Those clothes were all that the ladies were waiting for to "launch" Anastasia on London society. Lady Rachel was keeping a written record, added to daily, of all the fashionable places Anastasia needed to be "seen at." Lady Elizabeth had formed a list of her own, of well-known gossips whom she had already begun visiting.
"Nothing like setting the stage in advance," she had said after returning from her first gossipy visit. "Lady Bascomb is just dying to meet you now, gel, and by tomorrow, so will be most of her friends. I swear, she can manage to call upon at least forty different members of the ton in a single day. Do not ask me how, but she can."
They had decided a little confusion would be just the thing to spark curiosity, and so each gossip Elizabeth paid a visit to was told something entirely different about Anastasia's history. With her mother supposedly being William's younger sister, who really had run off in her youth and had never returned to England, any and every background they created for Anastasia would be completely plausible.
The three ladies had in fact stayed up very late one night having a great good time designing some pretty outlandish scenarios, from her being the daughter of an illegitimate heir to a throne in Eastern Europe, to the daughter of a rich Turkey slave trader, to the truth, that her father was a Russian Prince. All of which got confided, in absolute secrecy, of course, to the many known gossips on Elizabeth's list.
It became William's task to find out when the marquis arrived in London, and to discover his habits, or at least his normal haunts. After all, this whole scheme was for his benefit, and wouldn't do much good if he didn't hear the gossip, or have a chance to see Anastasia in her new finery.
Once they'd set the scene, the invitations began pouring in. Anastasia, who had yet to make her first "public" appearance, was already in great demand by every hostess in town, thanks to Elizabeth's gossip-spreading talents. Her first appearance, though, would be at the costume party that Lady Victoria planned for the coming weekend.
Christopher would not be receiving an invite to this. It remained to be seen if he'd show up anyway, to denounce her, just to see what she was up to, or to claim her as his wife. Anything was possible—which was why the ladies were so excited. They could merely set things in motion. They couldn't predict the outcome.
The activity, the in-depth planning, it all helped Anastasia to get beyond the worst of her grief. And she didn't just have the loss of her grandmother and "husband for a night" to deal with, but also of the Gypsies, the people she'd grown up with, people she cared about and who cared about her. She'd said good-bye to them all, though she didn't expect it to be forever. Gypsies never parted for good except in death. They always expected to see old friends and acquaintances again in their travels.
The day of the costume party finally arrived. Anastasia began to feel a certain anticipation, even though she didn't expect to see Christopher tonight, when he had been excluded from the guest list deliberately. After all, it wouldn't do to appear obvious in what they were doing. The whole purpose was to intrigue him, to make him regret her loss, to make him want her back, and to make it easy for him to ignore that "it just isn't done" by showing him just how it was done—by keeping the truth to themselves.
Ironically, the first impression she gave to his rules-rigid society was that of herself, the truth, because the costume she wore was no costume but her own clothes, her gold dancing outfit. To those gathered, avidly waiting to meet her, she appeared costumed as a Gypsy, and they loved it! She was a smashing success.
Although she did insist on beginning this "farce" with the truth, or a semblance of the truth, she still evaded most questions. The "mystery" is all-important, her new friends had reminded her repeatedly as they prepared for this debut. "Keep them guessing, keep them wondering, never reveal the real truth, except in jest."
Which was easy enough to do. Gypsies were masters of mystery and evasion, after all, an art she had been raised to know, despite the fact that she had rarely ever made use of such talents before now.
The night went splendidly well, surpassing her friends' expectations. Three quite legitimate, if impulsive, proposals of marriage, eight proposals of a less savory sort, one young man making a complete fool of himself by getting down on his knees in the middle of the dancers to propose to her at the top of his lungs, two other gentlemen coming to blows while vying for her attention.
Christopher didn't show up. Though it had been confirmed that he was in London, they couldn't be sure whether he had heard about her yet. But new gossip would be making the rounds tomorrow. He would hear about her eventually. It was only a matter of time . . .
Christopher couldn't manage to get back into the swing of things, now that he had returned to London. He had finished his business at Haverston in haste, then shocked his factor by firing him. Yet he made no effort to find a new factor. He made no effort to do much of anything other than staring into a lot of fires while analyzing the things he should or shouldn't have done concerning Anastasia Stephanoff.
He could not get her out of his mind. It had been nearly two weeks since he'd last seen her, yet he could still picture her as if she stood before him. Naked, enraged, under him in bed, the images haunted him like vengeful ghosts that wouldn't go away.
He had gone back to her camp. He had sworn that he wouldn't, knew that seeing her again would serve no purpose under the circumstances, yet two days after their final parting, he had ridden there again. He wasn't at all sure what he would have said to her at that point, yet he didn't get the chance to find out.
