by Liana Lefey
“Th-thank you,” choked Lady Grenville—Lucille—before apparently remembering she was never supposed to speak to or even acknowledge a woman of Diana’s ilk. Color flooded back into her face, chasing away the pallor of a moment ago.
Diana’s smile broadened. Too late now! The door had been flung wide and an invitation issued. “And how is Lord Grenville? Also well, I hope?” she said, her tone belying the sentiment.
Her opponent answered as though it were being dragged out of her. “Y-yes. Quite well.”
“How lovely for you both. Allow me to offer my felicitations on the arrival of your daughter.” How disappointed Grenville must have been! The guarantee of male issue had been one of his main points when negotiating a match with her uncle.
“Thank you,” repeated Lucille weakly, her eyes darting to those avidly drinking in the spectacle. She paled again and swayed slightly.
For a moment, Diana thought the traitorous wretch might actually faint. As she stared into her former friend’s miserable, pleading eyes, she marked the violet shadows beneath them and the fine lines etched beside her once ever-smiling mouth. She’d thought to shame Lucille, but now she saw the woman was not only embarrassed to the soles of her feet, but absolutely terrified.
Suddenly, there was no more pleasure to be had in the confrontation. Diana searched for the words to release them both, wanting—needing—to say something that would forever rid her of the pain of this woman’s betrayal. It’s time to move on. “I’m pleased for you, Lucille.”
The use of her opponent’s Christian name elicited faint noises of disapproval from their audience.
It was a good thing Diana didn’t give a tinker’s dam what they thought. “My mother once said sons are a necessity, but daughters are a mother’s blessing and joy. For all that it’s ephemeral, I wish you and your daughter good health and happiness. Good evening, Lady Grenville.”
Brows shot up and gasps erupted as she dipped a small curtsy.
Too late, Diana remembered her décolletage.
The silently trembling Lucille appeared at a complete loss for words, so Diana did the merciful thing and turned without waiting for a response. Head high and heart in her toes, she walked away. That had brought her no satisfaction and no joy. Yes, Lucille had stolen her fiancé and caused her to become a pariah, but it appeared she’d been ill rewarded for her theft.
Truth be told, Diana counted herself fortunate she’d escaped Grenville. Married life rarely afforded women the sort of freedom she now enjoyed.
“Happy in your triumph, my dear?” whispered Harrow at her ear, making her turn in surprise.
“Quite pleased. Is it done?”
“It is. Are you ready?”
“I am,” she lied, wanting nothing more than for him to take her home.
A group of men standing to one side caught her attention. Pressing closer to Harrow, she softly cleared her throat. When he looked down at her with questioning eyes, she flicked her gaze toward the men. Chuckling, he shifted his hand a little lower to rest on the small of her back and altered their path.
When Lord Bolingbroke’s companions fell silent, he turned to follow the direction of their gazes. All at once, his cheeks took on the appearance of ripe pomegranates as he spied her.
Though she’d tweaked his nose many times since he’d cast her out, Diana still took immense satisfaction in it. His discomfiture was a sweet balm. She flashed the bastard an impudent grin, relishing the strangled noise he made as she brushed past.
A quarter of an hour later, Diana tossed her head and laughed as if delighted, although Lord Atworth’s flattery was far from inspiring. “Such a high compliment, my lord. You’ll make me blush,” she said, bringing up her fan to hide cheeks that were, in fact, quite cool—all the while encouraging him with her eyes in a game she’d practiced until it had become second nature. Beside her, Harrow looked on with an approving eye.
She warmed beneath his silent praise. It was of utmost importance that she be as desirable as possible. The more his peers lusted after her, the better. As long as their comments remained favorable and admiring, he would remain well pleased.
“Harrow, I vow you’re the luckiest man alive,” said Atworth, licking his thick lips. He winked broadly, apparently unaware he’d just sloshed wine all down the front of his jacket. “I’d just about sell my soul to be in your place. If you ever decide to leave him, dear goddess, I beg you to consider my patronage. I would build you a temple, fill it with delights for your pleasure…” his voice lowered to a suggestive growl, “and worship at your delectable altar every night with utmost devotion.”
