Elisabeth Fairchild (4 page)

“Sending you home without it would only serve to further confirm my unhappy reputation,” he said.

Light and heat raced from his palm to hers, infusing her hands, and heart. She knew at once the reputation to which he referred, and yet she managed to stammer,  “You are kind, sir, to concern yourself.”

He released his fleeting hold, the images vanishing along with his touch. His light alone bound her to him, and that was fading, his mind elsewhere.

“Your coat, sir? Where shall I direct it? Or will you call on my father to fetch it? I am sure he will want to thank you personally.”

Mrs. Oswald cleared her throat.

Ramsay ignored her, shook his head, red hair licking like flames at his neckcloth. “I regret to say I shall not be in a position to call on you.”

Some sense of her disappointment must have exhibited itself. His mouth, the glorious brightness in his eyes, cinnamon lashes flaring, briefly revealed--could it be--tenderness?

“I mean to briefly vacate the city. You may direct my coat, if you wish, to my brother, Charles. He has a townhouse in Mayfair. The most respectable of my siblings, as I am sure Mrs. Oswald will agree.” He bowed formally over her hand and brushed her knuckles with the soft heat of his lips. “Unless we should have opportunity to meet again, Miss Selwyn, I wish you well.”

Turning, he left them, his glow receding as he passed the length of the room. There was no doubt in Dulcie’s mind that they would meet again. They must.

Lydia Oswald sounded particularly abrasive in saying, “You would do well to avoid the Ramsays, Miss Selwyn, every one of them, but most especially that one.”

“Why? What is wrong with them?”

“I thought all of London knew their reputation.”

“I have never before met a Ramsay, nor indeed heard the name.”

‘That is to your credit, rather than otherwise. He is far more in the habit of imperiling young women than of rescuing them, my dear. He is young. Charming. Handsome. Women tend to lose their heads around such devils.”

“He seems highly regarded . . .”

“Too highly by some, my dear. How old are you, Miss Selwyn?”

“Almost sixteen.

“Too young, thank God, to have experience of a man of Ramsay’s stamp, but old enough, I think, to be warned, most strenuously, against frequenting his company.”

“He saved my life. I cannot, in good conscience, avoid someone who so instrumentally obliged himself to me.”

“That he would oblige himself is the problem. Do you feel indebted to him?”

“For my life. My future,” she said, recalling stirring hints of what lay there.

“He would ask you for something less than that, I fear, and then he would leave you.”

“Do you mean he would try to seduce me?” Gooseflesh rose on her arms. The wool of his coat scratched tumescent nipples as her breath came faster. And yet his light was pure. “He demonstrated nothing but goodness to me. A gentleman of courage, consideration, and manners.”

Lydia sighed. “You cannot condemn him, my dear girl, but I can. I would warn you. Beware. Ramsay breaks hearts. I would not have yours number among them. You must judge him for yourself. But I vow I will trouble you no more on the matter.”

Chapter Five

June 1811

The Selwyn Townhouse, Wellclose Square, London

Lydia broke her vow within an hour. The Ramsay family’s reputation soon proved her favorite topic. Dulcie could not fault her newfound friend her zealous fascination. The Ramsay’s provided ample fodder for gossipmongering.

Dulcie’s father had heard of them--none of it good. Of Roger he said, “He is counted a fribble, my dear. A fop. A womanizing dandy. One of the Prince’s boot lickers.

Roger Ramsay’s elder brother, Charles, to whom Dulcie and her father went to return the coat, held none too high an opinion of his brother. His cloud of pale blue light did, in fact, gray every time he mentioned Roger.

Bearing a strong familial resemblance to his brother, with shorter hair a darker shade of flame, features even, manner steady and unshakeable. A calm and settled contentment radiated from his every move, every gesture.

“Asked you to return it to me, did he? How odd that he should not direct it sent to his own rooms in Tudor Place.”

“Your brother left town,” Dulcie’s father explained. “I thought it only appropriate to call upon you personally, so unusual were the circumstances.”

Lord Ramsay’s coppery brows rose over compelling blue eyes.

“Indeed? I cannot imagine on what occasion Roger might have had good reason to loan any female his coat, Mr. Selwyn.”

