The admiral’s voice became somber. “He was a good man and a dear friend. And I want you to have time to grieve his passing.”
“I loved my father, sir. And I will mourn him. But not now. I have my duty.”
“Your ship has been on active duty for fifteen months straight. Your men need rest.”
“They’re hale and hearty,” Marshall said defensively.
“They’re human beings who need to tend to their bodies and souls. They must have leave to refresh their morale. As you haven’t requested a furlough on their behalf, I decided to give you one.”
“But Napoleon is being driven back. We’ve already severed his supply routes. We were keen to push on, sir.”
The admiral’s eyes narrowed on Marshall. “Are you sure you’re not trying to numb yourself to the loss of your father by driving yourself harder?”
“No, sir. I am trying to honor his memory by winning the war.”
The admiral’s mouth thinned. “That is the very thing I was afraid of. I don’t need a captain out there who’s trying to make his dead father proud. I need a leader who is able to retain objectivity and clearness of thought in the midst of battle.” The admiral’s tone softened. “Marshall . . . you’ve won many battles for the Crown. You’re a first-rate officer, the finest captain His Majesty commands. You’ve already honored your father’s memory. But have you stopped to consider that it is your family that needs you most now, and you can best pay tribute to your father by taking charge of his affairs?”
Marshall ground his teeth. Admiral Rowland was a man Marshall had always admired, in many ways more of a father to him than his real father had been. And because the admiral had never had children, Marshall was like the son who understood him and followed in his footsteps. “I’m needed out there, sir.”
“Your mother and sister need you too.” The admiral held up his hands. “I’m not asking you to give up your naval career. I’m just offering you a chance to detach yourself for a short time, so you can put your father’s affairs in order. And I must say that a little gratitude from you would not be amiss. I wouldn’t be making such an allowance for just anyone. But you are unlike most of my officers. Most of them are second or third sons, not heirs to the estate. And none of them have just become a marquess and peer of the realm . . . my lord.”
Marshall shook his head. He doubted he’d ever get used to being addressed as Marquess of Warridge. He was never fond of titles of nobility. To him, they always implied undeserved honors. He had known too many nobles that led dissolute, dishonorable lives, and yet expected to be treated as though their titles somehow entailed worthy accomplishments. “Captain” carried much greater weight with him than “Marquess.”
“How’s your mother bearing up under the strain?”
“Very well, sir,” Marshall replied, regretting the honesty of those words. He suspected his mother was only too happy to be finally liberated from the other half of her unhappy marriage. “I’ll convey your kind thoughts to her.”
“And your sister?”
He shook his head. “Justine was very attached to Father. It was she who took to nursing him during his long illness.”
“Poor girl. She passed up many offers of marriage, did she not?”
“In a manner of speaking. Truth be told, she rather didn’t try very hard to encourage them.”
“I see. Well, as your father was unable to concern himself with finding her a suitable husband, that duty must now fall to you. Maybe while you’re at it, you might even pick up a wife for yourself before you ship out again.”
Marshall doubted that he’d try very hard. His men often joked he was married to his ship, and there was much truth in that. Women of his station in life were all so colorless and unexciting. One was much the same as any other, all of them a blur of coy smiles, feigned sensibilities, and uninteresting small talk. They dressed alike, they talked alike, they even acted alike. It seemed that they were all contestants in some unspoken challenge, a race to see who would become the Epitome of the Lady. It was not a prize he desired.
He found far greater interest in the low-class women who worked at inns and mercantiles along the wharfs. They did not shed their personalities in trying to fit the mold of a lady. Their concerns were centered on keeping food on the family table, not on what shade of jonquil was considered unfashionable that season. He was drawn more to she who was a real woman than she who was a real lady.
The admiral extinguished his cigar and stood. “I have nothing but the highest regard for you, my boy. That’s why I’m ordering you to live your life. Mourn your father. Comfort your mother. Get your sister married. Take a wife. In a few months’ time, return to me for reassignment.”
