Natalya (16 page)

* * *

The ethereal, fair-haired figure looking down from the window above bore an uncanny resemblance to Natalya, Grey thought as his chaise jolted over the cobbles en route to White's Club for men. Odd that his mind would play such a trick; odder still that he would think of her at all in the midst of the chaos this day had brought to his life.

By God, he was thirsty! Upon reaching White's, he meant to drink himself into oblivion. With luck, he'd encounter an old crony or two with whom he could exchange any number of impersonal stories about the war. He'd be happy to ramble on about Boney or Wellington or the regent. Even listening to the latest round of rumors about the hapless Princess Caroline would be preferable to talking about himself. Men were famous for superficial conversation, and White's was just the place for it.

There was little activity in the old club's celebrated bow window tonight. Brummell was not there, and Grey noticed as he entered the club that the dandies who were languishing in that place of honor were not only unknown to him, but shockingly young. When Raggett, the proprietor, came forward to welcome him home, Grey immediately accepted his offer of champagne. He then retired to the card room and blended into the crowd, idly watching the men who stooped over the green baize tables, intent on their games of whist, faro, and hazard. Many of them would drink far too much, become increasingly fuddled, and remain until dawn, usually parting with sums of money they could ill afford to lose. But gentlemen remained stoic in the face of disaster just as they hid their glee on the rare occasions when fortune smiled upon them.

Grey had switched to brandy and was beginning to feel pleasantly numb when a hand suddenly clapped him soundly on the back. Fearing that he was about to behold one of his father's boisterous old cronies, Grey looked over as coolly as he was able.

"I say, old chap! What a shock! When did you get back, and why haven't you sent word round to me?" The speaker was a tall, emaciated-looking fellow with dark curly hair, sharp cheekbones, twinkling blue eyes topped by peaked brows, and a toothy, genuine smile.

He was flooded with relief and surprisingly strong emotion. "Gib! What the devil are you doing in London? Thought you were still with the Fifty-second Regiment in the Pyrenees!" Grey was grinning like a schoolboy. "I only just got back today. How
good
it is to see you, old fellow. You are so welcome a sight that I almost believe you must be an illusion!"

The Honorable Osgood Gibson smiled broadly. "I've been home since January. Wounded in the battle for Bayonne. It was a bayonet wound in my left thigh, and has nearly healed now, but 'twas enough to render me quite useless for several weeks. Now, of course, it appears that I may not have to return to my regiment." He shook his head in wonder. "I daresay you're the last person I expected to bump into here tonight!"

"God knows I was overdue for a pleasant surprise," Grey rejoined with a trace of irony. "You know, I've been in prison at Mont St. Michel this past year. Aged me ten years, I'll wager, but I thought it was better than being dead—until I arrived home today and discovered that most of my old life here had changed beyond salvaging." He smiled caustically, then the two men exchanged a brief, abbreviated embrace of the sort that was acceptable between brothers and the closest of friends.

"Steady on," Gib admonished himself. "Nearly spilled my champagne!" He didn't know how to reply to Grey's speech. "Looks as if you've adopted my cure for disappointment. I see you're into the brandy and doubtless half-sprung in the bargain."

"Not quite yet; I've only just arrived. But I intend to be
more
than half-sprung before this night's out," Grey replied grimly.

"Can't say as I blame you, old boy. You've come home to a devil of a coil. Must admit that I was dead shocked when I heard from Alvaney that your bride had run off. I thought that Francesca was a jolly enough girl at the wedding—certainly a beauty. Who'd've thought she'd turn out to be such a—a—"

"High-flying shrew?" Grey supplied.

Gib glanced at him in surprise. "Not quite the term I'd've chosen, but it'll do. Come on, then, let's go and find a corner. We've a good deal to discuss."

They appropriated a decanter of brandy and settled onto two blue brocade wing chairs in a quiet, dimly lit corner of the club. Deducing that his friend wanted to forget himself for a time, Gib regaled him with tales of the war on land, and they exchanged theories about Napoleon's current situation and rumors of his deteriorating mental state. Then they turned to news of their old school friends and the latest romantic entanglements in London Society. These topics took up the better part of an hour, by which time the brandy was having the desired effect on Grey. Finally he brought himself to talk a bit about his year in prison, his escape, and the visit he had paid to Chateau du Soleil. Gib listened spellbound to the story of Grey and Natalya posing as husband and wife to flee across France from Autueil.

"Traveling with a girl must have been quite diverting, particularly given your year of enforced celibacy," Gib remarked. "Was she pretty?"

"Yes, quite extraordinary, actually. You'll be shocked to hear it, I know, but romance was the farthest thing from my mind this past week." Amusement flickered briefly in his eyes. "Well, almost the farthest. Miss Beauvisage is not the sort of woman one trifles with, however. She's six-and-twenty, and an author of some sort. Murray's published a book she wrote."

"Really! Murray's all the rage, you know. Publishes Byron and Scott, and since the success of
Pride and Prejudice
, it looks as if Miss Austen will take her manuscripts to him as well." Gib struggled to loosen his uncomfortably high cravat, which was beginning to feel like a noose around his neck. "It speaks well for your Miss Beauvisage if John Murray liked her book well enough to publish it. Six-and-twenty, you say? Too bad. If she were rather newer goods, she'd probably be quite the star of the Season. Have you put her up at Hartford House?"

"No, Miss Beauvisage is staying with... friends." Grey found that he hadn't the energy to launch into that story, much as he would have liked to hear Gib's opinion of Mrs. Sykes. "And, she won't be around for the Season. She wants above all things to sail to America, and I've promised to help her find a way."

