Serena laughed. “You lie majestically, Jessup. But thank you for your offer. I will send Oliver down to the kitchen later and you must feel free to instruct him.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The door opened. Instead of the footman bearing coffee it was Mr. McElroy. Serena had to force a smile. She’d not been alone with the Irishman since that night outside Mr. Lockheart’s window.
“Good morning, Mr. McElroy.”
He grinned and bowed, as if they’d never been anything but the most cordial of friends. He was a dangerous man and Serena doubled her intention to avoid him and his friend.
“Coffee, if you please, Jessup.”
The butler left the room and McElroy slumped into the chair across from her.
“You are not hungry?” she asked.
He gave a mock shiver. “Coffee first, food later. That is the civilized order of things.” He glanced at her plate. “I see you subscribe to a different theory?”
She blushed, suddenly aware of her more than healthy appetite. “I’m afraid I have a weakness for food—especially when it is as well-prepared as it is here.”
“We all have our weaknesses.” His eyes slid down her torso and her face became hotter. He was a very attractive man but an air of dissipation clung to him that diminished his good looks and charm. Not to mention the memory of his behavior two nights ago.
The footman arrived with her coffee first and Serena poured them both a cup.
“You are kindness itself, madam.” He raised the cup in a toast.
“I understand you are the owner of a brewery, Mr. McElroy.” Too late she realized the error of her words. When would she have learned such a thing other than last night? Late last night, as the men had not returned from their journey until long after dinner.
His eyebrows rose and he looked arrested. “Do you now?” He glanced around the room, as if Mr. Lockheart might be lurking someplace. “Did Gareth just leave?”
The door opened and the coffee the Irishman had ordered arrived, followed by Jessup bearing a dish of something or other.
“Black pudding, sir.”
McElroy rubbed his hands together. “Ah! And just in time, too.” He cut Serena a sly look, and she knew that he accurately read the relief on her face. “Shall I dish you up a plate?”
Serena shivered. “No thank you, I’m afraid it is not a taste I have developed.”
“Blood pudding is not popular where you are from?” He wore a smile but it did not reach his eyes. He would want to know what she was doing up in the middle of the night with his friend. He would want to know about her.
“Certainly not in the part of France I lived in, Mr. McElroy.”
“Ah.” He proceeded to fill his plate, but Serena knew this was only the beginning of his probing. She ate, hoping to finish her meal quickly. While she no longer had an appetite, to leave any food on her plate now would be to show weakness, which the sharp-eyed Irishman would not miss.
They ate in silence, until Serena was beginning to think she might be wrong, when he struck again.
“Tell me, Mrs. Lombard, how did a half-French sculptor’s daughter come to meet the Duke of Remington’s youngest son? That must be quite a story.”
Serena almost laughed at the harmless look he tried to assume. She was not worried, she had told this particular version of her history many, many times.
“Robert, my husband, was part of the diplomatic corps and had been entrusted with information intended for British allies. He encountered a small group of men who’d deserted the Grand Armee and had established their own fiefdom in the small town not far from where I lived.”
He nodded encouragingly.
“They attacked him and he was injured, but he managed to slay two of them before getting away. He lost consciousness in the forest and I found him and brought him back to the small chateau and hid him.”
“What a remarkably romantic tale!” He sat back in his chair and daubed his full, sensual lips with his napkin, his eyes wide. “You must have placed yourself in grave danger—and in the face of your countrymen.”
Even after all these years anger surged strong and fast at his words. “They were nothing but roving bands of thugs who raped and stole and terrorized the populace. Our region had been traded between warring nations for hundreds of years. It was not uncommon to hear four languages spoken of an evening in our tiny village.”
“You will have to forgive me, Mrs. Lombard. Like so many people raised in England I suffer from a vast ocean of ignorance when it comes to the greater outside world.”
Serena doubted this man missed anything—either in his world or outside of it. His disingenuous response was just another part of his act. He simmered with anger, no doubt a butt of many Englishmen for his Irish background, which was even more despised than her French heritage.
“I understand your husband was killed while spiriting you and your child to safety.”
Serena was not surprised he knew her story, the details had been noised about widely enough almost a decade ago. Although she suspected he’d gathered his information far more recently than that.
“Yes. The man who was to ferry us across the Channel betrayed us. Robert gave his life so that I and our child might live.” Perhaps he actually felt as abashed as he looked by the abrupt ending of her tale, but Serena doubted it. Either way, she was spared having to endure more of his probing by Jessup’s arrival.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lombard, but the gentleman is here with the shrubs.”
Serena swallowed back her sigh of relief and gave McElroy a cool smile before pushing back her chair.
“Please excuse me, Mr. McElroy.”
He bowed, his hard green eyes crinkling. “Of course, of course—you have a job to do. No matter, I shall have plenty of time to get to know you better at dinner tonight.”
That was exactly what Serena was afraid of.
***
Gareth hadn’t needed to go all the way back to London for the supplies he wanted. But he had needed to go for his peace of mind. Even an hour beating the bags had not mitigated the woman’s—Mrs. Lombard’s—distracting influence on his body and mind. He had experienced this level of obsessiveness before, but always in relation to a mathematical problem or new project. Never a woman. He’d hoped relieving himself would have quenched his desire, but it had been an empty release.