He was incredulous to find the Gypsies gone. He hadn't expected that. Rage quickly followed his amazement, enough that he'd had every intention of sending the law after them. They had claimed his property would be left as they'd found it, after all, yet they had left a grave behind, as well as a large pile of charred wood and metal that indicated one of their wagons had been burned.
Yet he'd no sooner ridden into Havers Town to find the sheriff than his rage was gone. Realizing who that grave might have belonged to was responsible for that. Anastasia's grandmother. And if that was true, then she must be grieving. Oddly, he wanted only to comfort her now. He had to find her first, though.
This he tried to do, sending runners to the closest towns. It was hard to believe they could find no trace whatsoever of the Gypsies. Vanished. Completely. And that was when he began to suspect that he might never see her again.
He was staring into the fire in the parlor at Haverston when he first realized that, and promptly punched a hole in the wall next to the mantel. Walter and David, both there to witness this, wisely said not a word, though they exchanged raised brows.
The next day they returned to London, where his friends quickly abandoned him to his foul mood. He barely noticed their absence, so little had he paid attention to their attempts to cheer him up.
It was their usual habit, though, to prowl one or more of London's many pleasure gardens or spas on a weekend, when they had no specific engagements to attend, and so that first weekend back in London, David and Walter both showed up at Christopher's town house again, to have another go at getting their "old" Kit back.
Some of the gardens could be reached only by river barge, having no land access. The gardens were so popular that many a Londoner kept a barge for the express purpose of visiting them with friends, rather than endure a delay in having to rent one. In their group, David had done the honors, simply because he owned property on the river where a barge could be easily docked.
They were fine places of entertainment, and not just for the aristocracy, but for all of London. Some, like the New Wells, near the London Spa, even housed strange animals, rattlesnakes, imported flying squirrels, becoming something of a Zoological Garden. Some had theaters. Most all had restaurants, coffee shops, or teahouses, arbors, shaded lanes, vendors, music and dancing, booths and raffing shops for cardplayers and gamblers.
The older of the gardens, Cuper's, Marybone Gardens, Ranelagh, and Vauxhall Gardens, were famed
for their evening concerts, masquerades, and innumerable illuminations that made them so lovely at night, and most new gardens were mere imitations of these four.
For tonight, Walter suggested The House of Entertainment at Pacras Wells in northern London. Christopher agreed, though he couldn't say why, since he simply didn't care one way or the other. However, upon arriving, they went not to see the entertainment, but straight to the Pump Room, where his friends insisted he try the "waters" advertised as being a powerful antidote against rising of the vapors, also against the stone and gravel, and likewise, cleansed the body and sweetened the blood.
He almost laughed. They were obviously going to try any means to bring him out of the brooding he'd fallen into. Not that he believed in natural spring waters, but to humor his friends, who weren't being even the least bit subtle about it, he did drink a bottle, and pocketed a few more to take home with him.
Leaving the Pump Room, they ran into a group of acquaintances, five in number, who, unlike them, were actually there for the entertainment. And two of the young men were well-known jokesters, which was probably why David suggested they join the group, hoping they could get a smile out of Christopher, where he and Walter had failed.
He couldn't have known he'd be making matters worse, but that was exactly what happened. And all because one of the young men, Adam Sheffield by name, was in a bad mood himself, but unlike Christopher, he had no qualms about complaining quite loudly about it to his friends. The reason was almost immediately revealed.
"How'm I supposed to meet her if I can't get near her? That old bird is too particular by half, I tell you, in who she invites to her events."
"No need to narrow it down to just her parties, old boy. If you didn't know, she's particular about who she lets into her house at any time. Party or no party, you can't just call on Lady Siddons. You have to be an acquaintance, or be with an acquaintance."
"As if she ain't acquainted with just about everyone, old as she is."
"We should have just crashed that silly party," another of them said. "I hear it was in costume. Who would have known the difference, with a few more Pans and Cupids running about the place?"
"Think I didn't try?" Adam told his friend. "Why d'you think I was late joining you? But they were taking bloody head counts and names at the door."
"I heard her father was a famous matador," another of the group said now, which got the rest of them contributing to the discussion.
"A what?"
"You know, those Spaniards who actually—"
"Not even close," was said with a hearty laugh. "He's the king of Bulgaria."
"Never heard of it."
"As if that matters—"
"You're both wrong. He's not a king, but a prince, and one from some country where just about everyone's surname has an 'off in it. Means 'son of,' or daughter in the case of the Stephanoff chit."
"Doesn't matter who her father is," someone else pointed out. "Long as her mother's from good English stock, which I've heard on good authority she is, being that her mother was Sir William Thompson's sister."
"So the chit is Thompson's niece?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, that explains why Lady Siddons has taken his niece under her wing. Sir William has been a neighbor of hers for several centuries."
"They're not that old, you dolt. 'Sides, how would you know? You don't run in those circles."
