style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Oh, yes. Apparently, he has taken to staying out until all hours of the night, gambling at the very worst of the hells, and frequenting the most notorious of clubs. There were even rumours about his being challenged to a duel by a French Count, though details surrounding that particular contretemps are very difficult to come by.’
A shaft of late-afternoon sunlight suddenly pierced the room, bathing Antonia’s cap of honey-coloured curls in a warm golden light. ‘Is he still accepted by good Society?’ she asked.
‘Oh, to be sure. But when he does attend an event, he flirts with all of the eligible young ladies, but pays not a serious mind to any one of them.’
‘But why would he do such a thing?’ Antonia asked, not even attempting to hide her surprise. ‘Lady Clara has need of a mother—and Carlyle an heir. Surely he wishes to marry again. In fact, did I not hear that he was enamoured of the Lady Helen Cartland?’
‘He might be, but not as enamoured as he is reputed to be of…pretty ballet dancers and actresses,’ Catherine said, blushing hotly.
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