Marshall came to his feet. “And my ship, sir?”
“I’m putting the Reprisal under Captain Hedway until you get back. He’ll take care of her for you.”
Marshall hung his head. He now felt as though there were two deaths in the family.
The admiral seemed to perceive his sense of loss. “Come now, man. You don’t expect me to leave one of our ships of the line in dry dock, do you?”
“No, sir,” he muttered. “Thank you for dinner, and for your company, sir. And for this leave of absence. I am beholden to you for your consideration of my family tragedy. Good night.”
Marshall executed a formal salute, and turned toward the door.
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t be too long. We can’t let little French boys play real heroes in school plays.”
Just like Admiral Rowland to say precisely what Marshall needed to hear.
It was a gorgeous day at the height of spring, one of those peculiarly perfect days without a single cloud in the sky.
Hester exchanged a few pleasantries with Mason Royce before walking uncertainly up the stairs to Athena’s bedroom.
Softly, she knocked on the door. “Athena?”
Hester poked her head into Athena’s darkened bedroom. Though it was after eleven o’clock in the morning, the curtains were still drawn. The air in the room was stale. Athena was lying on her bed, staring into the dying fire.
“How are you feeling?”
Athena glanced at Hester, but didn’t acknowledge her.
“I called for you yesterday, and you wouldn’t even come down to see me.”
“Go away, Hester. I’m not in the mood for you today either.”
“No. I’m not about to let you wallow in your gloom for one moment longer.” She drew back the curtains, and pushed open the window. “Come on. Get up.”
Athena cringed, shielding her eyes. “If you don’t leave right now, I’ll tell Grandfather.”
“Who do you think sent me up here? Come on. Time to start the day.”
Athena sat up, and looked at Hester in irritation. Her friend was looking clean and perfectly arranged in her pink dress and white shawl and slippers. The ribbons in her hair were white and pink. Even the rosy cheeks in her fair skin matched her ensemble.
“I’d like to see how cheerful you are with my chamber pot on your head.”
“It might improve the smell around here. How long has it been since you’ve bathed?”
“I don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “What day is it?”
Hester pursed her lips. “I’ll tell you what day it is. It’s the day you and I go for a ride in Hyde Park.”
“You go to Hyde Park. I’ll just hide.”
“No,” Hester said firmly. “It’s time we leave what happened at Vauxhall behind.”
Athena swung a warning glance at her friend. “Hester Willett, if you so much as mention the name of you-know-who, I shall shove my parasol up your bottom.”
“Agreed. Now go have your bath. I’ll lay out something sensational for you to wear. I’m taking you hunting for fresh game.”
As Hester’s landaulet rambled toward London, Athena breathed in the cool spring air. The sun felt warm on her face, and she incline
d her head to receive its rays. She felt like a wilted flower that was slowly coming to life once more.
By the time they reached Hyde Park, she was feeling quite herself again. Hester stopped the carriage to greet everyone, and Athena was drawn into polite conversations that, though superficial and frivolous, were just the sort of triviality she had needed. There was something to be said for the ladylike pursuit of inconsequential discourse; at least it kept one from pondering the blacker concerns of life.
The afternoon had grown sunny, and they took to walking alongside the lake. Couples walked arm in arm, and small groups meandered by twos down the paths. As Hester walked beside her, prattling idly about this party or that dress, the fragmented pieces of her life started to find their rightful place.
As her eyes casually scanned the gentle rise of hills dotted with clusters of picnickers, something snagged her downy mood. It was a fleeting thing—an ephemeral thought, perhaps—but it dampened her airy humor as surely as a dip in the frigid Thames. She looked again, wondering what it was that could have so disturbed her. Nothing. She shook her head at her own silliness.
And then she saw it. Indigo. It was a color that for Athena seemed to have set off bright sparks of irritation. In the far distance, on a path beyond the trees, a woman in an indigo dress was stepping onto a carriage. Athena’s eyes narrowed. She recognized the dress . . . and the woman in it.
