he wouldn't tell her, she would simply have to find out for herself. Maybe someone in the circle of emigres that she'd befriended would have some information.

She needed Meg more than ever. Letters were no real subst.i.tute for that sharp, insightful mind and the post took forever. By the time Meg's responses to Arabella's outpourings arrived, they were almost irrelevant. However, Sir Mark was being difficult about the idea of his daughter paying an extended visit to London. Maybe a prod from Jack would move things along, Arabella thought, sleepily now but with a touch of indignation. It was Jack's house, after all. Or at least that was how Sir Mark saw it. A warm invitation from the master of the house might do the trick.

Fond though she was of Sir Mark, she knew only too well what a stickler for the proprieties he was. And he still considered Arabella in the light of a daughter. Her lofty position in Society didn't change anything in that respect. No, Jack would have to issue a pressing invitation.

Chapter 16.

Arabella fanned herself vigorously as she waited with the crowd of courtiers in the antechamber to the Great Drawing Room in St. James's Palace for her summons to be formally presented to the Prince of Wales's bride, Princess Caroline of Brunswick. Despite the freshness of the April afternoon, it was hot in the chamber, with a huge fire burning in the ma.s.sive grate and wheels of candles hanging brilliantly from the gilded, painted ceiling, and as always the air was laden with heavy perfumes, clouds of scented hair powder, and sweat. The noise was deafening as the throng chattered like a rookery of crows.

She felt herself wilting in the archaic Court dress that remained de rigueur for the queen's twice-weekly Drawing Rooms. The ridiculous ostrich feathers in her hair were drooping, and the St. Jules diamonds seemed to weigh a ton, pressing into the crown of her head, pinching her ears, making her neck ache. She maneuvered the wide hooped skirts of her white c.r.a.pe gown around a dainty gilt table adorned with a set of exquisite snuffboxes and remembered just in time to twitch her three-foot train away from the pedestal before it twisted itself around the delicate stem of the table, bringing priceless artifacts raining down upon the uncarpeted floor.

She finally reached her quarry. "How long does this kind of thing last, George?"

George Cavenaugh laughed but without much humor. "As long as her majesty chooses. Sometimes she'll keep us waiting until dark. It's her way of punishing the opposition. When she's obliged to include Whigs in a Drawing Room she makes sure we suffer for it."

"How charming," Arabella murmured, plying her fan with increased vigor. "How is she treating Lady Jersey?"

Her companion's lip curled. "With impeccable courtesy, of course. Her ladyship is, after all, a lady of the princess's bedchamber and so an intimate at Court. Her intimacy with the prince's bed is not an issue on such an occasion."

"I imagine it will be for the princess." Arabella looked around the antechamber. "I think we're moving a little." There was a slight surge forward towards the ma.s.sive doorway leading into the Great Drawing Room and she and George rode the tide until they were within a few feet of the entrance. Inside, the line stretched the full length of the enormous room to where the queen with her eldest son and his bride sat enthroned at the far end. Lesser members of the royal family flanked them.

"We're going to be here until dark," George said, sounding resigned. "And I'm famished. You'd think they'd provide some refreshment. Where's Jack, by the way?"

"He went in search of refreshment," Arabella said. "He's not in the best of tempers, I should warn you."

"None of us are," George responded. "Including the prince. He looks black as thunder and keeps glaring at that poor girl he's married."

"Was forced to marry," she amended. "He told me Parliament and his father threatened to cut off his allowance and refuse to pay his debts if he didn't marry Caroline." She shrugged her bare white shoulders. "A pragmatic decision, I would have said."

Of course, pragmatic decisions about such matters sometimes turned out rather unexpectedly, she reflected. She glanced automatically over her shoulder and saw Jack, steadily making his way towards them in the company of a flunky carrying a tray. He moved easily through the crowd, a word here, a touch on the shoulder there, and the Red Sea parted for him. As she watched, the countess of Worth stepped into his path.

Arabella felt her throat close. She wanted to look away, offer some light carefree comment to her companion, but her eyes would not move. She watched as Lilly laid a hand on Jack's arm and he paused, smiling down at her. They were too far away and the chatter too loud for Arabella to hear what was said, but she saw her husband look a little grave, then nod. Lilly smiled, touched his arm again in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy, and stepped back.

George Cavenaugh said abruptly, his voice unnecessarily loud, "Have you any further news from your friend in Kent? Is she to visit soon?"

"I hope so," Arabella said, knowing perfectly well that George had seen what she had seen. "Sir Mark Barratt is a little reluctant to give his permission but I have every hope of persuading him soon. I've known Meg since childhood and I own I'll be glad of a little female companionship."

