by Shana Galen
Lady Pavenley had dark hair, almost blue black, and deep violet eyes. She was tall and regal and quite voluptuous. Lady Isabella had chestnut hair with tones of red in it that Daphne was never quite sure were actually natural. She had large breasts that always looked like they might spill out of her low-cut gowns. They had done so on more than one occasion, and the result had been poets who wrote sonnets to her ruddy nipples and pale orbs.
But the three were not friends, though they put on a show for the eyes of Society. In reality, they were enemies who had called a truce because if they’d gone to war they would have ruined each other so thoroughly that only a few scraps of hair and a bit of lace would have remained.
Instead, they ruined or elevated others. One nod from the Three Suns toward a debutante and the girl was sure to be a success. One cross word about her dress and she would have to leave Town in disgrace.
Daphne had no thirst for blood. It wasn’t until after a Season or two that she realized the power her favor or censure held. She’d ruined a girl’s chances at a good match completely by accident. If she’d been in a foul mood and frowned in the direction of an unmarried young lady, the ton would follow suit.
These days Daphne tried not to smile or frown at any unmarried ladies, but the other two suns were not so kind. They relished their power and status. Lately, Daphne had grown rather tired of the ton and the endless social engagements. She wanted something more than mind-numbing chatter and endless gossip.
“Where is dear Mr. FitzRoy tonight?” Lady Isabella asked. It was the question one or the other of them asked every time they were together. Surely they knew she had no idea, but it was undoubtedly interesting to see how she would justify his absence over and over again. His absence was humiliating, and the other Suns made sure to humiliate her as often as they could.
Daphne knew FitzRoy was back from the war. She’d heard he was living with his sisters and father in the country. But lately he’d been seen in London, so he must have a residence here. As a woman, she couldn’t very well search him out.
And he hadn’t bothered to search for her, though she was not difficult to find.
Unless she wanted to admit she hadn’t seen her own husband in seven years, Lady Daphne had little choice but to play along with the Suns’ game. “You know him,” she said, though of course none of them knew Colin FitzRoy. “He has important work to do.”
“What sort of work?” Lady Pavenley asked with a sneer.
“War hero work,” Daphne said, then added, “He mentioned deciphering a document. It’s top secret, of course. He cannot even tell me what the coded missive contains.”
The two ladies looked interested, despite themselves. Daphne knew they didn’t want to believe her, but they were not quite sure if some of what she said could be true. One day she’d be exposed for the liar she was and publicly humiliated.
That night was not tonight.
Unless the Earl of Battersea found her. He was making his way across the ballroom now, and this was her last chance to escape. “I think I shall find the ladies’ retiring room,” she said, turning to go.
“I’ll go with you,” Lady Isabella said.
Not wanting to be left alone, Lady Pavenley also moved. “I shall go too.”
There was safety in numbers, but it was temporary. She had to escape the ball, and she couldn’t do it with the Suns circling her. Walking ahead a bit, she spotted the young son of a peer. He looked as though he’d been scrubbed and shaved within an inch of his life. The still soft flesh of his jaw was ruddy from the razor yet. As she passed him, she grasped his arm and whispered, “Lady Isabella wants to dance with you. Go and ask her.”
The lad’s eyes widened, but he didn’t waste any time stepping before Isabella and bowing almost into her bosom, effectively detaining her. That tactic would not work with Lady Pavenley. She was too tall and imposing to be approached by a man who didn’t know her. Instead, Daphne scooted past a woman about her own mother’s age. She nodded in greeting then said, “Lady Pavenley is looking for Lord Pavenley. Could you help her?” The matron’s nostrils flared with interest, like a hound scenting prey. And she arrowed straight for Lady Pavenley while Daphne slipped out of the ballroom.
Once free of the ballroom, she looked left then right. She couldn’t very well walk out the front door. People were still arriving, and she would be seen. It might be a half hour before her carriage could be found, and by that time Battersea would find her. That meant she would need to go out the back, past the mews. Once on the street she could hail a hackney and go home. She’d send one of her father’s footmen to tell the coachman to return to the duke’s town house.
Most of the town houses in London were quite similar in layout, and it did not take her long to find the servants’ back door and exit along a dark path. At the end of it, she saw a gate and, on the other side, the row of mews. Thank God. She was free of Battersea and free of all the whispers and speculation about her absent husband. She started along the path, careful of her footing as it was dark. Too late she saw the man step out before her. He was large and dark, a cloak obscuring his body and a hat pulled low on his forehead.
She gasped and stumbled backward, almost losing her balance. Was he a thief? A murderer?
“Lady Daphne,” he said.
The use of her name did little to quell her fear. “How do you know my name?” It couldn’t be Battersea. She’d just seen him inside.
“How do you not know mine?” He lifted his head and removed his hat, bowing to her in a sort of mocking way. It might have been dark, but she knew those features.
“FitzRoy,” she whispered.
He arched a brow at her. “Let’s find somewhere we can talk, wife.”