A tide of rage roiled within her. She had some choice words for Lady Ponsonby, and by God, she would have her say.
“Hester, wait for me here. I’ll bring the carriage back round for you.”
Hester’s baffled questions were left unanswered as Athena raced toward the landaulet at the Stanhope Gate. The driver had slumped to one side, fast asleep. Athena charged into the conveyance, startling the old man.
“See that carriage over there? Go where it goes. There’s a sovereign in it for you if you remain on its tail.”
“Yes, miss,” he said, scrambling to put his hat back on his head as he urged the horse forward.
Blood raced through her veins as she struggled to find just the right words for Lady Ponsonby. She wanted to spit and kick, but she knew that it would not do the damage she wanted. She wanted to hurt this woman far deeper than just to mar her appearance. She wanted to inflict her with the same poison of pain she herself had suffered with for the past week.
Athena tossed aside the remembered promise to the Duchess of Twillingham to stay clear of Lady Ponsonby. She pursued the woman relentlessly as her carriage wended through the London traffic. Finally, after what seemed about five miles, Lady Ponsonby’s carriage came to a halt in the middle of a Whitechapel street.
Lady Ponsonby alighted from the carriage and paid the driver. She walked up the front steps, opened the red door, and disappeared into the redbrick building.
Athena jumped out of the carriage, bounded up the stairs, and paused at the door. A wooden sign hung on the door from a nail. It read FOR SALE. Beside the door, on the brick wall, was a tarnished bronze plaque that read THE PLEASURE EMPORIUM, EST. 1795. She felt a moment’s hesitation. It was a monumental thing she was about to do, and she was certain it would change the course of her life. But Athena had rarely regretted the things she did—only the things she hadn’t done. With the same aplomb, Athena threw open wide the door and stepped through.
Instantly, she was enveloped by darkness. Her eyes widened instinctively as they gradually adjusted to the dimness inside. Through the foyer there was a parlor with windows facing the street. A needle of light from the shuttered windows pierced the darkness of the salon, and Athena could see inside.
Though white sheets were draped over the clusters of chairs, and the air was thick and musty, the house did not seem to have been boarded up for very long. There was a peculiar scent to the place, a strange mélange of cigars, liquor, and jasmine perfume. The walls were stripped of paintings and sconces, but the cornflower-blue paint was undiminished by time. At the far end of the room, a door opened.
Athena folded her arms in front of her. “Well, if it isn’t Lady Pounce-on-me.”
Lady Ponsonby’s angular face registered surprise. “Who the devil are you?”
The question made Athena’s blood boil. “Who am I? I am the woman whose future happiness you stole.”
Her eyes narrowed on Athena. “I do know you. You’re the protégée of that haughty cow, the Duchess of Twillingham. I spoke with you at Vauxhall last week.”
“That’s not the only thing you did at Vauxhall last week. I saw you in Lover’s Walk with Calvin.”
Her chin lifted defiantly. “That was you behind the bushes. Didn’t your benefactress teach you that spying on people is considered rude?”
“That’s rich, coming from you. How would Society look upon someone who had intercourse on the ground like a rutting sow?”
Lady Ponsonby advanced upon Athena slowly. Her dark eyes had depth and shallowness all at once, as if they hid some secret . . . and it was not a happy one. “In the first place, my little Scottish miss, I care bugger-all what Society thinks of me. And in the second place, what’s my private life got to do with you?”
Though Lady Ponsonby was a good deal taller, Athena stood her ground. “Because that man in your ‘private life’ wasn’t yours. He was mine.”
The fierce look in the older woman’s eyes softened in colorless humor. “Oh, so that’s what this is about. You’re jealous of me for that milksop. Well, I didn’t break him. You can have him now.” She turned to walk back through the door.
