by Burke, Darcy
The mystery of how he’d ended up at Jane’s still bothered him, but only because he wanted to be grateful for whatever—or whoever—had driven him there. What if it had just been him? He’d found himself nearby, and, for some reason, he’d gone there, maybe recalling that it was Miss Lennox’s house. He wasn’t sure he believed he could have purposely done something that had turned out to be so helpful. He had a history of incredibly bad decisions with even worse results.
If he hadn’t allowed his gambling losses to get the better of him. If he hadn’t borrowed money from the Vicar. If he’d gone to Oaklands instead of his parents.
Then he’d be dead instead of them.
He deserved nothing less. And as he looked across the square toward where Jane was likely tucked into her bed, he knew she deserved far better.
Anthony turned and walked into the night.
* * *
Anxiety tripped through Jane as she strolled into the drawing room at Brixton Park. She smoothed her right hand over her left forearm, adjusting her glove while surveying the room. Phoebe had told her there would be sixteen attendees at the dinner, and most planned to spend the night. Jane had wanted to ask for the guest list outright, but had stopped short of that.
Anthony wasn’t there.
She exhaled in disappointment but had to admit she wasn’t terribly surprised. Perhaps he knew she would be here and wanted to continue avoiding her. She’d sent him a note that morning asking how he was faring. It seemed the kind thing to do since she’d overseen at least the start of his recovery. She was also just plain curious. Because she cared about him.
It seemed, however, he did not return the sentiment.
Jane pushed him from her mind. He wasn’t the reason this dinner was important anyway. It was Lady Satterfield, and she was here. That made Jane smile with anticipation.
Phoebe came toward her. “You look lovely, Jane. Is that a new gown?”
“It is,” Jane said, glancing down at the pink confection with its sheer overlay that shimmered in the candlelight. “Thank you for leaving me a small allowance,” she added quietly.
“Thank you for letting me. I know your parents won’t give you a farthing.”
That was true. Jane touched Phoebe’s hand briefly. “I am so grateful for your generosity. And your friendship.”
“As I am for yours.” Phoebe’s eyes sparkled with warmth. “Now, to the matter at hand. Shall we go speak with Lady Satterfield?”
“Yes, please.”
As they made their way across the drawing room, Jane noted some of the other people in attendance, including Phoebe’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Clare, and the Earl and Countess of Sutton. The Duchess of Clare’s sister, the Countess of St. Ives, or Fanny, as she was known to Jane, was a good friend.
Jane noted that the Duke of Clare had once gone by the moniker the Duke of Desire while the Earl of Sutton had been known as the Duke of Deception. It occurred to Jane that she, as an outcast, ought to feel right at home with this group, and the realization made her smile.
“What?” Phoebe asked as they neared Lady Satterfield.
“I was just noticing that this party is rife with people like us, those that don’t necessarily fit into Society’s expectations.”
“You’re right. Well, we must band together.” Phoebe looped her arm through Jane’s with a grin.
They arrived at Lady Satterfield, whose husband had just departed to go speak with some other guests.
“Lady Satterfield, you know Miss Jane Pemberton?” Phoebe said, taking her arm from Jane.
The Countess of Satterfield was a tall woman in her late fifties. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray and dressed in a regal style that perfectly matched her bearing. She looked at Jane with warm welcome in her gray eyes. “Of course. How lovely to see you, Miss Pemberton.”
Jane dipped a curtsey. “Good evening, my lady.”
Lady Satterfield looked between Jane and Phoebe. “How is your Spitfire Society? You’re down a member with Her Grace, the Duchess of Halstead, gone from town.” She referred to Arabella, who was at her husband’s country seat and would be for the duration of the Season. They had much to do there.
“We are currently adding members,” Jane said. “And we are focusing our efforts on supporting a charitable organization, such as a hospital or workhouse.” She glanced toward Phoebe. “I saw Lady Gresham yesterday on Bond Street, and she mentioned a hospital that, er, helps women in Whitechapel.”
