by Liana Lefey
“I can see my friend has managed to vex you,” said Westing with a wry grin.
“Not at all.” She sat. “I’m merely fatigued from the long day.”
But his eyes twinkled knowingly. “Blackthorn has that effect on many people. He’s not a bad sort, really. He simply knows not when to give up.”
That much she’d already gathered. “Then he and I are not unalike, I’m afraid. I can be quite stubborn—or so I’ve been told. It’s a quality that has often landed me in trouble.” She threw him a saucy grin. “As you no doubt know.”
Laughing, he nodded. His gaze then slid away. “I probably ought not to tell you this, but he’s determined to puzzle you out. You, dear lady, are a mystery. And once Blackthorn gets it into his mind to solve a mystery, there is no stopping him until he has his answer.”
Dread tightened her gut. “Oh? I was unaware I was so enigmatic. Pray tell me what it is he wishes to know?” She’d managed to ask it with just the right amount of insouciance.
“Everything,” he answered with a snort. “He told me he met you once during your debut, claimed you were a shy little thing.”
“I was practically still a child,” she said, smiling. “Full of naive ideas. I dare anyone to accuse me of naïveté now.” The seductive laugh she’d practiced for countless hours now came with hardly any effort at all. “After our dance—during which the man practically interrogated me, I might add—I should think he has all the answers he could possibly require.”
“Hardly,” said Westing, grimacing.
Wonderful. Still, she maintained a cheerfully indifferent facade. “Well, I’m afraid he’ll have to settle for what information he’s already gleaned.” Fortune seemed to still be on her side, for she spied Harrow looking for her near the ballroom floor. “My lord, your company has been a true pleasure, but I fear my time with you has come to an end.” She rose.
Turning around, he glanced in the direction of her gaze. “I see.” He turned and bowed, disappointment evident in his eyes. “My lady, you are as lovely a person as any I’ve ever met, and I believe Lord Harrow the luckiest man alive. I do hope that one day you’ll deign to dance with me.”
“I shall be happy to do so at the next event where we are both in attendance,” she promised, smiling.
Westing greeted Harrow and then politely took his leave.
“Why were you not dancing?” asked Harrow as soon as he’d gone.
Grimacing, she told him of her encounter with Blackthorn as well as what Westing had said.
“I should not be too concerned,” said Harrow. “He’ll lose interest soon enough.”
Doubts plagued her, but she held her tongue. “How did your business go?”
“Precisely as anticipated. Where did you hear of Bolingbroke’s plans?” he suddenly asked, changing the subject. “And why did you not mention them before?”
“A new associate of my uncle’s—one possessing very little discretion—spoke out of turn in my presence,” she replied. “I did not tell you about it because I did not wish you to become involved. I had planned to send an anonymous letter, but…”
“I see. Liverpool no doubt thought me far more informed than I am,” he replied, an uncharacteristic frown marring his face. “The man has on numerous occasions tried to recruit me. Now, thanks to you, I’m sure he must think me ready to join the damned Tories.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied with genuine contrition. “I did not know.”
“No matter.” He sighed. “Now, I want to know exactly how you came into such information.”
“Do you remember the Graftons’ dinner party a fortnight past?”
“How can I forget? You nearly caused the man’s wife to sue for divorce.”
“Yes, well a few minutes after you stepped out for a pipe, Grafton told another guest of my uncle’s plan to upset the election.”
“Surely you jest. Grafton would not speak of such matters in front of—”
“I assure you he did,” she cut in, annoyed. “Despite my presence and that of several other ladies playing cards, upon your departure it was as though Grafton felt the room had emptied of all but himself and his friend. They were quiet, and I had to listen carefully, but they were quite candid in their discussion. I can only assume that, like my uncle, they felt such a conversation was beyond a mere female’s comprehension or interest. Birds of a feather, I suppose.” She hadn’t meant to say it with such bile, but it was damned hard not to resent having been treated like part of a room’s decor, even if it had worked to her benefit.
“You really do hate him, don’t you?”
She took a steadying breath. “My personal feelings aside, I don’t agree with my uncle’s views. The country is already divided enough. We need to put an end to the rift and soon, before it grows any worse. Our government must remain stable.” She stopped and pressed a hand to her temple. “Despite my dislike for Bolingbroke, I’ve no desire to see him ruin himself through his bullheadedness, for it would only result in the suffering of my kin.”
Harrow’s reply was so soft she almost missed it. “I thought you’d cut your family out of your heart?”
“I thought I had, too,” she replied sadly. “Over time, I’ve come to realize my aunt was powerless to act any differently than she did. She could no more stand against him than I and had as little choice in the matter. She still has none. As for my cousins, they are completely blameless and at his mercy. Unfortunately, their father is thinking only of his own ambition and not of their safety and security. What I did was for them, to protect them from his folly.”
“I understand,” said Harrow. “I just hope Liverpool is discreet concerning the source of his information. While I fully support our new prime minister, I have no desire to become involved in his schemes and intrigues.”
…
“Is everything to your taste, my dear?” asked Harrow.