"No, but m'mother certainly does. Who do you think told me that Anastasia Stephanoff was going to be the catch of the season? M'mother almost ordered me to put in my bid for the gel."
"When no one's even met her yet? And why is that? Why keep her under such tight wraps?"
"She might be a guest of Lady Siddons, but that doesn't mean she's been hidden away until her launch tonight. Just means we don't know anyone who has met her yet."
"Well, half the bloody ton's meeting her tonight," another complained. "Why d'you think Adam's so put out, since he didn't get invited."
"Hardly half the ton." This was said dryly, if a touch resentfully. "Pro'bly just those with deep pockets, which don't include us."
"Speak for yourself, old boy," the oldest in the group said smugly. "My pockets are deep enough to suit any would-be husband hunter, but I didn't get invited either. But I'll tell you, Adam, if she's as pretty as I've heard she is, I might just ask for her m'self. Been thinking it's about time to settle down. Actually, m'father's been doing that thinking for me, if you get my drift."
"How do you know she's pretty?"
"Would she be the topic on everyone's mind if she wasn't?" one of them chuckled.
"That hardly signifies. Doesn't take a beauty to become the topic."
"Actually, m'oldest sister heard it from Lady Jennings, who's a dear friend of Lady Siddons, that the Stephanoff chit is uniquely beautiful, sort of a cross between a Spanish Madonna and a wanton Gypsy. Just the thing to intrigue a man, if you ask me."
The conversation continued in the same vein as the young bloods approached the theater, but Christopher slowly came to a halt. It took David and Walter a few moments to realize they'd left him behind. Returning to him, it wasn't hard to see that joining that group hadn't been such a good idea after all. His expression bordered on the furious.
"It was that mention that the chit they were talking about looks like a Gypsy," David guessed with a grimace. "What rotten luck."
But Walter said in a reasonable tone, "You know, Kit, you've refused to talk to us about that Gypsy of yours, why she left you when you'd offered to keep her in fine style, why you've been so angry about it. What are friends for, if not to hash things out with?"
"I never even told you her full name, did I?" Christopher said.
David, coming up with pretty good guesses tonight, exclaimed, "Good God, you're not going to say her name's Anastasia Stephanoff, are you?"
"The same."
"But you can't think .'..?''
"Not bloody likely." Christopher snorted.
"Then don't let it bother you, Kit, if it's no more than a coincidence, that the two women share the same name," Walter suggested.
"A damned strange coincidence," Christopher replied, his original scowl a bit more pronounced. "Especially considering it's not a name that is even remotely common to England. Besides, I just don't like coincidences that happen to be that coincidental."
"Don't blame you a'tall. Definitely strange. But let's get back to your Anna," Walter tried again. "Why did she leave you?"
Walter was pushing it. If Christopher had wanted to discuss his Gypsy with them, he would have done so before now. Yet considering the flaming jealousy he'd just experienced, when he knew those young men weren't even talking about his Anna, well, he obviously did need to talk about it, if only to get his mind off of that other girl, who was running around with his Anna's name.
So he said curtly, "Because she objected to my thinking and saying she was my mistress."
"Thinking?" David latched on to that word. "I know you got quite foxed the day before. Did you forget to square away the formalities and ask her?"
"No, I did some asking, but apparently not what I'd intended to ask," Christopher mumbled. "Seems instead of making her my mistress, I made her my wife."
Their identical shocked expressions merely confirmed why he should have kept this to himself. A man in his position just didn't make such appalling blunders.
David was the first to recover from his surprise. But he didn't point out the obvious, which Christopher wouldn't have appreciated, having said it enough times himself. Everyone knew what he'd done just wasn't done.
And his tone was deliberately calm as he said, "Well, that proves Thompson's niece really isn't the same girl, just in case we were doubting it a'tall. Your wife wouldn't be launching herself in the tried-and-true husband-hunting fashion, now would she?"
Walter rolled his eyes at that reasoning, but what he wanted to know was, "How does one get so drunk that they don't recall getting married?"
"By drinking too much, obviously," Christopher replied in self-disgust.
"I suppose," Walter allowed. "But of course, you've rectified the situation?"
"Not yet," Christopher mumbled so softly, he barely heard himself.
Walter certainly missed it, and rather than take the hint that Christopher obviously didn't want to answer, he asked for clarification. "What was that?"
"I said not yet!"
The explosive answer still didn't stop his next question, "Whyever not?"
"Damned if I know." Christopher scowled.
David and Walter exchanged knowing looks at that point, but it was David who expressed their thoughts with, "Then perhaps we should hope that, for whatever strange reason she might have been in that Gypsy camp, your 'wife' and Sir William's niece are one and the same, after all. I'd make a call at the Siddons household tomorrow, indeed I would, were I you, Kit. Be nice if you were pleasantly surprised."