Loe raamatut: «The Lady's Command»

CHAPTER 1

April 1824

London

Marrying the lady of his dreams had proved surprisingly easy. Forging the marriage of his dreams… That, apparently, was an entirely different challenge.

Declan Fergus Frobisher stood alongside Lady Edwina Frobisher née Delbraith—his new wife—and let the cacophony generated by the tonnish crowd gathered in Lady Montgomery’s drawing room wash over him. The chattering was incessant, like a flock of seagulls squawking, yet such exchanges were the sole purpose of a soirée. In a many-hued kaleidoscope of fine silks and satins, of darker-hued superfines and black evening coats, the crème de la crème of the haut ton drifted and shifted from one circle to the next in a constantly rearranging tapestry. The large room was illuminated by several chandeliers; light glinted on artfully twisted curls and pomaded locks and in the facets of myriad jewels adorning the throats, earlobes, and wrists of the many ladies attending.

One heavily burdened lady swept up in a dazzle of diamonds. “Edwina, my dear!” The lady pressed fingers and touched cheeks with Declan’s beloved, who greeted the newcomer with her customary sunny charm, yet the lady’s gaze had already shifted to him, traveling down and then up his long length. Then she directed a smile—a distinctly predatory smile—at him. “You must—simply must—introduce me to your husband.” The lady’s tone had lowered to a feminine purr.

Declan glanced at Edwina; he wondered how she would react to the lady’s transparent intent.

His wife didn’t disappoint; she smiled delightedly—the very picture of a cat who had savored an entire bowlful of cream and expected to indulge further shortly. Her expression radiated supreme confidence; the sight made him inwardly grin. As if sensing his amusement, she cast him a glance from her fine blue eyes and with an airy wave stated, “Lady Cerise Mitchell, my husband, Declan Frobisher.”

Hearing the subtle yet distinctly possessive emphasis she had placed on the words “my husband,” with his lips curving in a polite smile, he took the hand Lady Cerise extended and bowed. She murmured a seductive “Enchanté,” but he’d already lost interest in her. Although he devoted a small part of his mind and his awareness to the parade of people who came up to converse, to answering their questions and deflecting any he considered too prying, interacting with them wasn’t why he was there.

On Edwina’s other side stood her mother, Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Ridgware, a handsome, haughty lady of arrogantly noble mien. Beyond the dowager stood Edwina’s sister, Lady Cassandra Elsbury, a pleasant young matron a few years older than Edwina. The rest of their circle was comprised of several bright-eyed ladies and intrigued gentlemen, all eager to claim acquaintance with the ducal ladies and, even more importantly, to learn more of the unknown-to-them gentleman who had captured the hand of one of the haut ton’s prizes. Declan did his best to meet their expectations by cultivating a mysterious air.

In reality, there was little mystery as to who he was. His family was ancient—the Frobishers had fought alongside Raleigh in Elizabeth’s time. They were well-born, with an unassailable entrée to the highest echelons based on their venerable lineage alone, yet from centuries past, the Frobishers had elected to follow their own esoteric, not to say eccentric, path, habitually eschewing even the fringes of the ton. While Raleigh had fought for personal glory first, Crown second, the Frobishers entered battles reluctantly and only at the Crown’s command. They were a seafaring dynasty, and battles cost lives and ships; they fought only when they needed to, which was only when they were needed.

They’d been at Trafalgar, but not under Nelson’s command. Instead, the Frobisher fleet had ensured none of the French fled north to regroup. Declan’s father and his uncles had used their swift ships to good effect, crippling and capturing many French frigates.

Consequently, among the ton, the Frobisher name was well known, easily placed. The mystery, such as it was, had always lain in who the current family members were and in what the family actually did. The manner in which they derived their fortune and the size of that fortune. The Frobishers had never had much interest in land, and what acres they held lay far to the north, close by Aberdeen—a very long way from London. The family’s assets were largely floating, which, for the ton, raised the conundrum of whether the otherwise acceptable family had descended into trade. The ton lauded those who lived off their acres, but had difficulty equating acres with ships.

In addition, many of those present had heard whispers, if not outright rumors, about the family’s more recent exploits. Most of those rumors—of explorations into the wilds and hugely profitable deals concerned with shipping—had their genesis in truth. If anything, the truth was even more outlandish than any tonnish speculation.

Of course, in society, unsubstantiated rumors only generated more interest. That interest—that barely veiled curiosity—shone brightly in the eyes of many of Lady Montgomery’s guests.

“I say, Frobisher,” a Mr. Fitzwilliam drawled. “I heard that one of your family recently talked the American colonists into accepting some new trade treaty. What was that about, heh? Was that you?”

