An Innocent Deceit

Antonia gasped. ‘Actresses and ballet dancers! Goodness, Kitty, wherever did you hear such a thing?’

‘From Lady Dalrymple, of course. I overheard her telling Mama that, on her last visit to London, she chanced to see Lord Carlyle going into Covent Garden. He was escorting an exceedingly handsome young woman, but one whose manner of dress and comportment led Lady Dalrymple to believe that she was not a member of respectable Society.’

‘Lady Dalrymple? That old tattlemonger!’ Antonia snapped. ‘I sometimes wonder whether she does not…make up all of her outrageous stories simply in an attempt to draw attention to herself.’

‘I am quite sure that she does, Toni, but not this time I fear. The very next day, Lady Brocklehurst—who, as you know, is a great friend of Lady Dalrymple’s—happened to encounter the same young woman as she was coming out of the very shop which Lady Brocklehurst herself was about to enter. Apparently the young woman was wearing an exquisite ruby necklace. A necklace she hinted, quite boldly, had been given to her by her wealthy and very handsome benefactor!’

Antonia’s smooth brow furrowed. ‘But…if she did not mention Lord Carlyle by name, why would Lady Brocklehurst simply assume that it was the Earl to whom the young woman had been referring? I have heard that many wealthy gentlemen keep—well, that is to say—it could have been any one of a number of…others.’

‘It could. Except that Lord Carlyle’s penchant for giving rubies to…certain types of young women is well known around London.’

‘And I suppose that bit of information was also supplied by Lady Dalrymple?’

At her girlfriend’s nod, Antonia frowned in irritation. At the moment, she was not sure which of the two people she liked less. Lord knew, she was no admirer of Lady Dalrymple. The woman was an insatiable gabble-grinder who Antonia took pains to avoid meeting in the street. But neither was her opinion of Lord Carlyle improved by the information she had just received. Certainly his predilection for pretty young actresses and ladies of…questionable virtue did nothing to lessen her feelings of contempt towards him. If anything, it only served to strengthen her resolve to try to protect Clara from his influence.

Antonia had never actually been introduced to the handsome Earl of Carlyle. Nor—as her father had pointed out—had she had anything to do with him for the past eight or nine years. The last time she had seen him was when she had been just eleven years old, and he had just returned from London after his marriage to the beautiful Lady Violet Pelham.

At the time, the residents of Upper Tipping had been all agog with the news that the young lord was bringing his new bride to Ashdean. Antonia herself had looked forward to the occasion, though she had little recollection of it now. She did remember that the exquisite young lady who had stepped down from the old Earl’s carriage had been dressed all in blue, from the tip of her elegant feathered bonnet to the heels of her soft, kid slippers.

But while the new Viscountess had been undeniably beautiful, it had soon become evident that she was not at all taken with life in the country. She did not like to ride, nor did she enjoy walking along the tree-shaded lanes. Consequently, it had come as no surprise to anyone when, little more than two weeks later, the Viscount and his young wife had packed up their belongings and headed back to Town.

In the years that followed, two significant events had taken place. The first was the death of the old Earl and the ascension of his son to the title. The second was the birth of a daughter to the new Earl and Countess of Carlyle.

The latter news had been greeted with the kind of joy typically reserved for such great occasions, and there had been much celebrating, both in Town and in Upper Tipping. Tragically, however, it was a joy which had been short-lived. The Countess’s health had begun to fail. She had endured a difficult and protracted birthing and, frail creature that she was, had never fully recovered from it. Thus, when she had contracted influenza a few years later, the doctors had known that there was little hope. She had died less than six months after, leaving Carlyle, at nine and twenty, solely responsible for the care of his then four-year-old daughter, Clara.

Not surprisingly, Lord Carlyle had returned to the country at once. He had lavished money on the nursery at Ashdean in preparation for the infant’s stay, and had hired an army of servants to see to her care. But as soon as all of the arrangements had been made, he had returned to London and stayed there, visiting his daughter only when called upon by duty or necessity to do so.

‘Well, I do not care a fig for what Lord Carlyle does,’ Antonia professed. ‘It is his daughter’s welfare that I am concerned with, and since Clara is the one to whom I intend to devote my time, the less I have to do with her father, the better.’

‘I suppose, though he is very handsome, Toni.’ Catherine’s voice took on a wistful quality. ‘Cynthia Prescott told me that she near fainted dead away when she saw him at Almack’s, with all that dark, wavy hair and those incredible blue eyes. She said that the colour reminded her of the sky on a summer’s day.’

‘The sky on a summer—? Really, Kitty, you make Lord Carlyle sound like one of those…heroes in those Gothic novels you are forever reading.’

‘I am only repeating what Cynthia told me,’ Catherine retorted defensively. ‘You can see for yourself when you speak to him about the position.’

Antonia began to fiddle with the lace edging on her sleeve. ‘Actually, I am hoping that I shall not have to see him about it…at all.’

‘Not see him?’ Catherine glanced at her best friend in astonishment. ‘But how can you possibly avoid it?’

Antonia shrugged. ‘I do not think it will be all that difficult, given Lord Carlyle’s antipathy for the country. His steward will likely be handling all of the arrangements.’

‘But surely the Earl will at least wish to see the applicants before the final selection is made,’ Catherine objected. ‘He would hardly commit his daughter to the care of someone he hasn’t even met.’

‘Why not? He was not around much for the first six years of Clara’s life, why would he feel compelled to be around for the next few?’ Antonia argued. ‘All Lord Carlyle requires of a riding master is that he be able to teach his daughter to sit a horse competently and to look good into the bargain. I have no doubt that I can do that as well, or better, than any old riding master from London.’