He could not function this way, not with the new brewery, the impending canal project, and half a dozen other matters that required his undivided attention. He needed to see Venetia. She would help him assuage the nagging urge that was clouding his usually sharp brain.
He’d first gone to his London house, which had been waiting and ready as it always was, his servants well-trained and well-compensated to expect their employer at any hour of the day or night. He’d taken care of a few domestic matters and then gone out to a shop he knew specialized in automata. After spending an hour inspecting the new kiln at the pottery he was building—in a part of town so dangerous the land had been bought for a song—he’d gone home and bathed and changed into his evening clothing.
He left instructions to have his bed chamber prepared but ordered no dinner. He would dine with Venetia tonight if she was available. If she was not, he would eat somewhere on his own. Either way, he always slept in his own bed, never at the White House, Venetia’s place of business.
The door to the inconspicuous white building opened before Gareth reached the top step. A footman garbed in sumptuous green velvet and gold lacing greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Lockheart.”
“Good evening. I have come to see Mrs. Hensleigh.”
The servant took Gareth’s hat, gloves, and cane. “I will see if she is receiving. Will you have a seat in the parlor?”
Gareth stepped into the small, opulent room just off the foyer. He was struck, as he always was, how the brothel had all the appearance of every other house he’d ever entered—
be it the home of a well-to-do merchant or proud, destitute aristocrat.
The ancient wood floor was polished to a high gloss and covered with rugs that glowed like jewels. Delicate furniture was arranged around a marble-clad fireplace that generated the exact amount of heat necessary to combat the damp chill of the building without being stifling. Paintings of idealized landscapes hung on cream-silk covered walls. All in all, it was the kind of room he had striven to replicate in his country house, but failed miserably.
The door opened and he turned.
“What an unexpected pleasure, Gareth.” Venetia Hensleigh was one of the smallest women he had ever seen. From across the room she looked like a human doll with her guinea gold curls and wide blue eyes. But as she approached him, her hands outstretched, the look in her eyes and sensual curve of her bow-shaped lips was enough to make a man begin to harden. Or at least she had always done so before. But tonight, he was not aroused, merely relieved to see her.
“Venetia, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He took her delicate hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze before bowing over them. He had learned to accept and enjoy her touch, not an easy task for a man who avoided human contact the way others avoided angry hornets or rabid dogs.
“Come,” she said, taking his arm before he could offer it. “Let us go somewhere more private.”
Gareth knew he was the only man she invited into her inner sanctum because she’d told him so, years ago, when he’d first approached her. He was not unaware of the honor she accorded him and knew many of her patrons had offered outrageous sums to spend only one night with the notoriously private madam of the most exclusive brothel in London.
Venetia led him through her private study, where a panel concealed a door to her quarters.
“It has been some time, Gareth. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Business in the north and also the new estate in Kent.”
“Ah yes,” she said, cutting a glance up at him, her head not reaching his shoulder. “I should tell you that Sandy Featherstone has been noising your name about.”
He gave her a look of surprise. “He came here?”
She chuckled. “Lord no, he doesn’t have two shillings to rub together. Keller saw him at Beacon’s new hell. I gather he was playing deep while in his cups.” She shook her head. “If I had known you’d employed him I would have warned you. Who recommended him?”
“Beech.”
She groaned. “That man is a delightful architect but a fool in every other way. If you are looking for help at your country home I would be happy to recommend somebody.”
She stopped and Gareth opened the door that led to her library, the room that had inspired his at Rushton Park. Venetia Hensleigh was a notable collector of first editions and had knocked the ceiling out of the building to construct a library that rivaled that of any great house.
She released him and went to a sideboard laden with decanters. “Would you like to try a new whiskey? I’ve only managed to latch on to one barrel.”
“Please.”
Venetia was the only woman he knew who smoked and drank hard spirits. She was considered a connoisseur of both. She brought two glasses and then moved toward the oxblood leather couch that occupied a place of honor in front of the mammoth fireplace. Gareth had a fondness for this particular item of furniture as they had enjoyed several very memorable evenings on it. But tonight it did not send blood coursing to his groin, nor did his breathing quicken with anticipation of the evening ahead.
“Sit,” she said, grinning up at him and shoving him onto the couch, but—oddly—taking the chair beside it instead of sitting next to him. “You have come to say goodbye.”
Gareth should not have been surprised by her insight; Venetia had always read him as easily as any of the thousands of books that lined her walls.
She warmed her glass between her hands. “Tell me about her.”
To his horror, his cheeks heated—as if she were rubbing his face between her small, wickedly skilled hands.
She chuckled, a laugh far too low for a woman her size. “I do not think I have seen you blush before, my friend. At least not unless it was from exertion.”
Gareth smiled at her teasing reminder of their many—and adventurous—sexual encounters.
“Ah, and one of your very rare smiles, as well. I am fortunate this evening.”
Gareth took a sip and considered her words. It was true that he rarely smiled. Each time he did he was immediately struck with terror, as if he would be made to pay dearly for such an indulgence.