"Ah, ma'am, you cut me to the quick," George protested with a gallant bow. "Your cicisbeos are not sufficient?"

"Don't be absurd, George." She tapped his arm with her fan in mock reproof. "You know d.a.m.n well I'd laugh in the face of a cicisbeo."

"Hearing that language, he'd probably fall into a dead faint," Jack said at her elbow. "You are in the queen's antechamber, my dear. Try to remember it."

"It's impossible to forget," she retorted. He was not going to know by her manner that she had witnessed that little scene. And certainly he was not going to know that it bothered her. She took a gla.s.s of wine from the flunky's tray, and something that looked like a rather limp and exhausted cheese tartlet. "Jack, you work miracles," George said, helping himself likewise. "Oh, I intend to work another one, my dear George," Jack said airily. "Or at least, Arabella is." He drew out his card case and selected a card. "Madam wife, I would like you to write on this.""What with . . . oh." She saw that the flunky's tray also held an ink standish and a quill. "Our friend here will hold the tray steady," Jack said. He had the reckless, laughing light in his eye that she was learning to love so much, but she couldn't help a quick glance behind to where Lilly Worth stood. They had a bargain, Arabella reminded herself. She had no right to complain. But she still wanted to tear the woman's eyes out. What had Lilly been asking Jack?

The earl of Worth came up beside his wife at that point and Arabella picked up the pen. "What should I write, sir?"Jack dictated with a solemnity belied by the glint in his eye. "Dear sir, I am like to swoon. I beg you, please, to invite the dss and her hsbnd to meet your wife before disaster strikes."

"What about me?" demanded George as Arabella, laughing now, obediently wrote the shorthand on the back of the card. "And our dear frnd G.C. Also like to swoon," she added in her faultless penmanship.

"Calumny," George stated. "But any port in a storm."Jack took the card, waved it around to dry the ink, and then with his usual aplomb moved towards the double doors where the majordomo stood on guard. They watched as he spoke to the majestic gold-embossed figure.

"He's done it," George said in awe. "I don't know how. Not even a duke can gain entrance when Queen Charlotte denies it."

Jack remained standing in the entrance as the majordomo made his stately progress to the enthroned royalty, where he made an adroit step behind the prince, managing to bow as he did so, and presented the card to the prince in a sideways maneuver.

The prince read the card and his sulky countenance changed. He laughed and tucked the card inside his

gold-laced scarlet coat. He spoke over his shoulder to the majordomo, who immediately bowed and returned across the drawing room. The prince then addressed his mother, ignoring both courtesy and his wife as he spoke across his exhausted-looking bride. Queen Charlotte frowned, clearly displeased, then she gave a stiff nod. On this occasion her oldest son's wishes should be granted.

The majordomo spoke to a flunky and the man made his way to where the St. Jules and George now stood together. "Her majesty will receive your graces now, with Mr. Cavenaugh."

Arabella chuckled. "You truly are the devil incarnate," she murmured. "Poor Prinnie will be in such bad odor with his mother after this."

"Oh, trust me, love, he's enjoying every minute of it," Jack returned softly. "He's been beaten down enough with this marriage, a small rebellion is little recompense, but it's something."

Arabella composed her features. She knew from her debutante presentation that she must keep her head up, her posture faultless, her hoops perfectly disciplined. It was a hard walk through the swords and drooping feathers, the swinging skirts of the crowd as they swept past the queue of people waiting their turn for introduction and reached the holy grail.

Arabella preceded her husband and George. She walked slowly to the queen and curtsied to her knees. She had done this once before, but this time she didn't have to wait for the queen to kiss her forehead. She was no longer the debutante daughter of a peeress. She was the wife of a duke. She rose slowly, and curtsied to the Prince of Wales, who winked at her. As she was presented to Caroline, Arabella's eyes met those of the new Princess of Wales. The young woman smiled almost hopefully, Arabella thought, smiling back. Then she completed the ritual curtsies to the less important members of the royal family, curtsied deeply once more to the queen before walking backwards out of the royal presence, keeping her eyes firmly on Queen Charlotte.

So much easier for men, she thought once she'd reached the haven of the antechamber. A bow, however deep, was easier to accomplish than a curtsy, although the sword required an adroit maneuver, but moving backwards was a great deal easier in knee britches than in a hooped skirt with a three-foot train to match. Not to mention drooping ostrich feathers. However, it was done, and in that instant of eye contact with Princess Caroline, Arabella had felt an immediate fellowship. The woman had looked both sad and determined. Under no illusions about her place in her husband's heart . . . yet utterly determined to take her rightful place as the next queen of England.