“He did so to cover my nakedness, sir,” Dulcie blurted.

Ramsay’s calm was shaken. “I apologize, sir, to you and your daughter.”

Dulcie’s father blanched, tried to interrupt. “No apologies necessary.”

“I am not, I am sure you must understand, my brother’s keeper.”

“Of course.”

“I had no idea Roger meant to leave London, much less that he intended to endanger this young lady’s reputation.”

Mr. Selwyn gaped.

Ramsay forged on, calm again, in charge of the situation. “I’ve no idea where you may find him now, nor any reason to believe you can compel him to marry her.”

Marry him? Yes, Dulcie could see it now. She would marry him.

Dulcie’s father sputtered. “Compel him, sir? Such was never my intention.”

“Is it money you want?”

“No, indeed! You are much mistaken, my lord.”

Dulcie winced to hear her father’s rage, to see his light flare briefly scarlet. Such an excess of emotion was not good for him. “Father,” she said.

Ramsay persisted in misunderstanding, addressing her as if she were a simpleton. “He can be very charming, my dear. Always has been. Did he promise to return to you?”

Her father’s complexion took on a plum-colored hue. “It is a rescue we discuss, sir. Not a fall from grace.”

“A rescue?” The blue eyes glinted with a curious light. Ramsay’s chin tilted in surprise.

Dulcie spoke up, afraid her father might be stricken at any moment by an apoplectic fit. “Your brother saved me, my lord, from the mob at Carlton House.”

It took a moment for the idea to sink in. “Saved you? Did he? Well!” He leaned forward, curiosity growing. “Tell me more, if you please.”
 

Chapter Six

April 30, 1812

London

Upon his return to London, Roger Ramsay made no further contact with Dulcie or her father, other than a brief note, expressing his thanks for the return of his coat.

He looked for her though. In crowds. Especially those that turned violent.

There were many that long, wet winter that might be classed as riotous, dangerous, even revolutionary. On the King’s business, he waded knee-deep in the thick of it. In Sheffield, Manchester, Leeds, Stockport--most recently in Nottingham. No ladies from London in these riots. Weavers, calico printers, stocking and lace makers provoked them. Machinery made their skills obsolete, their Christmas a lean one. The Luddites egged them on.

As the weather warmed, the trees breaking bud, the land greening with the warm breath of spring, chip bonnets caught his eye. Dark-haired wenches turned his head. Again and again his thought turned to Dulcie, and lingered.

He held fast the memory of her rescue. A pleasant memory. Far preferable to think himself a hero, rather than the provocateur who sent rifle companies into troubled areas to shoot angry, out-of-work men armed largely with pistols and pitchforks. The smell of wet soil and greening grass, the sight of fruit trees abloom and flowers nodding, reminded him of her fresh youthful beauty, her innocence.

On a brisk April morning he returned to London, for the Queen’s drawing room at St. James’s. He looked for Dulcie among the crowds in Bond Street, St. James’s and Pall Mall. All along the avenues leading into the palace, Life Guards stood watch. Carriages and spectators thronged the streets, all come to catch a glimpse of the Royal arrivals.

The Prince was driven from Carlton House in full state, three carriages for his aides, six matched bays in red Morocco harness to pull his coach. His Royal Highness wore full military uniform though he had never seen a day’s service. The Princesses glittered with Crown jewels.

Certainly he would spot her in the crowd. But, he did not. A disappointment.  Afterward, in the calm aftermath, in the silence broken only by the crisp hiss of a turned page, and the shuffle of footsteps on wood flooring in Hatchard’s book store, he happened upon her.

She stood, book in hand, by a window, light pouring over her shoulders. He recognized the dark, flyaway hair, the pale oval face. She had filled out, rounded nicely. Lines of verse flew, unbidden, in his thoughts. Lord Byron perfectly described his impression.
“One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress. . .”

He froze, arms full of newspapers: the local rags from Manchester, Yorkshire, Nottingham and Leeds.

She looked up, a smile breaking. The face that told
“of days in goodness spent”
remained unchanged. He took comfort in the sight of her even as his mind filled with a dark desire to hold such innocence close.