Coupled with the leering expression on his fat face, it was just about the worst double entendre she’d ever heard. One bad insinuation deserves another. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid even your most devout worship would fall short of my lord’s nightly offerings.” Turning, she favored Harrow with a smoldering gaze and stroked his silk-clad forearm, giving it a light squeeze.
Atworth’s eyes widened until she could see the whites all around. Then great guffaws began to erupt from his portly person. “Ho-ho! Harrow, I’ll say it again: You’re the luckiest fellow alive!”
“Indeed,” murmured Harrow, taking up her wayward hand to kiss the tips of her fingers. “I can only count myself the most fortunate of men.” He smiled down at her. “Shall we dance, my love?” Without bothering to excuse himself, he tucked her hand beneath his elbow and led her away.
“Better?” she murmured as they waited for the dance to begin.
“Brilliant, now we’ve extricated ourselves. It’s time to provide further grist for the mill,” he whispered, tilting her face up with a finger beneath her chin.
Letting her eyes drift halfway shut, Diana tipped her head back and favored him with the sultry smile she’d practiced. Her ears pricked at the faint gasps that sounded from a nearby group of ladies as her ‘patron’ dropped a kiss on her exposed throat, another on her jaw, and another by the corner of her mouth. She repressed a smirk.
Another face drew her attention. It caught her eye because it wore neither a look of disapproval nor one of outright lust, but rather one of amused interest. It was a handsome face, too. One raven brow cocked in acknowledgment of her attention.
She looked away, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks. “Who is that gentleman over there? The dark-haired one by the pillar?” she asked Harrow.
“That is Viscount Blackthorn, recently returned from abroad.”
“He’s staring at us.”
“No, my dear, he’s staring at you.” He chuckled. “And well he should, for you are quite the loveliest woman here tonight. A man of his reputation would be remiss if he failed to notice you.”
“His reputation?”
“Mm. It’s very nearly as wicked as yours,” murmured her protector, smiling. “Blackthorn was sent abroad by his father out of desperation to keep his heir atop the grass. He’s been in numerous duels, most of them over some woman.”
“You mean like the one you face tomorrow?” Diana said, not bothering to mask her displeasure.
“Just so,” he answered easily. “You need not be concerned. My opponent lacks any skill with a sword or pistol. His ineptness is the stuff of legend.”
“Accidents happen,” she said darkly. “He could get lucky.”
His answering smile was grim. “I don’t allow for such things as luck.”
She ducked her head. No, indeed he didn’t. When Harrow aimed at a target—whether with bullet or blade—it fell. His deadly speed and precision were no surprise to Diana. The man practiced both sword and pistol several times a week with a master.
With monumental effort, she put the duel out of her mind. I’ll fret about it tomorrow morning. Her eyes wandered back to where Lord Blackthorn was standing, still observing them. His steady stare was disconcerting. It felt as if he could see right through her disguise. As if he somehow knew she was a lie. “I hope that one causes us no trouble.”
Fol
lowing her gaze, Harrow let out a low laugh. “As do I, but for different reasons, I surmise.”
She tore her eyes away, annoyed at her own transparency. “You know I would never—”
“I do know,” he agreed, his manner placating. “But I also know this cannot last forever. And it should not. You are young and beautiful, Diana. And someday, you’ll encounter a man who touches your heart. When that happens, it will be the end of our arrangement.”
“I promised you five—”
“And I told you I would not hold you to that number. This arrangement is for our mutual benefit. As long as you are happy to remain with me, Diana, I’ll continue to protect you. But whenever you deem it time to leave and make a new life for yourself, I shall allow you your freedom without any reservations.” His dark eyes grew sad. “Knowing as I do what it is to love someone and have to keep it a secret, I would never impose such a condition on you.”