"So, let's make our escape." Jack and George had reached her now. "Supper at the piazza, I think." Jack took her elbow. "Well acted, Arabella. Even I had difficulty guessing how much you loathe this kind of ceremony."

"You are, of course, accustomed to women who don't need to act in these situations," Arabella said, and then wished she'd bitten her tongue. The earl and countess of Worth had moved up the line so that they now stood abreast of them in the antechamber.

"How did you manage that, Fortescu?" demanded the earl. "We're going to be here till sundown. And my lady is feeling faint."

"If you faint, ma'am, you'll be excused," Arabella said to Lilly. "I've seen several ladies do that, and it is insufferably hot in here."

Lilly's china-blue eyes sharpened and it was very clear to Arabella that Jack's mistress didn't care to receive advice from his wife. She couldn't help but take a certain ign.o.ble satisfaction in the woman's irritation.

George Cavenaugh made matters worse. He said, "I do believe Lady Arabella is right, ma'am. If you swoon, we will carry you out, and not even the queen will take offense."

Lilly fanned herself and turned away towards her husband. "I believe, my lord, that I would like to be presented to the Princess of Wales. It's not so very hot in here, I find."

"Of course, my dear. As you wish, my dear." The earl took her arm. "It won't be above an hour or two, I'm certain."

Arabella nodded at them in the semblance of a curtsy as her husband and George bowed. She laid her hand on Jack's arm and with her head high sailed from the antechamber.

"Is that letter from Miss Barratt? Jack asked as he wandered into Arabella's bedchamber later that evening. He was unb.u.t.toning his shirt with one hand, holding a gla.s.s of port in the other.

"Yes, I was just rereading it. Sir Mark is making an unconscionable fuss about her visit," Arabella said, somewhat distracted. She was in bed, propped up on pillows. "He seems to have scruples about accepting our hospitality."

Jack perched on the edge of the bed. "Because it equates with charity?"

She sighed. "Perhaps that's what it is. We have so much and he can send Meg with very little of her own." She looked up. "He's a very proud man, Jack."

"And I respect him for it," he replied matter-of-factly. "However, if he wants his daughter to find a husband, then he may have to swallow some of it."

Arabella leaned back against the pillows. "Are you prepared to fund Meg's second Season, Jack?" Her tone was quizzical.

He shook his head. "I rather thought you would, my sweet. Now that you're such an accomplished gamester, I thought you could probably manage to ensure that your friend is not a drain on our household expenditure."

She swung out of bed in a swirl of bedclothes, her legs moving fast as her foot caught him behind the knees and he toppled backwards onto the bed, sending a stream of ruby red port onto the coverlet. "No games," she declared, falling on top of him, laughing and yet also serious. "If Meg comes to this house, she comes as my sister."

"Did you have to waste a perfectly good gla.s.s of port to make that point?" Jack said. "We'll have to sleep in my bed tonight."

"It wouldn't be the first time." She lay along his body, fitting herself to him, her thighs against his, the curve of her belly fitted into the concavity of his. She licked the port from his lips. "I need you to write to Sir Mark, Jack. He won't accept my invitation."

"And you really need your friend," he said, half questioning.

"Yes," she said definitely. "There's no one here who can take her place."

He ran a hand down her back, came to rest on her bottom under the thin lawn of her chemise. "No one?"

"You have your own place," she said. "And Meg has hers."

And you have Lilly, the thought lurked. I need Meg.

"I'll write tomorrow," Jack promised, wrestling with the folds of the chemise.

On a drizzly afternoon a week later Jack entered his house, shaking raindrops off his high-crowned beaver hat. He paused in the hall, listening with a frown to the excited babble of voices coming from the drawing room. Judging by the language issuing through the open doors, Arabella was holding one of her get-togethers for French emigres. It hadn't taken her long to choose her own spheres of influence, Jack reflected, his frown deepening. Her drawing room and dining table were the favored gathering place for the Whig elite, a natural enough accomplishment with a husband who was a leading member of that elite, but her wholehearted embrace of the emigre community had nothing to do with Jack.

And it troubled him. She raised funds, begged and cajoled across London for lodging, employment, medical a.s.sistance, and he was fairly certain she gave freely of her own money. It was as if this growing community of wretched refugees had taken the place of the country folk whose pastoral care had been her chief concern. It worried him that she ventured into the stews but he could understand her need to do so, what he could not understand was her equally enthusiastic involvement with the community of aristocratic refugees.