Lady Satterfield clasped her hands together and smiled. “Well, that sounds wonderful. It’s too bad I can’t be a spitfire too, for I would love to participate in supporting such a cause.”
Was there any reason she couldn’t? Jane looked at Phoebe in question, and she seemed to have the same thought, because she lifted her shoulder and nodded.
Jane turned her attention back to the countess. “Then you must join us. There’s nothing to say the Spitfire Society can’t include spitfires of all marital states, ages, or anything else.”
“Wonderful!” Lady Satterfield declared with a laugh. “Lord Satterfield has long said I was a spitfire, and now it’s official.” She sent a glance toward the Countess of Sutton. “You must invite Lady Sutton too. She’s been a force of wonder at Bethlehem Hospital. And Ivy—Lady Clare—too. She’s been a champion of supporting women, particularly those in workhouses, for some time. In fact, her sister, Lady St. Ives, had been looking for a place to start a workhouse entirely for women before she married. I wonder where she left that project?” Lady Satterfield cocked her head to the side in thought.
Jane vaguely remembered that now. “I’d forgotten about that. I’ll write to Lady St. Ives tomorrow and inquire. It would be splendid if we could all join forces and work together. I think that’s an excellent purpose for the Spitfire Society, don’t you, Phoebe?”
Phoebe nodded. “I do indeed.”
It was time for Jane to turn the conversation where she needed. She pivoted toward the countess. “Speaking of recalling things…” It wasn’t the best transition, but it was all Jane could come up with. “I wonder if you might remember something of a rather, ah, delicate nature.”
Lady Satterfield’s brows dipped into a V as she stepped a bit closer to Jane.
Phoebe also moved in, and Jane lowered her voice a tad. “It’s come to my attention recently that a rumor circulated about me during my first Season. It seemed to have just been among the young bucks, so you may not have heard about it, but given your stature in Society and the esteem in which everyone holds you, I thought it possible you may have heard mention of it.”
“Oh dear, may I assume this rumor was not flattering?”
Jane’s jaw clenched briefly. “That’s correct. Someone spread the notion that I was loose. It explains why none of my casual suitors offered for me and why, by the end of that Season, I felt as if I was moving quickly toward the shelf.” She vividly remembered her mother’s anger and disappointment and the regimen she’d put Jane on before the next Season: painting, dancing, practicing the pianoforte, riding until she probably could have bested any gentleman in a race along Rotten Row in the early morning. In the end, none if it had made a difference. Her second Season was as much a failure as her first.
“We’d like to find out who started this rumor and, if possible, why,” Phoebe said.
Jane’s heart swelled at her use of the word “we.” She cast a grateful glance toward her friend.
“I don’t recall this rumor,” Lady Satterfield said. “But, if it was truly just among the bucks, that isn’t unusual.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “That was 1814. Let me recall what was happening. My second grandchild, Christopher, was born that year.” She smiled. “He was such a delightful baby.” Her brow creased as she lapsed into thought once more. Then she looked around the drawing room. “Clare and Sutton were unmarried men at that time. Perhaps they heard something.”
Jane wasn’t sure she could ask them. Not only did she not know them
well enough, how did one broach such a topic with a duke and an earl? It had been difficult enough with Lady Satterfield.
Lady Satterfield seemed to understand her concern. She reached over and patted Jane’s arm. “I’ll speak with them and see what I can learn. Would that help?”
Exhaling, Jane smiled in relief. “Thank you, yes.”
“I’d be happy to,” Lady Satterfield said. Her brow furrowed once more. “What do you plan to do with this information, dear? It can’t be helpful to you now. The damage was, unfortunately, done quite some time ago. Perhaps we should focus our energies on rehabilitating your reputation, as I was able to do for my stepdaughter-in-law when I took her on as my companion.”