"You sound as if you aren't particularly keen on that task." Grey looked up to see the honest concern in his friend's eyes and felt a barrier give way inside himself. "I fear that I'm deep in a trough of self-pity, old man. Time stood still for me while I was away, and I was foolish enough to suppose that the clock had stopped in London as well. I can't say that I'm brokenhearted over the loss of Francesca, but it was a bit of a shock, and I'm angry, too. You see, she took Mother's jewels when she ran... family pieces that were generations old. I mean to retrieve them somehow." He paused, and Gib nodded soberly. "Then I discovered that Speed had left Hartford House. You are perhaps the only person who might understand what a blow that was. I made up my mind to persuade him to come back, and then I was going to see Alycia. I'd missed her, and regretted the way I handled the... situation between us. So"—Grey took a long drink of brandy—"I went first to Faircastle House to find Speed. I discovered that he did not want to be persuaded... and then, as I was leaving, I encountered Alycia."

"Good God," murmured Gib, "you
have
had a hellish day. So sorry! If I'd seen you first, I could have told you. Didn't your father prepare you?"

Grey laughed harshly. "A foolish question, and well you know it! I had to pry the news about Francesca out of him. You know how he despises conversations about
people."

"Yes, yes, of course." Gib looked away and cleared his throat.

"But now I've seen you and am reassured that at least one old friend is still by my side. I'm of a mind to immerse myself in a life of dissipation for a bit." Arching an eyebrow, he grinned rakishly. "What do you say, Gib? Let's drink and game and wench until the past years are merely a blur in our minds, hmm? We'll have first pick of the lovely and talented cyprians before the war ends and London is flooded with our comrades-in-arms."

Gib squirmed a bit as he recognized the wicked gleam in Grey's eyes. "Well, that certainly sounds tempting, and I hate to dash cold water on your enthusiasm, but I don't quite know if I'll be able to participate fully in your plans for debauchery. That is to say—and I hope you'll be pleased for me old man..." He paused, drawing on his cheroot. "I'm thinking of getting married."

"Are you roasting me?" Grey demanded. "Has everyone gone mad? What's brought on all this sobriety and commitment?"

"Well, we ain't as young as we once were, are we? Matter of fact, I happened to speak to Lady Faircastle on this very subject at one of the Lady Jersey's assemblies last week... and asked her advice. She said just what I have. I'm not putting it well; the brandy's muddled my brain. But what I mean is that we agreed that life's going by. I don't see myself dallying with ladybirds when I'm bald and fat like Prinny. I'd like a wife now, and babies."

"Good God," Grey said in a leaden voice, and sank back in his chair, looking more dismal than ever.

"I suppose you might say I've begun courting Lady Mary Stewart—but nothing's been said." Gib hastened to reassure him. "I mean, I'm still quite free, old fellow! No reason why you and I shouldn't enjoy a night out for old times' sake. After all, we have a great deal to celebrate, and you need cheering up. I propose that tomorrow night we go together to a rout I've been invited to. I gather that it should be a most interesting mix, with not a few cyprians among the females. The champagne will flow like water, and all our old cronies should be present." Gib was heartened to see Grey straighten slightly. "What do you say then, old chap? Shall we venture forth?"

Grey couldn't help smiling. "I should be delighted."

Chapter 11

April
2
,
1814

"Oh, God, let me alone," Grey mumbled into his pillow as a blinding shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom of his bedchamber. Dimly, as he lay face down on the great Gothic bed, it occurred to him that he had forgotten to close the bed's curtains the night before. Hardly surprising, since he didn't remember
going
to bed, but in a tiny corner of his mind a stubborn voice whispered that
Speed
wouldn't have forgotten. How good Speed had been when Grey had arrived home in his cups. The very soul of restraint. Not a word of reproach had ever passed his lips, and he looked after St. James in such a way that the entire ordeal became almost bearable. Later, perhaps, the manservant might impart an oblique observation regarding the wisdom of men who knew their limits, but such remarks were made with the utmost tact. Speed never belabored a point.

"I'm frightfully sorry, my lord." It was Dimbleby, standing at the window, holding the drapery edge like a pickpocket caught in the act. "I thought that perhaps a bit of light might rouse you... gradually."

"Why in the bloody hell must I be roused at all?" growled Grey. He peered at the butler through narrowed eyes. "What's the time?"

"Half past ten, my lord. I wouldn't have disturbed you but there is a fellow below stairs who insists that he's here to interview for the position of your manservant. I'd've simply turned him away if not for his family connections." Dimbleby took tiny, halting steps toward the bed as he spoke. "He says his name is Jasper Speed, son of none other than our very own Clive. The younger Mr. Speed assures me that his father arranged for this interview, and that you agreed."

Grey felt as if his head were in a vise. "Give him a mug of ale and a mutton chop and bid him wait."

"I should be happy to oblige, my lord, but the young man has already been here nearly three hours. He has consumed a full breakfast—and the mug of ale and mutton chop you suggest."

He had no more strength to argue. If the caller were anyone but Speed's son, he'd simply have pleaded illness and sent him away. "Give me a moment to wash and put something on. You may bring young Speed to me in a quarter hour, Dimbleby, and warn him that I shan't be particularly well turned out."

"Yes, my lord." The aged butler wore a crooked smile of relief. "I'll send a kitchen maid up with coffee and—"

"Nothing else, Dimbleby." Tentatively Grey sat up with a groan and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "The mere notion of food repulses me at the moment."

"Naturally, my lord." The old man nodded with grave understanding and backed out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. Once in the passageway, he leaned against the wall and gave vent to a long-suffering sigh. "As if we didn't have enough to contend with, now his lordship has become an out-and-out rakehell," he muttered under his breath. "I'll be fit for bedlam if this goes on!"

* * *

"So, you're Jasper Speed," Grey said, observing the young man with hooded eyes. Clad only in a forest green silk dressing gown, he lounged on a wing chair, his bare legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "Do sit down."