Devil Water by Anya Seton Page B

high on her head, and this lengthened her round face. She wore a pearl necklace and earrings and was altogether more elegant than Charles had ever seen her. He stole thoughtful glances at her. So did Dr. Radcliffe, who was puzzled at her obvious avoidance of Charles. The bachelor Doctor enjoyed matchmaking, and had thought this one settled, but he now perceived there was something wrong between the young people. He left the drawing room and went to the kitchens, where he gave certain directions.
    Upon his return the Duchess of Bolton and Mr. Paulet were announced. Henrietta swept in with her usual assurance, while her cavalier minced after her, a willowy, chinless sprig from the ducal tree whose hard pale eyes belied his general appearance of fawning effeminacy. Henrietta, dressed for the Ormond ball later, was resplendent in red velvet and as many of the Bolton jewels as she could arrange about her person. There was no denying her beauty, and the Doctor was in ecstasies; but for Charles there was no lessening of disgust. He now knew too well the corruption of soul and body which lay beneath this glittering surface, and he prayed that the Duchess had found someone else to satisfy her lusts and would ignore him -- a hope quite inconsistent with Henrietta’s character. She attacked at once, as soon as he had kissed the air above the hand she held out to him.
    “Ah -- Mr. Radcliffe,” she said with great solicitude. “Have you quite recovered from the ague which I heard has confined you to the house all week?”
    “Ague? Ague?” put in the Doctor laughing, before Charles could speak. “Why, my darling Duchess, you’ve been misinformed. This is the healthiest young dog that ever I saw, and not a day’s passed but he’s been out sampling our city’s pleasures. Make hay while the sun shines -- eh, Charles? For it won’t shine much in Northumberland, I’ll wager.”
    “Indeed,” said the Duchess. There was a pause. “How relieved I am that I was misinformed.” Her lids drooped over the sapphire eyes, but not before Charles had seen in them a glint of pure malignancy. James too caught the glint, and was not surprised, having observed in France the fury of a fading woman scorned. Still, there was no particular mischief she could do, James thought. He leapt in to divert her from Charles, who stood tongue-tied.
    “What a magnificent brooch you are wearing, your grace! I’m sure it has a history, though none of its former owners can have been as lovely as this one!”
    Angry though she was, Henrietta could not resist a tribute, and she allowed James to draw from her the history of the Bolton brooch. While she talked she glanced several times at Mr. Paulet, who was lolling against the mantel, and once at Juba, who stood by the door holding her fan and pomander ball.
    Betty had watched the contretemps, and was first pleased by Charles’s embarrassment, then sorry for him, then relieved as the meaning of it came to her. Charles, the idiot, had certainly philandered with the Duchess, and as certainly tired of it and fobbed the great lady off with excuses, thus alleviating one part of Betty’s own discomfort with Charles. Jealousy. She had faced this in herself since their last meeting, and further faced the undeniable fact that one wasn’t jealous unless another emotion was also present. This discovery had cost her many tears. Tears which had not escaped her mother, who commanded to know the cause of them and seemed not ill pleased when she found out. Betty had then passionately exacted a promise that Lady Lichfield would never never breathe a word of this to anyone. “For Charles doesn’t love me, and I’m not sure I care for him, and anyway I’d die if he came to know anything.”
    Lady Lichfield soothingly promised, and broke the promise at once by hurrying off to find Lord Derwentwater, with the first tentative offer of Betty’s hand. She did not confide in her daughter, partly to shield Betty from possible