She referred to Eleanor St. John, who’d been ruined as a young lady during her first Season. Afterward, she’d fled to the country for a very long time—almost ten years, if Jane recalled the story correctly—and returned to London only when she found herself in need of employment. She’d accepted a position as Lady Satterfield’s companion, who’d taken a particular liking to her. Now she was the Duchess of Kendal, and, of course, Lady Satterfield’s stepdaughter-in-law.
Not that Jane expected to make such a match or to be Lady Satterfield’s companion. She didn’t need either of those things, just an improved reputation with which to go forward. That was all she wanted, and it was what she deserved.
“How would you do that?” Jane asked. “Rehabilitate my reputation?”
“Well, this rumor happened quite some time ago, and it was just a rumor, unlike what happened with my stepdaughter-in-law. Lord Haywood had coerced her into an embrace, and it was seen.”
Jane flicked a glance toward Phoebe. She’d been betrothed to Haywood’s cousin and refused to marry him after he’d behaved even worse with her. “Why is it men never have to pay for their mistakes—at least not has handsomely—as women?”
“And some of our ‘mistakes’ aren’t even that,” Phoebe said with considerable disgust. “They are beyond our control, as is your case.”
“It is certainly unfair,” Lady Satterfield agreed, pressing her lips together. “However, and I do hate to say this, Miss Pemberton, but leaving your parents’ house and taking up residence alone has nothing to do with the past and will not help you in the present.”
“It has everything to do with the past,” Jane said, trying to keep her outrage in check. Her anger wasn’t directed at Lady Satterfield. What she said was true. But it also wasn’t fair. “If not for the rumor that set me on the trajectory of failure, I might be married now. Happily ensconced in a life that Society approves. That was stolen from me, and I have done the best I could.”
The countess grimaced. “I do understand. You had no marriage prospects whatsoever?”
Jane thought of her parents’ neighbor, Mr. Brinkley. “I did, but no one I wanted to wed. Shouldn’t we be able to marry someone we choose?”
“Of course. But surely you must realize that even without the rumor, you may still be unwed. What if the man you were meant to marry simply hasn’t come along yet?”
Anthony came to her mind, and she nearly laughed. He wasn’t marriage material.
Jane straightened toward Lady Satterfield. “He definitely hasn’t.”
“Well then, let us work on reestablishing you in a position to find him, shall we?” She inhaled and adopted a practical tone. “Can you return to your parents’ house?”
That was not what Jane had expected her to say. She blinked, searching for an appropriate response since “hell no” was not acceptable. “I don’t think they’d allow that.”
Lady Satterfield frowned. “What if I spoke with your mother?”
Again, Jane had to bite back her response. “I don’t think that would be wise. My sister is marrying soon, and their focus is on that happy occasion, as it should be. Perhaps afterward, I will call on them.” She smiled at Lady Satterfield even as emotions swirled inside her. She suddenly wasn’t sure she was on the right path at all.
Perhaps Anthony was right—the past didn’t matter. As the countess had pointed out, it wasn’t as if Jane had met a man and hadn’t been able to marry him as a result of the rumor. While it was possible that not meeting a man was due to that rumor, she could never know for sure. And why torture herself with that possibility? Wasn’t it better to look to the future, to what happiness she may find?
Furthermore, Jane didn’t want to go back to her parents. They hadn’t supported her in her time of “failure,” and they would push her into a marriage she didn’t want. She was far happier in Cavendish Square with her cats.
Especially when you have a handsome and seductive male houseguest.
As if drawn by the thought in her mind, Jane looked toward the main entrance to the drawing room just as Anthony walked in. Her breath snagged in her lungs as she took in his near-perfect appearance. His wavy brown hair was brushed back from his high forehead into an immaculate style. His features had entirely returned to normal with the exception of a faint bruise around his right eye. He wore a stark black suit of clothing with a cobalt-blue waistcoat that made his eyes gleam like jewels. Jane felt an almost visceral pull to go to him, to touch him, to claim him.
And, most of all, to re-blacken his eye.