That had been Robert, one of Declan’s two older brothers and the most diplomatically inclined. The treaty Robert had sailed from Georgia with would make the family even more wealthy and also contribute significantly to the Crown’s coffers.

But Declan only smiled and said, “That wasn’t me.” When Fitzwilliam showed signs of persevering, he added, “I haven’t heard that rumor.”

Why would he listen to rumors when he knew the facts?

He had no intention of gratifying anyone by explaining his family’s business. His entire interest in the evening—the sole reason he was there—was encompassed by the lady standing, scintillating and effervescent, by his side.

She affected his senses like a lodestone, gleaming like a diamond, sparkling and alluring—intrinsically fascinating. From the topmost golden curl to the tips of her dainty feet, she commanded and captivated his awareness. In part, that was a physical response—what red-blooded man could resist the appeal inherent in a tumble of pale blond ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, in bright blue eyes, large and well set beneath finely arched brown brows and lushly fringed by long brown lashes, in a peaches-and-cream complexion unmarred by any blemish beyond a row of freckles dusted across the bridge of her small nose, and in lips full and rosy that just begged to be kissed? Yet on top of that, those lips were mobile, usually upturned in a smile, her expression fluid, reflecting her moods, her thoughts, her interest, while her brilliantly alive, vibrantly blue eyes were a gateway to a keenly intelligent mind.

Add to that a petite figure that was the epitome of the notion of a pocket Venus, and it was hardly surprising that no other being could so easily fix his attention. She was a prize worth coveting; from his very first sight of her, she’d called to him—to the acquisitive adventurer at the core of his soul.

They’d been married for just over three weeks. A year before, having sailed from New York into London and having a month to wait before his next voyage, he’d surrendered to ennui and the entreaty of old friends and had accompanied the latter to a ton ball. Throughout the round-trip to New York, he’d been conscious of a needling, pricking restlessness of a sort he hadn’t previously experienced; entirely unexpectedly, his thoughts had turned to the comfort of home and hearth, to family.

To marriage.

To a wife.

The instant he’d laid eyes on Edwina at that very first ball last year, he’d known who his wife would be. With typical single-mindedness, he’d set about securing her, the sometimes-haughty daughter of a ducal house; at twenty-two, having been out for three years, she’d already gained a reputation for being no man’s easy mark.

They’d struck sparks from the first touch of their fingers, from the first moment their gazes collided. Wooing Edwina had been blessedly easy. Several months later, he’d applied for her hand and been accepted.

In his mind, all had been progressing smoothly toward the comfortable, conventional marriage he had—in those few minutes he’d spent thinking of it—assumed their union would be.

Then, three months before the wedding, Lucasta and Edwina had braved the winter snows to visit his family at their manor house outside Banchory-Devenick. When he’d learned the purpose of that visit, he’d initially assumed it had been Lucasta’s idea. Later, he’d discovered it was Edwina who had insisted that the Frobishers needed to be informed before the wedding, rather than after, of the secret her family had been hiding for more than a decade.

Utterly intrigued, he, his parents, and his three brothers had sat in the comfort of the large family parlor and listened as Lucasta had explained. Learning that her elder son, the eighth duke, had taken his own life because of mountainous debts, and that her second son, Lord Julian Delbraith, wasn’t missing, presumed dead, as all of society assumed, but instead was masquerading in plain sight as Neville Roscoe, London’s gambling king, had definitely been a surprise.

Not, as Edwina had clearly anticipated, a shocking surprise, but an infinitely intriguing and attractive one.

The possibilities every one of the Frobishers had immediately seen in the prospect of being connected with a man of Roscoe’s caliber—his power, authority, and assets—had elevated their estimation of Declan’s marriage from very good to unbelievably excellent.

Later, in private, his father, Fergus, had clapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Gads, boy—you couldn’t have done better! A personal link to Neville Roscoe… Well, no one knew such a thing was there to be had! Such a connection will only make this family all the stronger.”

Fergus, Declan’s mother, Elaine, and his brothers had welcomed the match from the first, but that wholly unanticipated ramification had been the crowning glory.

In the days following the wedding, a large event held at the local church on the ducal estate in Staffordshire—days he, Edwina, and his family had spent at Ridgware with her immediate family—he, his father, and his brothers had had a chance to meet with the elusive Lord Julian Delbraith, known to the world as Neville Roscoe. Apparently, Roscoe’s recent marriage to Miranda, now Lady Delbraith, had forced him to overturn his long-held intention never to reappear under his true name. Julian and Miranda had attended the wedding, although they’d remained carefully screened and out of sight of all the other guests.