‘And what about Lord Carlyle’s refusal to employ women?’

‘Ah, now that did give me some cause for concern,’ Antonia confessed, ‘but I do believe I have come up with a rather brilliant idea for circumventing the problem.’

Catherine saw the twinkle in her friend’s eye and warily shook her head. ‘Toni, what scheme are you concocting now? I know that look, and I know that it bodes no good!’

‘Tosh, it is a perfectly splendid idea, and one which will work very well if, as I suspect, Lord Carlyle will not be present for the interviews.’

‘Are you going to tell me what this perfectly splendid idea is?’

‘Not just at the moment. I still have a few more details to work out.’

Clearly disappointed, Catherine’s pretty mouth turned downward. ‘I think you might at least have given me a hint, Toni. After all, I am your closest friend. But what if Lord Carlyle still finds out the truth of your identity, despite your splendid idea?’

Antonia reached towards the tray and took a plain biscuit. ‘I am hoping that by that time, I will have been able to persuade his steward that I am more than capable of filling the position, and that the steward, in turn, will have been able to convince the Earl of the same. Lord Carlyle will not be looking for complications in his life, Kitty. Consequently, it only follows that if matters are proceeding according to plan, and his daughter is happy, it should not matter that the person teaching her how to ride is a woman. Besides which, he is only here for a few days each year.’

‘But what if he chances to see you on one of those days?’

Antonia waved aside her friend’s objection. ‘I shall simply feign an illness and stay at home.’

‘That is all very well, but if the Earl does decide to spend more time in the area, I fear that your carefully formulated plan—whatever it is—will go for nought. Lord Carlyle will be none too pleased when he discovers that he has been the object of a clever little deceit.’

‘Kitty, we are only talking about the enactment of a simple deception, not a plot to overthrow the King,’ Antonia assured her. ‘Personally, I do not think his lordship will mind who teaches his daughter to ride so long as he does not have to be bothered about it. From what you say, he is much more addicted to Town pleasures anyway and, knowing that, I cannot think of any reason why a non pareil like Carlyle would suddenly decide to turn feather and retire to the bucolic tranquillity of Upper Tipping!’

Chapter Two

A suffocating yellow fog had descended upon London, blanketing the City, all but immobilising the steady flow of traffic through the already crowded streets. It hung in the night air like a shroud; stinging the eyes of those foolhardy enough to venture outside without suitable covering and making it nearly impossible for anyone to see more than two feet in front of them.

Standing before the drawing-room window of the elegant house in Park Lane, Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Carlyle, stared out into the murky darkness of the night and felt as though the cursed fog had penetrated into the very room in which he stood. Its silence was oppressive; its heaviness permeating into even the most far-flung corners of the house, causing his head to ache, and his already sagging spirits to plummet like a stone.

God, how he hated this house. Hated the unhappy memories associated with it and the wretched way it made him feel. He grew increasingly restless when forced to reside in it for any length of time; assailed by a boredom that was totally out of keeping with his normally ebullient spirits—which was why he endeavoured to spend as much of his time away from it as possible.

But even that did him no good of late, for the moment he stepped through the front door, he felt the familiar malaise begin to return, settling on him much the same way the cursed fog had settled on London. And the most frustrating part of all was that he had absolutely no idea how to go about ridding himself of it.

Turning away from the window, Sebastian walked towards the elegant sideboard situated between the pink and white marble fireplace and the ornate boule cabinet, and poured himself a generous glass of brandy. He swirled the golden liquid in the bowl, impressed neither by the quality of the Venetian crystal nor by the excellent vintage of the wine. These things he took for granted, as he did everything else about the elegant town house in which he lived; a house which meant so little to him, yet which had meant everything to his late wife; the beautiful and desirable Violet, Countess of Carlyle.

At the thought of the woman to whom he had been married, Sebastian tilted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, feeling the fiery spirit burn a path down his throat. Violet. It was hard to believe that she had been dead over two years. At times, he felt like she was still here, her spirit lingering on in the dark corridors of the vast house like a physical presence.

And why would it not linger? Sebastian acknowledged wryly. There was far more of her here than there was of him. The Ming bowls and the other priceless knick-knacks she had been so fond of collecting—indeed, the house itself, with its Italian marble, and its magnificent crystal chandeliers—meant nothing to him. As Sebastian glanced around the opulent drawing room which had been embellished with nearly as much chinoiserie as the Regent’s pavilion in Brighton, all he could see were the suffocating crowds Violet had filled it with in her endless quest to become London’s most popular and accomplished hostess.

And eventually, she had. But at what cost to him, and to their marriage?

Still, all that was of little consequence now. Sebastian had married the beautiful, but shallow, Lady Violet Pelham, and had elevated her upon his father’s death to the exalted rank of Countess, whereupon she had set out to more than make up for the lack of regard her husband seemed to have for the title. And, in doing so, she had lost him.

Perhaps that’s what this was all about, he reflected sadly. Perhaps regret was the cause of this…malaise which plagued him; dogging his steps, and causing the mouth which had once moved so easily to laughter to twist so cynically. God knew, he had been living a lie for more years than he cared to admit. A lie which had begun shortly after his marriage…and a marriage which had died shortly after it had begun…

‘My lord?’

Sebastian raised the glass to his lips, but he did not turn around. ‘What is it, Royce?’

‘Mr Bingham asks if you might be able to see him.’

Sebastian’s brow furrowed in annoyance. Damn. He wasn’t in a mood to see anyone right now, and certainly not the steward of Ashdean. The man knew him too well. He was one of the few people who could see beyond the barricades Sebastian erected, and who could touch on areas, on emotions, that were best left undiscovered.