These people crowding his salon, grumbling about their lot, inveighing against the terrible conditions in their homeland, complaining about the inhospitable att.i.tude of the English, who were apparently supposed to take them in and provide for them, filled him with a bitter disgust. They had escaped with their lives, while countless thousands of their peers had gone to the guillotine. They may have lost their privileged existences but they lived and breathed in a free land. And all they could do was complain.

Where he saw the blood-soaked slaughter in the courtyard of La Force, the loaded tumbrels, the b.l.o.o.d.y blade, they saw only their beautiful chateaus in the hands of the mob, their elegant Parisian hotels in ruins. They lamented the loss of their wealth, their land, their jewels, their ma.s.sive privilege, and only rarely gave thought to those they had left to bleed.

In honesty, he knew that they were not all like that. Many had worked tirelessly to help their compatriots to safety; nevertheless, he was filled with a deep resentment that they lived and Charlotte did not.

He could barely tolerate being in the same room with them. He began to walk softly towards the staircase, hoping to make good his escape. Just as he set foot on the bottom step the dogs came flying from the drawing room, barking excitedly, leaping up to paw the skirts of his coat.

"Get down, d.a.m.n you," he said, brushing them off him. "I fail to understand why you imagine that I'm as pleased to see you as you are to see me. I dislike you intensely."

They grinned at him and waved feathery tails, their eyes shining with adoration.

"I thought it must be you," Arabella said from the doorway. "There's no one else they rush to meet."

"They are laboring under the misapprehension that I like them," Jack said, dusting his coat. "One would have thought they would have learned by now."

She smiled quizzically at him, her head slightly to one side. "You don't fool them for one minute. Will you not come and greet our visitors? The marquis de Frontenac was asking after you."

He couldn't refuse to greet visitors in his own house. "I had thought to change my coat," he said, turning away from the stairs. "But I daresay it will do." He followed her into the salon.

Arabella poured tea for a group of ladies in a corner of the salon, straining to hear her husband's conversation with Frontenac. Jack's presence made it impossible for her at the moment to continue her clandestine research on the comte and comtesse de Villefranche. So far she had discovered that the count had gone to the guillotine two years earlier, and his wife, Jack's sister, had disappeared sometime after. No one seemed to know whether her name had appeared on one of the daily lists of the executed that were published by the revolutionary tribunals although that was not surprising in the murderous mayhem of the city. She could as easily have died in prison as on the guillotine.

But Arabella was convinced that someone besides Jack must know the truth of his sister's fate. A truth that might give her the key to Jack's secrets.

A flurry in the hall caused a momentary lull in the thronged salon. Tidmouth appeared in the doorway. "Their highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales," he intoned, bowing to his knees.

Everyone rose, curtsied, bowed, murmured respectful greetings as the prince strolled in, his paunch leading the parade, his young bride ignored at his heels. Princess Caroline held her head high but two spots of color burned on her cheekbones and Arabella felt a wave of anger. George, Prince of Wales, was the boor she had first thought him. Oh, he could be witty and intelligent, but he was stubborn and arrogant, and had not the slightest ounce of self-knowledge. And he had no right to treat his wife with such lack of respect.

She stepped forward. "Welcome, sir. Welcome, madam." She smiled at the princess. "Will you take tea?"

"d.a.m.nation, no, ma'am," the prince declared. "Claret . . . Jack, m'dear fellow, a bottle of your best."

"Of course, sir," Jack responded in his imperturbable drawl. "Tidmouth, the '83."

Arabella kept her smile painted on her face as she repeated to the princess, "Will you take tea, ma'am?"

"Thank you, Lady Arabella." Caroline's responding smile managed to be both regal and grateful. She took the offered seat and the shallow cup. Her English was fluent, but her French a little halting; however, a conversation of sorts took place among the ladies, touching on the latest fashions, the opera, the birth of a son to the King of Prussia.

Arabella forced herself to sit and listen to a conversation that merely bored her. She poured tea, offered the occasional contribution, but mainly did all she could to put the princess at her ease. Caroline's gaze darted constantly to her husband, who stood laughing and drinking with the duke of St. Jules in a circle of politely attentive Frenchmen.

"Lady Jersey, your grace," Tidmouth announced, and Arabella drew a quick breath. The princess had gone rather pale at the arrival of her husband's mistress. The prince turned at once to the door, with a beaming smile.

"My dear Lady Jersey," he said, advancing with both hands extended. "What a delightful coincidence."He took her hands, drawing her up from her curtsy, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks.

"Hardly a coincidence, sir," she said with a little t.i.tter and a bat of her eyelashes. "I knew you would be visiting the duke this afternoon."

"Minx," he declared, lightly tapping her cheek. "Come in, come in. You'll take a gla.s.s of Jack's excellent claret." He drew her over to the circle of men.