Edwina had been thrilled over her brother’s presence, and Declan had been pleased on that account alone. The subsequent private meeting between the Frobishers, Roscoe, and his right-hand man, Jordan Draper, had all but literally been the icing on the wedding cake. As a group, they’d explored all manner of potential interactions; it had quickly become clear that Roscoe viewed the match every bit as favorably as the Frobishers. All in all, that meeting had been a coming together of like minds.

That had been the immediate outcome of learning the truth about the Delbraiths, but like a stone dropped into a pool, subsequent ripples continued to appear.

Later, Declan and Edwina had followed his family north to spend a few weeks in Banchory-Devenick; several days after their arrival, Fergus had asked Declan to accompany him on one of his walks.

Once they were away from the house, his eyes on the ground before him, Fergus had stated, “It occurs to me, boy-o, that there’s a great deal we could learn from your Edwina’s family. I’m not talking about Roscoe, but the others—especially the ladies.”

Unsure just what his father meant, Declan had remained silent.

After several paces, Fergus had continued, “It’s been a long time since any Frobisher moved among the ton. It was never our battlefield, so to speak. But I look at the old duchess—the dowager—and her daughters, and the daughter-in-law, too, and I think about what they’ve managed to achieve over the last decade. Given what they had to hide, being capable of…not exactly hoodwinking the ton, but veiling the truth, and all so subtly and elegantly done… That takes talent of a sort we, as a family, lack.”

Fergus’s sharp, agate-y gaze had shifted to pin Declan. “You said you intend taking Edwina to town—that you’ve hired a house there and that Edwina and the dowager think the pair of you need to appear in society to establish yourselves, whatever that means. I’m thinking that might provide a useful opportunity for you to watch and see what you can learn of how they manage things.”

“Manage things.” After a moment, he’d said, “You want me to learn how they manipulate the ton into seeing what they want the ton to see.”

“Exactly!” Fergus had faced forward. “The Delbraiths might be a family led by women, the duke being so young, but none of those females are fools. They all know how to operate in the ton, how to bend ton perceptions to their advantage. They have skills we could use, m’boy. We might eschew the ton, deeming it irrelevant to us, but you can’t duck the weight of a birthright, and who knows what the future will bring?”

That conversation rang in Declan’s mind as he smiled and complimented a young lady on her beautifully carved oriental fan. He’d long ago learned to trust his father’s insights; Fergus Frobisher was widely respected as a canny old Scot. So as they had planned, he and Edwina had come to London and taken up residence in a rented town house in Stanhope Street. Lucasta had joined them in town, but she was staying with her eldest daughter, Lady Millicent Catervale, in Mount Street. Declan appreciated his mother-in-law’s sensitivity in giving him and Edwina their privacy.

Subsequently, Edwina and Lucasta, aided by Millie and Cassie, had put their heads together and come up with a list of events Edwina had declared she had to attend. She’d excused him from all the daytime entertainments, but had requested his presence at the evening events, a request to which he’d readily agreed.

They’d attended several balls, dinners, soirées, and routs over the past week. And tonight, as at those previous events, he was there to observe, to watch and learn how his wife and the females of her family “managed” the ton.

He’d initially studied Lucasta, reasoning that she had to have been the principal instigator in promulgating the non-shocking, acceptable-to-the-ton versions of her older son’s demise and of her younger son’s disappearance; only because he’d been watching closely had he noticed the difference between Lucasta in private and Lucasta in society. It was like a screen, a veil of sorts, but not something anyone observing her could pierce; even knowing it was there, he couldn’t see past it, not while she had it deployed. Lucasta’s screen made her appear more rigid, definitely colder, and more arrogantly aloof. It was an emotional screen that held others at a distance and allowed only the reactions Lucasta wished to display to show through.

Edwina’s veil was even harder to discern. Only because he’d known it had to be there had he managed to even glimpse it. Because her true nature was so very bright and glittery, her shield was almost like a mirror—something that reflected what others assumed they would see, not necessarily what truly lay behind the screen.

He’d studied Millie and Cassie, too; their veils were effective, yet less definite, softer and more amorphous—again, a reflection of their characters. While Lucasta undoubtedly possessed an iron will and a spine of steel—how else had she coped with the vicissitudes of fate over all these years?—of her three daughters, Edwina was the most alike, possessing a similar, pliable yet invincible, feminine strength.

That truth had dawned on him two nights before—and brought with it another ripple.

When he’d set his sights on Edwina, he’d assumed the Delbraiths, a ducal family, would be conventional, conservative, if anything rather stuffy. Instead, he’d discovered they were hiding a secret, one so outrageous and potentially socially catastrophic that it was crystal clear that in terms of being unconventional, the Delbraiths could give the Frobishers a run for their money.