She felt her own eyes filling and blinked to keep the tears at bay. Tears would be completely out of character and immediately questioned. A brazen mistress such as herself couldn’t afford to display such sentimentality. “You are a good man, my lord. I wish—”
“I know,” he interrupted softly. “But none of us can change the way things are, and so the truth must remain a secret—for all our sakes.”
It was a stark reminder of exactly what was at stake. Nodding, she pasted on a bright smile for the benefit of those watching, including Blackthorn, and moved to the proper starting position for the dance.
Later that evening as their carriage wended its way toward her home, she reflected on her encounter with Lucille. The woman she’d seen tonight was a vastly different person than she remembered. Lucy, the friend of her childhood, had always been a cheerful little sprite of a thing, alive with mirth and constantly into mischief. Life with Grenville had taken its toll on her and had clearly changed her into someone else.
Life as a fallen woman has done much the same to me. It was a sobering thought. For all that her external life was a facade, she, too, had changed. Her eyes had been opened, her reality transformed by knowledge. The world is never as it seems on the surface. Secrets abound in every life.
“When will René arrive?” she asked, keeping her voice low even though there was no danger of being overheard.
“One hour past. I presume all is ready?”
“Indeed,” she confirmed. “However, I feel I ought to tell you the new maid you hired may be cause for some concern.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “She crossed herself when I told her you and another gentleman would be dining with us and were likely to stay until morning. I saw it in the mirror. I fear she won’t last the night.”
“Don’t worry yourself overmuch.” Harrow’s face twisted into a wry grin. “As long as she labors under the intended assumption, any tales that leave with her will only work in our favor. And we’ll take extra care to give her the right impression. Won’t be too difficult—René loves to give a good performance. He would have been a great actor had he not been born with such a love of music.”
“I believe it,” she said soberly. “His disguises are both clever and complete. Even I failed to recognize him the last time. I just hope the girl doesn’t run screaming from the house like that one we had a few months ago. I thought the neighbors were going to call out the guard—it’s not the least bit amusing!” she scolded, frowning as he chuckled. “I have to live there, you know.”
“Not for much longer,” he said, catching her by surprise. “I’ve wanted to relocate you to somewhere closer to me for some time now. As fortune would have it, I’ve managed to quietly acquire Number Nine, Old Burlington Street. It belonged to Baron Uxton, who was having it renovated when he died. His widow decided to sell it. It’s very nearly finished. I shall, of course, leave the decorating to you.”
The thought of living in one of London’s most fashionable boroughs should have made her woman’s heart beat faster, but it didn’t. Still, she could hardly refuse. “What of my current residence?”
“Let it out, if you like, or sell it. It’s sure to fetch a nice sum either way.”
He said it just as they pulled to a stop in front of her townhouse. She looked up at her front door, already missing the cozy rooms behind it. “When?”
“A fortnight.”
“So soon?”
He must have heard the reluctance in her voice. “If you truly wish to remain here, I won’t force you to leave.”
Guilt assaulted her. They might be good friends now, but she’d been hired to make it easier for him to live—and love—as he desired. “I’ll be happy to go wherever you wish. I did not mean to sound ungrateful, it’s just that since my parents died this is the first place I’ve truly thought of as home.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “And if you wish to retain it, I won’t object. That said, the new residence is quite a bit larger, stands alone, and boasts a proper garden in the back.”
Now that pricked her interest. Her current abode had only a small, glassed-in conservatory. She’d longed for a real garden for some time.
“Lord Fane lives to the north,” he went on as a footman rushed up to assist them in disembarking. “Cork runs to the west immediately behind—all townhomes, there, with the exception of the two houses behind yours—and in the house to the east is Lord Mallowby,” continued Harrow quietly as they walked up the steps. “I’ll be only a few minutes away.”
“I suppose living in Mayfair would be more convenient,” she said, biting her lip.
“Yes, and much more private,” he agreed. “We won’t have to worry about your neighbors hearing everything the way we do here.”