Two
Colin had been watching her for the last hour. He hadn’t wanted to see his wife, but the Duchess of Warcliffe had harassed him for weeks. Finally, he had agreed to go to this ball if only his mother-in-law would leave him in peace for a little while. He hadn’t intended to speak to Lady Daphne. She need never know he was even in attendance. He was good at blending in. He kept to the edges and the corners and didn’t look anyone directly in the eye. He’d stood next to men he’d known at school and ladies he had danced with at other balls, and no one had noticed him.
That was why in the army Colin had been called The Pretender.
He could have contented himself just watching Lady Daphne. Her mother had said she was in trouble, but nothing looked amiss to Colin. As he had observed on several other occasions, she laughed with her friends, she danced with several gentleman, she sipped champagne. Obviously, the Duchess of Warcliffe had lied to him in order to force a meeting between himself and Daphne. Colin should have just gone home as he had other nights. He didn’t need to speak to Daphne, and yet, here he was.
Now that she knew who he was, the terror in her eyes had fled, replaced by skepticism. “So now you want to talk, do you?” Her voice was as sharp and cold as ice.
Colin allowed himself a half smile. It was the perfect jab; he would give her that. He could hardly blame her for stabbing at him, considering she’d had nary a word from him since he’d left for the army. “I would like a word, yes. Unless I’m interrupting other plans. A clandestine meeting? There’s no one else out here. I looked.”
“I’m tired. I want to go home.” That wasn’t like her. The Daphne he knew always danced until dawn. But the Daphne he knew didn’t creep out the back.
“Sneaking out of a ball through the servants’ door. Why?”
She put a hand on her waist, probably intending to look stern. But it was difficult to take her too seriously in her pink frothy dress covered in twenty-eight bows. Yes, twenty-eight. He had counted.
“That is not your concern,” she said.
One bow on each sleeve.
She frowned. “Honestly, I can’t see how I am any of your concern.”
One bow at her bodice and one at the middle of her back.
“I haven’t seen you for sev
en years,” she continued.
Four rows of four bows each down the length of her skirt, two rows in front and two in back.
“And now you pop out of nowhere and have the gall to question me.”
Eight bows circling the hem of the dress.
“We have to speak at some point. We’re still married,” he observed wryly.
“That’s not my fault!”
“Nor mine.” But they had to confront it at some point. Why not tonight? He offered his arm. “Let’s go.”
She looked at his arm and then at his face. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. When he had spotted her tonight, he’d felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. She was so beautiful. She’d been beautiful when he married her, but she’d also been quite young. She hadn’t really grown into her mouth or her eyes, and they’d looked almost too big for her face. But she looked absolutely breathtaking now. Her silvery blond hair was piled on her head with a long curl falling over one mostly bare shoulder. Her brows were slightly darker than her hair and perfectly arched, her lashes almost black—something he assumed was helped along by cosmetics—and her eyes were of the deepest blue. It was hard to see anything but those eyes, they were so compelling, so vibrant, but if his gaze strayed to her cheekbones, he could see her face had thinned a bit and looked more sculpted. Her lips were his undoing, though. They were plump and red and such a perfect bow.
He fondly remembered kissing those lips.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “That is, if I choose to go with you.”
That was a good question. He’d intended to go to the Draven Club after he’d checked in on her at the ball, but he couldn’t very well take her there. And he couldn’t take her home. They couldn’t talk privately with her father, mother, and siblings frowning at him and giving him cutting looks. “Mayne House,” he said on a whim.
Her brows came together. “Where?”
“The residence of the Duke of Mayne. I happen to know he’s been spending a great deal of time in Berkshire on business”—if one considered a new wife business—“and his door is always open to me.” Colin had taken advantage of his friend’s generosity on several occasions already this Season. Colin had only returned from the Continent and his army duties about eighteen months ago. He’d gone to his father’s country estate to help with various matters there. And then, just as he’d settled in, he’d been summoned to London by his former commander, Lieutenant Colonel Draven, for help with matters pertaining to the remaining Survivors.
He’d known Daphne would be in London, and he’d known he wasn’t ready to see her yet. So he’d moved into his own family’s town house. Lately, it had been rather crowded as all three of his sisters were in residence.
“Are any of Mayne’s servants at his town house?” she asked.
“A small contingent, yes.” He wiggled his still extended arm. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to be alone with me.” Not unless she wanted to, and he rather doubted she would ever want to be alone with him again.
“Very well.” She took his arm, laying her hand on his sleeve so lightly he couldn’t even feel the weight of it. “I haven’t called for my carriage.”
“We can walk. Mayne House is only a block away.” He looked down at her bare arms, the thin muslin of her dress, and whatever that gauzy material was called. It was a mild spring evening but perhaps a bit too cold to walk about so exposed. Already he could see gooseflesh on the bared skin of her chest. He had the urge to put his hands there and warm her. Instead, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
She gave him a long look then put her hands through the sleeves. The coat looked ridiculously large on her, but he liked seeing her in it. Of course, with her hands tucked in the sleeves, she no longer held onto him. He went ahead and opened the gate, holding it for her as she stepped through it and onto the lane running alongside the mews.
