He sighed. “It was a long time ago in any case. I cannot ever forgive Griffin, but I can certainly try and lay the matter aside and go on. As I’ve said, you needn’t worry about what happened in my marriage to Anne. It’s in the past.”
For a moment he tried to remember what Anne had looked like that terrible night. She’d been hysterical, weeping as she tried to push her poor, dead babe from her body. At one time he’d thought the sights and sounds of that night would be engraved in his nightmares for the rest of his life. But now all he could remember was the still, gray body of the baby, its features curiously flattened, and the thought that all of the blood and hysteria hadn’t mattered anyway. The child had been a girl.
A tiny, dead girl.
“I see,” Lady Hero said beside him.
Thank God the gates of the park were within sight. He hated thoughts like these, useless and dispiriting. Ones that challenged his authority and his place in the universe: A marquess should not have to hear the dying confession of infidelity from his wife. Should not have to see the dead body of his baby girl.
“We won’t discuss this again,” he said. “Now that you’ve had your questions answered.”
She didn’t say anything, but then she didn’t have to. Naturally she would acquiesce to his wishes. It occurred to him that Lavinia would’ve kept arguing the point. Odd thought—and hardly helpful. He endeavored to put it from his mind.
The park was crowded today, the fine weather drawing out all walks of society. He guided the bays into the slowly moving line of carriages and horses revolving about one end of Hyde Park.
“I saw Wakefield yesterday,” he commented.
“Did you?” Her voice seemed a little cool, but then she was probably distracted by the passing parade.
“Indeed. He tells me that there is a possibility that he soon will have a titled gin distiller in his grasp.”
She stiffened beside him. Many women found political talk dreary, but he’d thought her more tolerant than most. After all, she was sister to one of the foremost parliamentarians of the day. And of course she knew of his own political ambitions.
“Do you know who?” she asked, calming his sudden worry.
“He hasn’t said. Most likely keeping the matter under his hat until he’s certain. Your brother is a dark horse. Ah, there’s Fergus.” Thomas nodded to Lord Fergus sitting with his rather plain-faced wife. Behind them sat their two daughters, also, alas, plain-faced. “He’s in the naval department,” he murmured sotto voce as he pulled the bays alongside the Fergus carriage.
And then he was proud, for Lady Hero graciously nodded at the introduction of the ladies and then complimented Lady Fergus on her bonnet, prompting the lady’s sallow complexion to turn pink. The two girls leaned slightly forward, and all four were soon in animated discussion.
“A good match, Mandeville,” Fergus rumbled after they’d discussed the latest Lords scandal. “You’re a lucky man.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Thomas murmured.
His recent ridiculous doubts fled. Lady Hero was above all a calm and demure creature, not given to the type of awful drama Anne often acted out.
Fergus nattered on for another ten minutes—the man was prone to be didactic—and then they made their farewells.
Thomas took up the reins again. “I hope you didn’t find talking to Lady Fergus and her daughters too boring.”
“Not at all,” Lady Hero replied. “They were quite nice. Besides, I know how important these kinds of little meetings are for you and your career, Mandeville. I want to do everything I can to aid you.”
He smiled. “I keep forgetting that your perception rivals your beauty, my lady. I am indeed a lucky man.”
“You flatter me.”
“Don’t all ladies wish to be flattered?”
She didn’t answer and he glanced her way. Lady Hero’s face was in profile as she looked fixedly to the side. He followed her gaze and felt as if he’d been struck in the belly.
Lavinia Tate was two carriages over, laughing up into the face of that Samuel fellow who’d escorted her to Harte’s Folly. She wore a quilted jacket the color of spring poppies, and the sunlight glinted off her damnably bright red hair. If any man in Hyde Park hadn’t noticed her yet, it was because he was dead.
Or a fool.
“Who is she to you?” Lady Hero asked quietly.
“No one,” Thomas said through stiff lips.
“Yet you stare at her as if she’s someone very important indeed.”
“What?” He tore his eyes from the sight of Lavinia and looked at his fiancée, her face too pale, her hair merely a tasteful, natural shade of light copper. She was a watercolor next to Lavinia’s vivid oil. “She’s… someone I once knew.”