The Countess' Lucky Charm (26 page)

She stayed as if rooted to the ground, unaware of the bodies jostling her, unaware of the muttered “excuse
mes
” and “beg pardons”, unaware of the perfumes mingling with the scents of food into a cloying mixture.

For a seeming eternity she stood there until he noticed her. She saw him start, saw the small frown that made his face stern, saw him excuse himself and move toward her. What now? Would he acknowledge her? Or repudiate her?

“Simone,” he whispered as he reached her, taking in with one look her distraught face and the stain on her dress before pulling her outside onto the balcony running the length of the ball room. “What happened?” He dabbed at the tea with his pristine linen handkerchief but the damage had been done – the stain had already dried.

She swiped at her damp eyes with a knuckled fist.

“They’re horrid,” she gasped. “The whispers, the pointing, now this.” She gestured to the brown spot on her gown before the tears began in earnest, great gulping sobs that robbed her breath.

“
Shhh
, darling,” he soothed, pulling her against his chest with one arm. “Where’s the girl who braved the wilds of New Caledonia? Surely you aren’t going to let a lot of long-nosed London society matrons get the better of you. Of us.” He gallantly presented her with his handkerchief. “Take this, it’s a bit more than the bits of lace you ladies employ.”

She snatched it, dabbing at her eyes then scrunching it into a ball in her fist. “I don’t belong here,” she sniffled, shaking out the handkerchief again for the next onslaught of tears.

“Nonsense, you’re the Countess of Leavenby, of course you belong here.”

“No, I don’t.” Simone shook her head then looked him straight in the eyes. “I feel crude and vulgar.”

“Utter nonsense.”

“Is it? Have you heard the whispers? We are nothing but a joke.” She wiped her eyes again and blew her nose. She stepped back and stiffened her spine though the wretched tears continued to fall. Somehow she had to escape.

“Simone, it’s not like that.” His protest sounded hollow to her.

“Aye, aye it is.” She turned her head away, sick to her stomach. It had become clear to her this evening. What better way for Temple to flaunt his contempt of the ton than to marry an outsider? That was why he had married her, to defy his mother and the edicts of society. Feelings for her had had no part in it. He had tried to warn her earlier today but she had discounted it.

“Don’t run away. Besides, if it’s scandal they want, why don’t we give it to them?” He stuck his head into the ballroom. “See, they’ve just begun another
contradanse
. We can fill the spot at the end. Perhaps we should time how long it takes for the lemmings to stampede and leave us.” He gave her a lopsided smile and a sly wink in a transparent attempt to make light of the situation.

 
“No, no, I can’t,” sobbed Simone. “I want to go.”

He stopped then, all jocularity gone. He stepped back and inspected her face. What he saw there must have convinced him it was better for them to leave for all he said was, “Very well.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. “Wait here, I’ll get your wrap.”

She nodded, relishing the cool night air on the heat of her face. She drifted over to the balcony’s edge, tucking the soggy handkerchief into her sleeve before placing her fevered hands on the cool stone railing. Looking down into the dim gardens below, she spotted glowing lanterns and, here and there, couples, one or two locked in passionate embrace far from prying eyes while others strolled casually through the secretive darkness.

The minutes trickled away and still Temple didn’t return. Perhaps she had misunderstood and he meant for her to wait in the front foyer where they had come in. She released her grip and gathered her courage. Hesitant, she moved back into the ball room, skirting the wall and trying to avoid notice.

It was not to be.

As she approached the plaster archway leading to the front doors, Lady Frederica walked past her, deliberately turning her face to give her the cut direct. The titters began again.

Anger spurted through Simone and she hurried after the woman, pulling on her elbow to turn her around.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” she accused Lady Frederica, not caring who heard. “It’s not enough that you snub me within our home but now you must snub me in public?”

“Why, I do not know what you are talking about,” replied Lady Frederica, a smirk on the rouged lips.

“Why yes, you do.” Simone stabbed an index finger at the other woman’s face. “Since Temple and I have returned to London, you have avoided me and avoided him. You’ve taken every meal in your room and only come out when you knew you would not see us. I know from Joanna you’ve tried to turn her against us as well but she would have no part in it.” She paused and took in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Temple wanted to send you away but I said no, that it was your home too and you should stay. I thought you just needed to get to know me and perhaps then you would come to love me. But no, you had other ideas. And now I see what they were. You intended all along to destroy me, to destroy any chance I had for being accepted in polite society. Are you happy then, Lady Frederica? You ruined my coming out.”

Simone threw back her shoulders and glared at the faces around her, some incredulous, some amused, and others openly embarrassed at the scene unfolding before them.

“Coming out? You?” The other woman hissed. “You don’t deserve a coming out, you’re nothing but gutter trash who somehow bewitched my son.”

Gutter trash? Gutter trash? For an instant the hateful face disappeared in a red haze. The façade tumbled down.

“Aye, lady, I be gutter trash. From the workhouse on Bishopsgate Street. But I tell ye well,
yer
so called gutter trash is ‘
ead
and shoulders above the trash ye call
yer
friends. Me friends be loyal and loving. What of
yer
friends,” she said, sweeping her arms out to the crowd surrounding them. “Think ye that they would be
yer
friends if ye weren’t the Lady Frederica, Dowager Countess of Leavenby. Think ye that they would be
yer
friends if ye did not have money?”

Someone laughed, a barking sound quickly shushed. The sound brought Simone down with a tumbling thud. Horror at what she had said penetrated the mist of anger. She clapped her hands over her mouth, looking around desperately for Temple. He was nowhere to be seen.