Once they were on their way, she said, “What do you want to talk about?”
He shrugged. He had rather figured she would carry the conversation. “You still haven’t told me why you were sneaking away from the ball.”
“And you haven’t told me why you were at the ball. Did you even have an invitation?”
“I believe your invitation included me.”
“Oh,” she said, confirming his supposition. “But if you’d mentioned your name, surely all of the guests would have been talking about your presence. Someone would have mentioned it to me. Your absence at every social function I have attended since your return from the war has been noted.” Her voice sounded brittle and accusatory. She’d undoubtedly had to deal with the brunt of the curiosity about their estrangement. He was sorry for that now. It would have been much more convenient for her if he’d died in the war.
“And what do you tell people when they ask?” His voice held a note of idle curiosity, but he very much wanted to know the answer.
“This and that.” They turned onto a wide street lined with trees, and tucked behind the trees, stone mansions with bright windows and flowers blooming in boxes at the windows. It was quiet enough in Mayfair to hear an owl hoot or an insect chirp. Most of the ton was still out for the night.
“Do elaborate,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back as they walked. “I might need to know what this or that refers to if asked.”
“Are you mocking me?”
He looked at her. “No.” He spoke sincerely. He was not the sort of man to mock anyone but himself.
“Tonight I said you were deciphering a coded document.”
“Code breaking?” He stopped in disbelief. “I know nothing of code breaking.”
She rounded on him and put her hands on her hips again—or at least where he assumed her hips might be as his coat made her look like an amorphous shape. “And how would I know what you can or cannot do? It sounded like something a war hero would do, and everyone says you are a war hero.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose where a headache bloomed. “I’m not a war hero.” Without pausing to see if she followed, he began walking again.
“But were you not part of that special team?”
“It was a troop, and I would not call it special.”
“Well, I once danced with Rafe Beaumont at a ball, and he said you saved his life in France.”
That sounded like the sort of thing Rafe would tell her. He would think he was doing Colin a favor and perhaps even playing matchmaker to mend the fences between Colin and Daphne. But Rafe had left for America some months ago and Colin hadn’t heard from him since. “When did you dance with Beaumont?” He sounded irritated, though he hadn’t meant to. Rafe was a known womanizer, and women couldn’t seem to resist throwing themselves at his feet. Colin knew he had no say over who Daphne did or did not throw herself at, but he rather hoped it wasn’t his friend and fellow member of the Survivors.
“It was last Season, I think. Early in the Season. He spent a quarter of an hour extolling your virtues. So you needn’t be envious.”
Colin threw her a disgusted look. “I am not envious.”
“No, you wouldn’t be.”
He wasn’t certain what reply he should make to that, but he was saved from having to do so when he saw Mayne House. “It’s just there,” he said, pointing to it.
“It’s dark, and there’s no knocker.” She slowed, putting a hand to her throat. He remembered that she often did that when she was uncertain about something.
“I told you, he is out of town.”
“How do you know the Duke of Mayne?”
“We served together with your friend Rafe.”
“He’s not my friend. I danced with him. I dance with a lot of men.”
“So I gather. And if I’d known Rafe would come back and tell you all sorts of stories about me, I wouldn’t have saved his life.”
“Ha!” She pointed a finger at him. “You did save his life.”
“We all saved each other’s lives. Except when we didn’t.”
He started up the steps and tapped on the front door. He had to tap rather loudly as she was right and there was no knocker. Finally, Banks, the butler at Mayne House, opened the door. “Mr. FitzRoy.” He stepped back to admit him, his eyes flicking to Lady Daphne but saying nothing. “You are home early, sir.”
“You know my wife, Banks,” Colin said. “Lady Daphne.”
Banks bowed. “I have not had the pleasure, my lady. Welcome.”
“Thank you.” She allowed the butler to take Colin’s coat and Colin was treated to the sight of that pink gown again. The bows were infuriating enough, but the neckline made his jaw clench. It was not scandalous—nothing like her friend Lady Isabella wore—but it was just low enough to hint at the glory that were her breasts beneath it. The half-moons of her pale flesh rose and fell from the lace edging of her bodice every time she breathed.
“Lady Daphne and I would speak in the parlor, if that is acceptable.” Colin gestured to a closed door on the right. It was a small chamber with several comfortable chairs and a writing desk.
“Of course. Would you like me to send for tea or other refreshments?”
“No, Banks. We just need a few minutes.”
Banks snapped his fingers at a maid who had appeared. “We’ll just have the fire lit for you then.”
When the maid had finished and scurried out of the parlor, Colin closed the door and turned to Daphne. “So, what sort of trouble are you in?”
DAPHNE PAUSED IN THE midst of taking a seat on one of the luxurious chairs upholstered in pale green. How could he possibly know? She and Battersea had an agreement.
FitzRoy pointed at her. “Interesting. When your mother came to me saying you were in trouble, I doubted her. You didn’t act like a person in trouble. But now I can see the guilt all over your face. You are in trouble.”