Chapter 9
A quick scan of the room told Anthony what he most wanted to know: Jane was present, and she looked magnificent. Her lush frame was draped in a gauzy pink dress that made her look like something he wanted to eat. Her blonde curls were swept into a fetching style with jewels that glistened as she moved her head. She wore a simple ribbon around her neck with a bauble that grazed the hollow of her throat. He wanted to put his lips there and then strip every other thing away from her body so she wore that and nothing else.
Hell, he couldn’t walk around the bloody drawing room with a raging erection. He turned from her and went to a footman to pick up a glass of whatever was on his tray.
“You came,” Marcus said, coming up behind him. “And you went straight for the brandy.”
Anthony smiled and tried not to look at Jane. “Of course I did.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. Try not to drink too much, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ve gotten better at doing that.” He hadn’t really, at least not since he’d left Jane’s. But while he’d been there, she’d kept him sober. Because she’d insisted. In hindsight, however, he was glad he’d done it. He might not have appreciated their time together if not for his clear head.
The butler came in to announce dinner, and everyone paired up to walk into the dining room. Hell and the devil, Jane was not partnered. Anthony looked around. They seemed to be the only unmarried people here. Bloody, bloody hell. He briefly wondered if Marcus had arranged this. Had Jane told Phoebe what had happened after all?
Not even Anthony would ignore propriety in this instance. He crossed the room to Jane’s side and bowed. “May I escort you to dinner, Miss Pemberton?”
She curtsied in response. “Thank you, my lord.”
He offered his arm and braced himself for the electric charge that would surely come when she touched him. She placed her hand on his sleeve, and though he’d prepared, he was still shaken by how deeply he felt the connection.
As they walked in the procession to the dining room, he sensed her tension. Or maybe that was his.
“You look well,” she whispered. “Did you get my note today? Perhaps you sent a response after I left to come here.” Her tone was just slightly accusatory, which he deserved.
“I did get your note.” And he hadn’t written a response because he was a massive cad. He’d also wondered if he’d see her tonight. “I expected to see you here.” It was a bit of a fib, but not entirely.
“Did you? I had no idea if you were even invited.”
“So you didn’t arrange it?”
Her fingers dug into his sleeve. “You think I told Phoebe about us even after you asked me not to? You’re a cad.”
He nearly laughed since she
used the same word he’d just thought about himself. “I know. A massive one, really, but then I’ve never tried to disguise my true nature.”
“No, I suppose you haven’t, particularly with the manner in which you departed my care.”
There was no mistaking the accusation there, or the hurt.
“It was for the best,” he said even more quietly than they were already speaking.
They walked into the dining room and, as Anthony’s luck would have it, they were seated next to each other near the end of the table. Anthony was between Phoebe on his right, at the end, and Jane on his left. Wonderful.
He shouldn’t have come. He almost hadn’t, but the lure of seeing her had been too great. Even he could admit to himself that was why he was here. Massive cad didn’t begin to describe him. He had no business wanting to see her. Hadn’t he already decided that?
Anthony helped her into her chair, then sat down beside her.
“And no, I didn’t have anything to do with this seating arrangement either,” she said softly. “Or the fact that we are the only unmarried people here. If I’d known, I would have demanded Phoebe invite others. Or maybe I wouldn’t have come at all.”
The anger in her voice pierced his chest. He leaned slightly toward her. “I’m sorry, Jane. Truly. But I had to leave. You must see that.”
She turned her head toward him, and he saw the heat blazing in her tawny eyes, like brandy in front of a fire. “Yes, it would have been just horrible if you’d stayed. It was the absolute worst week ever.”
Anthony smiled in spite of himself. “Your sarcasm undoes me, Miss Pemberton.”
“Good. I will do my best to eviscerate you with it over dinner.”
“Please do,” he murmured as the wine was poured and the first course was served.
A few minutes later, after they’d sampled the soup, Jane asked, “Do you like turtle soup? I did at first, but sometimes it’s not quite what I expect. I find it…disappointing.”
