Widow in White

Part One: The Mistress - Chapter One: Feminine Company

— One Year Later —

Richard stepped down from the carriage, wincing as the familiar pain shot up his right leg when he hit the ground. He was sure the pain was getting worse. He was getting old, or rheumatic, or fat, or— a tinkle of feminine, flirtatious laughter floated out from the open door of the mansion in front of him —cowardly.

Yes. There was something about feminine company that made his crippled knee decidedly worse. He should have stayed home in bed. For his health. Yes. That would have undeniably been the wisest course. But Lord Brocket had been one of his father's closest friends, and, even if there had been no love lost between father and son, Richard could not lightly turn down Brocket's invitation.

With a sigh, Richard thanked his groom and limped up the steps of the house. At the door, a butler stepped officiously forward, halting his progress.

"Your card, Sir?"

Irritated by the formality, Richard took his card from his pocket and handed it over. Lord Brocket had said it would be an intimate, relaxed dinner, but every candle in the grand chandelier was lit, and the pile of cards in the silver bowl on the hall table suggested dozens of guests had already arrived.

"Your cloak, my lord?

Richard unclasped his cloak and let it fall from his shoulders, revealing his stunted, narrow form. He felt a stab of blunt jealousy as a tall, broad footman came forward to take it from him. An absurd jealousy, Richard thought self-critically; even more absurd for the fact that if it weren't for the sound of distinctly feminine voices from the next room, he wouldn't be feeling it at all.

"And your cane, my lord?"

"The cane comes with me."

The butler's gaze dropped to the thick, ugly walnut cane Richard held in his left hand. The gleaming copper handle, shaped like a boar's head, leered out from between his fingers. A faint sneer of distaste rose briefly to the butler's lips.

But only briefly. He perfected his expression once more and moved smoothly to the doorway of the salon. Richard limped after him, banging his cane savagely on the marble tiles.

As they reached the door, one of the footmen beat a gong. For a moment, the room quietened, and scores of pale faces turned curiously to Richard before turning disinterestedly away again. It was a reaction he was used to, perhaps even a better reaction than the sympathetic curiosity his lame leg sometimes elicited, but somehow tonight it galled him.

"Lord Albroke," announced the butler.

Richard had good hearing and managed to catch one or two murmurs as he limped forward to greet his host:

"...father died a few months ago..."

"...got a fortune, lucky bastard..."

"...worth it to be a countess..."

Or perhaps they didn't care if he did hear. While his father had commanded respect and fear from the ton, Richard had never managed to command anything more powerful than indifference or sycophantism. Even now that he had inherited his father's title and become the Earl of Albroke, little had changed. The indifferent continued to be indifferent; the sycophants continued to be sycophants.

Lord Brocket came forward from the crowd to greet Richard with a wide, thin-lipped smile. "Good to see you, Albroke," he said. "I'm glad you came. How's the leg?"

How's the leg? Why was it always the first thing people asked?

"As usual," Richard said stiffly, shaking hands.