“Miss Selwyn. How do you do?”

“I am well, Mr. Ramsay. And you?” She frowned as she asked, and stared at him obliquely with the remembered odd focus.

Bowing, he took her hand, lightly kissed knuckles that smelled of almonds.

She made a little moan. Too swiftly, withdrew her hand. Puzzled, mildly offended, he watched her brows knit, eyes closing, as if to shut out pain. The book she browsed, fell to the floor with a bang.

He lunged forward, to catch her before she hit the floor, gently lowering her beside the fallen book--an odd title, in French. He chafed her wrists, fanned his newspapers before her face, unclasped her vinaigrette, wafted attar of roses beneath her nose.

Her lashes fluttered, dark and thick, moth-like against the pale cheeks. In repose her beauty intensified, the youthful innocence of her face.

“Smelling salts!” he shouted. “A young lady has fainted.”

She roused as the clerk arrived too late, smoking feather in hand, the acrid smell unwelcome and unnecessary.

“Gone off again, have I?” She gazed up from the cradle of his arms.

“Do this often, do you?”

She frowned, shook her head, winced. “It happens whenever I see too much . . .” she paused, lower lip caught beneath her teeth, her mouth too kissable for comfort. “When I am overheated.”

“Overheated you, have I?” he teased.

She flushed, then laughed. He enjoyed the carefree sound of it. Laughter brightened his life too little, of late.

“Thank you for catching me. Last time, I had such a headache.” She reached up. He thought she meant to raise herself by way of his shoulder, but she touched the air above it instead, like the last time they had met.

Unexpected tingling sensations ran down his arm. He longed to bend his head to kiss her, to feel her fingers in his hair. “Am I blue and yellow, still?” He asked in jest.

Her expression lost all humor. Her eyes, the tender mouth, were troubled. “You have gone all gray, sir. Do you surround yourself with danger and death?”

He flinched like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. Was this mad female on her way to deeper madness? What could she know of what he did? She guessed. No more. She must be guessing.

“Is not everyone touched by death?” He did not expect a coherent reply.

She squinted, gaze probing. “You carry a greater weight than most. It hangs before you, a heavy grey veil.”

He made a gruff noise, irritated by the suggestion. Images of deaths--too many--haunted him. Powerful regrets burned within. Lives wasted. Businesses ruined.

She caught at his sleeve, brow furrowed, eyes round blue wells of fear. “I get the impression of a doorway? Lions? Oranges. Blood. A tall man in a doorway with a gun?” Her voice fell away, uncertain. She shook her head. “Does it mean anything to you?”

He scowled, thought of all of the men he had seen die, none by way of lions. With a brisk shake of his head he dismissed the ludicrous impression that there might be some logical connection between the recent riots and what she said she saw. She sounded totty-headed. Bedlam bound. A pity, for the budding beauty she had promised when last they met, had begun to blossom.

A month later

May 11, 1812

House of Commons, London

On the mildest of spring days, Dulcie Selwyn thrust herself rudely into Roger Ramsay’s thoughts again. The young woman could not have been further from his mind as he strolled up the steps and into the profoundly masculine political arena of the Lobby of the House of Commons.

Once a Holy place--medieval prayers whispered against the rood screen that separated Lobby from Chamber--Old St. Stephens Chapel echoed with the matters of men these days. The niches and corners hung thick with the incense of plots, schemes and gossip.

Here, debate, not prayer, saved fortune, future and fate-the pen mightier than cross or sword. History changed, newly molded, redirected by wagging jaws, a hand gesture, a discreet throat clearing. The Members knew their power, took themselves seriously. One could mark those who carried the greatest mantle of it in bearing or stride, a head’s tilt, a winking eye. Far more to learn of the power of seduction and persuasion here, than in any brothel.

Today’s hum had to do with the proposed expulsion of member Benjamin Walsh, local clothing manufacturers gone riotous and, of course, more nonsense from the blasted Americans. Independent ideas were infectious, their non-import act troubling. It could not have been more poorly timed, adding fuel to political fires already at full flame. The clothing trade seethed with discontent. Stocking and lace frames could be run by women. Spinners and bobbin machines tended by children. Englishmen were being put out of work.