“I did not know I was coming to say goodbye, Venetia. As usual, you are aware of my desires and needs before I am.”
“I have been sensing it for some time. It is seven years we have been lovers, Gareth.”
He nodded. It was a long time, yet that first night was as fresh in his mind as if it had been yesterday. He felt an ache of something—regret? Sadness?—as he looked in her blue eyes. Eyes that shielded their contents from the world as skillfully as his. They were two of a kind, able to give affection but not love.
“Her name is Serena Lombard.”
As usual, Venetia knew everything. “Ah, the sculptor.”
“You have seen her work?”
“Not only that, I have commissioned her work, not that she knows where it went.” Venetia gestured to a sculpture that was perhaps three feet tall. He had noticed it before, but never looked closely. He stood and went to it.
It was a woman, the stone grainy, rather than smooth, the eyes heavy lidded and long; she wore an odd headdress with a serpent crown.
“It is Seshat, the Egyptian scribe of the gods.”
Gareth saw a sticklike item clenched in one hand. “What is she holding?”
“A palm-leaf rib, which the ancients were said to use as quills.”
He brushed the back of his knuckles across the statue’s shoulder. “Limestone?”
“Yes.”
The statue was alien and had an odd kind of potency that drew one’s eyes. It took some effort to pull his gaze away and resume his seat.
“Why did you engage her?”
“Need you ask? A woman sculptor? Naturally I had to champion her cause. Why did you hire her?”
He shrugged. “Featherstone or Beech chose her; I do not know which. I have engaged her to design the pleasure gardens around Rushton Park.”
“I knew she occasionally designed small town gardens but nothing so vast as a country estate.”
“She initially resisted, saying the project was too large. But something must have changed her mind.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed.”
Gareth frowned. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Do you really not know, Gareth?”
“I can only assume—based on your sly expression—you believe her decision has something to do with me.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“She is the daughter-in-law of a duke, and an accomplished and attractive woman.” She cocked her head and Gareth sighed. “I can see you are intent on teaching me a lesson, Venetia, and employing the Socratic Method to do so. Why not just spell it out for me, I am a simple man.”
“Oh, bosh! Shame on you for trying to sham me, Gareth.”
He shrugged and took a sip, too unsettled to play games with her. Games she was far better at playing in any case.
“She is an exceptionally vibrant woman, and . . . demonstrative and loving—at least with her son.” He gave her a pointed look. “You know how it is with me—you are the same. I cannot give her those things, nor can I be a proper father to her son.”
“You are a wealthy, powerful, and attractive man, Gareth. You are also loyal and caring, as much as you deny it. That is an assessment from a woman who knows men. Perhaps I am jaded, but I do not think much of romantic love. Love is selfish and, unlike passion, has expectations beyond the moment. I know you are a good frie
nd, and friendship—in my opinion—is far more valuable than what you think of as love.”
Gareth wanted to believe her, but it was not his way to accept any conclusion without proof. But Venetia had an answer for that, as well, as if she knew his mind. Which he thought she might, at least better than anyone he’d ever met, and that included Declan.
“Even if you reject that argument, there are others that are equally, if not more, persuasive. She is a widow who I believe supports herself and her son without the assistance of her husband’s family. It is not inconceivable she would like a husband to share her burdens—or remove them entirely. She would give you the connections to society you have long wanted and you clearly find her attractive. What is the problem?”
Gareth didn’t know. The same logical arguments had crossed his own mind, yet there was a part of the equation that was missing. And it was more than a little frustrating.
“I don’t know,” he finally said, shaking his head.
Venetia’s eyes narrowed and her expression suddenly became very knowing.
“What?” He leaned forward. “What is it? You know something, I can see it.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Venetia . . .” he let his tone speak for itself, but she just laughed.
“This is a side of you I have never seen.”
“What side?” She was beginning to irritate him.
She set her glass on the table beside her chair and unwound her small, sinuous body and came toward him.
He swallowed at the look on her face. He had not come here for carnal pleasure, but this woman was considered one of the most sexually skilled females in London and he realized, quite suddenly, he would regret the end of their association—because that was what tonight was: the end. Not just because of the sex, but because she knew him. He had a moment of regret that he did not know her half as well, but she had put a wall between most of her life and him, and he was not the kind of person to force his way in. At least he wasn’t with her.
She placed a hand on each of his knees, her white skin very pale against his black pantaloons. “I will miss you, Gareth, more than I would have expected possible when you came to see me that evening so long ago.” She pushed his unyielding thighs wide and slid to her knees between them. His breathing roughened and his eyes fastened on her plump lips, which she wet with her wicked pink tongue. “I was honored to be the one you chose to give your virginity to, Gareth. And, in a way, you were my very first. Certainly not the first man to have my body, but the first and only lover I have taken voluntarily.” Her hands slid up his thighs but stopped short of the hard ridge. His eyelids fluttered and it took monumental effort to keep from thrusting into her hands. His body wanted her even as his mind knew her clever mouth could only offer temporary relief.
A Figure of Love Page 12