“It’s truly lovely, and far grander than I imagined,” Diana answered, a little nervous at just how grand it was. The move to Number Nine, Old Burlington Street had gone smoothly. This morning, a veritable army of men and maidservants had come and cleared her old house out, right down to the last lace doily. It was now evening, and here she was strolling through her new residence arm-in-arm with her benefactor and friend.
“A magnificent jewel deserves a proper setting,” said he. “Kindly remember you are the daughter of a duke. Had your uncle been less of a cowardly fool, you would have married well enough to live in just such a house.”
“That may be so, but there are many who will think me unworthy of such an address.”
Stopping, he faced her with somber eyes. “Their worth is equal only to their purse. Yours is in here, and it is beyond any price,” he said, pointing at her chest. “Never let anyone make you feel unworthy, Diana. Never. And for what you’ve given me, you deserve this and far more,” he added, gesturing to their opulent surroundings.
“Your kindness is beyond measure,” she said, smiling at him with genuine affection. Here, at least, there was no need for pretense. “I bless the day we met, and I’m honored to be your friend.”
His answering smile was just as sincere. “Likewise. Now, what will you do with your old house?”
“I’ve decided to sell it,” she answered after a moment. “When I leave, there must be nothing here to tie me down. I realize that day is still far off, but when the time comes, I want to be able to go quickly and quietly. With any luck, I’ll be long gone before anyone even notices my absence.”
“I feel no shame in admitting I don’t look happily to that day,” said Harrow. “I shall miss your company terribly.”
“And I, yours,” she replied, her eyes smarting. “You and René are my dearest friends. More than that, you’re my family. I truly hope everything works as planned.”
“We shall see.”
His tone was confident, but she marked the crease between his brows. Monsieur René Laurent, his longtime lover and the guest at their recent littl
e “ménage a charade”—though no one would know it thanks to his disguise—was to be installed as her music instructor a fortnight from now. Over the ensuing months, Harrow would publicly take a keen interest in the gentleman’s compositions and become his sponsor. With his wife’s help in the form of an apparent reconciliation, their connection would be solidified with no one being the wiser concerning its true nature. At that point, Diana would no longer be needed to maintain the complex web of deception that had kept her benefactor’s neck from the noose. She’d be free to start her new life.
“This is your bedchamber,” he said, stopping at a door. Opening it wide, he ushered her through with a flourish.
Diana’s mouth hung agape as she entered. Everything was decorated in cream and gold with a pattern of pale pink roses. It was elegant, lavish, and exquisitely feminine. A sweet fragrance filled the room from clusters of matching pink roses in vases set throughout. The coverlet on the bed was sprinkled with petals, and more trailed from it all the way to the door.
“It’s a room for a fairy tale princess,” she murmured, then shook herself out of her daze to bend and scoop up a handful of petals. “A bit overmuch, don’t you think? I can only begin to imagine what people will say when they hear of this.”
“They will say I’m besotted with you.”
She turned to see the wry amusement in his voice reflected in his eyes. “Which is the point of all this, of course.”
“Yes, but I selected the decor especially with you in mind.”
“It could not be more perfect if I’d chosen it myself,” she said, gazing around in delight.
“It was nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Your liking for all things pink made it a simple matter, really.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You asked Minerva.”
A guilty flush rose in his cheeks at the mention of his wife, and his mouth crooked in a half smile. “You know me far too well.”
Laughing, she let him off the hook. “I shall thank her when I see her next which, incidentally, is one week from today.”
He nodded. “I’m glad the two of you became friends. I know not what she’ll do when you leave.”
The fact that she was his wife’s confidante at times made her feel very odd indeed, despite the fact there was nothing more than friendship between her and the lady’s husband. “She’ll make new friends,” she told him softly. “Minerva is sweet and caring. Once they come to know her, they will adore her, just as I do.”
“If only she would take a lover of her own,” he muttered, his shoulders sagging. “Then I should not feel this terrible weight of guilt. She should never have agreed to marry a man who can never love her as a husband ought.”
Diana rested a hand on his sleeve. “Minerva knew the truth long before the wedding and married you with full knowledge of how it would be between you. It was an informed choice on her part.”
“Yes, but she still deserves better.”
“Your wife has what she wants,” she assured him, concerned over his sudden melancholy. “You’ve given her a beautiful home, a son to cherish, and while you may not love her as a husband, you do love her as a friend—her oldest friend who saved her from a terrible fate.”
She’d heard the tale from Minerva’s own lips. On learning her parents were arranging a match on her behalf with a brutish cousin who’d terrified her with uninvited touches and whispered threats, Harrow had offered himself as an alternative. Though she’d known of his preference for men, it had made perfect sense. He’d needed a wife and heir. She’d needed a way out. His lack of desire for her hadn’t bothered Minerva, who was indifferent to all passion save that of a mother for her child. As long as her husband was discreet with his lover, the marchioness was quite happy with her marriage of convenience.
“Rest assured she is content,” Diana continued. “Not all people desire carnal passion.” Unbidden, thoughts of Blackthorn intruded. She pushed them into the darkest corner of her mind.