What have I done?
Wide eyed, she looked at Lady Frederica. You’ve insulted Temple’s mother in the presence of her peers, that’s what. You let your temper get the better of you. You’ve just become the very thing Lady Frederica has accused you of—gutter trash.

She had to escape.

Now.

She bolted from the house, leaving the jeers and laughter behind her. What had she thought, that she could transform into a lady of quality. One angry word against her and she had lost all reason. One slip and she had thrown it all away. She had to run.

Back to where she belonged, far away from this artificial world.

And run she did, tripping down the stairs, dodging between waiting carriages, and dashing down the street to disappear around the corner before melting away into the comforting cloak of night.

* * *

It was his fault, thought a grim Temple. An ill-timed trip to the water closet, an unexpected encounter with Lady Susannah, who surprisingly bore him no grudge, and he had lost precious time. He knew Simone was upset yet he had been unable to politely tear himself away from Lady Susannah and her prattle on her upcoming nuptials to Lord Simpson.

He had returned just in time to catch Lady Frederica’s snub of Simone. Simone and her refusal to be cowed by his mother filled him with pride but the pride had dissipated into dismay when Simone had dropped the charade and spilled the beans.

He must rescue her immediately and for her sake save whatever face he could. However, the crowd had tightened and by the time he had been able to push himself through, Simone had disappeared outside.

Shoving bodies one way and another, he darted after her, down the stairs and into the middle of the street. She was gone, disappeared like a wraith into the shadows of the evening.

Rage and despair mingled. Rage at his mother for her unprovoked and undeserved attack.

And despair for Simone’s loss of innocence.

He looked down at the wisp of silk and feathers he still had in his hands, lifting it to his nose to inhale the scent. Her scent, the scent of sunshine and smiles and lemon verbena.

He had to find her. He had to make things right for her.

Chapter Twenty

“She’s disappeared into thin air, my lord.” Constable Wyndham Jones stood in Temple’s library a week later, twisting his hat around and around in his slender hands. Tall and thin, he carried a forbidding presence, due in no small part to the scar that twisted his mouth into a half smile.

“How can that be?” Temple sat at his desk. Wearily he rubbed his eyes before leaning forward to prop his face on both fists. A smudged glass and half-empty decanter of brandy stood at his elbow, a mute testament to its deadening properties.

It had been a long seven days since Simone had disappeared from the Belmont’s ball. Seven days that felt more like seven years. Seven days where he had paced the floor incessantly during the nights and searched the streets incessantly during the days.

He had even enlisted the help of the Bow Street Runners the morning after her flight; even the much vaunted detectives had not been able to find a clue as to her whereabouts.

Somehow she had dropped from the face of the earth.

“We’ll keep searching for her, my lord. I’ll report two days hence.” The constable jammed on his hat and spun around on his heel. He marched to the door and swung around to sketch a brief salute before disappearing through the door. His footsteps clattered on the bare floor, the sound echoing and bouncing down the hall much like Temple’s thoughts echoed and bounced within his mind.

If only he hadn’t left Simone’s side, if only the ball room hadn’t been so crowded, if only his mother had left well alone. If only, if only. But he had. And it had been. And she hadn’t. The deed was done, Simone had taken flight and he couldn’t really blame her. The question was, where had she gone?

The obvious answer had been Mrs Dougherty’s workhouse on Bishopsgate Street. However, that lady had been unresponsive, even hostile the day he had called the morning after the ball.

“Nay, milord, there
ain’t
no one here by that name.” She had tried to slam the door in his face, which he forestalled with one well-placed foot.

“Perhaps you know her better as Mona,” he suggested, gracing her with a smile that would normally melt the most hardened of hearts. Particularly those of women. However, it appeared to have lost its charm for it had no apparent effect on her; if anything, the frown on her face deepened.

“Mona? Mona? That one
ain’t
been here for nigh on two years. Skipped out one night, she did.
Ain’t
never heard from her since. Now if ye don’t mind, I am busy.” This time, Mrs Dougherty was successful in slamming the door, leaving a somewhat bemused Temple standing on the front stoop.

Here he was, a week later and still befuddled over Simone’s disappearance.

Perhaps he should try the workhouse again even though the Runner he had hired to keep the place under surveillance had not seen any evidence of Mona. Perhaps Mrs Dougherty’s memory had improved in the intervening week.

There had been something about her manner that he had found shifty and evasive. Bloody hell, the woman knew something and he would wheedle it out of her one way or another. That’s where he would go today, to pay Mrs Dougherty another visit.

“Tedham!” he bellowed as he charged out of the library, startling the butler who happened to be walking down the hall carrying a tray piled high with tarnished silver. “My coat and hat. Have my horse brought around immediately.”

“Of course, my lord.” Tray clanking, the butler scuttled away.

Within minutes, Temple galloped off, hat pulled low over his forehead, coattails flapping, face grim, the very picture of a hunter in search of his quarry.

* * *

Frenzied pounding on the door interrupted a harried Mrs Dougherty.

“I’m coming,” she shouted as she climbed off the stool where she had been swiping at cobwebs in the corner of the dining hall with a twig broom.

“I’m coming,” she shouted again as she waddled the length of the hall toward the archway leading to the front foyer. Whoever pounded the door, pounded with a ferocity that rattled it in its hinges and jiggled the latch. It continued unabated, setting her nerves on edge.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she wheezed, “who is it this time?”

At length, she reached the heavy door. She pulled open the small grated window set within it to peer at the visitor, then, horrified, slammed it shut, turning to lean her back against the door.