Athena seethed at her cavalier manner. She grabbed the first thing she could find, an unlit candelabra, and threw it against the empty fireplace. The heavy silver branches clanged against the bricks, making a fearsome racket as the candelabra bounced to the hearth.
“He was to be my fiancé! And you took him from me!” Angry tears threatened to leak from her eyes, so she cast her face away.
Lady Ponsonby didn’t speak for several moments. Her face never lost its composure. “If it’s any consolation to you, he doesn’t love me. We don’t mean anything to one another.” She chuckled hollowly. “I can’t even remember his last name.”
That only twisted the dagger in Athena’s heart.
Lady Ponsonby bent over to pick up the now deformed candelabra. “He is still yours.”
“I don’t want him anymore.”
“Why? Because he wanted to make love to another woman?”
“Exactly.”
The bony shoulders shrugged. “Well, then, be happy I spared you from discovering the truth about his infidelity after you bound yourself to him for life.”
There was some truth to that. But the colors on the palette of Athena’s life had already been muddied beyond recognition.
“I just don’t understand why on earth—”
“He would seek the bed of another? Wake up, my pet. Men have only two states of being—dead and unfaithful.”
“But what on earth did he see in—” Athena didn’t need to finish the sentence. Illumination dawned on Lady Ponsonby’s face.
“Oh, now I understand. It’s not that he betrayed you for another woman. It’s that he chose me.” A cold smugness rose on Lady Ponsonby’s face, and despite it all, Athena felt small. “And here you are wondering how your dashing prince could choose the withered old crone over the fair princess.” Sarcasm dripped from her thin lips. “Well, that, my pet, is because of what I have to offer him that you simply can’t.”
It was a question that cost her every last shred of pride, but she had to know. “What?”
Lady Ponsonby grinned jadedly. “Well, you’re not going to find it in the pages of that ridiculous instruction manual all you debutantes are reading.”
Athena’s breath caught in guilty surprise. She raised her head defensively. “I am not a debutante.”
“No, you’re not. And therein lies the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“How old are you?”
She wasn’t
about to admit her advanced years to Lady Ponsonby. “That is none of your concern.”
“Very well, don’t tell me. But I think it a rational assumption to say that you have collected a fair bit of dust sitting on the shelf as long as you have.”
Athena’s face colored in spite of her defiant attitude. “Am I right in thinking there is a point to all of this?”
“My point is that here you are, ripe for the plucking, and yet you choose to remain on the vine for want of a skilled gardener.”
“And what is the alternative? To fall into the hands of any passing field hand? I am not one of your mother’s harlots.”
Lady Ponsonby chuckled hollowly. “Oh, but you are, you just can’t see it. You and every other Society rosebud have been raised with the express purpose of being hawked to the first moneyed gentleman that shows an interest in you, whether you like him or not. There is no difference between the likes of you and the likes of me. Except that I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor, whereas you . . . you get Society’s permission to condemn me for it.”
Athena couldn’t deny the truth of her words. To take an opinion one way or another would make her either an ignorant or a hypocrite.
“But by all means,” continued Lady Ponsonby, “go back to your morning room gossip over the embroidery hoops. Go back to the Countess Cavendish’s most excellent tutorial on getting and keeping a husband. Keep your head buried in the sand as to what men are truly looking for in a wife. All of London will join you in celebrating the fantasy. But don’t be surprised if women like me find their way into your lace-covered lives.”
Her words burned within Athena. Whatever it was that Calvin had found lacking in her, she certainly didn’t know what it was. And she wanted to. Quite desperately.
“Very well, then. Educate me. What is it that a man truly wants in a wife?”
The woman threw her head back and laughed. “Ask them . . . if you dare. I can promise you that they’ll be delighted to show you. Just know this: you can’t lay hold of a man without ever touching him. If all you do is play hard to get, other women will play with what gets hard.” With an indigo flourish, Lady Ponsonby’s skirt twirled as she returned to her parlor.