Lucasta was a very far cry from the tradition-obsessed dowager he’d taken her for. As for Edwina…

His view of a predictable, ordinary, orthodox marriage had evaporated.

The lady he had married had an entirely different character from the lady he’d assumed he would take to wife.

Her small hand rested on his sleeve; he could feel the light pressure as if a bird perched there. Yet her presence held him so securely, captivated him so thoroughly, that he barely heard the comments of others enough to respond with the appropriate remarks. He wasn’t interested in those who gathered around them; he was interested only in her.

She’d explained that it was necessary for them to appear in society to “establish themselves.” He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, but clearly she had some goal in mind. Being as inexperienced as she was experienced in this sphere, he hadn’t yet figured out precisely what her ultimate goal was, yet he understood and accepted that she had one…

And that said something all by itself.

It was a reflection of that ripple he’d only recently recognized: His delicate, fairylike wife had a decisive and definite mind of her own.

She formulated goals and planned campaigns—then executed them. She spoke of what amounted to strategy and tactics.

He was now fairly certain she would also harbor a definite view of how their marriage would work, but he’d yet to gain any insight whatsoever into what her view of that critical issue was. Were her putative rules of engagement ones he could smile at, accept, and fall in with? Or…?

As of that moment, he had no idea what their future on that front would bring. Yet he’d married her, and he wouldn’t change that for all the gold in the world. Having her as his wife had been his principal goal, and now she was his.

He glanced at her and saw her eyes sparkle, her face lighting with animation as she charmingly accepted congratulations on their marriage from some other couple.

All in all, he was beyond pleased over having her as his wife. The part he had yet to define was what it was going to take to be her husband.

Edwina stood by Declan’s side with her smile in place and her eyes firmly fixed on her prize. She, her mother, and her sisters had agreed it was vital that she and Declan present themselves to the ton in exactly the right light. How the ton viewed them, now and in the future, would depend entirely on the image they projected over these critical first weeks. That tonight, more or less from the moment they’d arrived, they’d remained fixed in the center of the room with a constant stream of intrigued guests jockeying to join their circle testified as to just how highly the ton now ranked them as acceptable acquaintances.

A sense of triumph rose within her; her first goal as a married lady was all but attained.

When Lady Holland stopped to chat and, when introduced to Declan, deigned to smile approvingly, Edwina had to work to keep her delight from too openly showing and her relief from showing at all. The ton could be a highly censorious sphere, but the blessing of such an august hostess was the ultimate seal of tonnish approval; they had, in ton terms, arrived.

Of course, Lady Holland had always had a soft spot for charming and handsome gentlemen.

Slanting a glance at Declan, Edwina allowed her gaze to dwell on his chiseled features—the distinctly aristocratic line of his brow, the long planes of his lean cheeks below high cheekbones, the firmness of his mobile lips, and the definitely masculine cast of his chin. The crinkling around his sky-blue eyes, set beneath angled slashes of brown brows, and his perennially tanned complexion spoke of long months at sea. His light brown, sun-kissed hair completed the image, appearing fashionably windblown with the bright streaks and tips burnished by the sun highlighting the effect.

The combination of his height and his broad-shouldered stance, the very way he held his long frame, both upright and yet fluid, always perfectly balanced and ineffably confident and assured, set him apart from well-nigh every other gentleman in the room.

As Lady Holland moved on, Lucasta touched Edwina’s sleeve, drawing her attention. “My dear, I see Lady Marchmain holding court by the wall. I believe it would be wise for me to join her and ensure she comprehends all the pertinent facts.”

Edwina followed her mother’s gaze to a coterie of older ladies gathered around a chaise. She nodded. “Thank you, Mama. We’ll come and find you when we’re ready to leave.”

Lady Marchmain was one of her mother’s bosom-bows and also one of the most active ladies in the ton; if one had a message to deliver to the upper echelons of society at large, then Lady Marchmain was an excellent courier.

Returning her attention to the gratifying number of ladies and gentlemen eager to make Declan’s acquaintance, Edwina wondered how much longer they needed to stay. Neither she nor her mother had made any estimation of how many evenings it might take to establish her new position as a married lady and, more critically, establish Declan as a member of recognized society, but their assumption had been that it would take considerably more days and nights—more at-homes, morning and afternoon teas, luncheons, balls, and soirées—to achieve their aim. They’d arrived in town only a week ago; they’d been waging their campaign for a mere six days. They hadn’t expected to succeed so soon.