And it would be a right rub in my uncle’s face. Old Burlington Road lay just three streets west of Bolingbroke’s residence in Golden Square. Far too close for his comfort, no doubt, and in a much more prestigious neighborhood. Looking up again at her front door, she bid it goodbye in her mind. “I shall make ready,” she told Harrow.
“Excellent. I know you’ll love it. Now let us prepare to once again scandalize London,” he whispered with impish glee.
Chapter Three
Two days later
“Why could it not have been me?” moaned Westing, tossing aside the paper he’d been reading.
Lucas had already read it. The night of the ball, a young maid had fled Lady Diana’s house after bearing witness to what she’d termed “utter depravity” within its confines. The girl claimed Lord Harrow had invited another male guest to join him for an evening with his mistress as hostess. According to the maidservant, they’d plied said guest with strong spirits and then both men had joined Lady Diana in her bedchamber to, as the girl had put it, “engage in such wickedness as warrants eternal Hellfire.”
“You don’t actually believe it, do you?” Lucas scoffed. “Was it not you who told me he’s the jealous sort?”
“This is the second time I’ve heard of him allowing another to enjoy her charms,” said Westing, ruefully shaking his head. “I did not believe the first such rumor.”
“I suppose now you must consider it truth.”
“And a bloody Frenchman, too!” exclaimed Westing with rancor. “Why not let a solid Englishman have a go? It’s an insult, I tell you.”
“You see?” Lucas laughed, settling himself by the fire. “Did I not tell you to make him an offer?”
“It was probably the result of him trying to keep up with that damnable Frenchie,” groused his friend. “Brandy is like mother’s milk to that lot, you know. I’ll wager Harrow barely remembers that night.”
“I have my doubts,” Lucas told him. “The man had a duel the morning after, and I understand he bested his opponent.”
A snort erupted from Westing. “A mewling infant is capable of besting Brampton. Even I, on my worst morning after a good night’s drenching and wenching, could fell him with one shot.”
“Perhaps, but what about with a blade?”
“Was i
t swords?” said the other man with a frown.
“The account I just read said it was,” Lucas affirmed. “A crapulous man would have been at a severe disadvantage, even with a sluggard like Brampton. He most certainly would not have been able to disarm Brampton within seconds and then slap his broad backside with the flat of his blade as the old tosspot bent to retrieve his errant weapon.”
“Bloody hell, did he really?”
Lucas laughed at his friend’s wide-eyed incredulity. “Indeed. And then he bled the poor fellow. Thus, I expect this sordid tale of a threesome is just that—a fanciful exaggeration of far less licentious events.” Through his work for the Foreign Office, he’d come to understand the papers regularly embellished their so-called “witness accounts” in order to feed London’s appetite for gossip. “The wilder the tales, the better the sales” was their philosophy. He’d have to find the author of this piece and ask him how much truth there was to it. “I imagine the maid was paid quite handsomely to attest to such debauchery.”
“Perhaps.” A smile twitched at one corner of Westing’s mouth. “You’ve got to admit, though—it is a hell of a tale. It would not surprise me if even Lady Harrow got her hackles up over it.”
“From what you’ve said of the woman, she’ll likely invite Lady Diana over for tea to discuss the details.” Lucas sipped his sherry and stared into the fire. The truth was that he’d seen Lady Harrow recently, and the woman was, to put it plainly, plain. Lady Diana, however, was anything but plain. He’d only seen her at a distance, of course, but what he’d seen had made him want to weep: honey hair, light eyes, and a form that was lush enough to give a dead man a stiff-stander.
“…going to the Latham party next Wednesday?” Westing was asking.
Stirring himself from his musings, Lucas grimaced in distaste. “Not by choice, but yes.” He sighed at the other man’s askance look. “If I fail to be sociable and attend such events with minimal regularity—even if only for half an hour—my mother forces me to escort her to them. I’d much rather go on my own. Less risk of my neck getting caught in a marital noose.”