“Oh, to be one of that happy number,” said Harrow, his gaze hollow. “At times, I almost wish I’d never met René. Had I not, I might have lived the rest of my life—”
“Without knowing love?” she supplied. “You once said a life without love is no life at all. And was it not also you who said we don’t get to choose with whom we fall in love?” His answering sigh told her she’d tipped the balance. She moved to the mirror and tucked a loose curl back into place. “There now, you see? It was inevitable. Now cease your worrying.”
“While we’re on the subject of inevitability, let us discuss you and Blackthorn. He made you feel something, did he not?”
How had he known she was thinking of the man? “I…I suppose I found him somewhat attractive,” she admitted grudgingly. “Which is why I intend to avoid him. We can ill afford distractions.”
Coming up behind her, Harrow placed his hands on her shoulders and sighed. “My dear Diana, if I’m right, Blackthorn intends to be much more than a mere distraction.”
She stilled, alarm stiffening her spine. “You anticipate a problem?”
“I know what it is to be attracted to someone, to be unable to put them out of your mind,” he said. “I saw the way he looked at you when you danced with him. And I saw the way you looked at him. Ever since that night, you’ve been restless and preoccupied.”
“Well of course I was. I was preparing to move across Town,” she offered lamely. But she could see it didn’t fool him.
“Diana, you cannot deny such an attraction—believe me, I know.”
“And just what am I to do about it?” she snapped. “Offer him a night in my bed? He believes me to be your mistress, and I very much doubt you wish to disabuse him of that perception.” She glared at him in the mirror. “No. We proceed according to the plan.”
“And what if he won’t take no for an answer?”
“He will. Of that, I can assure you.” She turned away. “Come now, and show me the rest of this castle you’ve put me in.”
Chapter Five
Closing his eyes, Lucas tried once more to blank out his thoughts and achieve blessed oblivion, but sleep was a fruitless pursuit. Rolling over, he grabbed his pillow and crammed his face in it.
It’s been two bloody weeks! Why am I still thinking about that blasted woman?
It seemed he’d done little else since laying eyes on her. After struggling to find slumber for several more minutes, he finally gave up trying. Rolling over again, he stared up into the dark. Her words burned in his mind: I am a courtesan, my lord. I don’t hide the bargain I’ve made behind hypocrisy and call it by another name…
Plenty of courtesans had crossed his path, and Lady Diana Haversham was definitely not one of them. He’d had abundant time to review and analyze their encounter, and he’d reached the same conclusion every time. The woman wore all of the trappings and played the part well enough to fool most, but her armor lacked the thickness and hard shine of the genuine article, and she’d made several cardinal mistakes.
Again, he thought of the way she spoke and carried herself. Hers was not the reckless manner of one who had no reputation left to lose, and—in spite of her allusion to the contrary—neither was her attitude that of a woman who thought herself a whore. No indeed, she wore her dignity like a royal mantle. Also, he’d never heard any courtesan call her patron “attentive and kind.” Generous, perhaps, but not attentive and kind.
And he’d seen affection in her eyes when she’d looked at Harrow. Affection. Not love. And definitely not lust. What courtesan looked at her patron with affection? Fondness perhaps, but not affection. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between the two, but he could. One could be fond of someone and not feel affection for them. Fondness was what one felt for one’s valet or one’s drinking comrades at pub. Affection was deeper than fondness, but nowhere near love.
Then there was the pain and regret she’d shown at the mention of her betrayal and the life she’d been denied as a result of it. A woman exchanging her favors
for money and security never permitted her negative feelings to be perceived by a potential patron, for she knew that such men paid for pleasure that was blissfully free of any sort of emotional entanglement.
He doubted whether she even suspected her mask was so thin. She was definitely not in love with Harrow. And Harrow was definitely not in love with her. Westing was wrong. They would never marry. Not even if the current Lady Harrow were to drop dead tomorrow. For some reason this thought greatly pleased him.
Now that he’d determined once and for all his stance on the matter, curiosity ate at him. What was she to Harrow, really? And what was he to her? What was she like when she wasn’t pretending to be a courtesan? Was she indeed content with her life?
As Lucas at last began to nod off, one coherent question stuck out from amongst all of the other disjointed thoughts meandering through his mind: if happiness was subjective, then what constituted happiness for Lady Diana? On the heels of that question followed another: What constitutes happiness for me?
In spite of the restless night, the cursed internal timepiece that awakened him at precisely eight o’clock every morning was without fail. Grudgingly, he rose and called for his valet, who responded bearing the coffee his employer required in order to properly function. Gulping it down, Lucas dressed and made ready.
There was no time to waste, for this was a red-letter day. It was moving day, and his prestigious new address awaited its lord and master’s arrival. Number Five, Cork Street had quite literally fallen into his hands by means of a card game played only days after his arrival back in London. Happy chance had provided him with an overly confident opponent in the brash—and now much wiser—Honorable Mr. Rothschild, as well as plenty of witnesses to back his claim to the forfeit. Rothschild had not possessed the means to offer him a substitute of equal value and had had no choice but to honor the wager.
